Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom

by Beth Hilgartner

  "I wonder if I might have a word with you, Lady?"

  It was Hobann's minstrel. Up close she could see he was barely older than she, and for all his polished manner he seemed rather nervous.

  "Certainly," she replied, then looked about for an extra chair.

  He regarded Efiran and Karivet's matron doubtfully. "Perhaps you would care to dance?"

  Zan's eyes went to the graceful courtiers, and she was suddenly conscious of her gangling legs and awkward arms. "God, no," she blurted, then recalled herself. "I thank you, but I have no talent for dancing. Perhaps," she added, "we could go for a walk instead? I have been sitting a long time."

  "I am delighted to be of service," he responded with a small bow, then helped her to her feet. As she rose, she touched the twins' shoulders, questioning.

  We'll be all right, Iobeh signed, and Zan nodded.

  The minstrel guided her through the crowds. He led her through an open archway onto a garden terrace where candles set in colored glass bowls added festive color to the light from the hall. It was blessedly cool on the terrace; music and voices from the hall followed them only faintly. Zan breathed the scented air deeply. Somewhere nearby a plaintive night bird called.

  "This is very pleasant," she said. "I hadn't realized how stuffy it had gotten inside."

  "The speeches cause that," the minstrel said, deadpan. "All those warm compliments." Zan smiled, but he hurried on before she could speak, suddenly sounding ill at ease. "I asked to speak with you so I could apologize for the song. It was in my mind to honor you, our guests, with a song of your own people. Unfortunately, I only know one Orathi song, and it was my unspeakable luck it was that song. I am often impertinent, but I'm neither so shameless nor so daring as to sing a song about the Wanderers to a Wanderer—I simply did not know." He spread his hands. "One does not expect to meet a legend in the flesh."

  Zan looked at him, unsure how to respond. Then she realized her silence was making him more uncomfortable. "You make it clear that no offense was intended," she said carefully, "and, as you said, one does not expect to meet a legend in the flesh. But the truth of the matter is, I haven't yet gotten used to thinking of myself as a legend. It would never have occurred to me to take offense at your song."

  He nodded. "I supposed as much when I saw no outrage in your face, but"—and here his expression became enigmatic —"it will have occurred to every courtier in the hall to be offended on your behalf. Now, you see, they will assume that I have groveled abjectly before you, and will spare me their censure."

  Zan hid a smile. "Just like that? Do you feel your return to grace was too easy? Perhaps I should make you grovel just a little."

  He raised a hand as though to fend off her words. "No, no. It is impossible to grovel just a little. Groveling must be total, or it is pointless. Shall I grovel for you? I'm rather good at it, though it is immodest of me to say so."

  "I believe you, you don't need to demonstrate," she replied, laughing. "Just tell me your name. I fear I wasn't attending when you were introduced."

  He hunched his shoulders, the lively spark of mischief wilting into ruefulness. "Even if you had been listening, it wouldn't have helped you. The Vemathi refer to me as Hobann's minstrel, or call me Singer to my face. The name given me at my birth is Remarr, though few people remember it. But if we are trading names, how shall I call you, Lady Wanderer?"

  She made a face. "Not that, certainly. The name given me at my birth was Alexandra Scarsdale, but the Orathi call me 'Tsan, which I prefer. Now I hope you won't mind if I indulge my curiosity, Remarr. Is it unusual for a Khedathen to be a minstrel?"

  "I'm not a Khedathen." As her eyebrows rose, he added, "I have no sword."

  Zan heard the deep bitterness in his words, and remembered that the word Khedathi meant, literally, "people of the sword." "You look like the Khedathi," she said, puzzled.

  "Indeed. And I was born in the desert. However, those facts alone do not suffice to make me belong there, just as my love of music and preference for the comforts of the City do not ensure my welcome here. But there," he went on, bitterness vanishing, "I mustn't cry my troubles on your cloak. To answer your question, it is not unusual for the Khedathi to sing, but it is unheard of for them to do nothing else. And the harp is not a common instrument in the desert."

  Despite Remarr's light tone, Zan felt as though a door had been firmly shut on questions about minstrels and the Khedathi. She fished briefly in her mind for a good conversational gambit, but her conscience pricked her. "I'd better go back," she said with regret. "Iobeh and Karivet will be wondering what has happened to me."

  "A moment, please. Rumor has it that you are staying with Efiran of Moirre. Is that true?" At her nod, Remarr's easy manner faltered and he looked a little unsure of himself, vulnerable. "May . . . may I come visit you there?"

  Zan was startled but pleased. "I hope that you will."

  "Oh, I shall." He smiled engagingly. "It will drive Hobann wild, but things have been dull lately." He escorted her back to the head table, then disappeared into the crowd.

  Karivet's matron had lost interest and left him, and even Efiran had moved a short distance away. The twins greeted Zan gratefully, which made her feel guilty for deserting them.

  "Do you want to leave?" she asked them. "I'll ask Efiran if we may."

  They both nodded. Zan noticed how wan Iobeh looked. Are crowds especially difficult? she signed to her.

  I hate this, the girl signed back.

  Efiran agreed they had stayed long enough. In a short while they were settling down for the night in the comfortable bedchambers of the House of Moirre. As she lay looking up at the ceiling, Zan wondered what would happen at their meeting with the Lord the next morning. But she was tired, and soon she fell asleep.

  ***

  The fire had sunk to sullen embers and the lamp had guttered low, but still Eikoheh sat beside the hearth, her hands deftly carding wool while her thoughts ranged far. Suddenly a thump on her door startled her. She blinked, wondering if she had imagined it, but no, it came again, and with it a voice.

  "Dreamweaver! Let me in."

  She leapt up, the carding combs forgotten on the hearth. "Ohmiden?" She flung the door open and stared at the hunched old man. He wore an oversized tunic of badly cured rabbit skins; he smelled rank and his gray hair was rather greasy. But his eyes were deep, shadowed with mystery and pain—the eyes she remembered. "Ohmiden! Dear gods. Well, come in. What brings you here?"

  He snorted. "Necessity. What else? I had a dream-message that concerns you. It's about the twins. I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't give me any peace."

  "What? Tell me!"

  "Aren't you going to offer me anything to eat? And perhaps a bath?"

  Eikoheh rounded on him. "You can stuff yourself out of my pantry until you burst and wash yourself until there's nothing left, but for the sake of the gods, tell me first."

  He laughed shortly, then gestured toward the loom with his chin. "Hasn't she taught you patience?"

  Eikoheh pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to speak, Ohmiden laughed again.

  "I can see that she has. Thirty years ago you'd have been at my throat by now."

  "If you knew how close I am to that point, you wouldn't toy with me. Tell me!"

  "I dreamed of the twins—and of a stranger, a tall woman with hair like the fire of the gods. Eikoheh, it's bad; the stranger is a friend, but they are all beset with dangers. You'd better weave them a Fate, and put in some good strong allies, for they'll need them."

  Eikoheh's face blanched. "Merciless gods," she breathed, "I don't think I have the strength."

  "I'll help you."

  She looked at him, her eyes widening in surprise.

  "It's not just the twins, Eikoheh. The fate of all the Orathi rides on this. I dreamed, and in the dream I saw the three of them, holding the forest and all our lives in their hands, and I could tell by their faces that it was too heavy for them."

  His vo
ice turned brisk. "Now I'm going to fix something for us to eat, and then you're going to sleep. In the morning we'll string the loom with their colors, and begin to weave a Fate for all of us."

  EIGHT

  The morning dawned overcast, heavy with the threat of thunder. It struck Zan as an ominous sign. The twins looked tired, especially Iobeh, whose eyes were smudged with heavy shadows. After they had risen and dressed, Vihena came in to take them to breakfast. She greeted them cheerfully and asked them how they had enjoyed the banquet.

  "It was very nice," Zan lied. "Weren't you there?" Vihena wrinkled her nose. "Gods, no. Mother doesn't trust me to behave. She says"—her voice changed to a rather good imitation of Pifadeh's precise speech—"'If you must hold poor opinions of your peers, you must learn the discretion to hide your opinions.' I haven't learned discretion yet.'' Her eyes glinted mischievously. "Nor have I learned how to dance, but we won't tell Mother that. In any case, I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves."

  She led them down to the breakfast room, an airy chamber that overlooked the garden. Pifadeh, Efiran, and a little girl were sitting at a table set for seven. The little girl was about six, Zan guessed, and she had her mother's delicate features, except that her jaw showed a trace of Efiran's square one. "That's my sister, Anfeh," Vihena whispered. "She's terribly spoiled."

  Efiran rose to greet them. "I trust you spent a restful night," he said. As they murmured polite responses, he seated them at the table and Pifadeh served ham and eggs from an enameled chafing dish. Vihena took her seat with less ceremony and buttered a breakfast roll for herself.

  Anfeh studied each of the newcomers in turn, staring at Zan last and longest. Her gaze had an unblinking character that seemed almost reptilian to Zan. When she had looked long enough, she said abruptly, "Your hair is a funny color. You'll have a harder time than even Vihena finding a husband."

  Zan blinked at her. ''I'm not looking for a husband," she replied. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Vihena's agonized blush.

  "That's what Vihena always says," Anfeh said, her tone spiteful. "I don't believe her, either."

  Zan was so surprised that she lost her hold on her mental silence. Thoughts from around the table buzzed in her mind. She was aware of Efiran's tolerant amusement at his youngest, of Pifadeh's resignation over her eldest's eccentricities, of Iobeh's discomfort at Vihena's embarrassment, of Karivet's distaste; but overriding all of these was Vihena's thought that she would give anything to be a Khedatheh and not the ugly daughter of the House of Moirre.

  Zan met the challenge in Anfeh's eyes. "I was taught that it is more important to be beautiful on the inside than on the outside," she said quietly. "You might do well to think about that, Anfeh."

  "I'd rather be beautiful on the outside," the little girl retorted. "It's what shows."

  "The other sort of beauty shows, too—as does its lack," Karivet remarked with deceptive mildness.

  Anfeh glared at him, but before she could think of an adequate retort, Pifadeh intervened.

  "These are guests, Anfeh," Pifadeh told the child calmly. "And it is rude to argue at breakfast."

  Anfeh's eyes widened at her mother's reproof. "But didn't you hear what they said to me?"

  "Indeed I did," Pifadeh replied. "I think it a tribute to their own good upbringing that they did not speak far more harshly to you, for you were quite beyond the boundaries of propriety."

  Anfeh's unwavering gaze dissolved into a vivid blush, and she riveted her attention on her plate. For the rest of the meal the conversation returned to the rather formal tone Zan had come to expect from Efiran and Pifadeh. Despite the comparative comfort of the expected, Zan couldn't quite maintain her mental silence and kept catching bits of random thoughts, usually Vihena's curiosity and gratitude. Apparently Vihena was unused to hearing anyone rebuke her sister even mildly.

  When they had eaten, Efiran took them to the palace. The Lord of the City waited for them in a large, formal audience chamber. The room was filled with courtiers and servants; the Lord was seated in a huge chair on a raised dais, attended on either side by Khedathi guards and Vemathi clerks. It was not at all what Zan had in mind; she had envisioned a conference behind closed doors, with only a few advisers present—not this public setting. Suddenly Iobeh touched Zan's arm.

  He is afraid of us and angry, she signed. I fear he intends us harm. Can you hear his thoughts?

  There are a lot of people here, but I'll try, Zan signed back.

  Without rising, the Lord greeted them and the hall quieted. Zan, listening to his thoughts as well as his words, realized that this was going to be trickier than she had anticipated. His conversation ran on two levels, and it would be hard to keep from getting mired in the jumble.

  "I am so pleased the Orathi have come to parley with us," he said, though under the words his thoughts ran, Miscalculation: never thought they would. Wish they'd stayed home. Much easier. ". . . seldom have a chance to meet with our near neighbors . . ." . . . heard the spirit-gifts were getting rare; never thought they'd have the effrontery to send us two children—and this oddity. Where does she fit in? Efiran says to be wary of her; she has an uncanny way of guessing what one is thinking. Gods. It will work—there are more people here than the Orathi see in a lifetime. ". . . Orathi are known for their gentle hearts . . ." I don't suppose that's true, but I'll throw it in. ". . . can't fail to be moved by our sad plight." He paused, as if waiting for a reply.

  Is he talking about overcrowding in the City? Zan signed. Karivet's nod was almost imperceptible.

  "Your City is beautiful indeed," Zan said, "and the hospitality shown us is most appreciated. But we have seen no evidence of overcrowding in your City. To us, it seems that your City is orderly, beautiful, and comfortable. We certainly do not think of your situation as a sad plight. We are indeed grateful for this opportunity to make the acquaintance of our neighbors, but on behalf of the Orathi who sent us, we must inform you that we see no reason for the City to appropriate Orathi lands."

  "Does it not wring your gentle hearts to see my people crammed together like beads in a box?" the Lord asked, turning his attention to Karivet and Iobeh.

  "No," Karivet responded. "Your people are not crammed together; they are close, as beads on a string must be close, but there is order to it. It is your way and it suits your people. No matter if it seems unusual to us."

  Condemn them to the dry lands. Are they heartless or stupid? Gods, give me words to explain. "But the City is like a necklace that has run out of string. There is nowhere room for more beads. And my people are not beads. They must be fed, and we no longer have enough farmland." If you will not give us the land, we will take it. The Khedathi must be appeased.

  "But why the forest?" Zan asked. "Surely there must be other lands available to you. Could you not farm the islands?"

  Farm the islands! His scorn was harsh, though his voice carried no hint of it. "You do not understand the consequences of your hardheartedness."

  As he spoke, another thought-voice intruded in Zan's mind. We were promised mainland tracts—cleared forestlands. If that slippery Vemathen tries to swindle us, I'll see him flayed! Zan thought it might be the Khedathen on the Lord's left, but his impassive face gave her no real hint.

  Iobeh touched Zan's arm. There is anger all around—the Khedathi, I think. And the Lord hates us. He is angry and also afraid. Go carefully.

  Zan nodded slightly. "Then perhaps you had better explain more fully."

  What's the use? "Indeed, I shall try." I could have them killed. "The real problem is the farmland." How I'd love to tear their hearts out and leave them for the vultures. "For generations, we have rewarded the Khedathi who have served us well with lands surrounding the City to farm. Of late, farmland has grown scarce. The desert encroaches; the City expands. Notwithstanding, our faithful retainers must have their reward. This is why we need Orathi lands." And we will have them, whether you will or no.

  "Then, if I understand you, you need Orathi lands in
order to fulfill pledges your people have made to the Khedathi. In short, you have promised that which is not yours to give. Surely this is not an honorable course."

  How dare she talk of honor to me! "You do not understand. You understand neither the Khedathi nor me. I, and my ancestors before me, promised the Khedathi lands that were not mine to give—I admit it! But it was necessary. What the Khedathi want, they take; only their sworn word will check their desires. They take as they please unless they bind themselves with an oath. Though you do not know it, it is the strength of Vemathi promises that has kept Khedathi wolves from Orathi throats for generations. The continuing safety of your own people has been assured solely because we, the Vemathi, offer those who desire it an honorable way to escape from the desert. This is the only reason they have not overrun your lands. Now it is time for you to show your gratitude—or not. The choice—indeed, our very fate—rests with you. The Orathi may agree to leave these lands peacefully, allowing the Vemathi to keep their oath—and their hold—on the Khedathi, or you may refuse, and plunge the land into a bloodbath."

  Zan shivered. There were no thoughts running contrary to this speech. The Lord meant it; it was true, or he believed it was. He meant that, she signed. What should we do?

  Karivet raised his head. "It would have been better, Lord of the City, if you had told my people this at the beginning. Now we do not know what to think. You have tried to cheat us, hoping we would be unable to send anyone so that you could claim our lands for your own. What you tell us now has the ring of truth, but we have learned caution."

  Ask to speak with the Khedathi leaders, Iobeh signed. I want to know their feelings before we commit ourselves.

  "My sister asks that you permit us to speak with the leaders of the Khedathi—the people to whom you made your promises."

  Shrewd little beasts—their looks are deceptive. Small wonder Efiran counsels care. Spirit-gifts. The Lord turned to the Khedathen beside him. "This is Belerann, who speaks for the Khedathi who serve in the City Guard."