One evening, after a supper of fish and rabbit, they sat about the fire while Remarr drew quiet music from his harp. The wind was off the mountains and chilly, so they huddled in their robes and sat as near to the fire as they could. Suddenly Ychass raised her head like a deer scenting danger. She demanded silence with a hand.
"We have visitors," she whispered.
A moment later a small flock of birds dropped out of the air and became people at the edges of the ring of their camp. One woman, dressed in a simple caftan of undyed material, stepped forward. "You trespass," she said with deliberation, ''and you shelter one who has been cast out. The penalty for either offense is death."
Ychass rose to her feet, pushing her hood back so that the woman could see her face. "Priestess, the fault is mine. I knew the penalties, but did not keep the laws."
That has ever been your way, the priestess thought. Have you not learned better yet?
It would seem not, Ychass returned. "Priestess, do not punish these others for my failings. I will submit myself to your justice if you will permit the others to pass."
Zan sprang up angrily. "No! I will not accept freedom at such a cost." She turned to the priestess. "We have caused your people no harm, and we intend none. If indeed you have a law forbidding trespass, perhaps you also have the wisdom to set it aside when it is unnecessary."
"I have your word that you are harmless," the priestess retorted, "but of what value are words? My people are few; you, the unchanging, are many. You fear us, hate us—how can I ever accept that your people mean my people no harm? To what judgment would the gods call me if I let you spy out the secrets of our lands and live?"
"Secrets?" Zan demanded, exasperated. "We haven't even been to the far side of the Snowsblood; we've seen neither town nor dwelling place. What secrets do you hide among the stones and river water that are worth lives to keep?"
"As priestess in the Temple, I am the keeper of the laws the gods gave us. You have broken them. The penalties are clear."
Zan ran a hand distractedly through her hair, pushing back her hood. "But there are exceptions to every law. Haven't your gods told you that?" Her anger had begun to pale to despair; she wasn't getting through. She dropped her hand with a sigh. "What can I say to convince you?"
The priestess was staring at her, her nostrils flared. "Who are you?" the priestess demanded, her voice tight.
Zan's stomach clenched suddenly. She didn't understand this—something was going on, something critically important, and she had no idea what. The priestess's tightly closed mind gave her no clues. Zan chose her words with care, managing to keep her voice cool and her uncertainty out of the forefront of her mind. "One of your people called me Namegiver. That will do."
No! The priestess's mental denial was ripped out of her, then quickly stifled. "You mock me," she said through stiff lips.
"Indeed, I do not," Zan replied. The reaction wasn't anger; it was fear. She tried to put the discussion back on track. "I am merely asking whether the gods did not tell you that there are exceptions to every law."
The priestess laughed suddenly, harshly. "Clearly there are, so make your exception—and abide by it."
Zan drew breath. She wasn't sure she trusted this capitulation. Was it a trap? She'd have to risk it. "With your gracious permission, we will continue our quest. We will not stray more than a mile from the river until such time as we are ready to return to the dry lands."
The priestess smiled thinly. "So it is only an exception for you? We aren't to give up our lives and lands to some new, favored people?" Her sarcasm grew more pronounced. "We aren't to step aside for the unchanging ones? We aren't to be pushed down while you raise up someone else? How tolerant you are—or do we amuse you? Surely it isn't mercy that bids you spare us."
Zan frowned. She didn't understand. She had no power over the shapeshifters; what did the priestess mean, "spare us "? But she had to say something. "Lady, it is not mine to decide the fate of your people, but . . . but I think a world without you who change would be much the poorer," she said softly.
A glint of triumph shone in the priestess's eyes, and her fleeting smile held malice. "The laws we follow were made to safeguard us. You say you would mourn our passing, but you break our laws. You make your allowed exception; one law we have set aside for you. But that is not all you ask. You travel with one who, according to the gods' laws, is Outcast. She is dead to us because she has ignored the laws that guard the safety of our people. We could permit her to live only as long as she was bound in a shape, among foreigners. There is no repeal, especially not now, after she has shared her mind with strangers. She is worse than dead to us—she is an affront, living evidence of contempt for our people, the people you claim to value, and our laws. And you travel with her!"
Zan put her arm around Ychass's shoulders, meeting her eyes briefly. "She did not share her mind with strangers, she shared her mind with me. But do you not think she has paid penalty enough for her offenses? To be cast, aware and helpless, among foreigners who fear and despise one is no easy fate."
"It was not meant to be an easy fate. It was meant to be her death," the priestess said coldly.
Zan released Ychass and spread her hands. "And so it was. The renegade you feared is gone—what haughty spirit could survive the punishment you set? But I have shared minds with the woman who stands here, and she with me, and that has changed us both. You cast her out, and you were right to do so. But I have taken her in, which was also right—and I am glad of it."
The priestess did not reply while the silence grew taut. Finally she bowed, an elaborate, graceful, ceremonial gesture. As she rose, she held Zan's gaze for a moment, searchingly. "I have always thought my masters merciless; you make me doubt. Go in peace, but do not stray from the river." She gestured to her company, and the shapeshifters took to the air and wheeled away.
Zan watched them dwindle to specks against the dimming sky. After a moment she turned to Ychass with a question, but the words stuck in her throat. Ychass was weeping; silent tears ran down her cheeks. As Zan watched, Ychass caught a tear on one finger and stared at it, then she closed her hand abruptly and shifted shape. Before Zan could react, the wolf was racing off upstream.
"Ychass!" she cried. "Ychass " But the shapeshifter did not respond. Zan began to take off after her, but Remarr caught her shoulder.
"Wait," he said quietly. "You can't hope to overtake her. She'll come back."
"But—"
He shook his head, silencing her. "I can't claim to understand everything that passed, 'Tsan, but I think she may need to be alone. According to legend, the shapeshifters are incapable of tears."
With an inarticulate protest, Zan sat down beside the fire and covered her face with her hands. She sat that way for a long time while Remarr played quietly and the others did the dishes in the river. Finally she raised her head. Her eyes met the minstrel's briefly, then she dropped her gaze to the shifting dance of the flames.
"I wish I understood," she murmured into the whisper of the fire and the quiet harp. "They think I do—the priestess, Ychass. But I don't. I feel I'm in a maze made of mirrors: I can't tell where the walls are, much less the openings, and when I look down, all I see is reflections stretching off to infinity. I can't even tell whether I'm standing on reality or illusion, or if I've already begun to fall."
Remarr was silent; his music changed. Zan recognized the round she had taught him, "Dona Nobis Pacem." As the familiar phrases unfolded, her throat tightened. She bowed her head and finally let herself cry, and with her silent tears came peace.
TWENTY
By the time they rose the next morning, Ychass had returned. The shapeshifter behaved as if nothing had happened, and the others followed her lead. They made good time that day and the next; by the third, they were in the mountains. Their travel slowed. Gone were the easy rises and gently rolling meadows. Over the centuries, spring floodwaters of the Snowsblood had carved a deep defile in the granite of the mountain
s. This late in the season, enough of the flood had abated to expose the jumbled rocks by the sides. Though the route was steep and treacherous, they made their way over these rocks, for the banks were too overgrown to allow passage. With frequent stops to rest, the little company made its careful progress over stones slick with spray and moss. As they climbed, suitable places to camp became scarce. Their first night, they camped on a ledge of rock barely wide enough for all of them to stretch out; the next night, they were lucky to discover a small, dank cave behind a waterfall. That night they had no fire, for the only wood they could find was too wet to burn cleanly and the little cave would have been unbearable full of smoke. No one slept well; the damp ate away at their comfort. By morning they were stiff and cramped. To make matters worse, it was raining.
"I never thought I'd complain about water falling from the sky," Remarr remarked sourly as they set out into the steady drizzle.
"Isn't it amazing how traveling broadens one's outlook?" Zan asked with sarcastic cheer. "No doubt we should all be grateful."
"I'd be a good deal more grateful if I'd had a hot breakfast," Karivet put in.
"Don't talk about heat," Vihena said with a groan. "I'll never be warm again. My poor feet are numb, and that doesn't help matters, ei—" She broke off with a sharp gasp as her foot slipped. Zan turned in time to see her hands frantically scrabbling as she slid toward the lip of the river.
Ychass reacted fastest. Before the others moved or cried out, she took the shape of a large mountain eagle. Beating her wings strongly, she sunk her talons into the leather of Vihena's pack and supported her until she could get her legs under her again and crawl to safety.
No one said anything while Vihena caught her breath and Ychass again took human shape. Finally Vihena managed a weak smile for the others. "That will teach me to complain. I'd have been a good deal colder if I'd landed in the river." She turned to the shapeshifter. "Thank you, Ychass."
Ychass regarded her gravely. "You are welcome, Vihena," she replied.
Suddenly Zan's eyes widened. My God, I forgot—I spoke your name aloud. Oh, Ychass, I'm sorry!
Ychass turned her strange colorless eyes on Zan. It doesn't matter, Stranger. You gave my name back to me. It has lost its power to bind me.
I don't understand, Zan thought, feeling suddenly as though she couldn't help but repeat this weary refrain over and over.
To her surprise, Ychass responded. When the gods made the world, they called life out of nothingness by naming it. The shapeshifters remember this. When children reach the threshold of adulthood, the Temple names them, binding them to the people. The name the Temple uses for an individual is not given, it is lent, and the Temple may reclaim it—and the person's life and freedom with it. The name Ychass is mine, not the Temple's; no one can bind me with it unless I give them that power. Namegiver, you made me free.
Zan shivered. Ychass's thoughts touched her in uncomfortable places. But why do the shapeshifters put up with it? Surely they don't all want the Temple to have so much power over them?
Ychass's mental laughter was bitter with self-mockery. You and I are too much alike. It was that sort of thinking that got me exiled in the first place.
Zan almost held her breath, hoping Ychass would tell her more and afraid to disturb her in any way.
I didn't think the Temple should be all-powerful, she went on a little ruefully. The priestess whom you outfaced so brilliantly had determined that I should serve the gods in their House. It was an honor, but not one I cared for. I told her so, and it angered her. She threatened me with the tribute, and I was afraid, so I asked my sister to trade names with me, so that the Temple would have no power over either of us. I was not sure it would work—to this day I do not know, for she betrayed me. I was punished, and when I still refused to serve the gods in their House, I was cast out and banished.
Why did you still refuse even after you were punished, when you knew what the dangers were? Zan asked gently.
Ychass's thought-voice was full of conviction and power. Because it was wrong. The gods deserve better than to be served out of fear. I could not do justice to the task demanded of me.
Zan was silent for several moments, awed by Ychass's revelation. Finally she thought, It was brave of you, Ychass. Surely the gods appreciate that.
Ychass met her eyes, her own expression enigmatic. Surely they must.
After Vihena' s near disaster they climbed even more carefully, and there were no other close calls. As the afternoon wore toward evening, they began to look for a place to camp, but they saw nothing even remotely suitable. Wearily they pressed on, but as the light got worse, they began to discuss their problem.
"I don't much fancy perching on a rock for the night," Vihena said, "but I don't know what else to suggest. With the rain, there won't even be a moon, and it would be fatally stupid to blunder around in the dark."
"But there's hardly even anything to perch on," Zan protested. "In this situation, falling asleep takes on a whole new, nasty meaning. I think we should press on and hope for the best. I know it's getting murky, but it's not impossible yet."
"We haven't passed anyplace we could stop for the past three hours. What makes you think the next ten minutes will make any difference?" Remarr asked. "We have rope. Perhaps we can anchor ourselves, so that if we nod off we won't fall."
"Great. We can be hanged in our sleep," Zan snapped.
Oh, please! Iobeh signed. I'm too tired for a fight.
"Look," Karivet broke in, pointing. "Light."
They followed his gesture. Ahead of them they could see a flicker of yellow light. They all gazed at it for several moments before Vihena spoke.
"It's not the right color for firelight. If we were in civilized parts, I'd say it was lamplight, but who would live up here?"
It's the god's House, Iobeh signed. It must be! Let's go. Maybe we can reach it before dark.
Ychass spoke up. "Distances are deceptive in the mountains. It could be a mile or more away—too far to reach tonight."
"But to be so close . . ." Zan protested.
"Being close won't do us a bit of good if our broken bodies are at the bottom of the gorge," Vihena said.
While the others argued, Karivet and Remarr knotted ropes into harnesses around their chests and arms. Without discussion, Ychass took the ends of the ropes, shifted to bird shape, and flew up into the overhanging trees. After a moment she dropped the ends down to be secured; they were looped over sturdy tree limbs. With a sigh, Zan copied Remarr and Karivet. When they were all harnessed, they settled back to wait out the night. In the drizzle, it was thoroughly uncomfortable. They were all glad when the pale dawn offered enough light to move on.
After two hours of travel, they were beginning to wonder whether they had imagined the light the night before. As the river climbed farther into the mountains, its course became even steeper. At the crest of one taxing stretch, they were confronted by a sheer cliff. The river spilled in a silver column from the top of a wall of gray granite. The cliff was so sharply undercut that the wall of stone appeared to be leaning toward them. They stared at it in dismay. Suddenly Iobeh pointed.
There are windows in the cliff, she signed.
Sure enough, near the top of the cliff were patches of a darker gray in the shape of narrow arched windows.
"Well," Zan remarked, "I wonder where the doorway is." While she was speaking, Karivet moved forward. Carefully skirting the pool into which the waterfall pounded, he vanished behind it. A moment later he reappeared, signing, There are steps cut into the cliff.
The others made their way to him. The steps were old and worn, slimed with moss and very steep. At one time there had been a heavy chain strung to serve as a railing, but time and dampness had eaten it to a rusted remnant. Zan looked up and shivered. They had a long way to climb.
Since the noise of the water made conversation impossible, she signed to the others: I think we'd better go one at a time. I'll start. Before anyone could object,
she started up the narrow stairway. Once she got going, it wasn't so bad—as long as she didn't look back. She used both her hands and her feet, since the steps were rough enough to offer good holds for her hands.
As Zan neared the top of the cliff she passed a rough stone arch, from which the waterfall issued. The stairway continued upward to a flat, grassy summit. She settled herself in the sunlight and touched thoughts with Ychass to tell her to send the next person up. She closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sun, enjoying the warm, humming quiet.
Quite suddenly she realized she was no longer alone. She turned her head and found herself staring up into the face of a stranger. He was tall and thin, clothed in a muted silvery gray that made the vivid russet of his hair all the more startling. His face expressed friendly curiosity as he studied her, but there was something disturbing about him. Despite his red hair and unwrinkled skin, his eyes seemed ancient, and gave his face an ageless quality. Beside him sat a fox cub, who watched Zan with expectant eyes. With an effort, Zan found her tongue.
"You must be the god we were sent to find," she said.
"'We'? I see only one of you." His voice was light, with an undertone of laughter—not the voice of a god as Zan had imagined it. The amusement in his eyes deepened.
"The others are coming," she told him. "We thought it would be better if only one climbed at a time."
"Who sent you?" he asked.
"The god we met at Windsmeet," she told him. "She sent us here on a quest."
His eyebrows rose, then he nodded. "Now I see."
"I wish I did," Zan muttered.
In one fluid motion, the god sat down beside her. The fox came over and pushed its cold nose into her hand. "What would you understand that you do not?"
"Everything," she replied feelingly.
He cocked his head to one side and looked at her quizzically. "Wouldn't you find that dull? Besides, it could make you insufferable to your friends."
She scowled at him. He was laughing at her. But he looked so innocent, and the lurking twinkle was so engaging that she found herself smiling in spite of herself. "I suppose so," she admitted, "but I do wish I knew why the shapeshifters set aside their laws at my request."
Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom Page 16