The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

  "Ychass should attempt to touch 'Tsan's mind."

  "I have tried," Ychass said. "Something blocks me."

  "Try again," the swordswoman ordered.

  The shapeshifter focused her thoughts and sent her mind questing. She found 'Tsan almost at once, but could not get her to respond; 'Tsan was heavily asleep; the sleep was too thick to disrupt. She struggled with it for several moments, then shook her head. "She sleeps. I do not think it is a natural sleep."

  "Where is she?" Vihena demanded.

  "It's not that simple, Vihena." Exasperation sharpened her voice. "Though I can touch a mind, that touch doesn't act as a map. If only 'Tsan would wake, she could tell me where she is."

  "What about the gods?" Remarr ventured. "They said they would help us."

  "You want me to cast my thoughts across the void?"

  "Is it possible?"

  Ychass's pale gaze touched each of them in turn. "And which of you will pull me back, should I fail?"

  Vihena scrubbed one foot in the carpet, Remarr examined his harp-calluses, and Karivet picked at the upholstery. Iobeh touched Ychass's wrist and signed, I will.

  But can you? Ychass asked her silently.

  In answer, Iobeh funneled her energy into a call, a longing that the shapeshifter felt as distinctly as the tug of a cord. Ychass nodded, dosed her eyes, and cast her mind forth.

  The void clutched at her, tried to suck away her sense of herself. She fought it, shaping her mind into a dense core she hoped would pierce through without being snared. Elgonar! ELGONAR! she called. There was no response. Ychass began to tire. She knew she should draw back into herself while she still had the strength. And then she felt a flicker, a will-o'-the-wisp glimmer that drew her onward. She pursued it, sure she was on the brink of contact, until it dissolved into mocking laughter, leaving Ychass alone in the dark: lost.

  Panic clawed at her sense of herself. The tight core of her thoughts began to fray. Then, she felt Iobeh's call—the tug of her longing. She followed it. Ychass's thoughts thundered along the cord Iobeh stretched between them until the world snapped back into place around the shapeshifter. Her deep, relieved breath turned into a violent spasm of coughing. In spite of the strain that showed on Iobeh's face, the girl held the shapeshifter's hands until her breathing eased and she could again speak. Ychass squeezed Iobeh's hands to convey her thanks before she met Remarr's eyes and said, "No."

  Karivet shivered. "Gods! Are you all right?"

  "Thanks to Iobeh. I am not a god that I can cast my mind beyond the void. Simply wanting a thing to be true is not enough. Vihena, I share your impatience, but we must not let our desire for action drive us to rashness. I believe I met the Trickster in the void; she lured me beyond my strength to return unaided. If the Trickster is in this, do you see the implications? We must be doubly on our guard for we must not only overcome the dangers of this place, but we must also contend with whatever obstacles the Trickster invents."

  "You cannot be sure it was she," Vihena countered.

  "It sounded like her laughter."

  Remarr stepped in. "It is only sense to listen to Ychass in these matters. But what shall we do about our allies? Shall we fall in with their plans, though it means losing another day?"

  "What choice have we?" Vihena asked bitterly. An idea struck her. "Unless we Ask you where she is, Karivet."

  Karivet's jaw tightened, but he said, "Ask, then, if you are sure of your question."

  Vihena took his hand and met his eyes. "Where is 'Tsan?"

  "In this world, 'Tsan exists only in memory," Karivet answered tonelessly.

  "What?" Vihena gasped. "Is she dead?"

  "It is as though she had never been."

  Vihena covered her face. "No! Oh, no!" she cried, her words blurred with sobs. "Now what will we do?"

  THIRTEEN

  For the first time in what seemed like years, Alexandra slept peacefully. When she woke in the infirmary, she realized what a tremendous relief it was to have someone with whom to talk, someone with whom she did not need to keep up pretenses.

  Dr. Marchbanks had listened to the whole wretched story: the cult and the missing piece of her memory; the delusions of an alternate world peopled with gods and shapeshifters; her "memories" of herself as chosen savior; the tormenting dreams; even the minor hallucination. As it had spilled out of her, he had listened without judgment. In the end, he had asked her whether she would like to stay in the infirmary, and when she had said yes, he had made the arrangements.

  Alexandra got dressed. It was morning; she had slept almost twenty hours. Before long, one of the nurses brought a tray. "Did you sleep well? After you've had your breakfast, Dr. Marchbanks wants to see you."

  Alexandra ate hungrily, even though the food was not terribly appealing. Dr. Marchbanks was waiting for her in his office. He was a wiry, small man with curly brown hair and an intense, animated face. He seemed to listen with every pore. He smiled when she came in, waving her to a chair.

  "Did you sleep?"

  "Very well; and no dreams. But where do we go from here? I can't live in the infirmary."

  "No," he agreed. "But I wouldn't say you needed to, either. How does the thought of going back to the dorm make you feel?"

  She shrugged. "It doesn't scare me; but I still can't remember what happened to me in the cult. I mean, I feel a lot better having gotten some sleep, but things aren't right yet."

  "It will take time, Alexandra. I'll want to see you—well, at least once a week, perhaps more often. If you find you aren't able to cope, you can come back here. What's important is that you understand you don't have to do everything yourself; it's all right to have help. You've been through a lot, and you've managed remarkably well. You're not crazy, Alexandra; but you have been under tremendous stress. Just having told someone about it will help; but there are more aggressive therapies to explore if we must. You have options, Alexandra. Try to remember that. Now"—he picked up his appointment book—"we'll set up a regular weekly time. If something urgent comes up, call anytime and of course I'll work you in, but I could give you a regular time—either Tuesdays at one, or Wednesdays at three."

  Mentally she reviewed her schedule. "Tuesday would work."

  "Very good. If anything comes up in the meantime, call me. Unless I hear from you, I'll look for you Tuesday. Okay?"

  She nodded. "Thanks."

  After she had gone, Dr. Marchbanks made some notes in her file. "Unusual case," he wrote. "She refers to 'delusions,' but does not believe in her constructs. Indicative of heavy rationalization?" As he laid his pen aside, he shook his head. The world Alexandra Scarsdale had invented was a richly imaginative one—far richer, alas, than the world of the university community. He sighed. The human mind was endlessly fascinating, even if academia sometimes palled.

  ***

  When the Weaver groaned and opened his eyes, Eikoheh breathed again. The Namegiver and the Dreamer helped him to sit up, and Ohmiden brought him water. After he had drunk, the Dreamer laid his hands gently on Elgonar's bruised throat, and willed power through his fingers.

  "El, where's the Trickster?" the Namegiver asked.

  The Weaver covered his eyes with one hand. "I wove her across the void, " he whispered.

  A flicker of amusement crossed the Dreamer's face. "Did you take the language from her?"

  "No. It was nearly more than I could do to send her at all. This is serious, 'Ren. I sent her after the Five. I did not have the strength to find another world for her; and I doubt she is trapped. She is stronger than even my worst nightmares."

  "Hold!" Eikoheh cut in. "You have sent the Trickster to the same world as the Five and 'Tsan?"

  "I had little choice, Eikoheh. The pattern is set to span the void to that place. Had I tried to change that, I would never have succeeded."

  "I would like to know," the Namegiver remarked, "who threw that pitcher?"

  "I did," Ohmiden confessed. "She made me angry."

  "Your aim was true, my f
riend, " the Dreamer said. "Your action may well have saved us all."

  "I am glad my best stoneware pitcher was sacrificed in a good cause," the Dreamweaver commented. "But how can we aid the Five, now that the Trickster is loosed upon them?"

  "If we pool our strengths, we might warn them," the Dreamer said, but the Namegiver and the Weaver shook their heads.

  "The Trickster would anticipate that and it would put Ychass in grave danger," Elgonar said. "But the Five must know. Perhaps we could send one of them a dream."

  "Send the dream to one of their allies!" said Ohmiden. "Surely the Trickster is unaware of them."

  "That is wise," the Namegiver said with approval. "Show us their colors in the pattern, Dreamweaver, so that we may decide which of them will best suit our purpose."

  ***

  Angel woke with a jolt. The urgency of the dream left her heart thudding. The digital clock blinked reproachfully: 2:47. She recalled the look on the face of the man in her dream. The Weaver wanted her to warn someone, warn the Five; warn them that the Trickster was loose in the world.

  The meaning clicked into place. The Five: Ychass, Vihena, Iobeh, Karivet, and Remarr; they had talked about the gods, had even mentioned the Weaver. It didn't sound as though the Trickster was a good guy.

  Angel tried to think. Ychass could hear thoughts; maybe she could hear Angel's. But how did one think loudly?

  Sleep lured her: tell them in the morning. Then she recognized that she might forget to pass the message on in the morning. So she wrote the whole dream down in as much detail as she could recall, then tucked the paper into the pocket of the riding coat she would wear tomorrow. That done, she went back to bed and fell almost instantly asleep.

  When the Five rose at daybreak to meet Brigid, there was not much enthusiasm. Karivet's pronouncement had sapped their hope, in spite of the knowledge that even though Ychass had gotten no direct response, she had touched 'Tsan's mind. Anxiety lay heavily on them as they made breakfast and got ready for the events of the day. Vihena's impatience had subsided into lethargy; if 'Tsan existed only in memory, what was the point? Remarr wanted to strangle her, but the others liked her better when she was quiet.

  When they arrived at the stable, the place was swathed in a chill morning mist; the excitement of the others was so tangible it made Iobeh twitch. Horses were blanketed, their legs wrapped. Last-minute equipment checks were run before they loaded the trailer and piled people into vehicles. They headed out of the yard at 6:23 exactly.

  It was a long day. The Five led horses, ran errands, and acted as extra pairs of hands for their allies. It might have been enjoyable, except for their growing frustration. Ychass and Iobeh both suffered from the unspoken tension; Ychass had shielded her thoughts so much that she nearly missed Angel's mental summons.

  As Angel had brushed off her riding coat, the crinkle of paper had puzzled her momentarily. She had fished out a folded sheet from the pocket—and the memory of her weird dream washed over her. She looked around for the others, but realized there was no tactful way to get out of earshot of the adults. Ychass! she thought, hard. Come over here and don't talk.

  Shaken from her mental shell, Ychass complied. What is it?

  In answer, Angel gave her the paper. Ychass glanced at it, then raised frowning eyes to Angel's face. What is this?

  Read it! As the thought left Angel's brain, she remembered that none of the aliens could read. She twitched the paper out of the shapeshifter's hand and silently read it, calling the dream to mind. Ychass looked alarmed.

  I must tell the others, she thought to Angel. The Trickster is no friend to us—or to 'Tsan! We must take precautions if she is here. Thank you, Angel.

  Ychass made time among the day's press of tasks and errands to report Angel's dream warning to the others. When she told Remarr and Vihena, the swordswoman's simmering dissatisfaction boiled over.

  "With the Trickster herself stalking 'Tsan we are wasting time with these pleasure-seeking children and their animals!" she raged. "What insanity possesses us?"

  "If we hadn't come along today," Remarr pointed out, "Angel would have been unable to deliver the Weaver's warning."

  "You! " Vihena snarled with deep disgust. "By all the gods, Remarr, you could mouth comforting words at the end of the world! What good does it do to cling to such baseless hope?"

  "Hope," the minstrel responded evenly, "is more powerful than despair; and not all courage requires rage to fuel it."

  Vihena flushed and raised a hand to strike him.

  "Peace!" Ychass's voice, underscored by her mind, drew them up short. "When we fight amongst ourselves, surely we do the Trickster's will. Vihena, we have traveled this path before: we must depend upon our allies; without their guidance we are at sea indeed. And the Weaver spoke to Angel. Should we not take encouragement from that? If the gods are using these children—despite the weaknesses we see—then they are surely woven into the pattern." She turned away without waiting for a response. With a nod, Remarr led the horse in his charge to another grazing spot, leaving Vihena to her thoughts.

  For the rest of the day, Remarr managed, without making his efforts pointed, to stay out of Vihena's way. There was certainly enough work to keep them all occupied. At long last, the games ended. The troupe returned to the stable, did the evening chores, and when the last horse was fed, Brigid took the Five back to her parents' farm and left them.

  ***

  The Trickster was angry. It was not so easy to ride the winds in this world as it had been in the world of the Loom, and it was very hard for her simply to call up the things she needed. She didn't know whether this was due to some quirk of the world she was in, or whether it was caused by the power she had lost. There were people everywhere. They cluttered the landscape and acted, by sheer force of numbers, as camouflage for 'Tsan. The Trickster had used a shred of her power to confuse watching eyes, to prevent people from noticing that her gray robes and cloak bore little resemblance to local garb. She leaned against the wall of a building and let the herds of people stream past her; she hoped to catch some spark of useful information from their surface thoughts. Though no one knew anything of 'Tsan, the Trickster learned the importance of the paper slips people termed "money." She wasted no time in acquiring some. She was easily the most efficient panhandler downtown Boston had ever seen; if she caught her marks' eyes, they fished in their wallets for the largest bills they had.

  She watched people; there was such variation in their dress and appearance. The Trickster wanted to blend in, but she could not spare the power to keep up her eye-confusing shield indefinitely. So she used some of her take to purchase native clothing. She then went to a market that sold mechanical steeds. She “persuaded” a vendor to sell her a two-wheeled horse at a price she could afford. When he began to talk about "permits," "licenses," and "insurance," she made him forget, and then took the knowledge of how to control the thing from his mind. It took her several moments to work out the balance of the thing, but when she'd stopped wobbling, she roared down the street on her two-wheeled horse.

  The Trickster knew the Five were here: she had felt the shapeshifter's mind, briefly, when Ychass had tried to bridge the void. If the Five were here, the Trickster was sure that 'Tsan was too. She must find the Wanderer before the others did.

  FOURTEEN

  "Now what?" Vihena demanded in a tone of almost belligerent despair. The Five were seated at the table in the Chandlers' dining room. "The Trickster is here—somewhere; 'Tsan exists only in memory. Our allies are easily distracted by their own petty concerns. What else could possibly go awry?"

  "The Trickster could find us!" Remarr snapped. "Or she could find 'Tsan before we do. Your Clan would be ashamed of you, Vihena; you are wringing your hands like a silly Vematheh."

  "How dare you!" Vihena began, but Karivet slammed his fist down on the table.

  "Will you stop bickering?" he demanded. "I swear by the wise gods I have never seen such lunacy! Vihena, I know you dislike pro
blems that will not yield to a sword, but you are no fool. 'Tsan exists only in memory—it was a blow to hear that; but it is the answer to the wrong question. The 'Tsan we know could have no place in a world as bizarre as this. Ychass has felt her mind, but it is not our 'Tsan; it is the woman she has become in this place."

  "If she is not our 'Tsan, will she wish—or be able—to help us?" Vihena demanded.

  "We have no other hope," Ychass said quietly. "The fate of the world rests on our recovering 'Tsan, to heal the Loom with her presence. If she is lost to us, then hope is gone."

  "Then we should Ask Karivet."

  "No!" Karivet, Remarr, and Ychass said together.

  "What would you Ask me?" Karivet went on gently. "The wrong question might sap our hope or make us overconfident. And once the word is spoken I cannot unsay it."

  "But I want to know, " Vihena pleaded.

  You want, Iobeh signed, to be spared the effort of hoping. But we need your hope, and your effort.

  With a lopsided smile, Vihena asked, "So now what? Is there any way to guard against the Trickster?"

  Ychass shrugged. "I dare not try to touch 'Tsan's mind again, as I have no way of knowing whether the Trickster can intercept such communication. I will shield my mind, but beyond that, I can see no way to protect us."

  Iobeh gave a sudden gasp and gestured toward a large, convex mirror. There was the Trickster's avid face—curiously distorted by the mirror's curve—watching them.

  "Cover it! Cover the mirror!" Remarr cried.

  Vihena raced to the sideboard for a tablecloth. Together, she and Remarr veiled the mirror.

  "Can she hear us?" Vihena whispered.

  "How would I know?" Remarr whispered back. "But if she can capture our gaze, or touch us, she can compel our obedience."

  "There are other mirrors," Ychass said. "We must shroud them all."

  They scouted through the house, towels, sheets, and tablecloths in hand. When they gathered again in the dining room, Remarr shook his head at the others.

  "I do not like it that she has found us so quickly."