The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

  "Imprison, then. Bind. 'Locked ward in McLean's' —I've taken that from your mind. You cannot hold me, Isaac Marchbanks."

  He wanted to protest, to erase the hostility that showed in every line of her body. How could he make her trust him when he was so full of doubts and anxieties? If she were taking things from his mind, what else could she do?

  "What else?" she echoed. Her laughter was wild, her mood change mercurial. "Watch!" She flung out one arm, pointing stiffly at the window. The air seemed charged; the hair prickled on the back of Isaac's neck. A thread of reddish light sprang from Alexandra's finger to the window. The light spread over the glass, growing in intensity. Suddenly, without a sound, the glass was gone. Isaac smelled the tainted breath of the summer city. "Wind," Alexandra commanded, and the room was filled with swirling air. She strode, her ridiculous hospital gown fluttering, to the window edge. She mounted the sill, leaning into the wind, then looked back at Isaac. "I cannot be pent up. You cannot hold me. I am as free as the air."

  Suspicion crystallized into certainty in Isaac's mind. "Alexandra, wait!" he cried.

  She laughed at him. "I am not Alexandra. That name has no power to bind me."

  "Then what are you? Who are you?"

  "I don't know. But neither do you." Then Alexandra jumped.

  She did not scream. After an impossibly long moment, Isaac went to the window and leaned out to view the courtyard, five stories below. There was no broken body, no knot of horrified bystanders: no sign of Alexandra at all.

  The door behind him opened. Dr. Milton and two orderlies swept into the room. "Where—?" she began. "What—? Oh, God." Then she and both orderlies crowded to the window.

  Isaac was out the door and down the hall before they realized it; he ducked into a stairway and fled to the Intensive Care Unit where Antekkereh was waiting for him. He called a taxi and when it came, he wheeled Antekkereh to the lobby and helped her into the back seat. As he was climbing in after her, he could hear the hospital P.A. system: "Paging Dr. Marchbanks. Paging Dr. Isaac Marchbanks."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  That same morning, Mark had an unpleasant surprise. When he led Ychass out of her stall, the big gray mare moved as though she had a broken leg.

  "Kelly!" he shouted. Ychass's laughter bubbled in his mind.

  Don't panic. I'm not hurt—but Kelly must think I am.

  Tell the others, he advised before calling out again. "Kelly! Something's wrong with Mari Llwyd."

  Kelly checked the horse over and then, baffled, called the vet. "I can't find anything, Janet," Mark and the others heard her say, "but she's absolutely dead lame." She listened for a moment, then thanked the vet and hung up. "Janet's coming out sometime this morning," Kelly told them. "Keep Mari in." Then she sighed. "I'd better call Brigid."

  Brigid soon arrived. "I thought Shelley'd better know," she told Kelly. "And you know what? She said something like this happened once before: a mysterious lameness. They never did figure out what was wrong. She hopes Janet will have better luck."

  Of course, Janet didn't. Ychass limped dramatically, but the vet couldn't discover anything specific. In the end, Kelly sent Brigid off to call her friend again. Brigid returned to say that the last time, Shelley had laid the horse off for a couple of months. This time, Brigid reported, Shelley wanted her to take the horse to an equine specialist.

  Brigid enlisted Angel and Brice to help her hitch up the trailer. Before very long, she rolled out of the yard towing Ychass behind her. She stopped several miles from the farm, made sure no one was around, and invited Ychass to join her in the cab of the truck. The two of them drove halfway to Colchester, found a restaurant with a big parking lot, and had lunch.

  "You can't imagine how sick I am of grain," Ychass told her friend. "And hay. If I never see another blade of dried grass, it will be too soon."

  After lunch, Brigid dropped Ychass off at her apartment. They had decided it would be too much of a coincidence for Ychass to reappear as soon as Mari Llwyd was out of sight.

  "Prepare the ground for my return," Ychass had agreed. "There's no need for me to join the rest of you until we are ready to leave for that competition."

  ***

  Much against everyone's better judgment, Eikoheh insisted on taking her place at her loom that afternoon. The Dreamer sat beside her, lending her his eyes. The Weaver stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, channeling his strength into her frail form. She worked feverishly, as though she knew there wasn't much time. As the Weaver watched, his uneasiness grew. He could see how the luminous red that was 'Tsan's color eluded her control, but it was beyond his powers of vision to tell how the Dreamweaver intended to resolve the tangle.

  As though she had read Elgonar's thoughts, the old woman sighed. "I don't know what to do. I have no way to guide 'Tsan's thread. Ohmiden's gift gave me a certain hold on the Trickster, but it does not affect 'Tsan. She is a random force, a mad god. She will pull the pattern apart."

  "If strength will not move her, might not persuasion?" the Weaver suggested.

  The old woman gestured to the thread in her hand: the shapeshifter's color. "It is all I know to try."

  ***

  In Brigid's apartment, Ychass settled on the sofa and prepared to cast her mind forth—though she doubted she would be able to influence 'Tsan's troubled mind. At least, she could worry at the defenses in 'Tsan's mind, which denied that the shapeshifter and her friends were real; and at best, who knew? Perhaps the shell was ready to break. 'Tsan had always been so sensible. It wasn't like her to stray from reality.

  She brushed many minds, each preoccupied with daily concerns, pointless things, useless regrets. Suddenly, she touched a shining mind, bright with vigor, blazing with energy: a god's mind. She tried to pull away, but the other had sensed her.

  WHO?

  Against her will, her name was drawn out of her. Ychass. She framed her own question, Who are you?

  The only answer the god gave was fierce laughter. With no warning, the god seized her memories, ruthlessly sifting through them. Ychass was defenseless, unable to shutter her inmost thoughts. The god sought, and found and took what was wanted, leaving Ychass weeping with useless fury.

  But she did not allow herself the luxury of weeping long. Though unable to resist, she had felt the god's reactions to the uncovered memories; and clear in her mind was the god's triumph at finding Vihena in the shapeshifter's memories. She called to the swordswoman, called with enough force to startle her.

  What do you want? Vihena snapped, surprise spurring the anger that slept so close to the surface of her feelings.

  Ychass related what had happened, and shared her fear that the god might come after Vihena.

  Who was it? The Trickster?

  I don't think so, Ychass said. I have touched the Trickster's mind, and this felt different; but I cannot imagine who else would have cause to seek us.

  It's all futile, anyway, the swordswoman's thoughts snarled. What the hell am I supposed to do against a god?

  Cling to your name. Be warned. Seek Iobeh's advice. Don't be trapped in fatalism!

  Fatalism!? The swordswoman's ire burst its restraints. What are we if not mere toys of the gods? Our every step is woven for us. They sent us here on a hopeless errand, claiming our talents were needed, and what do we find? A world rife with pleasureseeking idiots who have no honor, who hire mercenaries to keep their laws for them with evil, fire-spitting weapons. When we find 'Tsan, she has been damaged beyond repair by the madness of this place; and still we go on, hoping that some miracle will restore her to us. And now you tell me there is yet another god, one we don't know. And then you dare to caution me against fatalism. The gods know I am no seer, but even I can tell that I am nothing if not a cursed puppet of the meddling gods!

  Ychass could feel Vihena's fury building; she could glimpse, behind the blazing rage, the specter of violence. She was frozen, afraid even to whisper into that dazzling, chaotic wrath. Then she sensed another presence, a balm
of cool sense: Iobeh. Go carefully, Iobeh, Ychass thought. It was more than half a prayer.

  DON'T SOOTHE ME!!! Vihena's mental cry thundered in Ychass's mind. Then the scalding rush of hostility toppled Vihena's fragile balance. Violence broke free. Ychass recognized the intent bare instants before Vihena acted upon it.

  Vihena, no! NO!! The last cry ripped through the minds of the Five and their allies, as Ychass flung herself into hawk-shape and plunged into the sky. She was already too late, but she fought the knowledge with heartbreaking effort.

  ***

  She who was no longer Alexandra followed the bright threads of the shapeshifter's memory: 'Tsan; she had been 'Tsan, but she was 'Tsan no longer. Memories of her own, lured by the brilliant treasure plundered from Ychass, surfaced. They were only shadows—a story that had happened to someone else; but she remembered: a singer's voice, lonely in the vast silence of the dry lands; a boy with vision-haunted eyes; a girl-child whistling a sparrow to her hand; an old woman, industrious at a loom; a red-haired stranger with gray eyes that promised peace and calm. Tears stung. What had she lost? Where were the clear, sharp feelings, shared joys and pains, which belonged with these misty visions?

  She dashed away her tears. Whose memories would jolt her own into focus? Ychass had given her shadows; who would give her substance? Vihena. Her mind snapped to the inconsistency: in her shadow-memories, the swordswoman's face was different from Ychass's recent memories. There was a story—and some answers.

  The one who was neither Alexandra nor 'Tsan wrapped the world's winds around her and bade them carry her to the place in Ychass's memory. The world's winds balked, but she insisted; it was not a smooth ride, but it served. She wove a glamour around herself, so that she might approach unseen, and made her way down the hill to the large, low-slung barn.

  ***

  In the guest room bed at Isaac's, the Trickster sat up with a start. "Isaac!" she cried.

  He came so swiftly she almost wondered if he had been waiting by the door. "What? What is it?"

  She took his hands in hers and clung to them, her eyes wide, her breath coming in fear-tightened gasps. "There is power stirring," she said at last. "It frightens me."

  Isaac sat down beside her, still holding her hands. "What can I do?"

  "Stay with me."

  Her panic subsided. She managed a smile; it didn't go very far toward reassuring him. Then, her eyes widened, with sudden pain. "Oh no," she breathed.

  "What?"

  "Do you hear it? The singing?"

  Isaac shook his head. "No."

  Her hands clutched his. "Don't let go. Promise?"

  He pulled her close. "I promise."

  ***

  Vihena's anger left her like a lantern snuffed by wind. Time froze; only her eyes moved, surveying the tableau before her. Iobeh—little, gentle Iobeh—lay where the force of Vihena's blow had thrown her. She was still and her body lay with her head at an odd, unnatural angle. Brigid, Angel, Mark, Brice, Karivet, and Remarr were caught like beetles in amber, their faces fixed in expressions of mingled shock and horror.

  "What have you done? Vihena, what have you done?"

  The voice, so familiar, so unexpected, unfroze time for the swordswoman. She turned, found herself facing—'Tsan! No, not 'Tsan. She faced one who wore 'Tsan's face, used her voice; but there was none of the spirit of Vihena's friend in those stern eyes. She stood too straight for 'Tsan; she radiated power while 'Tsan had only hinted at it. This was a god, wearing 'Tsan's face. This was judgment.

  For an instant, their gazes locked. Then, with a wail, Vihena flung herself at Iobeh. "Iobeh! Oh, no, no, no." As her cries turned to sobbing, movement returned to the others.

  "Call an ambulance!" Angel cried.

  "Is she breathing?" Mark demanded in the same instant.

  Vihena looked up, snatched Karivet's hand. "How could I have hurt her?"

  His seer's voice was cold. "Because you would not bridle your rage." He pulled away from her and felt for a pulse in his twin's throat. "Iobeh, don't leave us."

  The one who wore 'Tsan's face laid a hand on Karivet's shoulder. "May I? There may be something I can do."

  He moved aside as she knelt beside the girl. She straightened the crooked body and put her thin hands on either side of Iobeh's face. She closed her eyes. They could see the muscles bunch and tense in her shoulders; there was a flash of power, felt more than seen. They heard the thunder of wings as a hawk swooped from the sky, flinging itself earthward to become Ychass. There was a moment of profound silence. Then, the one who was no longer 'Tsan gathered Iobeh into her arms and rose.

  "Come," she said softly. "All of you. It is time for the judging." She summoned them with her eyes: Angel, Mark, Brice, Brigid, Karivet, Vihena, Remarr, Ychass. They clasped one another's hands; then, Ychass took the god's outstretched hand. At the touch, a sensation like a charge of electricity ran the length of the line. In its wake, they all heard something they had not before noticed: a high, clear voice, singing, calling, compelling.

  "What is it?" Ychass asked.

  "The Star Sower," the one who was no longer 'Tsan replied. "She is calling the Moot of the Gods."

  ***

  The Weaver swayed on his feet. He did not have much left to give the Dreamweaver. He blinked hard at the pattern; something was changing, but he couldn't identify it. His mind was slow, fuddled by the strain of sustaining the old woman. Suddenly, he heard something: a pure, clear voice. His eyes went back to the pattern, and he understood.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a mere shadow of itself. He knew, but he couldn't believe it.

  The Dreamweaver hunched one bony shoulder. ''I'm sorry, Elgonar. I'm weaving the Moot. There's no other way."

  The Weaver buried his face in his hands. He was so tired, so drained. "Now?" It was a moan.

  "I'm sorry, Elgonar," Eikoheh repeated. She swayed a little on the bench without his sustaining power.

  "I must go," the Weaver said to his siblings, "but you need not. Stay, 'Ren, to guide her weaving; and stay, Yschadeh, to lend her strength."

  "I must stay," the Dreamer answered. "But Yschadeh should go with you. You should not be forced to face the Moot alone. " He stood behind the Dreamweaver, as Elgonar had, with his hands on her shoulders while she used his eyes to weave her pattern. "Go," he said. "I will stay for you both."

  "Go," Eikoheh echoed faintly. "I have places for both your threads in the weaving to come. "

  Elgonar turned to his sister. "I am too weak to ride the winds," he told her. "Will you carry me?"

  In answer, the Namegiver put her arm around his shoulders, wrapped them both in wind, and carried them to Godsmoot.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The Hall of the Godsmoot was vast, the shadowy vaults of its ceiling supported on columns like forest giants carved of luminous gray stone. The floor was patterned with tiles of every imaginable glimmering color that swept in wide, random swathes across ice-white marble. On three sides of the Hall, tall arched windows stood open to wind and mist; the great dais, dominated by two massive thrones carved of obsidian, was shadowed and mysterious, the only part of the hall where no window shed pearly light. Behind the thrones was a huge silver candle stand, shaped like an apple tree, with thin white tapers fitted into each of its blossoms. None was lit, and in the dimness, the sculpture looked like a winter tree, bejeweled with frost and icicles.

  A throb of air wound through the hall, and left in its wake the Star Sower. She wore a robe of blue velvet, stitched with gleaming points of silver. Her dark eyes surveyed the empty hall; then, she threw back her head, swept wide her arms, and began to sing. Her voice filled the Hall of the Godsmoot until the stone glowed; then, as the winds took the sound and carried it, one by one, the gods answered her summons.

  First to come were the twin Warriors—so alike that even their siblings could not tell one from the other—arguing as always. On their heels, the Forester, and with her, the Mariner. Then, in a dizzying group, the Stor
mbringer, the Dancer, the Talespinner, the Pathfinder, and the Harvester. Talk swirled as the gods greeted one another.

  Another gust of wind brought tatters of fog into the Hall of the Godsmoot. The Messenger arrived, then the Lovers and the gentle Rainmaker. The Star Sower's song gained in power and intensity, as though she were reaching for someone nearly beyond the range of her voice. There was a mutter of thunder; sudden, vicious winds slashed at the assembled gods. The Trickster and Isaac appeared, faint and wavering like images seen through water. The Star Sower's voice roughened with effort until their shadowy forms steadied. A murmur of shock ran through the gods.

  "A mortal?" It was the Talespinner's beautiful voice. "Has the Trickster lost her mind?"

  But the Star Sower sang on, calling: demanding. The Namegiver arrived, supporting the Weaver, and a gasp shook the assembled gods. "If the Weaver is here," the Messenger whispered, "who is weaving the Moot?"

  The Star Sower's song did not falter, but grew, pulsing with energy. The candles on the dais burst into flame as the Mother and the Arbiter entered the hall. They ascended the dais steps and took their seats while the Star Sower spun her song into the sudden silence of the assembly. Then, there was a howl of wind that tore the mists surrounding the Hall of the Godsmoot. A shaft of sunlight lanced into the shadowy dimness, and in the center of the dancing color it awoke on the patterned floor, a Stranger god appeared, with a young girl in her arms and a string of eight mortals by the hand.

  As the Star Sower's song concluded, the Arbiter rose to his feet. "Who calls the Moot and on whose behalf?"

  "I called the Moot," the Star Sower replied, "on behalf of the void between the worlds. Some power has upset the balance, so that even the stars cry out in pain. I summoned the Moot to see whether all of us together might heal the rift ere it rends the worlds asunder. My Lord Arbiter, we are not all here. I have called and called, but the Dreamer will not answer."

  "The Dreamer is absent, but the Weaver is not," cried the Messenger. "Who weaves the Moot?"

  With great effort, Elgonar raised his head and spoke; his voice was ragged with weariness. "My Dreamweaver, Eikoheh, wields the shuttle, and the Dreamer lends her strength."