"Surely that is your place, Weaver?" snapped one of the Warriors.
"I think not," he replied.
The Mother rose and with a gesture stilled the angry and alarmed mutterings. "Peace. Much must be explained ere we can make a judgment. Let us hear the whole of it in an orderly fashion. Elgonar, begin."
The Weaver met her eyes in a flash of panic. That she had used his true name was not an encouraging beginning. Despair and weariness settled around him like a cloak of lead. He stared at the tiles beneath his feet and tried to assemble his thoughts.
"The tale begins, I suppose, with the Forester. She asked me to string a Wanderer's color on the Loom, to protect the Orathi." His voice was weary, gray, defeated. Suddenly, he felt a touch on his shoulder, felt strength pouring into him. The Namegiver had moved to share her strength with him. As he told the tale of 'Tsan and the quest to Windsmeet, his words gained power. The gods' silence was charged—listening, not condemning. As he told of the Trickster's cruel gifts, and ultimate casting out of 'Tsan, there was a subtle shift of anger toward her; and he knew the others heard his desperation, understood his driving anguish. He told of his alliance with the Dreamer and the Namegiver, told of 'Tsan's five companions, told of the support of Eikoheh and Ohmiden; but when he reached the point in the tale where he and his allies had sent the Five across the void, he faltered to a stop.
"I cannot tell of the Five's trials and adventures, for I could see only Eikoheh's pattern as it grew on the Loom. "
The Mother nodded. "Indeed not. We will hear from them, ere we make our judgment. Tell of your own actions and trials, Elgonar, and leave nothing out."
So he did. He told of the three gods' attempts to contact 'Tsan; he told of the Trickster's interference and attack, and his own sending her across the void. When he told of Ohmiden's death, and the power his sacrifice bought them, the Five murmured and Karivet turned to Ychass for comfort. The Weaver told of the Mother's visit, and repeated their conversation. And in a cool, uninflected voice, he related his own attempt to destroy the Trickster with her own forsworn name—despite the fact that he knew she had broken her vow on 'Tsan's behalf
When he finished, the silence was heavy—and cold. Elgonar felt the other gods' disapproval pushing against him like a physical force.
"But I didn't." It was the Trickster's voice, harsh as a crow's. "I didn't really break my vow on 'Tsan's behalf"
"But you did!" Isaac protested. The gods' attention shifted away from the Weaver.
"No." Tenderness softened the Trickster's expression as she answered Isaac. "I didn't. Myself, I didn't care whether 'Tsan lived or died. But it would have hurt you to have been the cause of her death." She turned to the Weaver. "My name was yours to take, truly forsworn. Weaver, what stayed your hand? "
"No!" Isaac cried. "It's not right! They can't destroy you for acting bravely and unselfishly—no matter what the letter of the law permits, Antekkereh!"
Understanding and wonder blazed on the Weaver's face. "He's right. Yes! Trickster, your name wasn't mine to take; you have given it to your friend, and he would not give it up!"
"Very neat, Elgonar," the Arbiter cut in coldly. "Yet you have stolen the Trickster's power—a wrong, surely; and by your own admission, you have upset the balance between the worlds."
"I do not feel wronged," the Trickster said. "And I ask no recompense." Her expression turned sardonic. "The Moot may still pillory the Weaver, but neither at my behest nor on my behalf." She took Elgonar's hand. "I regret I've been such a thorn in your side these ages past. In my heart I knew you were no enemy, but you were near to hand, and your tail was all too easy to twist. Can you forgive me?"
His hand tightened on hers; tears thickened his voice. "We have all wronged you, bound you, sought to destroy you—I no less than any other; and yet you ask me for forgiveness. You amaze me. Of course I forgive you, my sister. I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
The Star Sower stepped into the circle. "The balance is not as desperately skewed as it was, but my stars still groan in pain." She turned her fathomless eyes on the Stranger god and her companions; then she looked back to the dais. "Perhaps we should hear from the Five."
The Arbiter inclined his head. "Speak, then, mortals."
Ychass, Vihena, and Karivet all looked at Remarr. Iobeh stirred in the Stranger god's arms, but her eyes were closed.
"Me?" Remarr's whisper echoed in the lofty vaults. "But—"
"Who else?" the Talespinner responded, laughter quivering in his voice.
Remarr bowed politely. "I am a minstrel, lord, not a storyteller."
The Talespinner pointed to Remarr's harp case. "So sing the tale. I'll not hold you to speech."
With shaking hands, Remarr got out his harp, swiftly tuned it, and began. The music stitched threads of joy and sorrow, laughter and pain, under the words that he sang. His music roused Iobeh, and the Stranger god set her on her feet. Remarr's song told of their adventures, the strangeness and frustration of the new world, the surprise and delight of loyal friends, the pain, the tension, the dangers. He spun everything that had happened into the song. He cast his voice like a net into the hall, and when he ended, the gods were awed, expectant.
Into the pregnant silence, the Mother spoke to the Stranger god. "I would hear your tale."
The Stranger god laughed, a sound full of bitterness. "I do not sing, nor can I speak as eloquently as the Weaver. I have no gift of forgiveness to lay like a balm on this company. I have only stolen power, and imperfect memories, lured out of my own damaged mind by an act of violence against the Shapeshifter who was once a friend. I have no name, no place, no purpose. I cannot remember my story and thus cannot share it with you. No doubt I am the aberration that keeps the worlds out of balance. Destroy me and have done."
"No!" It was Iobeh. Her voice was no longer the harsh croak the Trickster had given her. Her eyes widened in surprise and her hand tightened on the Stranger god's. "The balance could be restored by that sacrifice, but too much would be lost."
"What can you know of it, girl?" the Arbiter demanded. "These are weighty matters, not to be swayed by emotion."
"There is no greater weight than emotion!" Iobeh cried. "The heart must sway the mind, lest you have only justice, never mercy. Look at the Trickster! She stands before you whole and healed—"
"She has been stripped of her power—" one of the Warriors began, but Iobeh's voice overrode his.
"Whole and healed! Look at her: she is happy, at peace. Have you ever seen her thus?"
"She is so drained of power she is almost a mortal," the Arbiter said.
"No," Iobeh retorted. "She is so full of power that she could restore the Loom and the balance by herself.”
"How can you know such things?" the Arbiter asked.
"I hear the speech of the heart. It is my gift! And the voice of the Trickster's heart is so strong, it knocks me breathless." Iobeh could feel the gods' rejection of her words. "How can I make you listen?" she added in a broken whisper.
The Stranger god went to Karivet. "May I Ask you?"
His lips tightened. "Are you sure of your question?"
Her smile was cynical. "No—but has that ever stopped me?"
After a tense moment, Karivet held out his hands to her. "Ask," he said softly, "and I will answer."
She grasped his hands, met his calm, brown eyes. "How may the Trickster restore the Loom and the balance?"
"She must make her heart's choice. Then her power must be named but not bound, and each must return to the proper sphere."
The Stranger god sighed. "The oracle is obscure; perhaps someone may better interpret it than I."
"It's perfectly clear to me," the Trickster said calmly. "My 'heart's choice' is a choice about who I am and who I would become. Do you remember, Isaac, telling me I could change if I chose? Is it still true?"
He nodded. "It's always true. Do you wish to change?"
Her smile was tremulous, her eyes vulnerabl
e. "I would become someone who needn't leave you, if you would have me stay."
His arm encircled her shoulders. "Of course I want you to stay—but will they let you go?"
"Oh, aye." She laughed, with her unique blend of stubborn recklessness. "It is my heart's choice."
"But without your power—" one of the Warriors began.
"It is no longer my power," she cut in. To the Weaver she added, "Do with it what you will—as you have."
The Namegiver's eyebrows rose. "'Named but not bound,"' she whispered. Her eyes sought the Weaver's before she turned to the Stranger god. "I name you." Her voice rang in the quiet. "I name you Wanderer, for you are unbound; and I give you freedom, for freedom you must have, freedom to use your gifts as you choose: to heal or blight, to build up or break down, to create or destroy. I name you a wild power, a free power, ungoverned, ungovernable." As she spoke, the Namegiver approached the Stranger god. "I give you every gift it is within my power to bestow: courage, clear-sightedness, compassion. And I give you your secret name, which is yours to keep or to share: even I will not remember it after I have spoken, for so you must be: free to choose without restraint or binding." Then the Namegiver whispered in the Wanderer's ear.
Silence lasted for an aching moment; then the Wanderer demanded, "Where is freedom in this for me? I have no freedom! You have made all the choices for me!"
"No!" the Weaver answered. "Did you not hear the Namegiver? Even the Loom cannot influence you; you must make your own choices—whatever they may be."
"Ha! I'm stuck being a god, in any case. I can hardly go back to a normal life in the world of my birth."
"Indeed you can!" the Weaver contradicted. "It is your choice to hold or release the name and the power you have been given, to accept or deny the gifts you have been given. "
"And what happens to you if I reject it all?" she demanded.
Before the Weaver could reply, Karivet spoke. "If you answer that question, you take away the Wanderer's ability to choose in innocence."
"I will not choose blind—that's not freedom, it's heedlessness. So tell me," the Wanderer added to the Weaver, "what becomes of you if I reject it all?"
"Fate rides on the Dreamweaver," he replied. "If she cannot rechannel the loosened power, the pattern will unravel utterly."
"If you were at the Loom, could you rechannel the power?"
Elgonar shrugged. "I doubt it. But if it had been left to me, I would never have dared to weave the Five across the void."
The gods held their breath. Power thrummed in the silence; then the Wanderer sighed. "I will stay. There is nothing in my past to call me back to the world of my birth." She turned to the mortals. "One thing remains," she added. "Are you prepared to return to your proper spheres?"
"Can we say our goodbyes first?" Angel asked.
"Of course."
Farewells were said, with hugging and some tears. The Wanderer spoke to Isaac and the Trickster. "The Namegiver gave me a new name. Perhaps I'd better give you my old one—and some memories as well. It will make it easier for you to explain your presence, if you have things like a Social Security number. "
"I'm to become Alexandra Scarsdale?" the Trickster asked.
"Alexandra Eleanor Scarsdale," the Wanderer corrected. With a touch, she conveyed a few specific memories—enough, she hoped, to allow the Trickster to fit herself into her new niche. Then, when the farewells had been said, she wrapped her power tenderly around each of the earthlings and sent them home.
The Five remained, looking lost and rather forlorn among the bright company of the gods. The Wanderer went to them. "Should I take back the Trickster's cruel gifts?" she asked them. "I've already changed your voice, Iobeh."
Ychass responded first. "No. I like being able to speak, mind to mind, with my friends."
"It doesn't matter," Karivet shrugged. "I decided, long since, that I would answer when asked; the ability to choose makes no difference to me any longer. "
"I never thought a minstrel needed courage," Remarr said dryly, "but I find I've grown used to it."
Vihena was silent. When she met the Wanderer's eyes at last, her own were full of tears. "Even a month ago, I would have leaped at the chance to shed this form; I thought I hated the way I looked. Now I find I rather hate the way I am inside. Could you, do you think, teach me to govern my temper, so that I never again hurt my friends in anger?"
"That is beyond me." The Wanderer's voice was free from either regret or disdain. "You are the only one who can control your rage. It may be a bitter lesson for you, but there are no shortcuts. It will be hard, but you will learn. "
"Then leave me as I am," Vihena said finally, "to remind me of my task."
"As you wish. Shall I send you home? Are you ready to go?"
"Where is home?" There was a world of bitterness in the minstrel's question.
"'Home is a place in the heart,'" the Wanderer quoted softly. "I will send you to the Dreamweaver's cottage; she needs you. There you may make decisions together about where you will settle and how you will live."
When they were gone, only the gods remained, regarding the Wanderer with watchful, guarded eyes. She returned their scrutiny, her own face impassive. When it became clear that she would not speak further, the Arbiter addressed the assembly.
"Is our judgment accomplished? Star Sower, are the worlds in balance?"
"It is an unfamiliar balance, but it causes no distress."
"Surely we must yet punish the Weaver for his outrageous foolhardiness!" one of the Warriors cried. "His actions imperiled the very foundation of the world. He has shown himself unfit to cast the shuttle of Fate."
There was no mutter of agreement. After a moment, the Mother spoke. "It is unfair to lay all the blame at Elgonar's door. He strove to heal the Loom after the Trickster's meddling—and this he has done. Could any of us have done as well? Is the business of the Moot complete? May we disband?" When silence greeted her words, she dismissed them.
The gods departed as they had come, until only the Weaver, the Namegiver, and the Wanderer remained. They regarded one another warily. Finally, the Wanderer spoke. "Do you truly not remember the name you gave me?"
"I truly do not," the Namegiver replied. "Mine is Yschadeh, but yours I do not know."
"It is Antekkereh," she told them with a peculiar smile. The Weaver gasped. "The Trickster's name," he whispered, but the Namegiver began to laugh.
"The workings of power are curious," she said at last. "Do you suppose you are the Trickster as she was meant to be?"
"I suppose I am meant to be myself," the Wanderer said.
"No doubt," Yschadeh agreed. "Now, shall we fetch Irenden?"
"With your aid," Elgonar replied with a weary smile. They linked arms, and the winds carried them away.
EPILOGUE
The summer was long past; a dismal October rain drummed on the corrugated roof of the horse barn. The comfortable odors of hay, horses, and leather were mixed with the smell of wet leaves, and the damp, chill air ate its way into one's very bones. Angel scrubbed at the caked dirt on Gabe's bridle. Mark buffed his show boots, preparatory to storing them for the winter months, and Brice worked on an overdue English assignment. When Angel sighed, Mark glanced up, his brows raised.
"Nothing ever happens anymore," she answered his look. "It's so bad Brice is doing homework!"
"Hey!" Brice protested. "So go ride in the rain. I'm not stopping you."
Angel clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "It's not the rain. Don't you feel it? Life is so quiet without the Five."
Neither of the boys said anything.
"Hey, come on!" Angel said. "Don't mess with my mind. You're not going to pretend it never happened, are you?"
"My mother got a very nice thank-you letter from the twins," Mark said, studying the shine on his boots, "with Greek stamps on it."
Brice nodded without looking up. "Ditto, from Remarr."
"So ask me to explain everything," she snapped. "But it h
appened! You know it did."
When neither of the boys offered any further comment, Angel went back to her task. As she laid the clean brow band out to dry on the old newspaper she was using, something caught her eye. She leaned closer to read it. There was a photograph, one of the awful, posed-couple kind, over a short column of text. "Hey! Listen to this," she crowed, excitement chasing petulance out of her tone. "'Alexandra Eleanor Scarsdale and Isaac Nathaniel Marchbanks were married in a private ceremony yesterday. The bride, who is the daughter of the late Pulitzer Prize winning author, Alister Scarsdale, expects to receive a degree in philosophy from Harvard in June. The bridegroom is a noted psychiatrist and author. The couple, after a wedding trip to'-get this!-'Greece and Italy, plan to make their home in Lexington.' There's a picture; it's not very big, but it's definitely them." She shoved the paper under Mark's nose.
Mark sneezed. "Okay," he bleated. "I believe you. Get that smelly paper out of my face!"
"So, Angel," Brice drawled, looking up from his English assignment, "what will you do for an encore?"
She got her sponge good and gooey before she threw it at him.
The End
About the Author
Beth Hilgartner is a writer, an Episcopal priest, a classical musician, an avid gardener, a serious knitter, an enthusiastic equestrian, and the founder and executive director of CAMEO Arts Foundation. She has published nine books, most of which are making their way into e-book format, soon. She lives in Orford, New Hampshire with her husband and cats.
Other Books by this Author
Discover other books by Beth Hilgartner, all of which (except as noted) will be available as e-books in the near future.
Children’s/YA Fiction
Great Gorilla Grins (A picture book with Leslie Morrill, illustrator; not available as an e-book.)
A Necklace of Fallen Stars
A Murder for Her Majesty (Currently in print. Contact the publisher to request e-book format.)
The Feast of the Trickster Page 20