THE SOUL WEAVER

by Carol Berg

  Creaky old man. I glanced back to see if my young friend had emerged. Paulo had just stepped out, and when I turned, he threw his hand up before his face, as if to shield his eyes from the brightness, but not before I’d gotten a glimpse of them. Odd… something…

  “She’s in your front sitting room,” he said. “They leave her sit up till a serving woman is sent in to her about an hour before midnight.”

  “Are you well, son?”

  “I’m fine. Lead on. And, Master, Radele said Men’Thor was on his way tonight, so as to be here when the Prince arrived. To be sure of him.”

  “I understand. We’ll be quick and quiet.”

  With what stealth a not-young man just out of a week’s trance could muster, I led Paulo through the maze of pots and paintings, crates of books, and extra furnishings I’d shoved into my cellars when I ran out of space in the main rooms of my house. We crept up the stairs. Perhaps I needed to hire a Builder to make my stairs less steep, I thought, as we topped the last step and tiptoed into the back passage that serviced the kitchens and the large doors that led to the front of the house. What nonsense comes to mind, even in the midst of great events. Did D’Arnath worry about the steepness of his cellar stairs as he built his Bridge?

  The hallways were deserted, but quiet voices emanated from the library. My reading room, what Paulo called the front sitting room, was tucked in between the front doors and the library. I could afford no enchantments lest Radele be monitoring the house, so I cracked the reading-room door ever so slightly and hoped my man Ceddoch had quieted the old hinges as I’d asked him to do some time ago when life was less complicated.

  The door opened without sound. The Lady Seriana was alone, exactly as I had envisioned her, even to the deep blue color of her gown and her position on the low stool in front of my favorite fireplace. She stared into the fire, unmoving, unblinking, lost wherever the tides of random thought and memory had taken her. Far from my reading room, I guessed; it had been four months for her. I could afford no anger at those responsible. We had time for nothing but to get her away.

  The boy darted past me and knelt by the Lady, his back to me, his whisper barely audible. “Come, my lady. We’ve come to take you to safety. Don’t be afraid.”

  He took her hands and stood up, pulling her gently to her feet. She, of course, said nothing and made no resistance. She was as pale as starlight, as fragile as a soap bubble that floats from your hand on washing day. A loud voice might dissolve her, or a hasty touch; I guessed that her remaining life could be measured in hours, not days.

  Fixing my attention on the passage, I whispered over my shoulder. “When I say the word, take her straight through the kitchen to the stable and get her on a horse. From the rear door of the stable, a track leads down into the Vale. When you meet the main path that traverses the Vale - you’ll know it - go left, upward, and ride hard until you come to an arched rock. Half a league beyond it, a path will branch to the left and lead you to a stone tower. You’ll be immensely reluctant to go there, but it’s only a winding to keep people away. Push through it, keeping your eyes on the path every moment. No harm will come to you, and once inside the tower you’ll no longer feel the aversion. If I don’t arrive close on your heels, get the Lady to Avonar and tell the Preceptor Ce’Aret all you’ve told me.”

  I glanced up and down the passage, listening so intently I could hear my own heart beating. Satisfied that no one lay in wait, I nodded.

  With an arm around her waist, the youth led the Lady down the dim passageway. As soon as they had disappeared into the back of the house I hurried the opposite way to an alcove near the front entry, where I kept my old mentor Exeget’s weapons. I grabbed two swords, two knives, a bow, and a small quiver, prayed holy Vasrin we wouldn’t need them, and slipped out of the alcove into the foyer, heading toward the back of the house where I’d sent Paulo and the Lady.

  Fortune plays many games, testing us, I think, or perhaps as part of some grand jest. Why else should Radele step out of the library just then, and the front door swing open to reveal Men’Thor, clad in cloak and battlefield boots and already removing his gloves?

  “Ven’Dar!” Father and son spoke in perfect unison.

  Happily, I was less shocked than either of them, and more familiar with the plan of the house and the wards I had created to deter intrusions. I sped across the foyer, whispering the word that extinguished every lamp, candle, and torch in the house. I laughed when I heard the bump and curse that could be nothing but the meeting of Radele and my gallery wall. Lest sun or moon guide any ne’er-do-well through my chambers once the lights were doused, the winding shifted the perceived locations of doorways and corners. On my way through the kitchen I grabbed an armful of cloaks, abandoned over the years by my kitchen staff, and a small leather bag I always kept hanging by the door, a habit retained from my youth in a village in constant danger of Zhid raiders. A wise man was always provisioned for a hasty retreat.

  Trailed by shouts and curses, I burst from the kitchens into the warm, starry night of the kitchen yard. Through the windows behind me, a pale light flicked into life. Radele and Men’Thor were no fools. My enchantments would give us only moments.

  “Best hurry!” I yelled as I burst into the stable. The Lady was already astride a chestnut gelding, and Paulo was swinging up behind her. The back door of the stable stood open, and my own Jocelyn stood ready for me. I threw the cloaks across Jocelyn’s saddle and tossed the spare sword to Paulo, but to my surprise he dropped it as if it were newly pulled from the smith’s fire.

  “I’ve no place to carry it,” he said. “And I’m no good with ‘em.” He spurred the chestnut, and they shot from the stable like a meteor across the night sky.

  I didn’t follow immediately, but buckled on the second sword belt and hung the bow and quiver over my back. Forcing myself to ignore the commotion, the shouts and slamming doors, the lamps winking to life one by one as the men searched for us, I took a deep breath and worked a winding of somewhat more weight than the house ward: wood, paper, straw, consume, huge, shield, home, safety, necessity, heat, sudden, confusion, terror, escape…

  Focus on the words, Ven’Dar. I sought the truth of the words, the meanings buried beneath centuries of use. I drew them together and infused them with my gift, my knowledge, and my intent. Patience. Let it grow. Lives could depend on how long you hold before the cast.

  My hands rested on Jocelyn’s flank as the enchantment swelled within me. I resisted the urge to set the spell free before it broke through the boundaries of my body, holding my focus until the main door of the stable was thrown open. One person was out of the house. The others would soon realize where we’d gone and follow him. At last, out of time, I made my cast. Fire!

  No chance of this winding going astray. Nentao was my own house, after all. As if the ground beneath had opened to the fiery heart of the earth, yellow-orange flames burst through windows and walls, engulfing my home.

  I urged Jocelyn through the back door and galloped down the track in the light of the flames. I didn’t look back to see Nentao burning, nor did I listen to the shouts and screams. I might have been tempted to moderate my work, and we needed every advantage we could get.

  Paulo had told me that most of my own servants had been dismissed; my wards would warn the rest and lead them safely away. Radele’s men would be confused and desperate to find their way out, but they also would escape. I had left them a thread.

  Men’Thor’s bodyguard, who had opened the stable door, raced down the path after us. But, poor soul, he didn’t know the track well enough and was too cautious. If he’d come at full speed he might have overtaken me before I could cast again, and taken care of me as young men can do to those more than double their age. But he hesitated and got himself tangled in what, on the next morning, he was going to swear was a massive spiderweb with a dinner-plate-sized spider lurking in it. In fact, it was a particularly thick patch of vine-draped trees and a small, very shy raccoon.


  The fellow didn’t know that the time for caution was past. As I galloped through the Lydian Vale, the world galloped right alongside me, history’s ragged banners flying as we raced into the dark midnight.

  CHAPTER 23

  Just before moonset I turned Jocelyn loose to refresh herself on the sweet grass of the Lydian Vale. The white stone of P’Clor’s Tower gleamed like pearl in the moonlight. As I wearily climbed the wooden stair to the single plain room at the top, a lazy, humid breeze soughed through the empty window slots.

  P’Clor’s Tower was my refuge, my solitude, the place where I would strip down to essentials: bread, water, sun, wind, forest, and words. A Word Winder has no more fundamental necessity than such a retreat, where he can hear the truth of words unmuddled by society and business, come to understand their nuances, and prepare a place for them to dwell within himself.

  The Lady Seri stood beside one of the narrow windows, as if she were watching the drift of clouds that rushed past the setting moon. She appeared to be alone in the circular chamber, but the vigilant Paulo materialized from a shadowed window ledge behind me as I topped the last stair.

  “It’s only Ven’Dar the Vainglorious,” I said, tossing him one of the spare cloaks and laying another about the Lady’s shoulders. “I think we’ve a little space to breathe for now.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Help the Lady Seriana? If her mind was locked with the same key as mine, and if she’s not drifted too far away to hear me, I think I can.”

  “You’ve got to hurry. I can’t - ” Taut, anxious, the youth remained by the top of the stair.

  “Can’t what?”

  “I can’t stay with you. Don’t ask me to explain. Just hurry.”

  The urgency in the youth was indisputable, even if I’d had a thought of delay. I removed my weapons and laid them on the floor beside the table where I kept my supply of candles and paper and ink.

  Even if young Paulo hadn’t urged me to it, I would have made the attempt. Lady Seriana’s life was less substantial than the waning moonlight, and I had no faith she would survive the coming of day any more than the angled beams pouring through my tower window would.

  I guided her to my chair, a straight-backed wooden thing I’d crafted on one of my sojourns in P’Clor’s Tower. Then I sat myself on a flour barrel I’d pulled close, laid my hands on her temples, and intruded on her mind.

  My Lady, forgive my entry unbidden. My knowledge of your character and history tells me that you would grant me this privilege were you able. I have dwelt in the place you wander, and I know how impossible is the task of mastering a coherent thought, but for your freedom and your life, I beg you try. With all you are and all you have been, grasp the words I give you and hold them close. Then I opened myself to her.

  Great Vasrin, Shaper and Creator! I came so near drowning in a fog of incoherent images, I almost had to withdraw. She was very far away.

  Well, nothing for it but to begin and to hope. Singer, Healer, Speaker, Word Winder… One after the other, I gave her the names and all I possessed of their essence, just as I had carved them from my own chaos a short few hours before. Each one I forced into the stream of her thoughts, holding it firm until I felt the flow snatch it from my grasp and whirl it away.

  Never had I been involved in so intense a speaking. Twice I came near losing my place in the list. After no more than a quarter of the names, my sending faltered. My head pounded unmercifully; my arms weighed like lead; and my shoulders screamed at me to let them fall. She was so very deep, and I had been through so much myself. Unutterably foolish of me not to rest for a while before trying this. I would have to stop and try again.

  Focus, Ven’Dar. Send the tale deep. Etch it in letters of fire, like a beacon she cannot fail to see. Twenty-seventh in the list is what? Say it. Twenty-seventh is Scribe…

  Just as earlier that night, there arose in me such a strength of will, a veritable lodestone that drew together every fragment of steel I possessed, so that I could not wilt or wander or falter.

  … Seventy-fifth is Sea Dweller, who breathes water, and tends the gardens and herds of the deeps…

  It was as if I had four hands, two of them invisible, but strong and tireless, supporting the two that trembled lest they lose contact with the sad and lovely face before me. But whose hands were they? The Lady and Paulo were mundane. The only hands they possessed were the pale, slender ones that lay passively in the Lady’s lap, and the strong and capable pair belonging to the youth who sat silent and still in the shadows.

  Almost at an end… what is the next? Stand on your head…

  Ninety-ninth in the list is Finder, who sees beyond the visible and can sort one essence from another in the great blending of the world that is life. And the hundredth in the list is Soul Weaver, the myth.

  As the last words echoed from my inner voice, monumental weariness overwhelmed me as if my very bones had been drawn out of my ‘flesh and discarded out of reach. My aching arms fell to my sides, and the moon-streaked darkness spun slowly about my head. Paulo jumped off the table and caught my shoulders from behind before I fell off my barrel, while from the distant forest, an owl’s clear hoots broke the expectant silence - the silence of failure, I believed. The Lady had not moved.

  But then she gasped with one great breath, and the great brown eyes that for four months had reflected only profound emptiness blinked and focused on my own. Her lips curved into a smile, and as her gaze slid over my face to the one standing behind me, her expression blossomed with deep affection. But as I sighed and slipped into happy oblivion, the smile faded. Grief and horror claimed the territory of her eyes. “Oh, my dear one, what have you done?”

  I’d thought to enjoy the sleep of satisfaction, of deeds accomplished and battles won, but the Lady’s stricken countenance wrapped me in a blanket of unease, and only fearful visions were my night’s companions.

  The soft, scratching sound would stop for a moment, then take up again, somewhere close to my head, sometimes farther away. Sometimes it was interrupted by a rhythmic picking, then a flutter, and a tickle of moving air across my face. Ah, sparrows, the permanent tenants of P’Clor’s Tower, so tame they’d nest in your hair if you were still long enough.

  My aching bones begged me not to move. Only a blanket separated me from the floor, and someone had thrown a cloak over me in the chill predawn hours after I’d collapsed. Now the day was warm, and the angle of the sun shallow. I already felt like a piece of raw meat that had been dragged through the streets by a starving dog, and if I stayed under the warm cloak I was going to smell like it, too, worse than I did already. I threw off the cloak and creaked to my feet.

  The Lady was sleeping on my thin pallet, her red-brown hair loose and scattered, her cheeks blooming with life. A cloak had been laid over her. Likewise deep in slumber, Paulo had curled on the bare floor at the head of the stair like a faithful hound guarding the entry. Somehow I had expected the boy to be gone when I awoke.

  Grabbing an empty bucket from a hook on the wall, I eased around the sleeping youth and tiptoed downstairs to where a rain barrel stood in the glade, a dipper hung over the side. The water was cool and sweet. Then, ignoring all modest caution, I stripped and poured three buckets full over me. Somehow the water felt colder on my back than in my mouth, but to waste enchantment to heat it always seemed inappropriate at P’Clor’s Tower. So, I smothered my yelp and snatched up my filthy shirt to rub myself dry.

  Refreshed now the ordeal was over, I donned the damp shirt and breeches, vowing to burn them at the first opportunity, along with the underdrawers Vasrin herself could not have forced me to put on again. Then I refilled the pail and carried it upstairs for my companions, planning to lay out the meager bounty of my refugee’s provision bag for breakfast.

  Lying on the worktable next to the leather bag was a folded paper, a sheet from my own small supply, marked, FOR THE LADY. Odd. I didn’t think I’d taken a yen for composition in my sleep, and I assumed
the Lady wouldn’t have found it profitable to write a missive to herself. And from everything I understood, Paulo was illiterate.

  “What puzzles you so this morning, Master… Ven’Dar, I think?”

  I didn’t quite jump out of my skin at the quiet interruption. “Ah, my lady, what a pleasure it is - a most profound pleasure - to meet you at last.” I bowed, extending my palms. “I am indeed the one you name.”

  I gave her my hand, and she rose from the pallet, returning the politeness. “My thanks are inadequate, Master.”

  Her smile was genuine and kind, but her mind was not on our pleasantries, only on the youth who lay unmoving by the stair. She crouched down beside him, laying her hand on his back as if to assure herself he was breathing. Only after a long while did she rise and move to the window slot to survey our green haven. She folded her arms across her breast, one thumb pressed pensively to her lips. Her eyes flicked repeatedly to the boy.

  I hated to intrude on her thoughts, but our time was not unbounded. “Please, come and share breakfast, my lady: dried fish, some old, but well preserved bread, and fruit. You need nourishment. As for my small mystery, it is yours to unravel.” I handed her the letter. “The contents are not the puzzle - I’ve not taken it upon myself to peruse your correspondence uninvited - but only the author. The message was written last night here in the tower, for I recognize the paper, and the ink is fresh. But we’ve had no visitors, and that means, eliminating you and me, the scribe must be young Paulo. I believed the boy unschooled.”

  She fingered the folded paper, but made no move to read it. “Paulo cannot read or write,” she said softly. “You’ll have to tell me what it means that he could do this.”