"You have as much time as I give you."
Her serene certainty filled him with trepidation. Aidan tried again, exerting more authority. "There is the storm, and my kinsman—"
Her composure remained unruffled. "Ian will be well. The storm is of my sending."
"Your sending—" He stopped, banished shock, summoned anger on Ian's behalf. "Lady, he is harmed—"
"He can be healed." Quietly she lifted the cat from her stool and sat down before the loom. The cat found a home in her lap, collapsing once more into sleep. She reached out and took up the shuttle.
Aidan, staring at her, knew it was the only answer he would get until she chose to give another. Nothing he said would shake her. She was not the kind touched by emotions; her concerns lay in other directions.
Impatience will not serve… With effort, Aidan banished it. He turned instead to the quiet courtesy Homana-Mujhar had taught him. "What do I call you, Lady? The first one was the Hunter."
"You may call me the Weaver." Her smile was luminous. "Come to my work, Aidan. Come and look upon the colors."
He did as he was bidden, dragging himself from the chair. A part of him denied what was happening, recalling the blast of lightning; a part of him counseled patience. He had met Shaine, Carillon, a god; now he met a goddess.
"Teel," he murmured dully. The link was empty of lir.
"Teel is very patient… come look upon the colors."
Aidan moved to stand before the loom. He was aware only dimly of the warmth of the croft, the purring of the cats, the scent of fresh-spun wool. She was gray, gray and dun, weaving gray and dun homespun—and then he looked at the loom. He looked upon her colors.
He could not name them all. He had never seen such brilliance.
The Weaver worked the shuttle. Back and forth, to and fro, feeding dullness into the pattern. Aidan thought it sacrilege—until he saw the truth.
The colors came from her. As she carried the shuttle through, each strand took on a hue.
"There is a thing you must do," she said quietly. "A task to be undertaken, but one you will deny. It is a task of great importance, of great necessity, but we cannot be certain you will do it. We gave humankind the gift of self-rule, and even gods cannot sway those who choose not to hear." In renewed silence, she worked the shuttle. "We make things easy; we make things hard. Humankind makes the choices." She stilled the shuttle, and held it. "Look into the colors. Tell me what you see."
He swallowed to wet his throat. "A man," he said huskily, "and a chain. The chain binds him, binds his soul… but it is not made of iron—" Aidan shut his eyes. When he looked again, afraid, the colors were brighter yet. "Gold," he said hoarsely. "Gold of the gods, and blessed… but there is a weakness in it. One of the links will break."
The Weaver's smile was sweet. "There is sometimes strength in weakness."
He fought down the urge to run. "Am I to fail, then? Am I the weak link?"
"Not all men succeed in what they desire most. As for you, I cannot say; your road still lies before you."
"And my—task?"
"The time has not come for you to make your decision."
"But—this—?"
"This is only a prelude to it."
Aidan shivered. "Why did you send the storm? Why did you send him pain?"
The Weaver looked at him. Her eyes were no longer kind. "If a man will not listen, we must make ourselves be heard."
"It was not necessary to harm him—"
Her voice was a whiplash of sound. "You are meant to go alone."
"By the gods—" he began, then stopped. Incongruously, he laughed. "Aye, well, so it is…" Aidan rubbed a stiff face. "You will forgive me, I hope, if I consider your actions unnecessary. He is a devout, committed Cheysuli—"
"One who will be rewarded." The Weaver's tone was gentle. "This is your journey, Aidan. Your task. You are meant to go alone."
"You might have asked—"
"Gods often ask. Too often, we are ignored." She gestured again to the loom. "Tell me what you see."
Wearily, Aidan looked. The colors, oddly, had faded, except for the chain of wool. Its hue was still brilliant gold, the gold of purest refining, glinting in firelight.
As he always did, Aidan put out his hand. He knew he would touch wool; when he touched metal, he promptly dropped it.
The link fell. It rang dully against beaten earth, then lost part of itself in wool. Dull, colorless wool.
Slowly Aidan bent down and peeled back the strands. The link was real, and whole.
He rose, clutching the link. Then fumbled at his belt, undoing leather and buckle, threaded the belt through. He slid the new link to the old. They clinked in harmony, riding his right hip. Aidan rebuckled his belt.
He looked at the tapestry. The colors, for him, were faded. "What tahlmorra do you weave me?"
The Weaver smiled: small, gray-haired woman with magic in her eyes. "You will weave your own, Aidan. That I promise you."
He opened his mouth, closed it. Then opened it again. "Am I worthy of this?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
Aidan closed one hand around the links. Edges bit into his palm. It was all he could do to keep the frustration from his tone. "Is this how I am to spend my life?" Control frayed raggedly: now the frustration was plain. "Jerked out of the day or night to trade obscurity with gods—and goddesses—who play a private game? Am I to do your bidding like a tame little Cheysuli, never questioning this unknown task?" Anger replaced frustration. He shouted aloud in the croft. "Do you know what it is like having everyone think you are mad?"
Silence as the shout died. For a moment, he was ashamed. Then knew it had been required. Too much more locked away would make him lose the balance, and what would he be then?
The gods made us this way. They gave us the gift of the shapechange as much as the curse of knowing the loss of balance is loss of self.
"Do you know?" he repeated, because he needed an answer.
Tears glistened in the Weaver's eyes. "Do you know what it is like having to ignore petitions and prayers? To let a child die even though others beg for its life?"
Aidan was dumbfounded. "Why do you ignore such things?"
"Because sometimes the greatest strength comes out of the greatest pain."
"But a child—"
"There is reason for everything."
Aidan's tone slashed through her words. "What reason in the death of a child? What reason in the destruction of a race?"
The Weaver set down her shuttle, the cat, and slowly rose to face him. Aidan was much taller; it did not diminish her. "The world is complex," she told him. "The bits and pieces of it are very hard to see, even if you have eyes. The eyes of humans are blind."
It was not enough for Aidan, full to choking on obscurity. "I think—"
She did not allow him to finish, silencing him with calm. "Some see more than most. You see more than most; it is why we gave you the task. But if you saw it all, if you saw every piece, surely you would be mad."
He felt helplessness gathering. "Then a tahlmorra has no bearing on how we live our lives."
"There is a fate in everything. People choose not to see it. They see only the immediacy; they demand gratification even in their grief." The Weaver drew a breath. "If no one ever died, the Wheel of Life would stop. It would catch on the hordes of people, and eventually it would fail."
Aidan's tone was bitter. "Blood greases it."
"The Wheel of Life must turn."
"If it stopped, would you die? Would the gods disappear?"
The Weaver's eyes were bleak. "We disappear every day."
Helplessness crashed down. Aidan stretched out his hands, angered by impotence. "What am I to do? How am I to serve? You tell me you kill children, yet you expect me to do this task, which you then refuse to divulge. Is this how the Wheel turns? Is this how our worth is judged?"
Her expression altered. The eyes now were masked. "Is it cruel to keep the child from jumping of
f the wall because she believes she can fly?"
Irreverence bubbled forth. "If the child is Cheysuli, perhaps she can fly…" But the irony spilled away. "You make it black and white."
"Choices often are."
"But what of the gray choices? What of the subtleties?"
Her voice was implacable. "To a man who does not care, there are no subtleties. But there is no compassion, either. There is no empathy."
He let his hands fall slack. "I cannot deal with this."
"Every man deals with this. The result is not always pretty; the result is often bloody. But every man deals with this. Every man makes his choice."
It was too much, too much; he was incapable of comprehension. He smelled wool, cats, himself; he tasted futility.
Aidan scrubbed his face, warping syllables. "I have to go—there is Ian… I have to go from here—"
The door swung open in silence. "Then go," the Weaver said.
Aidan lay sprawled on the ground, stunned by the force of the lightning. His head rang with noise, filled up with tight-packed wool. Vision was nonexistent. Flesh writhed on his bones; all the hairs on his body rose.
He blurted something and thrust himself up, clawing into the daylight. Blood and dirt was spat out; he sucked in lungfuls of air. Links chimed at his belt.
Links—? Aidan caught them. And then he looked at Ian.
The aging face was wasted. "I saw it," Ian gasped. "I saw the lightning strike—"
"No. No—su'fali—"
"I saw it—" Ian repeated. "You lit up like a pyre, and when it died you were gone. When it died, you were gone—"
Aidan began to tremble. Shock and fatigue were overwhelming. "You would not—you would not believe—" Dazedly, he laughed. "You would never believe what happened—"
"Aidan, you were struck—"
"You would never believe what I saw—"
Ian's hand clutched Tasha's neck. "You would never believe what I saw!"
Aidan tried to stifle the laughter. He knew very well he walked much too close to the edge. "What I saw—what I saw—" He smothered his face with both hands, stretching the skin out of shape. "Oh, gods—" More laughter. "Oh, su'fali, if only I could tell you—" Abruptly he cut it off. "She said you would be well. She promised you would be well."
"Who—?" Ian's eyes widened. His silence was absolute.
Aidan, on hands and knees, moved to crouch by his kinsman. He ignored the cat's snarl. "Then I am meant to do it—she left this task for me…"
Ian still said nothing.
"She said you would be well, so I will have to do it." Grimly, Aidan smiled. "But I'm still not knowing how."
"Oh, gods," Ian murmured. "No wonder they whisper about you—"
"You will have to go back, su'fali. I am to go alone."
Ian shut his eyes. The lir by his side growled.
Teel? Aidan appealed.
The raven's tone was amused. All one must do is ask.
Aidan asked, and was given.
PART II
Chapter One
« ^ »
The city of Lestra, unlike Mujhara, was situated on a series of hills. None rose much higher than its brother or sister, but there were distinct prominences scattered throughout the city, each capped with clusters of buildings like curds of souring milk.
It gave Lestra a scalloped look, Aidan decided, as he wound his way through the warren of cobbled streets, each turn more confusing than the last. He asked directions to the palace several times, each time receiving an answer distinctly different from the last, and despaired of ever finding his way to his su'fali's home.
Teel's contempt was dry. Shall I find you the way?
It was, of course, the simplest method of all, except Aidan preferred, at this point, to find the palace himself. He disliked giving Teel any more reason to feel superior than was absolutely necessary, as the raven took especial care to point out Aidan's human shortcomings all too often as it was.
Except they seemed to be lost—or he seemed to be lost—and he saw no help for it.
Aidan sighed and shifted in the saddle. All right. I give in. Go find us the palace.
Teel, perched on the saddlebow, did not leave at once. You might find it yourself, if you gave up this useless horse. Why you persist in riding when you have the means to fly… In the link, Teel sighed.
I persist in riding because, as I explained to the Hunter, there is a marvelous freedom in such things. I persist in riding this particular horse because, if you will recall, Ian refused to accept him in place of his own.
Teel ruffled one wing. Because he went home in lir-shape, instead. Like any sensible Cheysuli.
Aidan smiled grimly. I am what you have made me.
The raven demurred. I made nothing. I bonded, no more, in order to give you the aid all warriors require—though you do, I will admit, require more than most. Teel's eye was bright. Moreover, you are much too stubborn to accept anyone's guidance, god's or otherwise. You have made yourself.
Aloud, Aidan suggested: "Then render me aid, lir: go find the palace."
The raven did, taking much less time than Aidan had hoped, and reported explicit directions that led Aidan—and his horse—directly to the front gate. Aidan tried to give his name and title to the guards, but they merely waved him through. He then tried to find the duty captain—who would, of course, carry word into the palace, then return with the proper summons—but was yet again waved along. Bemused, he rode through the outer bailey into the inner one without being challenged at all. And when, in growing frustration, he tried to pay a horseboy to carry word into the palace, the boy merely grinned and bowed his head, then took his horse away after nodding at the front door.
Teel, on the nearest wall, suggested Aidan go in. They seem a welcoming sort, these Solindish.
After an aimless hesitation, Aidan approached the massive front door. My su'fali is not Solindish, as you well know. He climbed the first flight of steps. Could you at least send word through the link to Rael? I think it would be best if someone knew we were coming.
Why?
Common courtesy. Aidan climbed the second flight. As well as a proper defense… if I were an enemy, I need only walk through the door.
You are not, and there is the door.
Aidan paused, glancing back. Are you not coming in?
Later. For now, I prefer the sun.
So Aidan left Teel upon the wall, in the warmth of a summer day, and entered, unannounced, his su'fali's unguarded front door.
It was not, Aidan soon discovered, guarded any better inside than out. He stopped inside the front door, lingered politely a moment as he waited for servants to come running; when no one at all came, even walking, Aidan at last gave up. He headed down the first hall he could find.
No one appeared to ask him who he was or what he wanted. Disgruntled, he began opening heavy carved doors. All the rooms were empty. If I were bent on assassination, surely I would succeed. He boomed shut yet another door and turned again into the hall. Then again, perhaps not—I cannot find anyone to kill!
Sound interrupted disgust. Aidan stopped walking at once, listening expectantly, hoping for someone at last who might be able to guide him to living bodies, or at least tell him the way.
Echoes threaded corridors. Over Aidan's head arched wooden spans in scalloped, elaborate beamwork, drooping from ancient stone. The immensity of the palace dwarfed and warped the sound, distorting clarity.
I could die in here, Aidan thought in wry disgust. I could starve to death on this very spot, and all anyone would find would be my dessicated corpse—
A voice. A young, childish voice, raised to a note of possessive authority. He could not make out the words, but recognized the tone. Someone was put out.
And then the words came clear. "It was me he made eyes at, Cluna! Not you! He did not even look at you!"
"You!" scoffed a second voice, very like the first. "Why would he look at you when I am there? You only wish he would look at yo
u!"
Aidan, smiling, folded arms across his chest, found the nearest pillar to lean against, and waited.
"It is me he likes, not you! He gives me sweets whenever he can."
"Sweets are no way to judge a man. Words are how you judge—"
"But you never give him a chance to speak, Cluna! How would you know what he says?"
"Oh, Jennet, just because he was polite to you does not mean he really cares. He was only being kind—"
"Kind to you," Jennet rejoined. "While, as for me—"
But they came around the corner and into Aidan's hall. Seeing him, they stopped.
"Oh," said one.
"Ummm," said the other.
Aidan merely smiled.
They scrutinized him closely, marking clothing and ornamentation, especially the lir-gold on his arms. Clearly he was more than a servant, while something less than what he was, if using Homanan rank. They had learned, even as he had, how to judge others by subtleties, trained not to jump to conclusions when the conclusion might offend.
Which told him who they were, even though he already knew.
"China and Jennet," he said. "Which of you is which?"
Two sets of blue eyes glinted. "Whichever we choose to be."
"Ah." Aidan nodded. "A riddle, then, is it? I am to guess?"
Two heads nodded. Expectantly, they waited.
They were identical. Both fair-haired, blue-eyed, a little plump, with a sturdy femininity. One wore violet-dyed skirts and tunic, pale hair tied back in a matching ribbon with gem-weighted ends now straggling down her back much as loosened hair did; the other similar garments—and tattered ribbon—in pale blue, but the colors told him nothing. He did not know the girls and therefore could not judge the small things, such as a lift of the chin, a tilt of the head, the level set of small shoulders, but there was no need to judge. For the first time in his life, Aidan used his Erinnish kivarna to answer specific needs.
"You," he said to the one in violet, "are Jennet. And you, of course, are China."
Identical mouths dropped open. It was Cluna, in blue, who spoke. "No one has gotten us right. Not on first meeting!"
Jennet assessed him closely. "How did you do it?"
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 11