Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom Read online

  ***

  The companions reached the scoured top of Windsmeet just as the moon was rising. Zan stood watching the flat silver disk clear the horizon while Karivet called out to summon the god. His cry ended and the world settled back to stillness. Then there was a skirl of wind and dust and the god stood before them.

  "You have returned," she greeted them. "Did you bring me what I requested?"

  Silently Karivet handed her the bottle Elgonar had given them. She studied it for a moment, then, with a peculiar laugh, she drew the cork and upended the bottle. The water's splash against the rock was loud in the silence. They stared at her in shock.

  "You should see your faces," the god mocked them. "You can't understand why I would spill out that which has taken you weeks to gain. It cost you hardships and danger, and I spill it wastefully on the thirsty rock. You want to know why. Well, I'll tell you. Your toil, your hardships, your time, your very lives—none of them has any value for me. I sent you after the snows' blood because it amused me to do so. So ask your boon—perhaps your privations have made you wise enough to ask well."

  Karivet raised his head. "We had thought to ask for justice, but I think it would be better if we were more specific. Lady, we came here in order to ask the gods for a decree that will keep the Vemathi and their Khedathi servants from taking Orathi lands. Will you grant us such?"

  The god considered. Finally she nodded. "If they are minded to heed my words, I will give you such a decree. But now, you have toiled hard and amused me tolerably well. You must permit me to reward you."

  Zan, prompted by an inner squirm of unease, spoke up. "Lady, your gracious decree is all the reward we seek."

  She laughed merrily. "That will make this unexpected boon all the sweeter."

  "We do not wish to trouble you unduly," Remarr added.

  "Why, you have already done that by asking for a decree—unless you've changed your mind and no longer want it? No? Well, in that case, you must permit me to reward you. I insist." There was ice in her tone. When they were all silent, the god drew her breath in sharply. "If I thought there was anything more than simple ignorance behind your rudeness, I would immediately rescind my boon to you. One would think you'd been warned against my generosity—which we all know simply could not be the case. The proper response to a god who offers you a boon is 'Yes, thank you very much, gracious Lady.' Now, would you like that decree, children?"

  "Yes, thank you very much, gracious Lady," they chorused obediently.

  "And you will permit me to reward you? Consider: you may not have one boon without the other. I am determined in this."

  They exchanged looks. All their doubts were summed up in Iobeh's shrug. They didn't like it, but they had no choice. "Yes, thank you very much, gracious Lady." The chorus was more ragged this time.

  "Oh, I'm so glad. I do so like to give gifts.'' Her smile sent fear crawling up Zan's spine. "But you didn't speak," she added to Iobeh.

  "My sister is mute," Karivet told her.

  "Ah. But you do want my gift? Nod."

  Iobeh nodded miserably.

  "Good. Then you're first. I will give you a voice, so that you may thank me properly." She frowned for a moment in concentration. "There you are—say thank you."

  Iobeh had closed her eyes in a wince of momentary pain. Now she opened them wide with delight and gratitude. "Thank you."

  For an instant everyone was stunned, then Iobeh clapped both hands over her mouth. The voice that had issued from her mouth was a hideous croak, a harsh mockery of speech. The others had recoiled instinctively. When Zan saw the hurt in Iobeh's eyes, she remembered that the girl could feel her reaction, the initial recoil. Zan fought down a wave of bitter fury at the god who had such a gift for cruelty, and concentrated instead on her love for Iobeh, but she knew the damage was done. The god looked around at them all, malicious amusement apparent in her eyes.

  "It may not be the most mellifluous of voices," she said mockingly, "but surely it's better than nothing. Now, who's next?" She turned to Vihena. "Ah yes. Our Vematheh. It must have been such a trial to you, growing up without any beauty—you must have long since despaired of ever finding a husband. But I shall end all that for you." Her hands began moving in the air. "I will give you a face and a form men would die for. There. Now you no longer need hide behind a veil."

  Zan's jaw dropped. Vihena was gorgeous; her face was prettier and more delicate even than her mother's, and her robes hung on her differently. But the beauty was marred by the anguish in her eyes. Suddenly Zan understood. Vihena had repudiated the Vemathi way. She had not let herself be raised to be an ornament in some merchant's household. Her waywardness had been permitted because she did not look the part; now that she so decidedly did look the part, there would be no more tolerance for her attitude. Zan touched her thoughts fleetingly. She has made me a slave—or worse! Zan gripped her wrist firmly. "You have a home in the desert," she whispered. "Clan Khesst will accept you no matter what face you wear behind your veil!" Vihena did not look greatly reassured, though some of the panic left her eyes.

  The god turned to Remarr. "For you, courage." Her hand clenched slowly and Remarr winced. "There. Aren't you going to thank me?"

  "No," he replied coolly. "Since you have given me courage—an utterly unnecessary attribute for a minstrel—I am going to tell you exactly what I think of you. You are cruel, small-minded, and malicious, and unfortunately you have the power to amuse yourself at our expense."

  In answer the god raised one finger and pointed. A whip of violet lightning exploded in the minstrel's face. He dropped with a cry of pain and lay still. As Zan and Iobeh sprang to his side, the god remarked, "If he lives, he will have to learn that there are some drawbacks to courage—especially rash courage, which seems to be the sort I've given him. Now, the shapeshifter." She held Ychass's eyes for a long moment. Apparently the contact did not satisfy her, for when she broke the gaze, she was pouting. "To you I have given thoughts that can be heard by the thought-deaf."

  "Thank you, Lady," Ychass said blandly. I think I've escaped fairly lightly—and this new trick may even be useful, once I learn to control it.

  Iobeh, Karivet, and Vihena looked up, startled, and the god turned away in irritation.

  "Now, the Orathen seer." Her smile curled cruelly. "To you, child, I will give the power of choice: you will be able to choose whether or not to answer a given question. Unfortunately, I cannot give you also the ability to know what you will say, for that would be a second gift, so your choice will always be made blind. But at least you will have the choice."

  Karivet raised tormented eyes to the god's face, and she laughed. Zan heard his thoughts. To have to choose, when the answer may be helpful or hurtful, or the question may even be wrong … It's easier when it just happens—then the prophecy isn't my fault, my responsibility. Zan withdrew from his mind, at a loss. She could think of no comfort to offer him. Beside her, Remarr moaned and stirred.

  "Oh, good," the god said. "He'll live. Now for you, Stranger. You're easy. I shall send you home."

  Zan's heart constricted suddenly. She looked up at the god in desperation. "Home is a place in the heart," she said through a tight throat, but when she tried to summon an image of Eikoheh's cottage, she found herself listening to her own voice saying, "Thanks to you, the only home I've ever known is Logan International Airport." She fought a sudden dizziness, a rushing in her ears. With her last shred of will she gasped, "Elgonar! Elgonar, help!" Then the world went dark.

  ***

  "No!" The weaver's scream shook the cottage. "No!"

  Before the second cry had ceased, Ohmiden was at her side. The shuttle was still in her hands, and it took him a moment to discover the cause of her distress, but when he saw, he gasped aloud. The strand of red that had been in the pattern from the beginning had disappeared at the end. It had not unraveled, but was broken off, its end dangling forlornly out of the cloth on the loom. He looked at Eikoheh in consternation. "'Tsan?"

>   She nodded, tears trembling in her old eyes. "I've lost her."

  "Dead?"

  The weaver shook her head. "No. But gone. Gone as suddenly as she came."

  "Perhaps she'll find her way back here. She came once, after all."

  "Fool," the old woman chided, without rancor. "She was drawn into the Loom once—it was no accident, her coming."

  "Well, then neither was her going. Let her go. Her task is done."

  Eikoheh met his eyes levelly. "Ohmiden, I give you my dreams."

  He suppressed a shudder at the ancient phrase.

  "I felt her cry out as she was torn—torn— from the pattern. She did not go willingly."

  The old man sighed. "Eikoheh, you must either let her go or weave her back—if you can."

  The weaver nodded, gesturing with her chin to the spool of thread in her hands. Ohmiden's eyes widened as he realized that she meant to try. He watched her as she gathered the colors and began to reestablish control. She would rework the pattern into a larger framework. He watched the shuttle fly for a moment before he turned away with a silent sigh. He would make dinner; they needed to eat, after all.

  ***

  The swirling darkness cleared into a searing white light that left Zan blinking. And the noise. Without thinking she clapped her hands to her ears, but even that didn't lessen the babble. She forced her eyes open. She was surrounded by people. Oddly dressed, they were milling around in front of her, dragging heavy-looking satchels—suitcases. With the word, the scene snapped into familiarity: an airport terminal. Cautiously she lowered her hands.

  "Passengers from flight 216 from New York are now arriving at gate 21." It took concentration for Zan to make sense of the announcer's bored voice. She pressed one hand to her forehead. There was the thrum of a headache behind her eyes.

  "Excuse me, miss. Are you all right?" Damned doped-out religious lunatic.

  Zan blinked at the double-threaded message. A man in a uniform stood next to her. Airport security, some disused corner of her brain supplied. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Thank you," she replied, fighting a wave of nausea and trying to sound normal. It was hard to speak English after all this time. She wasn't sure she was intelligible, but after another close look, the man went away.

  She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Summoning all the mental energy she could, she blanked others' thoughts out of her mind. She had to think. She felt for her pack, but no, she had left it in the camp. Besides, what use would that be to her here? She began to realize how very out of place she looked in her white desert robes. No wonder the security officer had reacted badly. She suppressed a groan as she realized that she had none of the necessities of survival: no identification, no money. How was she going to manage? She battled panic. The god had sent her home—home!—to strangers, squalor, and isolation.

  She gathered all her mental energy again and sent her thought-voice shrieking outward: Ychass! Elgonar! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! Strangers' thoughts intruded dizzyingly, but there was no response. Aching despair washed through her and she swallowed tears. Distractedly, she pushed her hood back. She was too warm in this close, damp air. Suddenly she noticed the last thing she expected to find here: someone she knew. Rolly Castleman, her father's agent, was leaving the gate area ahead of her. She hesitated, trying to decide whether to hide or to approach him. She knew that she needed help, and that Rolly would certainly be capable of dealing with all the details, but he would ask her questions—and what could she say?

  Before she made up her mind, he turned. His eyes flicked over her, then snapped back, widened.

  "Alexandra!" He started toward her, his mouth already pursing for the first question. Zan's brain went into overdrive, searching for explanations, excuses, anything with which to mollify him. "Where on earth have you been?"

  "Oh, Rolly," she gasped. "Thank God I've found you." Without any prompting from her, her chin began to quiver. "Oh, Rolly, you've got to help me!"

  "Now relax, Zan. Of course I'll help you, but what's going on? What are you doing in that outlandish outfit? And where the hell have you been for the past five months?"

  Five months? Zan thought. Had it been only five months? It seemed like years, at least. But she realized how long five months would seem to him—what an inexplicable absence. What on earth could she say to appease him? It had to be something he'd believe—and something she could be expected not to want to discuss. The answer sprang to mind, beautiful in its simplicity. She hid a smile in a tremulous tone. "The cult," she whispered. "I can't talk about it now, just get me out of here before they find me and take me back."

  Rolly blinked at her, speechless for once. Then he took her arm. "You come along with me, Zan," he murmured soothingly. "I'll help you get things straightened out. You've clearly had a bad time of it, but we'll get everything worked out. Everything is going to be just fine, Zan, you'll see."

  The End

  The further adventures of Zan and her friends are told in the sequel, The Feast of the Trickster.

  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.)

  Dreamweaver series

  Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom

  The Feast of the Trickster

  The Bharaghlafi series

  A Business of Ferrets

  A Parliament of Owls

  Cybercats series

  Cats in Cyberspace

  PKP For President (Currently in print. An e-book edition is available.)

  Connect with Beth Hilgartner

  I really appreciate that you've read my book and I'd love to hear what you think! Here are my social media coordinates:

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  Visit my website: http://www.bethhilgartner.com

  And if you're interested in the other things I do (besides write), check out my performing ensemble, Cameo Baroque, on Facebook: http://facebook.com/cameobaroque and

  Find out about the arts/music non-profit foundation I'm working on: http://www.cameoarts.org