Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (19 page)

 
          
Aidan
stirred sluggishly, coming out of disorientation. Urgency made him curt.
"Lady, I have no time—"

 
          
"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 off 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.