No True Way (13 page)

Stardance wound off the last length of spun thread from her spindle onto one of the tapered wooden storage rods, tying the end with a light knot so the strand wouldn't drift back to loose fibers before she could ply it with another length. Even though she used the spindle every time she worked with the subtle drifts of Mage energy, she never failed to find working with fiber a calming pastime. Her thread would never be as smooth as a true artisan's and was certainly nowhere near as fine as Triska's had been, but still it gave her pleasure to have something of substance to hold after a session with her spindle.

The physical task also helped her to think, clearing her mind and aiding her focus. The k'Lissa Council had
asked her to stay longer, to help Deermoon and his apprentices continue to restore balance around the Vale, and she needed to make a decision. She had been here for several moons already, assisting them after the death of the Change-Creature, but did she feel she was still needed? Would she prefer to remain? She knew her father wanted her to stay, to become part of k'Lissa entirely. But while she had enjoyed meeting her half-siblings and her cousins, she couldn't think of them as family. Her thoughts drifted back to k'Veyas, to Silverheart and Windwhisperer and Nightblade. Images of each filled her mind: Silverheart's round face and efficient manner, Windwhisperer's warm brown eyes and calm advice, Nightblade's darker eyes and sharp features.

Reaching for the box to store the spindle, she traced the knotwork details of the delicately carved lid with a finger before opening it. She assumed Nightblade had done the carving himself—as she enjoyed spinning, even though the
hertasi
artisans were more skilled, he enjoyed woodworking. She opened the lid and placed the tapered spindle in the shaped liner, and her fingers caught a corner of the fabric. A flicker of
something
underneath it reflected a glimmer of light into her eyes. Realizing that the corner was actually folded to pull on, she set the spindle on the small table and gently lifted out the padding.

In shocked silence Stardance stared at what was tucked underneath, until at last she reached out with a hand that actually trembled. Her fingers traced the crystal-decorated shaft of a kestrel's rusty brown tailfeather, gliding along it to pick up the beaded chain and hold it dangling in front of her. Green stones glittered in the narrow ribbon of sunlight that angled through the
window of the guest-
ekele
, the feather twisting in the air from her sharp, rapid breaths.

Her pulse raced while her mind scattered from thought to thought. She had exchanged flowers a few times with the young men of k'Veyas—and had gently refused those from Sunsong here in k'Lissa—but never had Nightblade offered her a flower. He had never courted anyone, that she could recall. He was older, and she assumed he thought of her as a younger sister, nothing more . . .

Stardance let that thought trail off as her mind crowded with images. She remembered how Nightblade seemed to have always been there when she needed assistance, even back to those hard days after Triska's death. She recalled how he always assigned himself to guard her, how his eyes always seemed to seek her out, how he always knew where she was, even in a crowd—and how she usually knew where he was. She thought of the consideration shown by the gift of the spindle itself and the clever linked chain so that she could use it as her focus more easily. She remembered the strange expression in his eyes when the visitors had first come to k'Veyas and again when he had said his abrupt farewell to her, and the pieces began to make sense.

She frowned at the feather.
Why
would he have done it in this manner? To offer this when there had been no previous relationship, or even any overt indication of desire? And not to properly
offer
the feather, but to conceal it where she might never have noticed it? And then to tell her not to open the gift until she was at k'Lissa, far from k'Veyas and the ability to ask him anything about it?

The frown turned into a burst of laughter. That made the most sense of all. Nightblade had never been one to take kindly to questions—and certainly not from her.
What good would it do to interrogate him, anyway?
she
thought, a soft half-smile still lighting her eyes as she gently brushed her finger along the feather's delicate inner vane. The feather itself, despite the peculiar circumstance, was perfectly clear. The only questions that needed answering were the ones she had to ask of herself.

*   *   *

As Stardance had expected, when she joined the Council the next morning, her father's eyes were immediately drawn to the sparkling of the crystals on the feather woven into her hair, the red-brown vanes almost blending with russet braids streaked with white. She saw a flash of speculation in his expression, and she could almost
see
him wondering if Sunsong might have earned her favor.

“Have you made your decision, Stardance?” Amberlight asked, and she nodded.

“Yes, Elder. It is time for me to return home, before the autumn rains make it too difficult.” A moment of silence, then a flurry of protests, in which her father's voice was loudest, until Amberlight held up his hand for silence so she could continue.

“It has been nearly three full moons since the death of the Change-Creature, and the energy where it had been is well on its way to balance. Deermoon's strength is a little slower to recover, but his focus is much improved. His apprentices should be able to continue the work in the area well enough under such supervision as he can now provide. I need to return home to k'Veyas, to Silverheart, and to my responsibilities there.”

“But surely Deermoon can supervise your Mastery Trial—and with only the apprentices, will the Vale be safe should something like the Blood Beast return?” Her father again, but she could see nods of concerned agreement among the Council.

Stardance shook her head, the feather in her hair brushing lightly against her cheek, a reminder that more than responsibility to Silverheart and the Clan awaited her. “If, as we believe, the creature was a product of the Mage Storms, it is a wonder that it survived unnoticed for the years since then. It would be doubly a wonder if there should have been two. And as for the Mastery Trial,” she actually chuckled a little, “Silverheart is cleverer than all of us. This
was
my Trial. Ask Deermoon, if you doubt me,” she continued, gesturing to the older Mage, who had sat silent throughout. “Only a Master Healing-Mage at full strength could have dealt with the discordance to the earth energies that
thing
created.”

The rest of the Council now turned and watched Deermoon, who barely leaned on his stick when he stood. “Stardance is correct. Her ability and control have surpassed what Mastery requires.” His blue eyes narrowed briefly as he studied her. “If there were more magic gathered for her to use, she would be likely to soon be Adept.”

Chatter erupted around them, once again hushed by Amberlight. “Is she also correct in her estimation of your apprentices?” he asked Deermoon, leaving unspoken the question of Deermoon's own capacity.

“They have control enough to do what is needed now that the major imbalance is righted. My own strength will continue to grow, as it has already begun.” The Healer-Mage replied to both the spoken and silent questions.

Amberlight turned back to Stardance. “We shall certainly be sorry to see you leave, Stardance, for you have been a welcome addition to k'Lissa.” He glanced over at Firewind, then continued. “But it has always been your
decision to make. Scouts will accompany you to k'Veyas whenever you wish to depart.”

At last, Stardance met her father's eyes. In their green depths, she saw resigned disappointment. It would not have been lost on him that she had referred to k'Veyas as
home
, and deep within her she knew that it always would be.

*   *   *

As they neared the edge of the k'Veyas territory, where they could expect a greeting from whichever scout patrolled this border, Stardance's eye was caught by a bondbird circling overhead that was soon joined by a soaring Kir. She squinted and eyed the bird, then gave a tiny smile. It was a large gray goshawk, and she was not surprised to see Nightblade standing before them when they moved farther along the forest path.

Although his arms were casually folded, she read a subtle unease around him, and she hid another smile. With a fluid movement, she dismounted, leaving the
dyheli
with the k'Lissa scouts and taking a few steps forward, then stopping and waiting, her eyes on him.

Nightblade had straightened, no longer trying to disguise the tension radiating from him. A light breeze sprang up, riffling her hair and the beaded feather braided into it, and from the change in his stance she realized that he hadn't seen it, so well did it match her red-brown hair. Now it was his turn to move, measured strides bringing him to stand in front of her, his focus shifting from the feather in her braids to her waiting gaze.

As though he didn't quite believe his eyes, he lifted one hand to trace along the crystal-beaded chain, his fingertips then tenderly gliding down her cheek.

Stardance released a breath she didn't even know she held, sighing and pressing her cheek into his hand, which gently curved around her jaw. For long moments dark brown eyes held gray-green, then Nightblade folded her into his arms, her head tucked in the crook of his neck.

“Welcome home,
ashke,
” he whispered against her hair, and Stardance smiled.

Diana L. Paxson

Deira had always found weaving soothing. Once the upright loom was braced against the wall that faced the hearth and the warp attached, you could lose yourself in drawing the shuttle back and forth and beating up the thread. Weaving was something you could
control
.

But not today.

As she jerked the shuttle past the last group of warps, the thread snapped, and she swore. Why was she surprised, on a day that had begun with a fight with Selaine about taking a turn at the loom? Her daughter had reached the age when any parental order produced a protest. In the end, Deira had sent her to the mill beyond the village for some of the flour with which the miller was paying for a length of wool.

Brushing back a lock of hair that the years had darkened to old gold, she allowed herself to remember being sixteen, the last year before the war. Instead of the loom, she saw the house by the bridge, and in the next breath, flame. Suppressing the memory, she replaced the image with the snug surroundings of her cottage. Net bags suspended from the hewn beams held shuttles wound with thread and hanks of yarn, or flax needing combing, or
lengths of wool roving waiting to be spun. The thick rug was patterned in a lozenge and stripe design, and crisp linen curtains fluttered at the window that looked across the meadow to the river and the road. It was better to live without memories.

She fluffed out the broken ends of the thread and joined them, then rolled them together between thumb and forefinger, willing the tiny hooks in the strands to link and hold. Wool fibers
wanted
to cling together. When you were weaving flax, a broken thread was a disaster. It was only a serious annoyance with wool. The clay warp weights clinked and swung as she carefully eased the repaired thread up against the weft and pushed it tightly into place. Then she looped it around the edge and began once more.

“Mother, Mother!”

Deira jerked as the door slammed open and felt the thread snap again.

“How many times—” The words died as she saw Selaine's face, hazel eyes wide and fair curls standing on end.

“There was an attack on Highbarrow farm yester'eve,” gasped the girl. Beyond the village the ground rose steeply, and a number of farmsteads were tucked into the folds between the hills.

“Raiders?” asked Deira, her anger congealing into a cold lump of fear. She blinked away memories of screaming and firelight on a lifted sword.

“Dunno—Farmer Dorn's boy Tad saw smoke when he was driving sheep up t' the meadow. At least one body—” She reached for the box of medicines by the hearth.

“Where do you think you're going?” A swift step put Deira between her daughter and the door.

“They'll need help—if there's any still alive—”

“Not from you, my girl. Your place is right here!”

“
Mother!
I'm not a child!”

“Nor a warrior nor a Healer neither! What you
are
is a lass who hasn't finished the work you promised. I'll think about giving you a woman's rights when you've learned how to get a job done!” She pointed to the loom. For a long moment they traded glares. Then Selaine sighed, replaced the medicine box, and began to mend the broken thread.

The grouped warp threads hung from the card-woven band at the top in stripes of cream and beige and brown and all the shades of new green that dappled the surrounding hills. The thread to be woven in was in the same colors, but more randomly arranged. The muted colors would have bored the Tayledras or Shin'a'in, but the folk of Evenleigh loved their tumbled hills, and when winter came, the blanket would comfort the spirit with a memory of the season when the blanket had been made.

“Don't raiders usually burn a holding when they're done?” asked Selaine. She beat the reunited thread up into place, moving with a coltish grace before the loom. “Tad said th'house was torn apart, not burned, an' trails of sticky stuff left all 'round.”

So, our enemy is not men, but monsters
, thought Deira, easing into the wicker chair. After Westerbridge burned, her only thought had been to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Karsite border. She knew too much about reavers. She'd been willing to take her chances with the strange creatures folk sometimes sighted in these hills.

“Headman says whatever 'twas is bound to strike again,” the girl went on with a kind of nervous glee.
“Wants folk t' refuge in th' village 'til they can hunt 'em down. He's sent to the Roadguard down at Donleigh to ask for a Herald, says uncanny beasts is more than we can manage on our own!”

I know too much about Heralds, too. . . .

Deira's gaze fixed on the girl, already tall, like her father. She watched Selaine ease the shuttle between the sheds and let it go, saw the shuttle trail thread as it floated through the space to the other edge where she caught it, just as Deira had once seen a spear jerk free from the fist of a Karsite mercenary and fly to Herald Aldren's waiting hand . . .

*   *   *

Deira woke, shuddering, from dreams in which she was working at a loom that had no end. When she tried to turn away, she found herself surrounded by veils of fabric that flapped and clung. There was something she was seeking, but she could not remember its name. She knew only frustration and an aching sense of loss.

She opened her eyes to a dappling of morning light through the shutters and her daughter's anxious gaze.

“Are you all right?” Selaine helped Deira free herself from the tangle of sheet and blanket.

“Bad dreams, and I'd bet I'm not the only one . . .”

Only the young found danger exciting. This talk of monsters was like a blow that set an old wound throbbing with remembered pain. Deira told herself that nothing that might come out of the Pelagir wilderness was as fearful as the evil that hid in the hearts of men.

Mint tea with a little lemon-balm, scalding hot, took the fur from her tongue, and movement some of the ache from her limbs, but the feeling of helpless dread remained. When the miller's boy came knocking to tell
them that the monsters had destroyed another farm, she was not surprised.

In the next few days two more steadings were attacked, all in the same way. By now, taking refuge in the village seemed good advice to many, and most families were sheltering one or more refugees. Deira thought the palisade would be little protection from a creature that could pluck the roof from a cottage, and putting all the people together only made them easier to attack. She knew what it was like to be hunted through the streets. Walls that did not keep predators out could still keep in their prey.

The weaver's little house was set a short way down the road on the other side of the village from the afflicted farms. When Headman Bartom sent to offer them a place in his house, Deira refused, but she no longer objected when Selaine went to help with the refugees. The girl had a gift for calming hysterical children, and a calming touch when the Healer was treating wounds.

*   *   *

Deira dropped the shuttle and whirled as the clangor of the tocsin assaulted her ears. Through the open door of the cottage streamed the light of a golden afternoon. The creatures had never attacked during daylight before. A few steps brought her to the porch. The village was hidden by a stand of oak trees, but smoke was rising from beyond.

Her heart clenched again. She had given Selaine permission to go to the village this morning.
“Get out! Come home!”
her spirit cried, but she knew her daughter would not come even if she could have heard.

And would you want her to be the sort of person who would run when she was needed?
a small voice spoke
within. There were sure to be those who needed help now.

We should have fled when the monsters first came!
she answered. She had not wanted to leave all she had built here, but the essential tools were the knowledge in her head and the skill in her hands. She knew how to start from scratch. She had done it before.

Without conscious decision, she found herself reaching for a bundle of absorbent wool roving and clean rags to bind wounds, a sharp needle and a spool of strong linen thread. She added packets of powdered willowbark and goldenseal. She put her sharpest knife into the basket, though it would do little good if something got within knife range. Then she tied a kerchief over her hair, grabbed her shawl, and set off down the road.

The village had been built in a bend of the river. By the time Deira crossed the bridge, she could hear screaming and the sound of rending wood. She paused, blood running cold as something like a huge, jointed claw lifted above the angled roofs. Then she pushed past the swinging gate and went in.

Evenleigh had never been more than a few streets surrounding the shrine and a small square. The homes on the east side of the village were untouched, but when she reached the square, she saw that the western side had become a tangle of beams and bits of building, daubed with some pale substance that glistened in the sun. Inside, something dark was moving. From time to time she glimpsed a jointed limb, and once, a stinger the size of a warrior's spear.

A small group of villagers still milled about before the barrier, shooting arrows that disappeared without effect or were caught by the sticky bands. Half of them were
wearing cloth that she had woven. She saw Headman Bartom among the others, thinning hair awry, and beyond him a familiar knotwork shawl and a head of bright hair.

“Selaine!” she shouted, hurrying forward. “Selaine!” In the next moment, her child was in her arms.
Flesh of my flesh . . .
Deira gripped with all the strength of her fear, confirming the tangible reality of strong young limbs, the scent of Selaine's hair.

Then a flicker of movement made her recoil; she dragged the girl back as a sticky rope arched over the barrier, caught one of the villagers, and dragged him away. For a moment she saw the beast entire— fanged head, segmented body, and two pincers that darted outward, rolled the victim neatly in sticky silk, and plucked it back over the barrier.

A spider
, she thought numbly as they all gave ground, or some obscene combination of spider and scorpion, with more legs than any creature that size had a right to own.

“It's building a nest . . .” she whispered.

“And stocking it—” her daughter replied in a shaking voice. “Tommet is the third man it's captured that way.”

It's a mother
, thought Deira.
I might even be sympathetic, if the creature were not threatening my child.

Some smoke still rose, but apparently the spider-stuff stifled flame. They stared, listening to the sounds of cracking wood. The screams were more muffled now. Even the villagers were growing still in the face of this invulnerable enemy.

As silence fell, they heard clearly the sweet, silvery shimmer of harness bells.

*   *   *

“Herald Garaval at your service—I am sorry I took so long.”

It was not
him.
This Herald's voice was a pleasant tenor, and his shape was wrong, shoulders too broad, and the hair too dark a brown. And too young—he looked barely past his internship year. He swung down from his Companion's back and gave her shining neck a pat.

“I came as soon as I got word, and Nienna goes like the wind, but not swiftly enough, I see.” Garaval cast a dubious glance toward the growing rubble pile. “The message was not very informative. What, exactly, do we have here?”

Deira began to edge backward, still gripping Selaine, as the men started trying to explain.

“Mother, let go! I want to know!”

“It's under control,” Deira said tightly. “The Herald has come. They don't need us here.”

The girl continued to protest as her mother dragged her back down the road. Once there, the older woman began to methodically sort through chests and bags. This little house had seemed such a refuge. It felt like a trap to her now.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.” Deira forced herself to meet Selaine's troubled gaze. “You must do the same. One basket, a shoulder bag. No more than you can carry.”

“But
why?
The Herald's come. He'll kill the spider-thing.”

“Or she will kill him, and her eggs will hatch. Either way, Evenleigh is done.”

Selaine flushed red, then paled. “I don't believe you! Being dragged from place to place was the first life I
knew. Then we came here, and they let us stay, and we had a
home!
When our friends are in trouble is no time to abandon them!” Shaking her head, she darted toward the door.

The fringes of her knotted shawl slipped through Deira's fingers. She made a despairing grab as Selaine lifted the latch. Her fingers hooked into the web, but suddenly there was no resistance. Selaine had halted in the doorway, and she was laughing.

Deira let go of the shawl. A crowd of people had gathered in the meadow between the cottage and the road. Others were coming up the path—Kel the miller and Anellie who ran the inn and a dozen more. In the lead was Headman Bartom, with the Herald at his side.

*   *   *

“The Hawkbrothers might have a name for it, but it's no creature the Heralds have ever seen.”

Deira sniffed as she recognized the frustration in Herald Garaval's tone, and she reached into one of the net bags for a shuttle. She had not been able to keep the villagers from taking over her cottage for their meeting, but she could make her refusal to have anything to do with this clear. With half an eye still on the others, she worked the thread between the warps, set the heddle rod against the frame and let the front warp swing back, looped the shuttle around, and worked it back once more.

“But ye've got magic to fight it, d'ye not?” asked the headman. His wisps of white hair quivered like the topknot of a demented bird.

Garaval shook his head. “Valdemar has not had a Herald-Mage since Vanyel Ashkevron's time. My Gifts
are Mindspeech and Foresight, but even if I were a Firestarter, it would not help since you say the Creature's web-stuff does not burn.”