The Time Weaver

the whims of your own body.

That was Weaving.

And then, when I started to go to him instead of to my bedroom, it became even worse.

I was young and afraid. Of course I was afraid. I didn't know who this dark youngdrakon could be, or why I kept ending up in his proximity. The Weaves were a compass and he became my North. I just kept going back. I discovered later that in our Natural Time, Prince Sandu was only a little over a year older than I. But in the Weaves I usually leapt ahead, and he was much older.

After the sixth Weave to him, I told Lia everything; I had no reason not to. I trusted her. I even loved her. Then she told Zane.

And I think that —that moment, that conversation for which I wasn't even present—was the beginning of our end.

I remember five days passed, uneventful. The evening of the fifth day the three of us were seated on the stairs of the Catedra/ in the Barri Gotic, enjoying the soft spring twilight. There were street vendors hawking food and glass-windowed shops selling baubles. It was crowded: young couples with stern duenas in ebony lace hissing and trailing behind them, families with children bickering over sweets, everyone ambling the narrow, cobblestone streets to take in the balmy air, the rising moon. We three were pretending—Lia loved to pretend—that we were also an actual family, appreciating the descent of the lemony blue night.

Zane only did it for her. I knew that.

A pair of gray-whiskered men were on the stairs below us, strumming havaneres on their mandolins for the passersby, singing sea-songs in wavering, graveled voices. A few tunes in, Lia rose to toss a handful of coins into the hat placed beside them.

Zane merely watched her go. I should have known then something was off. Whenever he was in town— which wasn't often—he stuck to her side like a burr.

He was peeling apart a dinner pastry with his fingers, one he'd purchased from a cart a few streets away. I'd been following the process surreptitiously; I'd already eaten mine. Flaky bits of roll littered the stairs beneath, the scent of sauteed chicken and onions from the stuffing making my stomach grumble.

He no longer wore the signet with Draumr . I'd been wondering where it was, but hadn't worked up the nerve to ask.

He spoke softly, without looking up at me. 'Are you still Weaving to Zaharen Yce?'

I sucked in a breath with my surprise. I hadn't mentioned the name of the castle to Lia. I'd only just learned it myself that morning, during another involuntary Weave.

'If you tell her about it again,' he said mildly, after a pause, 'I'll have Nemesio flog you. I mean it.'

Nemesio was our manservant. I doubted that was all he was, as he was large and scowling and only barely willing to do any sort of work around our home. His arms were roped with muscle and scars. He kept a knife in the waistband of his breeches—it was steel. I always heard it crooning when he was near.

'Frankly, Honor, I don't care if you Weave to the castle or Fleet Street or the sodding Macaroni Club,' Zane was saying to the pastry, still in that quiet way. 'But my wife does, very much. So leave her out of it. You're giving her nightmares.'

'Yes,' I choked. 'Fine.'

'Fine,' he agreed, and handed me a piece of roll.

Zane was one of the strongest strands in my new life of woven secrets.

Her dreams had always been blind. It was one of the restrictions of her Gift, Lia supposed, that she could hear what was to come but not see it. During the dreams it never bothered her. It was only later, after waking, that she would worry and guess and try to imagine colors and shapes and vistas to match all

that she'd heard.

Lately she'd not wanted to imagine any of it. Lately she'd wanted only to erase it from her mind; she prayed to erase it, but like an evil wish turned inside out, it shone extra clear to her.

Perhaps it was because she missed home so much, the trees and lakes and people of the shire. Perhaps it was because her childhood had been so idyllic—gemstones and meadows and splendid animals in flight—a perfect painting fixed in her memory, and what she was dreaming now was so terribly opposite.

She could smell the sun-heated grasses, the bouquet of late summer.

She could hear the crickets tucked away in the woods, their rhythmic sawing. A few beetles. The wind shifting invisible clouds far, far above. Leaves clattering on the trees.

Skirts rustling. The faint squeak of a window being opened and the crickets getting louder; the scent of lilies swept over her with the breeze.

The voices. The man and the woman, and the girl.

I've missed you, said the girl, and Lia knew at once who this was, of course. Honor. Lovely, delicate Honor, the prickly-sweet child of her heart.

Yes, said the man.

There was a pause. The sound of liquid being poured into a china cup; the hot wafting fragrance of black tea.

Did you miss me?asked the girl, hesitant.

Yes, said the man again. Of course we did.

Of course, echoed the third person in the dream, the woman.

I've so much to tell you. There's so much to say.

But no one said anything for quite a while. There were only the leaves sighing outside, the tiny random clinking of flatware against bone china. That scent of tea and lilies.

I wanted to say first that I'm sorry, continued the girl, determined. Sorry that I left without word. Sorry that I worried you.

Silence.

And that—that I've met someone. A man. A drakon,I mean.

Oh? said the woman, muted.

A prince, actually. I...he's...he's really quite wonderful In fact—the girl took a deep breath—I love him. So much.

Another cup, my dear?asked the man.

What? No. No, thank you. Did you hear me, Papa? I've found my mate. It's Alexandru of the Zaharen. Another pause. We're engaged.

Ah, said the man.

I live in his castle . we have a little .

Yes, whispered Honor's mother. …

you'll be so...pleased...she's...

Close your eyes, said the man.

...what's...Mother...

Just sleep, said the man.

A muffled thump; perhaps a cup falling to a rug. Silk rustling again, a great deal of it, and then the woman's voice came to life, low and fervent.

Tell us the truth, Honor. Tell me. Are you involved somehow with the sanf inimicus?

... mmm ...

Honor! Tell me!

But the girl said nothing.

Lia heard breathing, ragged and soft. She heard the sound of silk again, the footsteps of the man crossing the rug. A door opened. Someone new entered the room; she could not hear who, she could not smell who. The person made no sound whatsoever. But the energy changed somehow—instantly, violently. A shiver crossed her in