gentle folds of her white robe, sleek and strong. Staring in the direction of the Center of Everything, the black woman was a miniature, vital version of the Worldweaver’s Spire, rising high into the darkening sky at the same time as it pierced the infinite depths of the reflecting pool.
“I will speak to the goddess,” Miradel said. “There can be no other answer.”
9
Centerflight
Tangled threads
Tattered cloak
Fabric charred
Colors marred;
A tapestry ravaged
Lays waste
To infinite souls
Miradel entered the temple in the middle of Darken. A few candles brightened the alcoves along the entryway, though shadows carpeted the floor of the main hall. The druid walked soundlessly down the center of this lightless aisle, passing the bolted iron door where the Rockshaft, long ago, had connected this temple to the city of Axial on the First Circle, so far below. Once that had been a route for trade and travel, but since the barrier of blue magic had descended, the shaft had been impassable. Some time ago, the upper terminus had been permanently sealed behind these locked iron doors.
The druid moved on, unconsciously stealthy as she approached the chamber of the Tapestry, the heart of the Worldweaver’s Loom. She thought of Shandira, the other woman waiting for these last moments on the plaza outside. Miradel had counseled her to watch the dancing stars, the reflections sparkling in the placid lake, and not to worry if she had to wait there for most of the night. Indeed, Miradel herself had no idea what would happen, how long or how short the discussion would be. She had questions, did the druid, but she was not certain that the answers she sought even existed, much less that they would be revealed to her.
The ivory doors to the inner sanctum, parted slightly to reveal a pale wash of light beyond, soon loomed, and Miradel drew a deep, slow breath. Then she reached forward, pushing the portals softly aside as she entered the large, circular chamber.
The goddess was at her loom, her long fingers supple on the threads, colors interweaving faster than the druid’s eye could follow. The tapestry, a blur of colors and images-the blue of water and sky, green of forest, and teeming collage of lives-rose from the wheel to cover the wall. For ten thousand years it had been growing, encircling the vast chamber, rising on the walls that towered high overhead. The pedals of the great loom hummed and whirred under the Worldweaver’s steady pressure, and the fabric, as shimmery as silk, continued to form and to rise from the machine.
“Ah, my faithful daughter, come in,” she said. “What do you seek in the midst of this night?”
“I have been wondering about Karlath-Fayd,” Miradel began-then halted in surprise as the goddess abruptly halted her weaving to regard the druid with narrowed, penetrating eyes.
“I would think you have more immediate concerns,” the goddess said sarcastically.
Never had the Worldweaver looked quite so severe, Miradel thought: her eyes glittered coldly, like diamonds, and a frown of displeasure creased her high forehead with more than a usual complement of wrinkles. She presented a rather frightening visage, an aspect the druid had never seen before. She fought an impulse to quietly acquiesce, to lower her eyes and murmur a deferential apology before she fled. Instead, she met that sharp glare with her own expression of honest curiosity.
“I mean no disrespect, lady. But I am curious and, as ever, I work to serve the cause of Nayve. To that end I ask: Is Karlath-Fayd not at the root of all our important concerns?” She faced the glowering expression of the goddess and continued. “Perhaps we need to know more about him.”
The goddess blinked and snorted, clearly offended by the question. “Why do you speak to me of this?” she demanded. “Do you now lack faith in my vision, in my knowledge of the Seven Circles. Know that I can see all in these threads!”
Miradel forged ahead. “I understand, lady. But because-I wonder if there is some cause for hope to be found in the Fifth Circle! Is it possible that we might strike at Karlath-Fayd himself, somehow destroy his power in his very lair? Perhaps that would be an effective tool-cutting the head off the snake in order to render the snake harmless, so to speak.”
“The armies menacing my shores are more dangerous by far than any snake!” retorted the Worldweaver, stern and stiff, with a voice that was icy cold.
“But still, you understand what I mean! He has no troops in Loamar now; they are all embarked on the death ships! This would be the time to strike… or at least, to scrutinze and study that foul god in his lair, to seek a weakness!”
“He doesn’t need troops! Have you not seen his gargoyle?” snorted the goddess. “It could destroy you, any of you, an entire army if it desired to do so. Regillix Avatar himself would be helpless against that giant! And even should one get past the gargoyle, why, the very sight of the Deathlord’s gaze is enough to turn one to stone! Imagine that horrible fate: frozen as a statue, immobile but aware, for as long as he desired to keep you as his ornament.”
“But…” Miradel was surprised and about to argue further, when she decided to hold her tongue. She needed to think, to understand what she was hearing. “Perhaps you are right,” she said quietly. “Forgive my impertinence.”
“Of course. But remember, the Deathlord is my concern,” the goddess declared sternly. “You should concentrate on preparing the initiates for the Spell of Summoning. That casting will occur tomorrow, you recall?”
“Yes,” Miradel acknowledged with a pang of guilt as she thought of Shandira. She considered raising further objections, but another look at that uncompromising visage caused her to hesitate. And the memory of a fresh question, newly growing in her mind, bade her to excuse herself as quickly as possible. “Very well, lady,” she said with a bow. “I leave you to your weavings.”
When she emerged from the temple, the night seemed to have grown much colder. She thought of her warm chamber in the Grove, longing for sleep, for blessed escape from the true world. But there was no time for that. Instead, she turned her steps toward the College, toward the apartments of her good friend.
She needed to talk to Belynda Wysterian.
The dragon spread his wings, ready to take to the air, while Natac remained on the ground. The Tlaxcalan looked at his mighty companion-more than a steed, the serpent had become as true a friend as he had ever known.
“See if the trolls need help,” said the general. “They have to get back from the shore as quickly as possible.”
“I may be able to delay the pursuit for a bit,” declared Regillix, snorting a sulfurous cloud that discolored the air over the man’s head. “Once again I am ready to spit some fire!”
“Good. I will help Tamarwind hold the elves together. If the trolls can join up with us by the time we reach the Swansleep River, we’ll have a chance to make another stand.”
“But if the Deathlord’s army stays between troll and elf, then there is no choice but to keep running,” the dragon noted.
“Exactly-so haste is important. Good luck to you and to Awfulbark,” Natac said, clapping the mighty neck affectionately.
