The Woven End Page 12

  Nat-Scrios moved forward. "You accuse me because I have killed, but does the Great Soul truly have the right to destroy you and the rest of the world? How does it feel to be thought inferior, to be a reminder of sadness rather than a memory of joy? You know that is why he has done it? He will not change things because he wants us all to disappear. I, for one, find no pleasure in it.

  “Is it our fault that our amar died? Is it our fault that the Great Soul cannot seem to overcome grief? Nay! And why should we pay for something that is not our fault? I have suffered more than all of you. It is I who resides in that carcase. Do you understand the pain and terror I endure? I am the partially born! He might pluck me out and the star remain forever, but he does not! He leaves me there to end us all, to torment me for my existence." Nat-Scrios shouted the last words. It drifted back and fell silent, seething.

  “I propose a search for the Great Soul,” Brádach said. “We assume that we can accept the named one’s words because it sounds sincere, and others of us think we cannot trust it because of the legends. What is the truth? Why is there an end to the Star? Why did the Great Soul disappear? Did it truly disappear? Are their other options? A quest for truth may bring real answers if we can overcome the need to be queen of the hill.”

  The red soul shot a warning glance at Brádach.

  The dull gold soul, very suddenly, announced that it must leave.

  "They summon me. I must…"

  With that, it disappeared.

  "Great slyte, if I may interject," the red soul spoke. "We tried to accomplish the task through natural means and failed. Nat-Scrios has done a great service to your kind in doing what it has done. He will take the throne and do what I could not. The desired end will be achieved by a different, more certain means.”

  The large slyte growled. "We cannot abide by human principles! Why we will not do this is something that you will never understand. Our plan was once to reestablish the art of weaving. Your ascension to power would have accomplished this. When people begin weaving, they begin calling to the Great Soul. Pity, mercy, and love may have resulted, and the end been altered, if it can be altered.

  “No. We will not fight against the Great Soul, we only hoped to change its mind. It never explained anything to us, and we do not know whether it could do anything about the end, or not. Who can say what is in its mind? As the alchemines have sung, ‘In the mind it loves, in the mind it holds all of us’.

  “It is not a secret that the world has been built on a foundation of lost love. The world is beautiful, but it has sorrow in its very core. I cannot blame the Great Soul for wishing it to end, if that be the case. Nevertheless, your wine-gold companion has an idea that I encourage you to follow. He is close to the Great Soul. We can tell by his color. We have searched for the Great Soul since the day it vanished, but humans have not. It has a tenderness for your kind. I suggest you try.”

  "Let it be on your own souls," Nat-Scrios hissed. "You were offered safety and have refused. When the planet is refreshed, the Star is shining, and I look over living humanity again, I will not think of you. I will be the Great Soul, alone. I will defeat him."

  The large slyte replied, “Your insistence on assigning gender to it is disturbing to me, ragged one.”

  “That is because you do not understand him. After all, you haven’t recognized him for millions of stars.”

  “And you have?”

  “Yes,” Nat Scrios answered, expanding and contracting slowly.

  The mass of slytes turned to go their separate ways. All negotiations and attempts at peaceable relations were about to be toppled in a matter of moments.

  "Have mercy!" The red soul's words came out so fast, and with such fury, that the slytes could not resist stopping to hear the wonder of human heartache.

  "Continue," said the large slyte.

  “I tell you, without your cooperation, the world will be destroyed over a… a petty, self-righteous attitude and a stand for principle over necessity. Join us. This journey will be long and taxing and we will need you.”

  The great slyte moved forward and extended its form in a friendly manner to the red soul. The sensation of sympathy emanated from the great dark being.

  The slyte spoke, “I can see that Nat-Scrios alone has your affection. You will always be spoken of as a hero among us for extending your hand in friendship. We must, however, fight against Nat-Scrios and your mutual cause, by whatever means we may. He has a second plan in mind, and I suspect that it was his first plan… and not so good a one as you hoped."

  The slytes slunk away without looking back. Brádach disintegrated from view.

  Nat-Scrios and the red soul stood together in the empty field. The sky's very faint lightening indicated the coming of the Star light.

  "Nevermind them. We will do it on our own, for ourselves and only ourselves," Nat-Scrios murmured. “It will not be what they wished, but it will still be sweet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sidita rarely left her bed. She lay as silent and pale as the moon, too weak to move and too weak to carry a conversation of any length. The King visited her frequently and sat by her side to hold her hand or to help her eat. She remembered Cova and her ama in these same shoes once, long ago. Was she dying, too?

  She would cry if she could.

  The doctors had no explanation as to why time and diet were not restoring her. They attempted strong herbal preparations, and yet nothing changed.

  They feared for the child in her womb. The possibility that her body may not be strong enough to bring the child into the world hung over the palace as an impending storm.

  "Never fear," she once told Persenimos, her voice cracking as she spoke. "The child will be well."

  She spoke the truth, for the child came in due time. The child appeared healthy in many ways, but something seemed amiss to the midwife and physicians alike. They could not diagnose and they angered the king very much by saying so.

  "How can you not know what it is? If something is wrong then it's wrong! It should have a name. Are you women that you have such a sensitive way of 'feeling' things? Is there a doctor's premonition that you utilize when you think it might impress someone? Tell me the truth. Be men of medicine not men of intuition!"

  "Your majesty," the head doctor began, "If I could give this to you without question, I would. I cannot explain it except that something does not seem right. His color is right and he is responsive and alert. I do not know. Let it—if you please—simply go on the record and be taken into consideration as the child grows. We will watch him closely to see if what I indistinctly perceive will manifest itself more clearly in time."

  Sidita's condition was almost explainable. They did not know what allowed her weakened state to persist for the period of her gestation, but giving birth resulted in further loss of blood and the exhaustion of her small reserve of energy. Perhaps, now, she could rest and recouperate. She would return to her old self in a short time.

  As time passed, not only were there no signs of recovery, she seemed to be getting worse. The king could not announce the birth or name of their son until Sidita had the strength to appear before the people with him. It was tradition.

  Persenimos did all within his power to make her well. No soup, no drink, and no amount of wishful thinking turned Sidita's course. She grew wan, deathly white. A fever overtook her body as she alternated between dripping with sweat and shivering with a chill.

  In desperation, Persenimos sent for Cova.

  Governor Cova son of Neeled:

  The queen is ill and nigh to death. Come and work your weaving on her behalf.

  A servant awoke Cova in the middle of the Star fall to receive this note. He promptly flung his legs out of the bed and dressed. He arrived at the palace four hours after the note reached his eyes. A guard escorted him to the bedside of the feverish, sleeping queen. He entered the Sálverøld to examine her.

  “Though I would break every law of the Alchemine to save her, I am unable. Damag
e has been done to her silver cord and it is beyond repair—frayed. A portion of it is missing and the rest is unraveling within her soul. I've never seen anything like it. A person might live with two strands, but they must be in tact if they are to be worked with. I can't stabilize her blood. In short, she is bleeding internally.”

  "Take a strand of mine then, by the stars, please!" Persenimos roared.

  "You might survive it and then you might not. Either way, if you were killed, I would be on the chopping block as well. Besides, it is unlikely to be of service with the fray."

  Persenimos glared long and hard at Cova.

  “I ought to have your head on the chopping block for refusing.”

  “I suppose you could.”

  “I hold out hope that you will change your mind. Get away from me. I don’t want to look at you.”

  Cova bowed and left the room. He fell back against the wall and put his hands up to his face. He took a deep breath, and shuddered with tears.

  “You have to let her go, or she will disturb things. Think of the end, not of the present. She will interfere. She will interfere.”

  Cova nodded, took a deep breath again, and wiped his eyes.

  #

  Nine days after the boy's birth, after a long stupor, Sidita became aware of her surroundings late in the Star fall. She turned her head. Persenimos sat with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

  "Persenimos," the words scratched out from her throat.

  He lifted his head and lunged forward to his knees, grasping Sidita's hand in both of his.

  "By the stars! Sidita, you spoke. What can I do for you?"

  "The baby…"

  "Right, right." He leapt to his feet.

  "No. I don't want to see him."

  "You don’t…?"

  "Too painful. I have to leave him. His name. We need…" she took a desperate breath."We need to give him a name."

  "Yes. Anything you want. What shall we name him?"

  "Nat," she said, loud and clear.

  "Nat. Very well. What is its origin?"

  "An old Alchemine fable," she rasped, turning her head away from him. "A hero who did a great work for a king…”

  "You mustn't tell it to me now. Tell it to me when you are stronger."

  Sidita closed her eyes and nodded her head, “You know it already.”

  She swallowed hard and licked her lips. "Water?" she said.

  Persenimos poured a cup of water and brought it to her lips. She drank. She looked up at him and smiled. "Promise me something," she said.

  "Anything."

  "Let Nat be trained as an Alchemine with my uncle Cova. I want to be assured that he will carry on our art.”

  "You speak as though you will not be here to enforce this edict yourself." He choked back the emotions that threatened to make a bitter moment, and he smiled through it. "I'm certain that you and I can make arrangements for weaving lessons with Cova. Would you not be a capable teacher yourself?"

  She smiled weakly and shook her head.

  His resolve against the emotions began to break. "Where is the Great Soul, Sidita? Why does it not help you?"

  Her soprano voice drifted through the air like a lady in a room of gawking men…

  "We pass without alarm for we know the Great Soul whispers its mind to the stars, for it is in the mind it loves, in the mind it knows, and in the mind it holds all of us.”

  In a few minutes—it was as simple as falling asleep—she closed her eyes and failed to breathe.

  He wanted to say her name, to ask if she was jesting, to try to wake her somehow, but sense prevailed. He never saw someone face unraveling so well. He'd watched his apar unravel, his agapars and agamars, even a few siblings and friends. The unraveling was not a stranger to him and, though it overcame him in the past, it would not overcome him now. He was older and wiser.

  He covered Sidita with a sheet, brushed a few tears from his eyes, and rang for Koro. She had to be out of his sight, out of his mind, and out of his reach. He could not break. The stars fall upon whoever gave him grief for this decision. He was going to make it for his sake, and the sake of all who relied on him.

  Just hours later, on a gilt raft borne on men's shoulders, they carried Sidita's body to the star water. They unveiled her body and pushed the raft out to the mercy of the stars. Persenimos was struck with a dull ache in his head. He stood in the water, watching the tide move her away from him. He wished, for a moment, that he was not king. If he had not been king, he would have devoted his life to that sweet, hurting thing. It was a necessary regret.

  #

  The boy, Nat, never had a proper introduction as the prince of the Triland. He was named and brought up, hardly seen or known by the Trilanders.

  Nat grew into a fine boy. Baby faced, freckled, and blessed with curly white locks that needed frequent cutting to keep them in check. He stood out as a model of childish perfection with a sturdy body and hardy appearance. He excelled in all that he did, and his mind proved sharp and capable. His only flaw lay in his sickly constitution. Though not weak, he seemed prey to any illness that he was exposed to or, for that matter, not exposed to. He succumbed to infections of the nose and ears on a regular basis and was plagued with coughing. Before he recovered from the one illness, he was subjected to the next. He suffered from frequent heart palpitations that, though they were painful and distressing, never brought him all the way to death.

  Cova had little to do with the boy. He saw to his own governorship on Sakat, immersed himself in duty and, above all, avoided the sight of Sidita's little one for the time being. Their time together was inevitable, but not yet. Persenimos made no effort to unite the two. The thought occasionally crossed his mind, but he kept to his throne and to the duties of a king. He wished to forget, as often as possible, that he had a son. Sidita's death hurt a great deal more than anyone else's ever had, but he would not confess this to himself or any other. Persenimos needed his heart in tact for the Triland.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Nat reached the dawn of adulthood, his tutor filled him with expectations of training and communication with the king. Regardless of his hopes and ideas, there seemed no indication that any training was forthcoming. He never slacked in his studies and never treated his tutor with disrespect, but he often grew wistful and absentminded during class time.

  He dined with his apar, and made appearances at his side, but the king rarely called for him. Now sixteen years old, when he was to be of some help and get the first-hand experience necessary for his reign as king, he felt all the more neglected.

  The tutor, Y’Armos Son of Etetuol, the finest in the Triland, abruptly ended his lecture on the history of Sakat. He sat down and folded his hands on the desk in front of him.

  "Your Majesty, is something wrong?"

  Nat jerked to attention. His keen blue eyes filled with light and intelligence. He was with the tutor now; a model student.

  "No, sir."

  Eyes narrowed, Y’Armos examined Nat.

  "Something is bothering you. I am certain of it." He sat back, and smiled in his mild way, waiting.

  Nat hesitated, pressing his lips together, then, "Y'Armos, why hasn't my apar sent for me?”

  "Perhaps he hasn't the right assignment prepared."

  "It's nothing new. He never calls me for anything. Why should he start now?"

  "Your apar is a very busy man, Your Majesty. He has the entire Triland to think of. Is it not enough, in your privileged situation, to be trained as a trotsman, to spear, to paint, to write, to become learned? The rest of the Trilanders must work hard day after day without education or leisure, while you become educated. Even your work would be leisure for them."

  Nat looked down, his eyes moved back and forth with no destination in mind. The Star was clean and clear with not a cloud in the sky.

  "May I be dismissed from my studies for today, sir?" Nat asked, turning his eyes to the tutor.

  Pity shone through Y'Armos' ey
es. He sighed a small sigh and nodded his head. He waved his hand to signify dismissal. Nat thanked him and left.

  #

  Symmetry ruled in the garden nearest the palace. It was a garden set up for eyes who appreciated man-made order. He liked it, yes, but still passed on into the next garden where things grew as they wished. King Trimos had ordered that a less contrived garden be available for his more whimsical moods. There were no rows, no clipped trees or topiary. Someone pulled weeds from time to time, but man's hands did little else to the place.

  A dolobor tree stood tall in the north side of the garden. Nat crawled through the gold leaves and pink-white blossoms to sit down on the mossy ground in a cool, leafy haven. From inside, the leaves were a dull green.

  This spot muffled the sounds of wingrays and the din of the city. It all became a far away thought, not near enough to touch or worry him. He pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs to hold them secure. He rocked back and forth a little as his mind ran through an array of trivial things.

  Y’Armos is a rather nice fellow. I like his hair. I wonder how he gets it to lay down so smoothly. It shines like a black Corsico trotter. I wonder how he decides what color ribbon to tie it back in every day. He seems to like blue. Blue is a good color. My eyes are blue and I like my eyes. I wonder if my amar had blue eyes. Apar has blue eyes. Apar—

  His mind stopped there. He left his classes to forget about it, but the mind can only extend to other thoughts if it is not possessed of one.

  Does apar have another son somewhere that is to be heir to the throne? Perhaps it is a secret. Perhaps I'm not really his son. Perhaps—

  He read many stories of the frivolous sort, often portraying dramatic family life. A son was not really a son, someone's wife was actually their aunt and so on so forth. Secrets, mysteries, and curiosities prevailed. Nat was too intelligent to take them seriously. Though, in his situation, there seemed to be no logical explanation for his treatment, so the thought occasionally crossed his mind that he might be living the drama of stories.