The Woven End Page 18

  "Well, Your Majesty," Cova began. He shifted in his seat. "I taught him the basic principles, weavings, and tenets of the Alchemine art.”

  "And what are they?"

  "There are too many to tell them all to you, Your Majesty. Harmless things: Improving soil quality, changing the colors of clothing and so on, so forth."

  "What about causing blindness?"

  "Causing…Causing blindness, Your Majesty?"

  "Yes. I've received a report, from a once-seeing man, that the reason for his now-sightless eyes is my son. Is this possible?"

  "Well, Your Majesty, I suppose it is possible, but I taught Nat nothing of the sort."

  "Did you ever have a substitute tutor for him at any time?"

  "Nay, nay, nay," Cova waved the idea off, disgusted.

  The king scratched his head and rested his chin in his hand as he thought it over. He shifted his eyes up to Cova again. "I don't like it. Something is awry."

  "I am sorry that I haven't more to confirm or comfort you."

  "Hm," the King grunted, took in a sharp breath, and dismissed Cova.

  "I will send for the governors before supper."

  #

  Cova knelt on the ground with a sieve. He scooped away the forest floor’s covering. After hours of peeling, plucking, and digging, he sifted handfuls of soil over and over. He stopped and stared at his work. Pure dirt. No question. He looked around him, pressing his sight to every leaf, tree, twig, flower… It was there in all of them, just a little bit. He had never bothered to dissect things so thoroughly.

  Coincidence. I won't fret over it. What would it mean if I chose to fret over it?

  He wracked his brain with potential implications and consequences. It would certainly explain a lot but… but nay! He could not accept it, he could not believe it, and— above all— he must not let anyone know that he had wondered.

  He was afraid, very afraid. He looked around, sweating, winded. He took his sieve and hurried out.

  Chapter Twenty

  "Nat, I have urgent news," Nat-Scrios whispered.

  "Leave me be."

  "Nay. This must be told. The Trilands are in great danger."

  "Danger?"

  "Yes. You are to be a part of what is known as selith. It is a Slytian word, as you Trilanders have none for it. A people, known as the çephelars, live on the opposite side of the globe. They selith among each other always, but they have united, by the leading of rebellious slytes, to destroy the Trilands.”

  "Destroy?"

  "That is what selith is. Selith is killing. Many men form a group of people who kill another group. They are sailing to your shores from three directions, in perfect synchronization, to attack all three of the islands at once."

  "Other people…"

  "Yes. They will kill the royal family, and if I know them well, they will kill women and children. They do not care who they kill so long as they are obedient to slytes. It will be a slaughter. You must do something."

  "I will tell my apar."

  "Tell. Hurry. You have but a few days to assemble fighters."

  #

  The king sat in meeting with his governors when Nat burst in.

  "Apar, I…"

  "My son, did I not give you orders?"

  "Yes, sir. I…"

  "The Great Soul has told you of many brutal people who are coming to your shores to destroy every man, woman and child," Nat-Scrios prompted.

  "The Great Soul has told me…" He stopped as his eyes passed over each of the governors. He clenched his sweating hands. Why did he come? The statement seemed absurd now that the time came for it to be said. His apar never fully believed, and certainly would not believe now.

  Without quite knowing why, he proceeded, "…that many brutal people are coming to the Trilands to destroy every man, woman, and child."

  The king looked to Cova for…Something… Anything? Cova appeared shocked, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head at the king.

  Nat placed his hand to his head. "I…I'm sorry… I…" He shook his head and left. He hurried through the halls, humiliated, and angry.

  "He doesn't believe you," Nat-Scrios said.

  "Do you think I am not aware of that?" He growled.

  "But it will not change. You must take this to the people. The masses will believe it because you are the prince."

  "What! My apar will have me put away for madness!"

  The conversation paused. Then, "One imprisonment for the lives of many."

  "Nay, nay!"

  "I tell you the truth. Do you think you will escape torture when these fighters come? They have the art of the slytes mastered, they would find a way. What about your apar?”

  "Nay. If they wished to take the Trilands, it would be wisest to slay its leaders," Nat admitted.

  "Aye."

  Nat stopped. "I've erred so completely that I am sure my spirits are marred beyond recognition for the remainder of my life. I will wait 'til Star fall for my apar to come to me if he chooses, but if he does not, I will hold to truth above all. Perhaps it will redeem me. But…but first you must prove this to me. Show me the enemy."

  #

  The markets and shops were closing soon. Talua bustled down the street, elbowing her way through and excusing herself at every turn. She saw the enormous scratcher hanging at the butcher's stand earlier that Star rise. Her husband came home from work with thirty trilas. Just enough to buy dinner for their large family.

  Her haggard face expressed only hurry and worry, and her tight lips hadn't felt a smile for over a star. She pushed her way through the crowd and laid her trilas on the counter.

  "The big scratcher," she said, breathless.

  "Hullo! Nay, nay, you're three trilas short for that, woman," the shopkeeper boomed.

  "Three—? It was not so much early today when I first saw it!"

  "It is now," the shopkeeper said.

  "That's robbery!" She shrieked.

  "It's business. This fellow here was just about to buy it himself, you see? I won't part with it to another, unless you're willing to pay more than the good man here."

  She stood there for a moment, jostled about by passersby, bumping into the booth. What an ugly man the butcher was with his perfect teeth, blue eyes, and well proportioned face with his— she hated him right now. Even if nothing she could see was ugly, she was almost certain his legs were. Men and their ugly legs.

  She looked for another scratcher or anything that would be enough for her family, but she saw none.

  "Let her have it. Pass the smaller one over to me. I don't need a scratcher that big," the other buyer said.

  "Oh no," Talua burst out, wiping the quiet tears that accumulated at the corners of her eyes. "Take it, good man. You were here first. It's yours."

  "Star fallen woman, take the blasted scratcher, or you'll force me to show that I'm no good man. I don't know one person who would misconstrue me for one after I hit a woman with a raw scratcher," he said.

  Then—a miracle—the woman laughed. "What is your name?"

  "My name is Brádach son of—"

  "—Trilanders!" A voice cried out.

  A young man stood atop the wagon of a willing vegetable vendor with his leather-sandalled feet planted firmly between roots and greens. He looked a fine man with well-kept, curly gold hair and an appearance lacking only age. He wore a black silk tunic embroidered with gold leaves and flowers.

  The buzz of the marketplace took a few minutes to fully cease, but a few more pleas for their attention accomplished the task. Few recognized him in the dusky light and the absence of an entourage.

  "By the stars, it’s the prince," Brádach murmured. "Too hasty."

  Trilanders, you must assemble a group of strong men who know how to fight or use a spear. Send letters to your friends and loved ones on Bos and Sakat and tell them to do the same. The Great Soul has shown me that there are thirty ships coming from different directions from a land with no name. It exists on the opposite side of our w
orld, and it is peopled with savage, animalistic humans called the çephelars.They will destroy as many of you as they can and will destroy the king, my apar. I have told him, and he has not listened. So, I appeal to you, Trilanders, to prepare for the defense of your families."

  A few shifted where they stood, a few whispered.

  Brádach called out, "When will they be here?"

  "Three weeks from now," Nat answered, relieved to be taken seriously.

  "Why should we believe you? Prove to us that we can believe the Great Soul has spoken to you," Brádach called out.

  "I… I can't. I can't make you believe me."

  "Show us the power of the Great Soul. If the two of you are such good friends, surely it will give us a sign through you."

  The people looked on as Nat lifted his arms and waved them about like a magician. He placed his hands, palms out, at either side of his face, and blew. As he blew, he thrust his hands forward, wiggling his fingers in a peculiar way.

  Someone laughed. Many others joined in the laughter until Nat blew again and fire blasted six feet from his person, expanding three feet in width.

  Ticians, being city dwellers, accustomed to a good variety of strange things done by salesmen and supposed inventors, were not a folk to be easily startled. This, however, was another matter. They felt the heat over their heads and saw the fire burst out of his mouth without any apparatus along the side of his head, or behind it, or even coming up from his shirt. He was attached to nothing and, after all, this was not a salesman who could set up his surroundings as he wished in order to achieve the desired effect. Nay, this was the prince standing on a vegetable cart, breathing fire to prove his relationship with the Great Soul.

  The people screamed. Some clung to companions, others fell to the ground, but no one moved from their spot.

  Nat placed his hand on his mouth and closed his eyes, greatly repentant. He was as surprised as they were. When he moved his arms again, the crowd fell to the ground, but no fire came. Rather, a gentle rain.

  "Go, decide what you can do and do it," he said.

  He jumped off the vegetable cart and walked away.

  "I'm getting my hunting spear sharpened and my cross-bow prepared," Brádach said aloud for all to hear.

  The people returned to their homes to escape the rain, and the vendors closed up their shops and did the same. Talua quickly paid for her scratcher and contemplated what to do. She would have to brave it. A shadow fell over her as she sensed a presence. She looked to her left and upward. Brádach. He held his coat over her.

  “Let me walk you home, good woman.”

  She hesitated, but the rain was growing more intense.

  Nay. It was not safe. No matter how hard it rained.

  “Nay, thank—”

  The butcher called out as he closed his stand, “I know him, good woman. He’s okay.”

  She knew the butcher, whether she liked him or not, and so she took his word.

  “Let’s go before it begins to storm,” Brádach said.

  They were out of the market area when the first word was spoken.

  “So what do you think of what just happened?” Talua asked.

  “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “But, the fire… What—”

  “There are things that we don’t know about, but that doesn’t make them impossible. When did you last think of the Great Soul?”

  She thought for a moment. “It’s been a long time. It disappeared.”

  Brádach chuckled. “They say it’s disappeared, but sometimes it seems more like humanity has disappeared. We think more of the stars than the Great Soul. If we no longer talk about it, think about it, or honor it, it might seem as though it didn’t exist any longer. It isn’t gone. It’s still smiling, but shadows have covered it.”

  Talua looked at the strange man with wonder. He didn’t look like a philosopher, a noble, or anything remotely close. He spoke clearly, kindly, and as though he had given this much thought.

  “Why does it not assert itself then?”

  “From what I know of the Great Soul, it is not in its nature to do so. It’s like nature. Nature just does what it does, it doesn’t force anything or do things because humans say it must. It just exists. There are people like this. They are passive. They have a mind, they have a will, they have desires, but they work with what is around them and do not impose themselves. Perhaps, if pushed to the edge, they will stand up and quit trying to work through or with things.”

  Talua felt warm. Something inside of her quivered as though she were getting a chill without the cold. She felt refreshed, as if the very words he spoke were like a drink of water for a parched soul.

  “This is where I live,” she said. “Thank you. I think I’m almost completely dry. You are a good man for taking the time to help a silly woman who stole your scratcher.”

  “Woman, remember, we have it all wrong. You are of the same value as the men who tell you that you don’t possess spirits of any great usefulness. When these strange people come, don’t be ashamed to defend your family and to use every ounce of those marvelous spirits in their defense.”

  She wiped tears from her eyes and nodded. “I’ll remember, sir. If I didn’t know better I would say you were a messenger straight from the Great Soul who has pressed through the shadowy gloom that covers it. You are just a man, but it is a good thing that I have met you.”

  “You’re not far off, good woman. Not far off. A pleasant Star fall to you.”

  #

  They assembled in the dark field of Bos where the slytes often convened.

  "You rushed it," Brádach said.

  "I rushed nothing. You seem to think everything is rushed! Do you think I don't know what I'm doing? I'm the Great Soul," Nat-Scrios screeched. Brádach glared at the slyte.

  “You and I know that’s not true.”

  "I must agree with Nat-Scrios on this point. After all, this is its plan and its timing will be perfect," Cova said.

  Brádach shook his head. "Not enough leverage. The boy will be chastised, but the çephelars will still kill them all. You've failed on two accounts. The boy will not be tucked away, and not many Trilanders will stand against a race such as the çephelars. You've made it entertainment rather than words of doom. We needed a crazed, dangerous prophet-prince and you gave us a bewildered royal Alchemine."

  "You are a brazen one to insult the Great Soul in its presence," Red said, with a smoldering look on Brádach.

  "Can anyone deny that I speak the truth even if they must agree in word and deed with the slyte?"

  No one said anything. And this—this made Nat-Scrios very angry.

  “I am the creative power! Not the Great Soul, as you know him. Slytes did the work, the Soul just bumped into something.”

  Brádach laughed, “You, slyte, promise a renewal of the Star. What I want to know is whether you are very cunning, or they are excessively stupid. What are you made of, slyte? You are made of everything and nothing. What will happen when you love? Will it create a Star or will it create destruction? At least the Great Soul’s love resulted in a destruction to be built upon.”

  “A Star.”

  “You lie. You lie so that you might attempt to defeat the truth. I cannot tell them, and you do not know. But I have warned you. It’s not too late to stop. My heart breaks for you, dear one.”

  “My heart,” Nat-Scrios answered, “Burns daily… for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Persenimos sat in his chair. He picked up a quill and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb before dropping it and slapping his hand to the desk. In contrast to the slap, Persenimos spoke with quiet, gentle restraint, "I haven't the faintest idea where to begin,"

  Nat nodded. He understood. He hadn't meant for things to go this way, and he could not blame his apar for feeling as he did. Whatever happened, he was sure that he deserved it.

  "You…you disobey my orders, and burst in upon a meeting with my governors to t
ell me of some ‘çephelars’ who will kill us all. Then you leave the palace by stealth to accost a mass of our hard-working subjects as they sell their wares and buy their dinners, to tell them the same thing. Not only did the Great Soul speak this to you, but you have seen these çephelars yourself. Then, you…you prove the Great Soul has spoken to you by breathing fire over their heads and calling down a rain. All this, while standing on the cart of a costermonger.

  "Which of these do you think does not warrant your loss of title and my remarriage to produce a new heir?"

  Nat sealed his lips and looked at the floor.

  Persenimos would take his sickly, sensible son over this fit, healthy, but inept one.

  Persenimos stood up and pulled at the bellpull. The king and his son sat in a thick, oppressive silence until the soft steps of a slippered servant approached and entered.

  "Send notice to the governors that I must see them, and then send for a scribe at once," he ordered.

  The servant bowed and left.

  The king and his son sat in more silence for several minutes. A breathless scribe hurried in. He bowed and sat down at the writing desk with his quill and parchment at the ready.

  Persenimos began, "It is hereby decreed to every soul, that the art of the Alchemines is no longer to be practiced. Those discovered doing so will be imprisoned for the remainder of their lifetime. That is all. I wish for three copies to be made."

  The scribe's small gray eyes opened wide.

  Breathlessly, Nat protested, "Your Majesty, please, do not punish Alchemines for my misdeeds.”