The Dragon's Tapestry

Soon after that Marwen ceased to long for food. She found less and less water at wells along the way, certainly not enough to bathe her feet. She muttered weak little spells of healing on their bruised and bleeding feet that, although they did not close their wounds, at least prevented infection. But fatigue was her greatest burden. She did not sleep well, even when she found a bit of soft grass around a well upon which to he. The Taker con­tinued to appear in her dreams, waking her, forcing her on and on.

When they had lost all count of winds and days, and the sun had climbed noticeably higher in the east, and when they had become thin and brown, and when the songs would no longer allow themselves to be sung, then they saw the buildings of Kebblewok nestled in the lap of the hills like a child-god’s play toys. 

Chapter Seven

Freshwind, nuwind, estwind,

three winds from the east.

Norwind, cullerwind, windeven,

three winds of the beast.

Windsign, wixwind, wywind,

three winds blow for sleep.

Windsong, yoxwind, lostwind,

a half day's time to keep.

—A Vean child's nursery rhyme

. 

Hunger and thirst and weariness did not dampen their astonishment at the sights and smells of Kebblewok.

“I didn’t know this many people existed in all Ve,” Marwen said. Maug scowled and started irritably at every sound.

Stalls of merchandise lined the road, bright booths filled with woven baskets and wind clocks, cloth dolls and heavy woven greatrugs. Painted pots of clay and bundles of straw were stacked against the perspiring stone walls of buildings; the bleats and clucks of farm animals in reed-fenced corrals drowned out the merchants calling their wares; and the smell of breads and sauces and roasting meat floated like spirits into their faces. The cooks eyed them morosely.

“There must be people here from all the provinces,” Marwen said, her voice full of awe. “There’s a man with dark hair from Verduma, and there’s a woman from Vaphrodia.”

A tall beautiful woman, with long silver hair like Marwen’s own, walked by them. Marwen was instantly aware of what she herself must look like—her gray spidersilk and her long silver hair covered in the brown-gray dust of the hills, only her flushed cheeks and dry gleaming eyes betraying life.

She could never have dreamed in all her days in Marmawell the prosperity she now witnessed. Finely spun and intricately dyed textiles were held out to those who passed by but snatched back when Marwen and Maug passed. Metalcraft tools, wire and basins were piled in polished order. Leather goods, glassware and food stalls lined the streets, and overhead, wingwands filled the air like clouds of color.

They walked along the market streets, mostly unnoticed and ignored, until they came to a stall that was no more than a little section of tiered shelves, and on the shelves were rows of neat shoes, boots, and slippers. On the greatrug was a bucket of clear water from which a slight black-haired man ladled himself a drink.

“That smells so good,” Marwen said.

The man looked up, glowering. His two front teeth were missing, and his beard was black and prickly except where it grew out of his many moles. Those hairs were white.

“That smell is leather and manure and hard-working people,” he said with a heavy accent. He looked at her poor dress and turned back to his work.

“No, I mean the water,” Marwen said, and she licked her sunburned lips. “It is singing to me, and I can smell it, also.”

The man turned back to her, slowly. His black eyes flickered, but his face was still. He glanced at Maug, who rolled his eyes and made as if to walk away.

“You want a drink? There’s plenty to drink.”

Marwen took the ladle from him with both hands and drank noisily. He gave her more, and she drank again and then offered some to Maug. He frowned and took the water calmly, but his throat quivered as he drank.

“Enough,” the man said. “You wait now, then have more later.” He looked at Marwen closely and at her feet. “You come far. You have a mother? Father? This man is your husband?”

“Me? Married to her?” Maug asked. He snorted.

Marwen shook her head. “No, no husband, and my mother is dead.” Marwen glared at Maug. “But here is my father.” She pulled the ip from her pocket and dangled the reptile by the tail, shaking it at Maug. Maug’s head jerked back and he stumbled.

“Ip! Pru brucht!” the man gasped. “What mean you by ‘Here is my father?’”

“Yes, ip,” she said with a grim smile. “Actually he is not my father. He is my stepfather.” Then her smile faded, leaving dust lines along her nose and mouth.

The Shoemaker came closer to look at the creature. The ip hissed violently at the man, and Marwen pocketed it.

“How is it you are not poisoned by this pet?” he asked.