The Dragon's Tapestry

He began to fly toward her, as if he would come through the surface of the water.

“So it is you, Marwen,” he hissed, and his voice was like the wind in a field of grass. “Daughter of Nimroth, heir to the wiz­ard, come to me. You are mine.”

On he came until the vision of him filled the entire spring, and Marwen, in terror, splashed the water violently to dispel the image.

“‘Daughter of Nimroth, heir to the wizard, daughter of Nim­roth, heir to the wizard, daughter of Nimroth...’” The words rolled over and over in her head until she thought she must scream to stop them.

She sat beside the dim weed-filled water for a long time, her body still and quiet, her mind racing, reeling with fear and with something else. There were no more images in the water, save the grim face of a girl she no longer knew. She was afraid, for Perdoneg knew her name and sought her, and his magic was great. So long as she had no tapestry, she did in truth belong to him.

Fear welled up in her like a filling blister, but the girl in the water smiled. For she was Marwen, Daughter of Nimroth, heir to the wizard.

“It is seemly that one so evil should believe the words of this creature from hell.” It was Maug.

Marwen started, not understanding his words. He stood a few paces from her, his fists clenched, his eyes wild, but compared to the dragon, he was a child, a silly child having a tantrum.

“I have had a seeing....” she said, not really to him but to herself.

“I saw your ‘seeing,’ though by what power you brought it, I would not say,” he growled.

She looked at him sharply.

“Was it not real? Was that not the dragon you saw with your own eyes?”

“It was,” Maug said.

“Then it is true.” She looked to the northwest where she knew was the province of Verduma. “I am the heir. He will come for me. Perdoneg will seek me now, and one cannot run away from a dragon.”

She felt Maug’s anger like a storm cloud, felt him come close. She looked back at him. His face contorted and a crack of laugh­ter burst from his lungs as his hand cracked against her face.

Her cheek burned a moment and then felt cold, so cold she touched it to see if she were bleeding. Her skin was hot and dry.

“I have known you since we were children, Marwen. I know you. Better than Camlach knows you. You are nothing, no one.” He poked her hard with his finger. “You are clumsy and doltish. If I believed you were the wizard’s heir, then I would be even more the unbeliever.” He laughed on and on until he could only moan and hold his stomach. Finally he said, “If you were ... the wizard’s heir, what should you do? You have no staff and no skill to battle with dragons. How could you help your Prince Camlach? You are no one, a village Oldwife’s adopted child, a refugee.”

Marwen knelt before the spring. Slowly she raised in cupped hands the cool water to her face and splashed it on to her skin. It was the same cheek that Cudgham had struck. She washed her neck, arms, and legs, slowly, deliberately. Then she waited for the spring’s surface to become still, until her reflection was clear as a mirror. She teetered on the brink of belief, between two truths. Sometimes, or perhaps always, it was the knowledge of one’s tapestry, not the fact, that made it true. The tapestry was not the thief of agency, it did not rob her of making her own life: it was a guide, a map to a place that was already within her heart.

He sees the world from his own eyes, she thought, and he sees a world of ugliness. There is no spell to change that.

“I am not ugly,” she said, and in her voice was belief and utter calm.

Maug and Marwen stared at each other. Nuwind blew his brass-colored hair across his eyes, and he blinked.

“We will leave now for Loobhan, for the Oldest,” he said. The laughter was gone from his voice.

She put her cool hand on her cheek.

It would be easy to do as he asked, to run away from the dragon, perhaps, with the help of the Oldest, to reverse the spell on Cudgham-ip and obtain her own tapestry. Then she would be safe. Then she would have her way made plain, her way through life and her way to the lands of the dead. But how strange, to leave behind living to obtain a map for her life. Already sorrow and good sense had taught her that in her tapestry would be a white wingwand, moons for femininity, and perhaps ... a crown. And living would teach her more, as Politha had promised.

She peered into the depths of the spring. She could see only the blackness of deep water. But no, there was a shape around the blackness. It was the shape of a head, roundish like a child’s, but the skin was charred to a perfect blackness.

“The dragon will find me if I run away,” she said. “But he will not expect me to seek him. I am going to Verduma, to my father’s house.”

“To your Verduman Prince, no doubt, and to your death. Well, I will not go.”

She felt his hatred reaching out long white fingers toward her, but when they touched her, she felt something else less clean than hatred.

She said, “You must come. I must make haste, so I need Mothball.”