The Dragon's Tapestry

“Pity the dark and the untruth,” Marwen murmured, repeat­ing aloud from the Tenets of the Tapestry.

“Pity it not,” said the dragon. “It simply is. Without darkness and lies there could be no light and truth. I need not kill you, Marwen. I can take you alive to reign as queen of my kingdom. Only tell me where your father is.”

Marwen tried not to hear. His voice was seductive and beauti­ful. Behind it she could hear the storm raging on.

“Let me go!” Marwen shouted in a disembodied voice. The words were lost in the din of psychic noise around her, and Mar­wen was terrified. The spell included no words for protection from a mind stronger than one’s own. Her body lay in a death­like trance while her mindforce faced an eternity of entrapment in the haunted mind of the dragon.

She thought of spells of freeing, loosening, revealing, until briefly she remembered the hands of Vijocka, steady and magic-wise, and Marwen became still.

“Be calm,” she told herself. She remembered Vijocka’s coun­sel to focus her thoughts and be strong. In that moment she realized that the dragon could not hear the storm of his subcon­scious, did not know that she could hear it.

“I am the wizard’s heir,” Marwen whispered, and the words echoed in a hiss above the clamor. She felt power stretch from her like unfolding wings.

“I am the wizard’s heir,” she repeated. “Perdoneg, why do you not use your magic? Where is your tapestry?” Her voice rang softly like a musical note in a storm. The dragon did not answer, but the noise increased.

“You will free me, for only I can find your tapestry. It is my right, my gift....”

Though her voice was still and small, she knew the dragon heard. She waited.

When the window of the dragon’s mind opened, she flew away.

Marwen could hear, feel, smell for many winds before she could see or speak. She heard the soft steady chanting of Vijocka in trance and the plea of freshwind through the east window; she felt the warmth of the noonmonth sun on the left side of her body and the rough woven texture of the greatrug beneath her; she smelled the burning incense of Vijocka’s spellworking and new-blooming sweesle.

It was windeven when, emerging from the haze of her semi­consciousness, Marwen could see the form of Vijocka, cross-legged and hunched.

“It was you,” Marwen said, her voice croaking, her lips dry and sticky. “It was you that gave me wings....”

Vijocka’s chanting stopped abruptly when Marwen spoke. She slowly opened her eyes, but she did not move or speak for a long moment.

Finally she said, “No, Marwen. It was by your own power that you have done what you have done. I kept your body alive while you did it. Never have I seen such power. Not even the wizard Farrell of old could have done such a thing.”

“Where is my ip?” Marwen asked, not hearing.

“You—you were with Perdoneg....” Vijocka said softly, her eyes fixed and staring at the tray of smoking incense. Marwen nodded.

Vijocka opened her mouth as if to speak. Then in a fluid movement, she bent on one knee before Marwen and rose again.

“I honor the heir,” she said simply. “None other than the wizard could enter the mind of the dragon and return to tell of it.”

Marwen reached out to Vijocka. For a time they grasped each other’s forearms, quiet, desperate. Marwen laughed a brief breathless laugh, and Vijocka laughed, too, almost a gasp or a sob.

Finally Vijocka said, “What will you do?”

“I must go. He is seeking me. He will know now that I am close—hopefully, he will have no idea how close. His tapestry is the key,” Marwen said sitting up groggily. “I believe it is at my father’s house. Perhaps when I see the tapestry, I will know what to do.”

Vijocka watched her with unseeing eyes. “Yes, the lore books tell of Morda-hon hiding the dragon’s tapestry. I remember now. It is a little-known detail. Nimroth must have found it. But surely this dragon, who has lived century upon century and has memory of the beginnings and endings of kings and rivers, would remember what was in his own tapestry.”

“He remembers,” Marwen said. “His desperation has to do with its finding and its fulfilling, but I was not strong enough and did not penetrate deeply enough to know any more than this for certain.”

Still Vijocka had not moved, and Marwen noticed how sallow her brown skin had become, and her lips and fingernails were a dusky purple. Marwen felt dizzy when she got on her feet, but thirst drove her, and then she held out a cup of water for Vijocka.

The woman drank quickly, sloppily. Marwen put an arm around her to steady her.

“How long have you been like this?” Marwen asked stroking her black silky braid.

“You have been in trance for one windcycle,” Vijocka said. Cudgham-ip crawled into Marwen’s lap. Marwen sat very still. She put out one finger and stroked his leathery back.