The Dragon's Tapestry

“Cudgham-ip, the time has come to return you to your prop­er form,” she said. “Before I lived in Perdoneg’s mind, I touched the mind of the Mother. And I worshipped her. I worship her, Cudgham, the One who gives me my magic, who loves me ... and you.” Marwen closed her eyes and pursed her lips together. She opened them again. “For her I do forgive and free my heart to reverse the spell. Perhaps then you will help me regain my tapestry.”

The huge helmeted head of a man appeared in the east win­dow. He was bearded and sweating. “Oldwife of Rute, let your hands be blessed!” he bellowed.

Marwen and Cudgham-ip both jumped.

The man’s eyes touched Marwen and then rested on the ip that was running as quickly as it could across the dirt floor.

In less than two breaths, the soldier fit his bow and shot the ip, pinning it to the floor. It squirmed for a short time and died. 

Chapter Fifteen

Belief that dwells in the head is less worthy than belief that dwells in the hands and the feet and the backbone of man.

—Tenets of the Tapestry

"I am sorry,” the man was saying to Vijocka. “How was I to know the lass had an ip for her familiar?”

Vijocka was not paying any attention to him. Her arms were around Marwen, consoling her. Marwen was not aware of sad­ness. Inside her was a horrible darkness, but she could not name it sadness. Having Vijocka’s arms around her felt good, and she ached for Grondil’s touch and longed to be with her.

“I said I was sorry and that is a better apology than more deserving ones have received. Now, Oldwife of Rute, the Prince sends for you, for he has need of your magic.”

Marwen looked up.

“Camlach?”

The soldier named Torbil glared at her with black eyes. “I like not the sound of his name in your mouth, Venutian wench.”

Vijocka began to protest, but Marwen stopped her with a ges­ture.

“I am Marwen Oldwife. I will go with you in place of Vijocka.”

“I go with no Venutian witch.”

“Silence!” Vijocka said. “If Camlach is in need of magic, her’s is the greater.”

“Nevertheless ...”

“I will not go,” Vijocka said. “My own people need me. Take Marwen or take no one.”

The soldier cursed into his beard and turned away from the window to wait for Marwen impatiently.

“Go quickly,” Vijocka said. “I will do the rights for Cud-gham-ip.”

Marwen nodded but did not move.

“Is there no hope now, Vijocka? Can I never have my tapestry?”

Vijocka paused before she answered. “I know of no way, but perhaps you will find one. You are the wizard’s heir.”

Marwen stood unmoving until Vijocka pushed her gently out the door. “Hurry,” she said, her voice hushed, urgent. She walked with her to the wingwand fields where the soldier waited.

Cullerwind wailed in the hollows and blew Marwen off bal­ance. The dark clouds in the north had dispersed.

“Take fresh beasts and leave your own here to rest,” Vijocka said.

She introduced Marwen to a sleek young beast, grass-green with black wing markings. “This is Fallspar, and this is Grafewing,” she said giving the soldier a heavy-set male with mottled blue and gray wings.

She took Marwen aside just before she mounted.

“Take care. You hold a prince’s heart in your hands if I am not amiss, and that is a great power in itself.” Marwen remembered Camlach climbing up the hill, foolishly, bravely before the dragon’s eyes, and she thought what a great thing it would be to hold that good heart as her own.

“Truly, Vijocka?” She wondered why this belief came harder to her than any other now.

The Oldwife nodded. Torbil grunted impatiently. Marwen waved and signaled the wingwand to fly.

“Go with the blessings of the Mother!” Vijocka called as they rose into the air.

The green wings of Fallspar met at the top, enfolding Marwen in an envelope through which the noonsun shone, then dropped until they met at the bottom revealing to her a panoramic view of the land that changed with almost every other wingbeat.

Fleshy pale-leafed weeds, almost as high as her waist, grew profusely on the foothills far below. They were the largest vege­tation Marwen had ever seen, and she wondered at the sight.

Her wonder soon faded, however, when, after traveling through nuwind, they rounded a low soft-sloped mountain and came in sight of true mountains. With each wingbeat they loomed larger, and Marwen had to remind herself to breathe. Depthless and hazy they seemed from this distance, layered shades of lavender, flat and sharp-edged. Below them was a hill unremarkable by comparison.

When they landed on the lower reaches of the hill, Marwen discovered she had underestimated the size of the pale plants. Their tender green fingers reached almost to the height of her breast. Yellow blooms like rings of jewels adorned the tallest. She felt as small as a hearthcat hiding in the grasses.

“What is this plant?” Marwen asked as the soldier placed socks on the wingwands’ antennae.