The Dragon's Tapestry

Without taking his eyes from Marwen’s, he opened the pouch on his belt and extracted from it a narrow silken tapestry. He held it up before his face so that only the back threads, hint­ing at the majesty of design, were visible to Marwen’s eyes.

In a moment his eyes peered over the top of the tapestry.

“I was right!” he said. “It says here, ‘Do just exactly as you wish, Camlach.’”

Marwen frowned.

“Nonsense,” she said. “It is sacrilege to make light of the tapestry, Prince or no.”

“Perhaps, as an Oldwife,” he said, holding it out, “you would do me the honor of interpreting my tapestry for me.”

She sat on the grass and placed it on her lap, smoothing it, touching its silken threads, tracing its weft-faced patterns with her finger. It was opulent in design, a strong dense weave replete with symbols of power and justice, and washed in many blues. She said a spell for understanding and vision. The designs began to unfold in meaning before her eyes.

“So, shall I be a hero?” he asked sitting beside her.

She did not look at him. “A hero is not shown in his tapestry,” she said mildly. “A hero’s character is quietly woven from the threads of a hundred honest actions, a thousand selfless deeds.” He was silent. She felt him looking at her steadily.

She told Camlach of his heritage and the prophecies of his forefathers concerning his royal line; she told him of his strengths and talents and weaknesses. She showed him the dragonthread and the lifethread and told him that one day he would lead his people in war against a people who built great ships.

Her words flowed like song, without hesitation, with music. The magic was all around her like a charge in the air—her very hair felt alive, as though it could sense touch. And when Cam­lach spoke again, it seemed an irreverent intrusion on her trance.

“What, lady, means this white wingwand?”

She turned her eyes to the tiny white wingwand woven in a place of prominence. It was exactly like the soap carving he had given her. She had not seen it until now, and she puzzled over it for a time. It did not reveal itself to her, and she spoke a stronger spell for understanding.

Marwen saw the soap carving wingwand nesting in her tapestry pouch, and then Opalwing, still and white and beautiful in death. Then the vision was torn from her painfully. She knew what the white wingwand symbolized.

“It is my sign,” she whispered. She looked up. He was grin­ning at her.

She handed him his tapestry. “You knew,” she said, not smil­ing. She stood up. “The tapestry speaks an uncertain language at times.” She made to walk away.

Camlach grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“I am not free to love,” she said. It took no courage to say it. There was nothing else to be said. “I must judge Cudgham’s tapestry and bury him in his own land. I must sing the Death Song for the people of my village. I must be witness for Maug at his tapestry making. Besides,” and she hesitated, “you are the son of the king, Prince Camlach, and I am a Venutian exile.”

The scars on his face that he still bore from his torture in Kebblewok stood out starkly on his pale skin. “You are the wiz­ard,” he said.

“I am the wizard’s heir, yet to receive her staff, who still walks in the judgement of her home village. To the people of Marmawell, I was thrice a murderer. Before I can earn my staff, before I can love a prince,” and she looked up into his eyes, “I must vindicate myself. And I must study, Camlach. I carry a great responsibility now for the people of Ve.”

“I will go with you to bury Cudgham in Marmawell,” Cam­lach said.

She shook her head. “When you are near me, I forget the world, for you become my world. I forget the pain of others in my joy. And then there are still my little demons of doubt. Why is it that when you say I am pretty, there is still distrust in my heart, and when you say you love, I must struggle to believe? I am not finished my task, Camlach, not yet.”

He did not answer but took her hands in his and kissed the palms of them until her knees grew weak, and she begged him to leave her. He did leave straightway and did not say goodbye.

Days later, when she had made all preparations for her jour­ney to Marmawell, two wingwands landed nearby, one roped to the other, and a rider approached that Marwen knew to be Torbil when he came closer.

He bowed briefly and said in his gravelly voice, “I am under orders to accompany you, Lady Marwen, to wherever your jour­ney takes you and to continue as your guard until the Prince, in person, relieves me of my duties.”

Under his black beard and moustache, she could see his dark skin flush. “Prince Camlach sends you this gift,” and he gestured toward one of the wingwands. Only then did Marwen notice that it was pure white, with eyes like bloodred jewels. She laughed, a choked little sound at first.

“Is this some kind of punishment for you, poor Torbil, to guard a Venutian wench and on Venutian soil? What have you done to displease the Prince?”

There was a fierce pride in his eyes.