Wizards’ Worlds (20 page)

“Thread!”

There would be no profit in blind rushing. She must concentrate all her well-trained
perceptive sense to aid her to find thread here.

Into her mind slid a very dim picture. Perhaps that came from the very far past which
she never tried to remember. A green field lay open under the morning sun and on it
were webs pearled with dew. Was what she sought allied to the material of such webs?

Who could possibly harvest the fine threads of such webs? A dark depression weighed
upon Dairine. She wanted to hurl the collecting rod from her, to cry aloud that no
one could do such a thing.

Then she had a vision of Ingvarna standing there. That lack of self-pity, that belief
in herself which the Wise Woman had fostered, revived. To say that one could not do
a thing before one ever tried was folly.

In the past her sense of perception had only located for her things more solid than
a tree-hung thread. But now it must serve her better.

Under her bare feet, for she had left her sandals with her dress, lay a soft mass
of long-fallen leaves. Around here there appeared to be no ground growth—only the
trees.

Dairine paused, advancing her hand until her finger-tips rested on bark. With caution,
she slid that touch up
and around the trunk. A faint impression was growing in her. Here was what she sought.

Then—she found the end of a thread. The rest of it was stretched out and away from
the tree. With infinite care, Dairine broke the thread, putting the freed end to the
rod. To her vast relief, it adhered there as truly as it had to the tree trunk. Now.
. . . She did not try to touch the thread, but she wound slowly, with great care,
moving to keep the strand taut before her, evenly spread on the rod.

Round and round—then her hand scraped another tree trunk. Dairine gave a sigh of relief,
hardly daring to believe she had been successful in harvesting her first thread. But
one was little enough, and she must not grow overconfident. Think only of the thread!
She found another end and, with the same slow care, began once more to wind.

To those without sight, day is as night, night is as day. Dairine no longer lived
within the time measure of her own kind. She went forth between intervals of sleep
and food to search for the tree-looped thread, wondering if she so collected something
manufactured by the weavers themselves or a product of some other species.

Twice she made the error she had been warned against, had moved too hastily, with
overconfidence, shaken the thread. Thus she found herself entrapped in a sticky liquid
which flowed along the line, remaining fast caught until freed by a weaver.

Though she was never scolded, each time her rescuer projected an aura of such disdain
for this clumsiness that Dairine cringed inwardly.

The girl had early learned that the weavers were all female. What they did with the
cloth they loomed, she had not yet discovered. They certainly did not use it all,
neither had she any hint that they traded it elsewhere. Perhaps the very fact of creation
satisfied some need rampant in them.

Those who, like her, hunted threads were the youngest of this nonhuman community.
Yet she was able to establish
no closer communication with them than she did with the senior weavers.

Once or twice there was an uneasy hint of entrapment about her life in the loom place.
Why did everything which had happened before she arrived now seem so distant and of
such negligible account?

If the weavers did not speak to her save through mind speech—and that rarely—they
were not devoid of voices, for those at the looms hummed. Though the weird melody
they so evoked bore little resemblance to human song, it became a part of one. Even
Dairine’s hand moved to its measure and by it her thoughts were lulled. In all the
world, there were only the looms, the thread to be sought for them—only this was of
any importance.

There came a day when they gave her an empty loom and left her to thread it. Even
in the days of her life in the village, this had been a matter which required her
greatest dexterity and concentration. Now, as she worked with unfamiliar bars, it
was even worse. She threaded until her fingertips were sore, her head aching from
such single-minded using of perception, while all about her the humming of the weavers
urged her on and on.

When fatigue closed in upon her, she slept. And she paused to eat only because she
knew that her body must have fuel. At last she knew that she had finished, for good
or ill.

Now her fingers, as she rubbed her aching head, were stiff. It was difficult to flex
them. Still, the hum set her body swaying in answer to its odd rhythm.

To Dairine’s surprise, no weaver came to inspect her work, to say whether it was adequately
or poorly done. When she had rested so that she could once more control her fingers,
she began to weave. As she did so, she discovered that she too hummed, echoing the
soft sound about her.

As she worked, there was a renewal of energy within her. Maybe her hands did not move
as swiftly as the blur of
elongated fingers she had seen in her mind, but they followed the rhythm of the hum
and they seemed sure and knowing, not as if her own will but some other force controlled
them. She was weaving—well or ill she did not know or care. It was enough that she
kept to the beat of the quiet song.

Only when she reached the end of her thread supply, and sat with an empty shuttle
in her hand, did Dairine rouse, as one from a dream. Her whole body ached, her hand
fell limply on her knee. In her was the sharpness of hunger. There was no longer to
be heard the hum of the others.

The girl arose stiffly, stumbled to her sleeping place. There was food which she mouthed
before she lay down on the cloth, her face turned up to whatever roof was between
her and the sky, feeling drained, exhausted—all energy gone from her body, as was
logical thought from her mind.

D
AIRINE
awoke into fear, her hands were clenched, long shivers shook her body. The dream
which had driven her into consciousness abruptly faded, leaving only a sense of terror
behind. However, it had broken the spell of the weavers, her memory was once more
sharp and clear.

How long had she been here? What had happened when she had not returned to the shore?
Had the ship under Vidruth’s control left, thinking her lost? And Rothar? the Captain?

Slowly she turned her head from side to side, aware of something else. Though she
could not see them, she knew that the looms ringing her in were vacant, the weavers
were gone!

Now Dairine believed she must have been caught in some invisible web, and had only
this moment broken free.
Why had she chosen to come here? Why had she remained? The riband of stuff was gone
from her wrist—had that set some ensorcelment upon her?

Fool! She could not see as the rest of the world saw. Now it appeared that even her
carefully fostered sense of perception had, in some manner, deceived her. As Dairine
arose, her hand brushed the loom where she had labored for so long. Curiosity made
her stoop to finger the width her efforts had created. Not quite as smooth as the
riband, but far, far better than her first attempt.

Only—where were the weavers? The shadow of terror lingering from her dream sent her
moving purposefully about the clearing. Each loom was empty, the woven cloth gone.
She kicked against something—groped to find it. A collecting rod for thread.

“Where—where are you?” she dared to call aloud. The quiet seemed so menacing she longed
to set her back to some tree, to raise a defense. Against whom—or what?

Dairine did not believe that Vidruth and his men would dare to penetrate the wood.
But did the weavers have other enemies, and had fled those, not taking the trouble
to warn her?

Breathing faster, she set hand on the hilt of the knife at her girdle. Where
were
they? Her call had echoed so oddly that she dared not try again. Only her fear grew
as she tried to listen.

There was the rustle of tree leaves. Nothing else. Nor could she pick up by mind touch
any suggestion of another life form nearby. Should she believe that the cloth missing
from each loom meant her co-workers had left for an ordered purpose, not in flight?
Would she be able to track them?

Never before had she put to such a use that sense Ingvarna had trained in her. Also,
that the weavers had their own guards, Dairine was well aware. She was not sure that
she herself mattered enough in their eyes for them to
set any defense against her seeking their company. Suppose, with a collecting rod
in her hand, she was to leave the loom place as if on the regular mission of hunting
thread?

First she must have food. That she located, by scent, in two bins. The fruit was too
soft, overripe, and there was none of the dried sticks left. But she ate all she could.

Then, rod conspicuously in hand, the girl ventured into the woods. All the nearby
threads must have been harvested, her questing fingers could find none as she played
out her game for any who might watch.

And there
were
watchers! Not the weavers, for the impression these gave her was totally different—more
feeble sparks as compared to a well-set fire. As she moved, so did they, hovering
near, yet making no attempt to come in contact with her.

She discovered a thread on a tree. Skillfully, she wound it on her rod, took so a
second and third. However, at the next, she flinched away. Any thread anchored here
must have been disturbed, for she smelled the acrid odor of the sticky coating.

The next two trees supported similarly gummed threads. Did that mean these had been
prepared to keep her prisoner? Dairine turned a little. Already, she was out of familiar
territory. Thus she expected to meet at any moment opposition, either from the threads
or those watchers.

Next was a tree free of thread. Trusting to her sense of smell, she sought another
opening, hoping that the unthreaded trees would mark a trail. Though she moved a little
faster, she kept to her pretense of seeking threads from each tree she encountered.
The watchers had not left her, though she picked up no betraying sound, only knew
they were there.

Another free tree—this path was a zigzag puzzle. And she had to go so slowly. One
more free tree, and then, from her left, a sound at last—a faint moaning.

It was human, that sound, enough to feed her fear. This—somehow this all seemed a
shadow out of her now-forgotten dream. In her dream she had known the sufferer—

Dairine halted. The watchers were drawing in. She could tell they had amassed between
her and the direction from which the moan came. Thus she had a choice—to ignore the
sound or to try to circle around.

No sign, make no sign that she heard. Keep on hunting for threads—strive to deceive
the watchers. All her nature rebelled against abandoning one who might be in trouble,
even if he were one of Vidruth’s men.

She put out her hand as if searching for thread, more than half expecting to touch
a sticky web. From those watchers she believed she picked up an answering sensation
of uncertainty. This might be her only chance.

Her fingers closed about a thick band of woven stuff. That led in turn downward to
a bag, the flap of the top turned over and stuck to the fabric so tightly she could
not open it. The bag was very large, pulling down the branch from which it was suspended.
And within it—something had been imprisoned!

Dairine jerked back. She did not know if she had cried out. What was sealed within
that bag, her perception told her, had been alive, was now only newly dead. She forced
herself to run fingers once more along the surface of the dangling thing. Too small—surely
too small to be a man!

Now that the girl knew no human was so encased, she wanted no greater knowledge of
the contents. As she stepped away, her shoulder grazed a second bag. She realized
that she moved among a collection of them, and all they held was death.

Only, she could still hear that moaning. And it was human. Also, at last the watchers
had dropped behind. As if this place were one they dared not enter.

Those bags—Dairine hated to brush against them. Some seemed far lighter than others
and twirled about
dizzily as she inadvertently touched them. Others dipped heavily with their burdens.

The moans—

The girl made herself seek what hung before her now. Her collecting rod was in her
girdle. In its place, she held the knife. When she touched this last bag, feeble movement
answered. There was a muffled cry which Dairine was sure was one for help.

She ripped at the silk with knife point. The tightly woven fabric gave reluctantly,
this was no easily torn material. She hacked and pulled until she heard a half-stifled
cry!

“For Sul’s sake—”

Dairine dragged away the slashed silk. There was indeed a man ensnared. However, about
him now was sticky web, for its acrid scent was heavy on the air. Against that, her
knife was of no avail. To touch such would only make her prisoner, too.

She gathered up the folds of the torn bag and, using pieces to shield her fingers,
tore and worried at the web. To her relief, she was succeeding. She could feel that
his own struggles to throw off his bonds were more successful.

Also, she knew whom she fought to free—Rothar! It was as if he had been a part of
that dream she could not remember.

Dairine spoke his name, asking him if he were near free.

“Yes. Though I still hang. But that now is a small matter—”

Dairine heard a threshing movement, then the sound of his weight touching the ground.
His breath hissed heavily in and out.

“Lady, in nowise could you have come at a better time.” His hand closed about her
arm. She felt him sway and then recover balance.

“You are hurt?”

“Not so. Hungry and needful of a drink. I do not know
how long I have hung in that larder. The Captain—he will think us both dead.”