Infinite Possibility

                                                INFINITE POSSIBILITY

© Ann Linquist

 

Chapter One

 

 

        Tessor squatted on a shelf of gray rock and considered the two unfamiliar horses tied in his paddock below.  From his vantage point he could survey his thatch-roofed cottage nestled into the mountainside as well as his terraced garden and goat shed.  He saw nothing out of the ordinary except two bridled horses with their heads hanging low, nothing that accounted for the anxiety humming through his bones.  His knees ached, but he didn’t move.

        One plus one plus one.

        Tessor heard the message as if it were dripped into his ear like a liquid.  The weight of some unknown menace poured down through his chest and belly into his bowels.  Two horses, he lectured himself, fighting back fear–not three.

        His body continued to register a serious disruption to his typically peaceful world.  Tessor twisted a curl loose from the mat of his white beard and opened up his inner senses.  He had visitors.  It wasn’t a frequent occurrence so high up the mountain, but the accompanying feeling of danger and dislocation was highly unusual.  He sniffed away the thought.  He could drive his visitors away if he chose; certainly he had power enough for that.  No one could pose a real threat.  Well, almost no one.

        One plus one plus one.

        He heard the words in the rustling of the yellowing aspen leaves, in a sudden blue jay’s squawk, and in the uneven thumping of his heart.  Two horses, he told himself.  Only two.

        Smoke rose weakly from his chimney.  The late afternoon sun sent a muted gold over the red, orange, and brown leaves of the trees on the mountains stretching out below him.  A squirrel dug at the ground where Tessor’s garden met the edge of the forest and then run off.  The nights had grown cold.  He needed to go inside and stir up his fire.  His knees also told him to move, but he did not rise.

        One plus one plus one .

        The Great Tessor indeed.  Once he had been able to command the lightning, the wind, and the rain; now he was too scared to go into his own hut.  He snorted, and then pushed himself up with one hand, tugging at the rope cinching his gray robe.

        He could discern a subtle agitation all around, a low convulsing pulse riding the sensations of power.  The impression sent his thoughts teetering at the crest of an inward slope toward painful memories.  With an effort he pulled them back.  It wouldn’t do to start pouring over his past.

        He silently picked his way down from the higher crags to approach his cottage from the rear until he reached the horses with their hanging heads.

        One plus one plus one .

        The words whispered at him from the mane of the bay mare when he ran his hand over its strong neck.  Tessor exhaled carefully, trying to ignore the fear curdling his stomach.  Sweat, lathered on the horses, told him they’d been worn out on a hard ride.  Rolled leather edges trimmed the quilted linen riding pads, and silver studded the bridles.  Brass bits and fittings showed the skill of practiced craftsmen.

        With a shake of his head, Tessor pulled the pads off the backs of the horses and forked some goat fodder over to them.  He looked at the flecks of sweaty foam where the padding had lain.  The tired animals needed a good brushing.

        He put a hand on the neck of the mare and stroked her while he sought out her presence.  That couldn’t hurt anything, surely.  After all, he probably should find out all he could before encountering his visitors.

        "Honor to the strength of thy four legs," Tessor whispered but also sent an inward message.  Animals had little use for words, but only words could bring him in contact with the power.  It was best to be formal as well, for beasts observed rigid codes of conduct.  "Whence and whither?" he tried again politely, and let his mind wander, waiting for any impression the animal might form in response. 

        The mare stomped the dry earth, jerked her head up and down, and snorted breath that clouded white.  Evening had arrived; the air had cooled.

        Tessor heard a mourning dove call out from the crest of his hut and another answer from the woods.  He heard the soft whisper of his own hand stroking the animal’s neck.  He sensed again the disruption in the blooms of power that were always around, but no flicker of an answer rose except the same rhythmic foreboding.

        One plus one plus one .

        Yes, but three what?

        "Don’t you even have a small message for me?" he urged the mare in his softest voice.  She blinked and bumped her nose against his chest.  He sighed and gave her a last pat, then padded through matted grasses around his cottage to the front door.

        The thatching on his roof was falling into shadow as the sun went down.  Tessor shivered.  With horses of that quality, most likely two of the nobility waited inside, having gotten lost in the mountains.

        He stopped at his front door and prepared himself for a grand entrance, straightening the rope at his waist, running his fingers back through tangled hair, pulling and patting his beard in a futile attempt to make it lie flat.  He was about to sweep open the door and stride over the threshold, when his hand froze in midair.  The message pounded hard inside his chest.

        One plus one plus one !

        The message was louder now.  Run!    He stared at the weathered boards and thick leather hinges of his door, his hand hanging in the air.  Only two horses, two.  That didn’t add up to disaster.  Was he afraid to go inside?  He could stand on the doorstep all night.  Run away?  His heart whispered yes, but he refused to listen.  Was he not a man?

        He pulled his shoulders back, pushed open the door, and stepped firmly inside.  For a moment his eyes could not see in the darkness.  He had to hold his bold pose longer than he would have liked before he finally focused on two faces turned toward him from stools by the hearth.

        They were just children!   He felt a chuckle of relief bubbling up, but caught himself and settled for a cough and an exhale while he studied the two young people who huddled together transfixed.

        A young man jumped up, his head pulled down into drawn-up shoulders, clenched fists at his sides.  He leaned toward Tessor as if ready to spring.  Dark eyes peered out of a scowl nearly hidden by snarled hair.

        A slim young woman with a boy’s haircut remained seated just beyond him, holding herself in a regal pose, her hands folded at her waist.  She looked Tessor over with wide eyes and frank curiosity.

        "Guests!" Tessor boomed, inwardly wincing when he heard his voice crack.

        The young woman rose to her feet, but when the boy edged in front of her as if to protect her, she grabbed his hand and stood beside him.  She was expensively dressed.  The embroidery at the neck and pleats of her woolen riding gown were obviously the result of long hours of work and quite an extravagance on clothes intended for rough use.  The poorly patched vest over layers of tattered clothing marked the boy as a servant, but he had a horse and bridle equal in quality to hers.  Odd, but not frightening.

        Yet the fear had not gone away.  It clung to Tessor’s chest, its claws digging deeper and deeper into his skin.

        One plus one plus one .

        "I hope we are not intruding, good father."  The young held her head and posture high and straight, seeming to lean slightly away, certainly the mistress to the boy, her servant and…companion?

        "We saw your cabin when the sun began to set and hoped we might impose on you for shelter.  I would be pleased to pay for such hospitality."  Again she displayed her polished courtesy.

        Noble from birth, he’d wager, in spite of her strange haircut.  "Consider yourselves my guests."  Tessor bowed, spreading his arms.  "Please sit, and let me get you some food while you tell me how you found my lonely cabin."  They were an unlikely pair to be scrabbling about on a mountainside with night falling, all alone.

        He grabbed a stack of three bowls and stirred the beans and vegetables that simmered in a clay pot on a rock off to one side of the low fire smoldering in his wide hearth.

        One plus one plus one , a damp log hissed at him.  Tessor hissed back at it.

        "I hope you like my stew."  He ladled portions into the bowls and handed them out, taking his own and sitting down in a lashed-wood chair off to one side of the hearth.  To encourage his visitors he took a bite of fat carrot even though his appetite had vanished.  The hot mash burned the inside of his mouth.  He had to fight to keep a straight face while he swallowed and watched them peering at him over rough spoons.

        The young man was obviously the girl’s servant, but the two of them pressed close together with a physical ease and practiced intimacy.  In spite of his layers of gaudy rags, the boy’s kept himself so still that he nearly erased himself from the scene.  His feet were drawn beneath his stool but were flat and carefully placed, ready for quick action.  The head of wild brown hair did not move, but the eyes roamed, then returned to the floor as if safety lay in not making too prolonged a contact with anyone or anything.

        He wore torn ribbons of colorful cloth tied around wrists, forearms, and legs in unlikely decoration, as well as bits of cord and several lengths of rope around his waist.  Odd pieces of wood and metal–bridle rings, a buckle, and several unidentifiable lumps–hung from various leather and woven string thongs around his neck.  Obviously he felt a need to strap his treasures to his body to keep them safe.  They gave an impression of beggarly riches.  He was certainly not used to an easy road, but was he an enemy?  Tessor thought not.  But neither was the boy only a servant in spite of his rag-tag appearance.

        Tessor shifted his weight, and the wood of his chair creaked at him.

        One plus one plus one .

        Tessor tried being annoyed with the urgent prompting of his inner sense.  There were two here, not three.  Yet the press of danger had grown worse now that he was inside.  Run!

        After several quick bites of stew, the young woman cleared her throat to speak.  Tessor felt a spasm of terror trap a swallow high in his throat.  He made himself look at her.  Medium height and small-boned, she appeared taller because she held herself so rigidly.  Her black hair had been cropped short, its curls sneaking out around eyes that stared at him with poorly disguised interest.  A well-made cloak with a silver brooch rested on the floor beside her stool.  The wool of her wide-skirted riding outfit was fine and soft.

        Noble-born surely, but the way she bore her fatigue told him she had not been pampered.  The stiff pose of control was not in place to cover fear.  It hid something else, perhaps something dangerous.  The impression surprised him.  Dangerous to whom?  Was she his enemy?

        "I hope you will not be displeased when I tell you that we traveled here in the hope of finding you," she said.

        Tessor’s eyebrows arched.  He felt his shoulders creeping up in readiness to mount a defense and forced them down.  If fear would not go away, fighting it was only wasted effort.

        "I am looking for a lost relative," she went on.  "An old woman down in the foothills said you had much knowledge of the kingdom’s history.  I hoped you might let me ask you some questions."

        She looked him straight in the eye.  It was she, not the boy, who had brought the danger inside; Tessor was certain of it.  Yet she looked so young, so vulnerable beneath her stiff poses.  Not a serious foe, surely.

          Tessor cocked his head at her, waiting to see if she would say more, but his eyes were again drawn away by the servant-boy who showed subtle signs of agitation.  Lips twitched; rag-bound feet shuffled in a dance of discontent.

        "Is anything the matter, young man?"  Tessor intended the question to give the boy permission to join in.

        The young man’s eyes narrowed.  His hand reached up to grasp one of the many baubles on his chest.

        The girl answered for him, her voice rising.  "He is not able to speak."

        Tessor inclined his head, smiled politely, and said nothing.

        "I understand him well enough," she went on, uncomfortable in the silence.  "He communicates with gestures when he needs to talk to me."

        The young man’s lips tightened at her words.

        The girl continued, her eyes demanding that Tessor respect her explanation.  "Like this."  She moved her hands, making a handclasp of thanksgiving, then opening her palms toward Tessor, indicating her bowl, and bowing her head.

        Tessor nodded.  "You’re welcome for the food.  I’m happy to share it with you."  So the boy was a mute.  Tessor turned to him.  "Young man?"

        The boy looked up, cold-eyed.

        Tessor opened his palms and used a tone of honor and politeness.  "What do they call you?"  He waved aside the girl who started to protest.

        The boy did not move.

        Tessor tilted his head to one side, nodding to give the young man permission to answer.

        The girl took a breath between clenched teeth.  The two exchanged glances.  The boy shook his head a fraction at the beginning of her intervention.  He glared at Tessor, daring him to make mockery, and then lifted both hands.  The sign started with fists clenched to his heart and ended with a simultaneous releasing movement and raising of the head.

        Tessor felt as if a great soaring bird had been set free to fly up through the thatch of his fire-lit hut.  "Wonderful!”  The word burst out, unbidden.  “Again, if you would."

        The boy made the gesture again, allowing himself a greater measure of grace in his movement but watching for any hint of mockery.

        Tessor grinned.  "It is indeed a handsome name.”  He turned to the girl.  “Do you call him this as well?"

        She gave Tessor a guarded smile.  "His spoken name is Portal."

        "Portal."  Tessor rubbed his lips with his fingers.  The name echoed inside his head, sending a hot poker of premonition down his spine.

        One plus one plus one .

        He had thought the girl was the one to worry about, but those signs–so like the gestures of a spell.

        He nodded in appreciation.  "As interesting spoken aloud as given in signs."  He examined the young man for a clue to the omen.  A servant boy sat before him, his face nearly hidden by shaggy hair, his limbs wound in many-colored strips of cloth, his waist and neck clinking with ornamental bits of metal and wood.  His attention to his mistress was overly familiar, more than friendship.  Though his fists remained clenched, he was also beginning to relax, ever so slightly.

        Portal rose to his feet, opened his arms in a gesture for "Greatest thanks," and gave a quick bow.

        Tessor made his eyes twinkle.  “Well said.  You speak very clearly, I think.”  He turned to the girl.  “And what is your name, my dear?"

        A blank stare and a renewed stiffening of the back snuffed out the liveliness that had suffused her face when Tessor welcomed her companion.  She was certainly hiding something.  Was that the danger?  Tessor watched her indecision and saw her share it in a glance with Portal who had protectively leaned over to physically block her from Tessor.

        "And what may we call you?" she said politely, gently easing Portal back with a light hand.

        "You may call me Tessor."  He waited out her flanking maneuver.

        "Tessor."  She tried his name.  "When I asked the villagers in the foothills for someone who might help me find the relative I’m looking for, they did not mention you with much affection."

        "They lack tolerance for someone who doesn’t wish to spend his time among them.  They distrust me because I am different.  I’ll wager Portal knows something of such behavior."  Tessor nodded at the young man.  "To them it’s madness living alone on a mountain instead of seeking the warm bustle of men.  But this is right for me.  This is where I belong."  He paused, wondering why he was babbling so much.  "My friend Portal doesn’t think me so strange, do you, young man?"

        Portal shook his head, one corner of his mouth escaping upward in a grimace of a smile.

        Tessor turned to the girl.  "And you.  Are you afraid of me, young lady?"  An eerie refrain echoed around her head, seeming to come from the confusion of her short black curls.

        One plus one plus one .

        "Certainly not," she said with a small laugh, relaxing for the first time.  Then, catching herself, her eyebrows drew together, and she sat up very straight.  "You’ll have to forgive me, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life.  Most of my time has been spent in scholarly pursuits.  But I do hope we can have the pleasure of talking with you at length.  Perhaps…."   She hesitated and glanced at Portal.

        Tessor decided to help her make up her mind.  "It should prove a treat for me to talk with you as well," he said.  "I see before me a lovely young lady, but one full of secrets.  Her companion is dressed like a servant, but it is plain he is her close companion.  Together, they take fine horses on a hard ride into the mountains to find an old hermit and ask about a lost relative.  You huddle close together, perhaps out of fear or long habit or both, exchanging messages with a nod of the head, a lift of the brow, a jut of the jaw.  You seem at home in this world of two, where no one else is allowed.  But I hope that, since you wish my help, you’ll tell me what it is you’re running away from."

        The girl tried to look perplexed.  "What makes you think we’re running away?"

        "Your horses told me," Tessor said, then silently berated himself for the terrible fib.

        The two young people looked at each other and swiftly exchanged hand signals.

        It pleased Tessor to see that he could follow their conversation fairly well.  Ingenious, he thought.  So evocative.  But again he felt a warning throb of danger.

        One plus one plus one .

        The girl’s signs said, "He is strange, but kind, yes?  We need to find out if he knows anything that will help us."

        "He might be dangerous," Portal responded.  "Or mad.  Be careful, my love.  He says he talks to horses.  If he betrays us to your father, you’ll be locked up in the tower for the rest of your life."

        "And you…."  She did not finish the thought.

        Portal shook his head, dismissing her concern.  He set his jaw.  "We’ve got to start taking those risks.  This is what we came for.  I’m here to protect you.  Now ask him about the three women."

        Tessor quickly dropped his head to avoid seeing any more of their conversation.  He made himself look at the floor, examining dust patterns for a sign.  Suddenly they were everywhere.

        Three black stones lay in the dust by his left foot.  His old staff in the corner flashed at him with a vague greenish glow.  On the mantle above the hearth his crocks huddled together in trio: one tall, one slim, another squat.

        One plus one plus one .   Makes three. 

        He tried to cloud his mind over, think of other things.  Just an over-active imagination, that was all.

        He raised his eyes to examine the face of the girl.  The features assembled themselves into a pattern that cried out to him from old memories: the slight tilt of the eyes, the graceful neck, and that black hair–even cut short it was full of curls.  Ties from the past snaked out from distant days, wrapping themselves around his ankles, his waist, his neck, coming back to claim him.

        The girl rose in the flickering firelight, shoulders back, and her eyes on him.  As she stood, Tessor’s stomach sank.

        "My name is Esmeralda.  My father is the king, Randolph of Neoull.  I’ve run away to find three women who killed my mother when I was born and stole her ruby necklace."

        Tessor sat motionless, trapped by her words, unable to move.

        Esmeralda misinterpreted his silence.  "You think I can’t possibly be a princess, but I have proof."  She removed a walnut-sized gem of deep green from beneath her bodice and held it out on its heavy chain for Tessor to see.

        "Would any but a princess have a gem like this?"

        The massive jewel caught the firelight.  The reflected beam pierced Tessor’s eye, illuminating the secret place where he had hidden his memories.

        One plus one plus one makes three.  Three women who had killed her mother.   

 

Chapter Two

 

 

        The two-wheeled cart rumbled to a stop in a gravel clearing near the base of a massive slab of granite that reached so high, the top half was still lighted by the sun in the growing dusk.  Dead trees bordered the dusty patch of gravel.  In front of the stone face of the mountain, a massive mound of brush had been piled high in an impenetrable tangle of branches, dead limbs, and brambles.  The towering heap of gnarled wood reached higher than the treetops and disappeared into the gathering gloom.  A brook ran parallel to the narrow cart track, rattling over stones and rotting limbs.  No bird-sound, rustle of squirrels, or whir of insects broke the silence among the silver-trunked hulks in the long-dead forest.  No fish leaped.  No frogs peeped or twanged.

        A plump woman with faded orange hair eased herself down from the driver’s perch onto the barren ground, wheezing and puffing.  She stuck her face over the cart’s wooden-slatted side.

        A second woman lay on her back in the cart, her forearm covering most of her face.  She wore men’s clothing.  Blood stained the side of her purple-sleeved shirt.

        "Altamaine," the plump woman said.  "Can you hear me?  We’re home."

        The soft voice disrupted the fuzzy repetition of what the wounded woman came to realize was a dream.  The rhythmic jarring of the cart no longer animated the echoing shouts and the clanging of sword against shield that had filled her fevered sleep.  The cart had stopped.  Altamaine was home.  She would open her eyes and have to face the fact that the days of riding off to battle might all be behind her.

        Altamaine dragged her left arm from where it lay shielding her face.  She groaned and made an effort to sit up.  Her right arm, lacerated and twice broken, throbbed beneath its splints and tight bandage.  She grimaced and continued her struggle to straighten.

        Around her on the cart-bed lay pieces of her scratched and dented battle gear: a bloodstained linen and leather corselet, her bronze helmet with the purple horsehair crest, nicked leather greaves, her wicker shield, and long lance.  She had let her sister Gusta remove her sword, but had insisted on keeping the dagger.  She might be past the days of youth, carrying a badly fractured arm and a couple of nasty flesh wounds, but Altamaine had nothing but impatience for the state of her disability.  Plus, she had men’s clothes on–Lexander’s clothes–and they always made her feel able and strong.  She loved the leggings and loose-fitting shirts.

        Altamaine glanced down to make sure she still wore her crystal.  Yes, her talisman hung safely around her neck.  An oval droplet of clear stone the size of a quail’s egg dangled on a gold chain down to her waist.

      "Do you have to keep it wrapped so tight?"  Altamaine lifted her arm to let her sister check the wound.  "Boars’ warts, Gusta; I think you enjoy this."  She gasped at the swift pain.

        Gusta pressed her full lips together while probing beneath the splint and bandages.  The break had been vicious–the bone from the upper arm had been smashed in two places; one of the ragged ends had torn through the skin.  Happily, the binding and stitches were still tight.  The paste Gusta had slathered on the wound had kept bleeding to a minimum.  She huffed as she fussed over the bindings, rubbing her hands across her pink face to wipe away the sweat.  Gusta squeezed the arm to see if the splints had kept the bones in place and merely grunted when Altamaine gasped.  Satisfied, Gusta stood back from her ministering and grinned, the creases in her saggy cheeks nearly swallowing up her dimples.

        Gusta slung back her red cloak and ran her hands through her frizzy, gray-orange hair.  She yanked on the sash tied around her generous waist and arranged the ends so they dropped over billowy black trousers tucked into high boots.  She untied the drawstring on the collar of her blouse, uncovering a wide expanse of generous bust line.  She, too, wore a crystal on a chain around her neck.

        "You’re lucky you’re not dead," Gusta said, pulling her blouse up from where it had fallen off a pink shoulder.  The blouse slipped back down.  She left it there.

        Altamaine started to ease her way out of the cart, cradling her side.  "Luckier than you know."

        She let out a slow hiss of air and pulled herself erect.  She swayed and leaned unwillingly on Gusta’s shorter, softer figure.  Turning, they nearly bumped into their third sister, Marrat, who stood frowning next to a gap in the looming mound of dead brush and brambles.

        Marrat clasped her hands in front of her small frame and shook her head.  She had close-set eyes and a severe bun of brown hair pulled back from a lined face.  A crisp gray-green smock covered her from chin to feet.  She had chisels and a mallet stuck in the large pockets of her apron, but as usual, no speck of dirt had dared attach itself to her person.  Like her sisters, she wore a necklace with a heavy crystal dangling to her waist.

        "I’m not going to say a word."  Marrat held up both palms, turned her face away, and then let her hands fall.

        Gusta helped Altamaine stagger through the gap in the towering heap of dead vegetation.  The passage opened into a tunnel made of sticks and branches woven into a hallway.  Translucent globes filled with the pulsing glow of hundreds of tiny worms hung from iron chains at intervals and lit the woven wicker walls.

        Marrat led the way.  "I’m glad you’re back at Woven Wood.  I hope you won the battle at least."  Her voice echoed in the long hall.

        Altamaine smiled through her pain and fatigue.  "The Borkosians won’t be leaving their swamps for many years to come.  The southern border is secure.  Simestra is safe in the king’s hands."

        "I trust Randolph knows how much he owes you for helping him secure this victory," Marrat said.

        "Owes Lexander, you mean."  Gusta lifted her head to correct her sister.

        Marrat pulled her chin into her neck.  "Owes Lexander then.  It’s all the same, although it’s irritating that you have to pretend to be a man to go to war."

        Altamaine changed the subject.  "You’ve been working hard, Marrat.  What have you done to these walls?"

        In the glow of the lamps Altamaine could make out a design carved on the silvery woven wood of the hallway.  Marrat had used her chisel to inscribe a continuous spiraling line into the woven walls, ceiling, and floor that seemed to move as it disappeared in the distance. Altamaine felt dizzy.

        "You noticed."  Marrat perked up.  "Do you like it?"

        "It’s making me sick to my stomach.  Actually, those two are more to my taste."  Altamaine jerked her chin toward the carving that outlined the large wicker door at the end of the tunnel.  Two serpents with human heads and muscular torsos curled around the edges of the doorframe.  The faces of opal-eyed man-serpents peered down, their gem eyes gleaming under half-open lids, as if watching the sisters’ approach.

        "Mine, too."  Gusta wiggled her eyebrows up and down.  "Of course, you were a lot younger when you carved those, Marrat."

        Marrat exhaled through her nose and pulled open the heavy door.  Moist air blew over their faces when they stepped over the threshold.  Marrat and Gusta tensed.

        Altamaine let her awareness be washed by the agitation that came from a dark pool of water at the far end of the room.  She had trained herself not to think of the sensation as unpleasant, though the closeness to such a power place always made her catch her breath, feeling as if many hands pressed on her chest.  It had taken years of meditation to learn to banish the fear that power evoked.

        A ring of ancient trees formed the walls of the vast round room, their trunks so large that six men with arms outstretched could not have girdled one.  The leafless branches had been forcibly bent and woven together to form arching walls and a lofted ceiling.  Peaked doorways punctuated the circumference between the massive silver trunks.  Each tree had been carved in great detail to reveal the figure of a tall, robed woman whose branching arms stretched high overhead until the circle of their wooden fingers met at the top of the distant dome.

        The long silent faces of the tree women stared down at the trio below.  Altamaine peered at the carved features of the sculpted tree women through the dim light of the worm globes, trying to gauge their mood.  She never stopped marveling that Marrat’s colossal sculptures should have taken on such lives of their own.  The faces and bodies of the tree women displayed unpredictable and ever-changing emotions.  Today they seemed impatient, as if annoyed at the slowness of her walk toward the far end of the rotunda.

        A pool, roughly oval in shape, filled a depression toward the back of the room beneath the high dome.  A bog surrounded it on three sides, black mud glistening in the worm-light.  Misty steam gave off a cloying warmth.  Boulders and flagstones close to the edge of the water served as stepping-stones, but the sisters had never been able to completely ring the pool with footholds.  Rocks placed too close to the edge sank, disappearing forever beneath black ooze.  Enough stones remained to approach with some safety, but all three women knew from experience that the pool was a dangerous, unpredictable place.

        Gusta helped Altamaine sit slowly down onto one of the small boulders, careful to test that the ground underfoot remained stable.  "You ought to let me put you to bed," Gusta said, repeatedly glancing over her shoulder at the pool.  "I’ll fix you up with a nice sleeping draught.  Let that wound begin to heal."

        "Not just yet."  Altamaine placed her feet in front of her, leaned a palm on her left knee for steadiness, and held her right arm against her side.  "I need to talk to you both.  I’m back for good, this time.  Randolph found out that Lexander is really me."

        "Was it Randolph who wounded you?"  Gusta glared, placing both hands on her hips.

        "Nothing so dramatic, I assure you.  My horse got slashed in the fighting and went down so suddenly I was thrown.  My arm slammed onto a tree stump with all my weight behind it.  Ripped it up and smashed the bone.  I managed to hide in a stand of swamp willow to put a spell on the wound and bind it.  Without my knowing it, Randolph followed and saw me change from Lexander into myself.  I was lucky he didn’t kill me.  He was too shocked, I think, when he realized that his best friend for the last sixteen years was the very enemy he sought."

        "That explains it!" Marrat suddenly called out with a great whoop and clapped her hands, making her sisters jump.  She rubbed her palms together.  "I think the king has finally given Esmeralda her emerald."

        Altamaine looked up at Marrat and blinked to quash a wave of dizziness.  "What makes you think so?"  She had to push the words out between clenched teeth.

        "Here.  I’ll show you."  Marrat turned to the water of the oval pool.  "Show me Esmeralda’s tower room."

        The black surface of the water dulled, and a picture of a stone bedchamber rippled out from center to edge.  The three women scanned the room in the pool, noting the curved stone walls decorated with detailed paintings, the perfectly-made bed, and the rack of neatly arranged embroidery in one corner.  A large desk with an orderly pile of parchments and straight row of writing instruments dominated one wall.  Above the desk, long shelves held books and scrolls.

        "What does that prove?" Gusta said.

        "I’m not done yet."  Marrat gave her younger sister a superior smile and spoke again to the pool.  "Show me the Princess Esmeralda."

        A shimmering green haze slowly covered the scene.  The water in the pool glowed with deep green light.

        Altamaine’s senses reached out to the pool.  She painfully rearranged her body to better face the water, and then let her eyes go out of focus so she could achieve the attitude of casual disinterest that best attuned her to the power in the room.  She thought she could feel a distant new humming.  There was a subtle disturbance; she was sure of it.

        Marrat went on.  "As you know, I look in the pool at least once a day to supervise Esmeralda.  Of course I check on you too, Altamaine; that’s how Gusta knew to come get you with the cart.  I checked on the king as well and saw Randolph and a few of his men leave the battle almost before it was over and race back to Neoull.  Esmeralda was waiting for him.  They had some sort of confrontation.  He took her to his room–something he has never done before, to my knowledge–and gave her a metal box.  As soon as she lifted the lid, their reflection in the pool was covered over by this green glow.  It’s very frustrating.  I haven’t been able to see her since."

        They looked at the beams of green playing on the water.

        "The next day I used the pool to explore every single room in Randolph’s castle, and do you know what I found?"  Marrat paused triumphantly.  "Esmeralda has run away, and Portal is gone as well.  Watch."

        She turned to the pool.  "Show me the serving boy, Portal."

        The green light shimmered, but showed no change.

        "We can’t see him because they’re together.  I believe the king gave Esmeralda the emerald.  Only a talisman of such power could block our view."

        Gusta put a fist on one cocked hip and smirked.  "You’re just guessing."

        Marrat ignored Gusta, speaking directly to Altamaine.  "Of course, I tested my theory."  She addressed the pool again.  "Let me see Reyna."

        At these words a warm red light bubbled up in the center of the pool and stretched out to the edges to cover the green.

        Marrat pressed her lips together in a tight smile.  "The gems are great talismans.  We’ve always known that, even if Reyna does refuse to learn about the power in her ruby.  I think it’s safe to assume that the red haze is caused by the gem worn by the queen, up in the mountain kitchen, close by.  In my opinion, that proves the gems have enough power to block our view in the pool."

        Altamaine’s mouth crept up at the corners.  She nodded at Marrat.  If Randolph had given his daughter the emerald….  Marrat had said he was back in Neoull.

         Altamaine addressed the pool.  "Show me the king."

        The pool rippled, and a new scene spread out from the center–a great stone hall with statues of men and women lining both walls.  Many colored banners hung from wooden ceiling beams.  Intricately carved pillars defined an aisle leading to two black thrones standing empty on a marble platform.

        A broad-shouldered man with graying blond hair combed back from a high forehead strode along a line of soldiers.  His leather tunic slapped his thighs when he stopped in front of each soldier and spoke.  His head jerked slightly with the force of his anger.

        "Not a happy man," Gusta said in a small voice.

        Altamaine watched the familiar face.  She knew that look.  If Esmeralda had found a way to slip out of her father’s castle, then one of her guards was about to pay for that escape with his life.  If Marrat were right, and Randolph had finally given the girl the emerald, then his torment would be magnified by the knowledge that he was the one who had placed her in danger.  Altamaine knew better than most the measure of his rage.  Someone would shortly lose his life.

        She slammed her fist against her knee, cursing the shooting pains from the wound in her arm.  She should have been there.  She had intended to be there.  Now Esmeralda had her gem, but had somehow managed to run away.  Everything was happening too quickly.  Altamaine would have to act carefully to make sure her plans were not compromised.

        She whipped her head around to Marrat.  "What possible explanation is there for Esmeralda running away like that?"

        Marrat shook her head.  "I’ve mulled that question over for the last two days.  Several possibilities present themselves.  Randolph may have told Esmeralda that her mother is still alive.  It is also conceivable that Esmeralda is rebelling against being shut up like a prisoner all her life.  Though I’ve taken every step I possibly could, she remains an extremely headstrong and willful young woman.  She’s much like her father in that way.  I quite believe her capable of running off if she’s in a temper."

        "What about the boy, Gusta?"  Altamaine narrowed her eyes at her youngest sister.  "Is he still our pawn?"

        Gusta laughed nervously and threw out her arms.  "If they’ve left the castle together, Portal will be drawn to Woven Wood without ever suspecting a thing.  The oval charm around his neck will bring him to us like a homing pigeon."

        Marrat rolled her eyes.  "Personally, I don’t think we should jump to conclusions.  We must find a way to pierce that green mist to see if our suppositions are correct.  Of course, I thought it best to wait until you got back, Altamaine."

        Altamaine shut her eyes.  "Don’t make me guess.  If you know how to get rid of the green haze, just tell me."

        Marrat stiffened, but her voice remained composed.  "I propose we use the queen.  Gusta’s close to her.  She can give Reyna a key to let her in here, explain that Esmeralda has run away, make certain subtle suggestions….  Gusta is such a nice person and, of course, she would do this because she always likes to help her friend."  Marrat paused and blinked her eyes at Gusta.

        Gusta scowled back.

        Marrat smiled.  "The possibility exists that the ruby gem may be the tool we need to cut through the emerald’s protective haze so we have a clear view of Esmeralda in the pool.  I doubt Reyna will even know her gem is involved.  All the while, we can watch over her shoulder, so to speak, from up there."  She pointed to the very top of the woven dome.

        They all looked up.  The reaching fingers of the twelve women carved into the massive trees outlined a circle of shadow far above their heads.

        "It’s so nice of you to volunteer me for the dirty work."  Gusta made a face at Marrat.  She hoisted her blouse back onto her shoulder.  "Remind me to return the favor."

        Marrat folded her hands at her waist, pursed her lips into a smile, and waggled her head.

        Altamaine ignored the bickering, her mind filled with a vision of the number of stairs she would have to climb to reach the dome room above them.  She had lost a lot of blood before Gusta had found her.  She needed rest.  It would have to wait.

        Altamaine placed her feet so she could stand and held out her good arm.  "Give me a hand.  Using Reyna is a good idea.  I want to try it right away."

        She ignored Marrat’s preening over the compliment and glanced at the pool while her sisters helped her to rise.  In the water’s reflection, Randolph stood over a body lying crumpled at his feet.  Blood dripped from the king’s sword.  He had killed a guard for letting his daughter escape, but he hadn’t killed her in the swamp wood when he’d had the chance.  Maybe there was reason to hope.

        Altamaine suffered the attentions of her sisters while they helped her up the many creaking stairs spiraling around the pool chamber to the hidden viewing area above.  They entered a small room made of intertwined silver boughs.  A half-sphere of woven branches rose out of the floor with a circular opening at its apex.  A wicker bench ran around the curve of the small dome.  Gusta and Marrat lowered Altamaine onto it.  All three leaned over the hole to stare at the pool below.

        Altamaine caught Gusta’s eye and gestured with her chin at the door.  "Go get Reyna and show her the pool.  Tell her whatever you want.  We need her to use the pool to see her daughter."  She waved her good arm impatiently.  "You know how to deal with her.  We must know if the ruby’s power can break through that haze."

 

        Reyna watched Gusta disappear through one of the many doors that ringed the vast room.  Gusta’s exit had been hasty and ill-graced, as if she already regretted sharing her key with Reyna.  Gusta had not been able to look Reyna in the eye while explaining that Esmeralda had run away from the safety of the castle in Neoull.  "We know all about her emerald."  Gusta had said, looking everywhere but into Reyna’s face.  "It seems that Randolph may have taken it out of its hiding place and given it to her."

        The deep red ruby that hung on a chain at Reyna’s neck matched neither her frayed garment nor the tattered sandals she had strapped to her feet.  Her hands were rough from heavy work.  A long black braid hung over her shoulder, but the curls that escaped did not enliven her face.  She stood very still, her quiet the only truce she’d found in the war between her hope and her despair.

        Reyna suffered her anxiety, letting her eyes be drawn up the long-trunked bodies of the tree women.  She twisted all around to see the many carved faces tilted down at her with their look of wearied waiting.  Even Gusta had been hushed in their presence.  Marrat had certainly outdone herself, Reyna thought, or perhaps the power Gusta said resided in the dark water had endowed the sculptures with strong feeling.

        Reyna stepped closer to the water, carefully using the flat stones spaced randomly in the ooze around the edge, as Gusta had directed.  It had been an extravagant gesture of kindness for Gusta to take her to the pool.  It showed a generosity of heart Reyna had warmed herself on many times.  Reyna only hoped the poor woman did not get herself in trouble.  Apparently Altamaine was back at Woven Wood.

        For herself, Reyna had no fear.  She had learned over the years that none of the sisters would harm her.  She was a prisoner in the cave high up the steep face of the mountain where she cooked for them all, but in spite of her confinement, she was carefully protected.

        Reyna’s eyes contracted a fraction when she realized that beside her own reflection in the water, she could see other hazy scenes.  Gusta had told her the pool was a place of power.  Reyna swallowed, feeling sullied.  The whole of Woven Wood was saturated with a feeling of subtle agitation, like a drumming beneath the skin.  For that reason she had been glad when they’d moved her to the cave on the sheer rock face of the mountain above the mass of dead forest that hid the snaking passageways of Woven Wood.  High up the mountainside where she did the washing and kept the cooking fires, she could breathe; she could see the sun.

        With Altamaine gone most of the time and Marrat consumed with the task of expanding and embellishing their hidden retreat, it had originally been Gusta’s job to do the chores while also acting as Reyna’s principal jailor.  But Gusta was lazy, and Reyna, frustrated by inactivity, had assumed most of Gusta’s household tasks.

        Over the years, Reyna had enlarged the mountain cave, slowly chiseling away stone to make space for a terrace garden and a pen for chickens.  Facing south, her kitchen had become a refuge of light and living things away from the terrible silver beauty of the wicker temple of dead wood below.

        She often wondered if the sisters felt the same.  They obviously preferred to take meals in Reyna’s sunlit kitchen around the stone table even though the only way to reach the high cave was to climb steep stairs cut diagonally up the sheer rock face of the cliff.  There the sisters sniffed at pots simmering on the fire at the front of the cave and rested on the stone seats.  Reyna preferred to remain quiet in their presence.  To participate in conversation, especially with Altamaine, meant that Reyna’s refusal to use the power of her ruby would inevitably be challenged.

        When the sisters had need of her in the rooms and passages of Woven Wood, they took her with them down the stone stairway, through a locked wicker door.  Woven Wood, with its walls, floors, and ceilings made of plaited tree limbs seemed to grow larger and more silvery every year.

        Marrat’s monumental works adorned each room.  She seemed driven to decorate every surface with her vision of beauty.  She’d emblazoned the walls with carvings of winged eyes, cats with the heads of birds, men who were part dragon, and women who bounded over doorways with the bodies of lions. 

        Such representations were unlike any Reyna had ever seen.  All the art in Cinnobal, the city of her birth, had depicted real men and women, neither larger nor smaller than life-size.  The Cinnoballian ideal held that human beings could find the strength to face life’s struggle in their own nature instead of in the sorts of mysterious powers the sisters sought out.

        Reyna remembered being led by Marrat through the maze of twisted hallways.  They’d passed through a room where subtle winds stirred gauzy drapery and set off hanging wooden rattles and the chimes of tiny bells hung on long strings.

        The high wooden walls of another great room had been carved into a frozen waterfall with rapids and white water crashing toward them over boulders.  Reyna had gasped and pulled back at the sight.  Marrat had been pleased at the reaction, although she had pretended indifference.

        Standing in front of the pool, Reyna felt certain that all of Woven Wood had been constructed around that particular rotunda with its vaulted ceiling, trees carved into women, and mysterious black water.  Subtle agitations vibrated through Woven Wood, yet Reyna had never felt it with more intensity than by the murky water of the pool at her feet.  Hundreds of bees seemed to swarm around her, not quite touching her skin.

        In the early years of Reyna’s imprisonment, Altamaine had often urged her captive to cultivate an awareness of the power in the ruby, to explore its great potential.  Reyna had remained defiant, stubborn in her refusal to surrender to the strange power she felt all around her.  She would not let them use her ruby, and they seemed unable to use it against her will.  Altamaine had never forced the issue.  Reyna felt a grudging gratitude for that small respite.

        On the way down the stone stairway, Gusta had described how the pool could show whatever scene one desired.  Now Reyna stood on a wobbly rock, feeling danger all around.  She could sense the threat, so seductive, so full of promise–the temptation to use the power in her gem, to rise above the impotence of her servant role and become a sorceress who might confront the sisters with power perhaps equal to their own.  For the hundredth time she wondered if she was foolish to cling to the old ideals and rely only on herself for the strength to oppose them.  For years she’d clung to the beliefs she’d learned as a child, struggling to remain true to the life she had lost.

        And now?  She must use the power in the pool if she wanted to see her daughter.  Reyna pressed her palms against her eyes.  Had Randolph broken his promise and given Esmeralda the emerald?  If that were true, Altamaine would surely be plotting to bring the girl to Woven Wood.  Reyna remembered the dear, small infant she had held in her arms for so short a time.  No.  Esmeralda must not suffer the way Reyna had suffered.

        Reyna pressed her fists over the rags on her breast.  Perhaps she would not have to use her ruby.  The pool itself had power; Gusta had said so.  Perhaps Reyna could borrow a little.  Perhaps it would be all right.  Just one small miracle.

        "Let me see my daughter, Esmeralda."

        Green and red light flickered and danced on the surface of the pool, as if bubbling up from great depths.  The image cleared.  Reyna saw the sleeping figure of a young girl with short black curls who lay wrapped in a blanket on a dusty floor by a rough hearth.  A young man slept at her side.

        A cry burst from Reyna in her joy at seeing her child for the first time in sixteen years.  She covered her mouth to hold back the sound and heard the echo of her cry high above her, coming back as if in notes of triumph, taunting her with the penalties of discovery.  She clamped her hands hard over her mouth and rocked with silent sobs.  She had not known the pain of her wasted life still had such power to hurt her.

        After long years of learning to quell her hope, she suddenly had something new and precious to lose.  She wanted more–days and days of the vision of her lost daughter.  But Altamaine was back.  She might find out that Gusta had given Reyna the key.

        If she didn’t already know.

        Reyna wrapped her arms around herself.  There were too many possibilities, too many ways everything could end in disaster.  She had to see more, to find out where her daughter was, no matter what the risks.  But she had to be careful, to plan, to think it through.

        Tomorrow night then, after the sisters had eaten, after she had looked into their faces to see what they knew.  Then she might come again.  Reyna held out her arms to her daughter’s form in the pool one last time, stifled a groan, and ran from the room.

       

        Marrat leaned back from the round opening at the top of the dome, her eyes flashing from sister to sister.  "It worked.  Now we know Esmeralda has definitely left the castle.  She seems to have found shelter in some peasant’s hut for the night."

        Altamaine continued to stare through the opening at the pool below even though it lay dark like a shiny black stone.  The world seemed spread out at her feet, waiting.

        "Portal is there too," Gusta said, smiling and nodding.  Her face twisted into a question.  "Reyna has been cautious for so long.  Do you think she’ll come back to use the pool again?"

        "She won’t be able to stop herself now that she’s seen her daughter."  Altamaine’s voice cracked from fatigue, but her eyes shone with excitement.  "She’ll believe what she wants to believe–that she has a secret, and that I will not find out.  We need only wait.  Reyna pulls them to us, while Portal, unknowingly, leads the way."

        Altamaine lowered her head and tried to banish her weariness.  After so many years of planning and waiting, it was a moment of real triumph, but all she felt was a deep desire to sleep.  It infuriated her to be so weak, to be unable to command her body and make it obey.

        She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  No matter.  If her flesh had an imperative of its own, she had the will to wait.  Wasn’t the world itself swinging inexorably into alignment with the goals she had set in motion long ago?

        A great victory drew near.  The end was almost in sight.

        She lifted her head and smiled.   No, not the end.  The beginning.