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The sun had set some time ago on the snow-covered mountains. A chill wind blew through the mountain pass, howling and pelting everything in its way with a powdery snow. Rishala was grateful that the dwarves wanted to stop marching while there was still sunlight, for it gave everyone a chance to get clear snow and set up tents before the temperature had a chance to plummet.
The Caledonian had retired to his tent early in the night so he could try to warm arms and legs that had been chilled to the very bone. Even with the heavy furs of his bed roll, he could not help but shiver when the winds gusted. The tent buffeted noisily, its heavy canvas almost stopping the wind. Even the noise of the other tents in the camp were not enough to drown out the arguing going on in the next tent.
Arguing is not the right word, the Caledonian admitted. Adria shouted at her erstwhile husband, but Bilbus had not said a word that Rishala could hear.
Bilbus had had little to say since he had returned from his travels in the Portals and with the orc armies. There had been a few brief instances when his cocky demeanor would break through, but it would vanish again just as suddenly as it had appeared. Rishala saw a haunted expression on his face from time to time when the mountebank had drifted off into thought. Even the snippets of description Bilbus had given of his time in the orcs' company had not been completely forthcoming, Rishala was sure. Adria's reaction to her husband's return had not helped matters, either.
Adria had often been abusive towards Bilbus when the two had met. Bilbus's arrogant, self-serving attitude had grated on the young noblewoman, and he had thrived on her irritation. The two had reconciled their differences after the duel they had fought months ago, but any semblance of civility had vanished.
Adria had disappeared after the wedding, with no more than a note to her husband. When the party had found her in Londoun a few weeks later, she had been tight-lipped about what she had been doing. Bilbus tried to be a proper husband -- and not a noble one -- but he had floundered, unsure about just what he was supposed to do. Then, the mountebank decided to rush off and bluff his way into retreating with the orc army that had occupied Camelough. Adria actually appeared to relax a little with her husband gone, but Rishala now was sure it was a facade.
When Bilbus seemingly appeared in Clemendeev, Adria had become very upset. She shouted at him, and she lashed out at anyone who was nearby, to the point that she had hit Eric in the chest. Bilbus's unwillingness to talk had not helped matters.
Perhaps they can solve their problems before it's too late. Or, maybe it already is... The Caledonian rolled over in his furs, trying to get comfortable enough to doze off. The gods know I'm tired enough to sleep a day or two.
Caladbolg had been a surprise. Rishala had learned tales of the ancient Caledonian greatsword -- one that predated even Uther Paendroeg by a few centuries -- as a boy. It had been lost when the King of Caledonia had fallen during an ancient battle, and rumors had placed it in dozens of places throughout the world. Surely, at least some of the human visitors to the dwarven kingdom would have seen the greatsword, taller than any dwarf, magickally suspended in the king's throne room.
The Bonnie King Donnie must have known the sword was here. Why did he never reclaim it? Unless he knew that it would not yield itself to just anyone. If I ever get a chance to ask... Rishala laughed to himself. A commoner asking the king why he had left an ancient magickal sword in the dwarven lands. The audacity.
But, if that part of the prophecy has held true, what of the other parts? Eric had dreamed of a sword guarded by what had to be a dragon. Rishala knew there were dragons in the mountains around the Mariner's Valley, the enormous series of lakes that connected the Vasmar with the Tammar to the east. Could the sword truly be in those mountains? They were far less treacherous than the Heaven's Comb range the party currently found themselves in, but no land ruled by dragons could be safe.
Bilbus had watched the Fall of Camelough in a dream. Sturm had seen a horrific spear, the Sun Knight had reluctantly admitted. It was no coincidence, Rishala knew with certainty. Neither were the dreams Rishala himself had experienced months ago. On their way to Portsdale, Bilbus admitted that he had been approached in a dream by someone who must have been the Dark One. Rishala had felt a chill when Bilbus had admitted to it, for it had mirrored the dream Rishala had months earlier, when he had set out to find the people of his dreams. Something was happening, something of the gravest importance.
Another shout rose above the howling winds. The world itself was in the hands of Rishala and his companions, and some of his companions were getting about to self destruct.
The howling had stopped, and Rishala was comfortably warm. He opened his eyes and looked around.
It was dark, but Rishala realized immediately that he was not in his tent. The bed on which he lay was far too plush to be a layer of fur above frozen soil. While it was dark overhead, Rishala could see the bed readily, as if it were lit by an invisible, but bright, lantern. The top covers were the deep magenta of a fine red wine. The story teller could not see the walls of the room.
Rishala sat up, sure he was dreaming. He swung his legs off of the edge of the bed. His feet found a solid stone floor, slightly cool to the touch. He stood up and took a few steps.
When Rishala glanced down at his feet, he found that he was already fully dressed. He had been in his sleeping clothes when he awoke. I'm dreaming, he reminded himself.
Once more, Rishala looked around. Other than the bed, and the floor, nothing else was visible. Even the floor faded to darkness less than a dozen paces away. Rishala turned about, trying to figure out where this dream was leading him. As he faced in a particular direction, he felt an urge to walk. Rishala could see nothing different about the blackness now ahead of him, but he knew he needed to go there.
Rishala walked forward, not feeling a sense of urgency despite the urge. The stone underfoot was an unchanging floor of close-fit gray stones that stretched to the hazy edge of the circle of light. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the bed had disappeared in the darkness.
After a few moments, or perhaps an eternity, Rishala became aware of someone walking next to him. It was an abrupt awareness, of something that was there where nothing had been before.
"Hello," she said simply.
Rishala stopped to look at his companion. She was short, perhaps as much as five feet tall, with a pale, smooth skin. Her hair fell below her shoulders, a color too light to be brown, but too dark to be blonde. She wore a deep brown dress that fit her closely above the waist, then flared to hide her legs and feet. The material almost shimmered like silk.
Her eyes were captivating. They were pools of brown, darker than even her dress. Had Rishala ventured a guess, he would have thought her to be no older than twenty, until he saw her eyes. Her eyes were brilliantly alive, with sparks of intelligence dancing in them and something else that belied her apparent youth. Her eyes were as old as the world.
"Close," she admitted, then walked away, heading the same direction Rishala had been.
Rishala quickly caught up with her, unable to find words for the questions he had to ask. Rishala heard the distinctive steps of hooves on stone somewhere in the far distance, but nothing was to be seen.
Up ahead, becoming visible on the edge of the lit region surrounding Rishala, there was an odd tapestry. It was not on a wall, but it was instead suspended about four feet from the floor, horizontal like a table. As Rishala got closer, he could see that the tapestry was wide, perhaps three paces from his side to the opposite. The ends of the tapestry were nowhere to be seen -- it stretched into the darkness to Rishala's left and right. There was nothing supporting the tapestry that Rishala could see.
Why do I keep thinking of it as a tapestry? he asked himself. There was no pattern on the cloth. Was there?
"Look at it closer, Rishala," the story teller's escort suggested.
Rishala kneeled to look at the material. It seemed to shimmer as he watched, sometimes appearing to be an intricate weave of green and brown threads, other times becoming a maze of differing shades of gray, other times blue and white. There was no rhyme or reason to the shimmer, but Rishala realized that he could see patterns. The colors changed, sometimes frequently, sometimes not, but the pattern did not. The green that became a dark gray that became a blue still followed the same paths on the tapestry, no matter which color it was. The threads were finer than even the finest Azirian silks.
With a start, Rishala realized that the section of tapestry that he had been studying was now a foot away, slowly sliding to his right on the floating cloth. He focused on another section of the tapestry. The intricate pattern slid along, passing in front of the story teller and continuing on to the right.
"Is it a tapestry?" the woman asked.
Rishala stood up and faced her. Her head was cocked slightly to one side, and she had an amused, friendly grin on her face.
Rishala found his voice. "It is a tapestry," he said in a lecturing voice. "The tapestry is one of the more popular images for describing the grand scheme of life. The threads represent the lives of individuals, and the warp and weft of the weave represents the interactions of those threads with others during the course of a life. Individual threads can be added or removed from the tapestry as a person is born or dies." His voice trailed off as he looked at the woman.
She had arched one eyebrow, and she had folded her arms lightly across her chest. She still grinned. "Really? This is the tapestry of the threads of lives?" She sniffed. "I supposed it would look like a tapestry to human eyes. Look closer."
Rishala turned to stick his face closer to the smooth cloth.
"Rishala," she admonished. "'It's a dream', remember? You can look closer without moving your eyes."
Rishala stood straight once more. He looked quizzically at the woman, then looked at the cloth. He focused on one small spot on the cloth, imagining that he could see it clearly. To his amazement, he found that he could. The pattern of the threads was easier to understand. The threads would sometimes continue straight for a distance along the weave, then suddenly turn to one side, becoming part of the weft. Sometimes, a single thread would branch into two threads at right angles from the first. Other times, the thread would just end abruptly.
"Stop thinking of it as a cloth. Think of it as it is." Her voice was soft and distant.
How do I think of it as it is when I don't know what it is? Oh... The cloth was no longer a cloth. The pattern on the material -- whatever it was -- had an intricate pattern of lines that intersected, or diverged, or split. It was no longer an impossibly fine weave of thread. It reminded Rishala of some of the decorations used around doorways in al-Rhayidhian architecture, almost like... Rishala looked at his escort. "A maze?"
She shook her head slightly. "A maze has but one entrance, and one exit. The path through a maze is fraught with misdirection, dead ends, and back tracking." Rishala opened his mouth to venture another idea, but she spoke again. "It is not truly a labyrinth, either. Not a single labyrinth, at least. A labyrinth has but one path from its beginning to its end. A path may diverge, here, and it will end differently depending on the paths chosen."
Rishala slowly digested her explanation. "It is a tapestry, but not a usual tapestry. It's not a maze, but it's not really a labyrinth..." She nodded. "Are you Fate?"
She chuckled. "Fate? No. But some people like to think that I am."
"But this tapestry shows the lives of men."
"Men and others, yes."
"How... How does it work? A maze, or a labyrinth, is fixed. I enter, and there is but one path that leads me to my destination. If there truly is free will, and we are not all automatons following a path placed before us, there must be places where a decision affects the future of the tapestry. All future decisions must change depending on which way one goes, and one can not back track to change a past decision."
"Look at the tapestry. Look there," she pointed at a spot. Rishala tried focusing on the location she indicated, and found himself looking far more closely at the tapestry than he had before.
The threads that were not threads were now very different. The green swaths now were thick rows of bushes, packed closely like one would find in the garden mazes of a noble's estate, too tall to see over. The brown threads were now clearly the path through the garden maze. Rishala saw a man walking along the path.
"See the man?" the woman asked, her voice once more distant. "Look ahead on his path."
Rishala looked forward. The path continued straight for a distance, then reached an intersection. One branch of the path turned left and ended abruptly. The other branch turned back forwards and continued. The area around the intersection was indistinct, sometimes appearing like it turned to the left and ended, other times appearing like it forced the man to follow the path to the right, which continued into the distance.
"That is a place of decision, Rishala. It is a branch or an intersection, with two divergent paths that can be freely chosen. Sometimes it appears as a path leading quickly to an ending, but other times it appears as a path that will lead to a long life. It appears as all of those, and sometimes as none of those."
"But which is it?" Rishala asked. "It is indefinite, almost foggy."
"What it will be when that man reaches it depends upon other decisions he makes along the way. Perhaps the decisions he makes will force him to an early death, or perhaps he will choose a different route and continue along the path to a later death, unaware of how near he had been to his demise. Or, maybe it will remain a decision to be made when he reaches that place. As you said, Rishala, this is not a usual tapestry. Neither is it a usual labyrinth."
"I did not see other branches in his path," Rishala protested. "How could these other decisions be relevant if he has a straight route between then and now?"
"If you were to look very closely at his path you would see it is not a flat line but a long series of tiny bumps. Each of these bumps is a normal decision, where the line momentarily splits then converges again, much like a split in a real thread. Each moment of his life adds a new bump. You would not be able to comprehend the tapestry if you viewed every single decision made by every single being. Even the gods are taxed by such complexities."
Rishala shifted his concentration farther to the left on the tapestry. "Everything becomes more indistinct. It's as if I can no longer see the walls of the labyrinth."
"You are looking at the far future, Rishala. The farther away from now you get, the harder it is to see what shall be, or what has been."
"Has been?"
"Look into the past," the woman suggested.
Rishala shifted his view to the right, past the "now" into the "then". He realized that the pattern of the labyrinth became indistinct in the past, as well.
"But what has happened has happened," Rishala protested. "Why does it become blurred and hazy here, as well?"
"Do not the events of the past appear different with time? The farther removed one is from the time of decision, the less clear the choices that were made."
"So there is no fate, but purely free will?" Rishala asked as he contemplated the labyrinth. "The gods do not affect our lives?"
"Oh, no, Rishala. The gods can affect your lives. Do not try to follow that dangerous thought. Remember the man? Go back to the split in his path."
Rishala did as commanded. The intersection still flickered, sometimes a true intersection, other times a definite turn down one path or the other. Suddenly, the flickering stopped, and the path that led to an early death was gone.
Before Rishala could ask, the woman said, "I influenced his decisions. He had grown weary with his trade, and he had been considering leaving his wife and child to become a sailor aboard a merchant ship. The ship would have been sunk a week out to sea in a storm. Now, he will decide that such a life would be too much of a hardship, and he will seek to better himself as a tradesman."
"You are a goddess," Rishala commented.
"I never said I wasn't," she reminded him. "I said I was not Fate. There is no god or goddess 'Fate', although there are enough believers sometimes to make one. It would be an impotent being -- fate is not something to be controlled by any god, even a god of fate."
"Gods are omnipotent within their domains of power," Rishala replied in protest.
"There are some things even the gods can not change. I have only marginal influence over his life, since he is a farrier."
It was as if Rishala had been struck by a bolt of lightning. "Edain?" He looked at her again.
The smile was still there. She nodded slightly. "Story teller, I was wondering if you were ever going to figure out who I am."
Rishala caught himself before retorting, but she laughed, anyway. "But I thought you were Fate?"
She shook her head patiently. "Horses are my dominion. Well, originally it was just horses and their kin. You humans found out that horse racing was a wonderful diversion, and you started associating me with gambling. For whatever reason, gambling became luck, and luck became fate."
"Why am I here? In this dream, I mean. Is this just a dream, or is it more?"
"Does this feel like just a dream?" Edain asked as she slowly circled around to Rishala's other side. "You have traveled far, story teller. You have been to the land of Phaeree, and you have crossed the lands south of the Vasmar. And why? Because of people you viewed in a dream. But that dream was not just a dream, was it? A strange man offering another man riches, lands, power, and, finally, a woman. You sought those people, hoping you would never find them. You understood that dream's message. You realized what the stakes were in that bargain. And you did find them. Look for their paths in the labyrinth."
Rishala searched along tapestry, unsure how he could find a few specific paths in a maze of millions. In the center of the tapestry, he found them.
Two parallel paths, separated by a thinner-than-normal hedgerow, traveled along the tapestry. Rishala could see Bilbus walking in one and Sturm walking in the other, neither aware of their observer overhead.
"Follow their path forward," Edain said.
Rishala followed the paths forward. Even when a decision was reached, the two paths stayed close to one another, rarely separating for long, and never separating by much. Rishala could not understand how, but the two paths continued even after a branch, as if they were really a single path with a nominal separation between them. Feeling a headache trying to creep into his consciousness, Rishala just accepted the problem without question. It occurred to Rishala that Sturm's path was always in the middle of the labyrinth, even when it veered to a side.
"Yes, it is the central path," Edain confirmed. "You will see why."
Rishala followed the paths forward until Bilbus's had a branch that Sturm's did not. Along one path, Bilbus and Sturm could continue. Along the other path, Bilbus's path blocked Sturm's, and the Sun Knight's path simply stopped. Bilbus's point of decision was hazy and uncertain, but the path that truncated Sturm's seemed less indistinct.
Rishala stopped focusing on the tapestry and looked at Edain. "Bilbus is going to kill Sturm?"
Edain shrugged noncommittally. "He may kill Sturm. He may not. He has not made that decision."
"But it was changing as I watched. It looked more like Bilbus's path would block Sturm's. Why would he kill Sturm?"
Edain looked patiently at Rishala.
"Because of the dream. The Dark One wants Bilbus to kill Sturm. But why?"
"Follow the path. What happens if Bilbus kills Sturm?"
Rishala focused on the decision once more. "How do I follow the path? It is indistinct."
"Focus on the time in question. Picture it, but not as a decision. Picture it as a path blocking Sturm's."
Rishala did as instructed. The decision point still shimmered, but he could see that the other branch of the path was less distinct. Where the path blocked Sturm's, it sometimes ended as well, but sometimes it kept going into the future. Concentrating on the longer path, Rishala followed Bilbus's path farther into the future, until it stopped abruptly. Rishala shifted across the tapestry. Every path stopped, not in a clean ending, but in a jagged edge, as if the entire tapestry had been ripped.
Rishala's head spun. He stopped focusing on the tapestry and looked at Edain. "It ends. All of it. But is it because of Bilbus?"
"You can answer that question yourself, story teller."
Rishala followed the other path. Bilbus and Sturm's paths continued on forward, until Sturm's path reached a branch. Without prompting, Rishala followed one of the paths. It ended abruptly. Returning to the branch, he followed the other path. It went slightly farther, then the entire tapestry once more ceased in a ragged tear.
Rishala looked at Edain. She nodded somberly.
"Sturm will have a decision to make," she said. "His decision will decide whether the tapestry will continue, or whether it ends. But, if Bilbus kills Sturm, there is no question that the tapestry ends."
"But... The tapestry ends. Meaning everyone dies?"
"Every man. Every woman. Every child. Every other creature on the world."
"Sturm's decision was still open," Rishala realized aloud. "It does not show him choosing either path."
"He does not know of his decision, yet. You will not tell him of it, Rishala. That is not for you to do."
"Then, why am I here? You still have not given me an answer, Edain."
"Bilbus's decision is being made now, and he will choose a path that will guarantee the death of the world."
"How does the world get destroyed? Not even the worst of wars could kill everyone."
"The Dark One is seeking to free an imprisoned being that he calls a god. It is not truly a god, for it came to be within the universe; gods are not part of a universe in that way. This 'god' of his will consume every living being on Oerth, leaving it a dead wasteland for the remainder of time."
"Why don't you stop him? Or dispose of this false god?"
"We can not intervene directly. The usurper god and its kindred would interpret our actions as an attack, and they would rise up to destroy their worlds. Because they are part of the universe, they have a closer affinity to it, and they would detect our direct influences."
"You are talking to me right now. Isn't this a direct influence?"
"Look on the labyrinth. Where are you?"
Rishala looked for his path on the tapestry. He started near his companions' paths, and searched farther and farther away. "I'm not there."
"Look towards the past."
A short distance away from the present, Rishala found his path. It ended abruptly. "Am I dead?!?"
"No. Look towards the future, Rishala."
A short distance into the future, Rishala's path began abruptly.
Edain explained. "Right now, you are not part of the world. The usurper gods can feel our meddling with the paths of the labyrinth, but they are so intently focused on those two paths that they did not notice yours ending, and they will not see yours when it appears again shortly."
A thought occurred to Rishala. "These usurpers... Why not cause their paths to stop, or to be shifted into a harmless future?"
"They would feel our meddling. And, they do not truly exist within this tapestry. They are part of the universe, but they are not a part of Oerth."
"You have told me much, Edain. The tapestry of lives, the decisions approaching that will decide the fate of my world... You still have not told me exactly what it is that I must do to influence my future. I surmise it must be the decision Bilbus is reaching. You want me to stop Bilbus from killing Sturm."
"Stop him? Very close, story teller. I want you to help Bilbus decide not to kill Sturm in the first place. Once he has made his decision, he will succeed in one way or another."
"If I approach him, he is unlikely to trust me. He already believes he is a pawn, and he accepts counsel from few, or none."
"Bilbus is a pawn. He is not the only pawn. You saw the changes in his decision, even as you watched. Something recently has started pushing him towards accepting the Dark One's offers."
"Adria!" Rishala hissed. The epiphany should have been accompanied by a gong, Rishala thought for a moment. "She was angry with him, and scared for him, when he left with the orcs. It has been bothering her for weeks, and, when Bilbus finally returned, she could not find a way to talk to him about it. Those two have never had a normal relationship. She has been impossible to live with since he returned."
Edain nodded.
Rishala continued thinking aloud. "Adria is pushing Bilbus towards the Dark One with her behavior. I can't approach Bilbus to stop him, but I can talk to Adria."
"Do not wait until it is too late, story teller, or there will be no more stories to tell."
Rishala nodded to himself, a new resolve in his mind, as Edain and the tapestry faded away and he returned to his deep slumber.
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Original Draft 6 March 2002
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