How the Gods Wove at Kyrannon. Ardath Mayhar

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      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      How the Gods Wove in Kyrannon

      Copyright © 1979, 2008 by Ardath Mayhar.

      All rights reserved.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      www.wildsidepress.com

      Foreword

      Although this was my first published novel, it was the second I wrote. Because of a strange combination of circumstances (I never have any other kind, actually), the first came second and the second first. Typical Mayhar! These books came about as a result of several short stories, a couple of which were bought by magazines. The characters of Seekers of Shar-Nuhn kept pestering me with mental images that I had to explore. They all turned into stories until Seekers was completed. Then the world I had created kept at me until How the Gods Wove came into being, written in a year’s worth of Monday afternoons. Other books of mine are set in that world, though not obviously recognizable.

      I call most of these books metaphysical fiction. I also call them great fun to write and, I hope, to read.

      —Ardath Mayhar

      Chireno, TX

      August 2007

      Introduction

      The many peoples of Kyrannon lived their separate lives in peace. The nomadic Wildings, silver-maned and golden-eyed, wandered the hidden places. The slight, grey-furred People of the Heights kept to their rocky caves. The Initiates meditated in the Tower of Truth beyond the waters. And from the moon-trees the inquisitive Gracks observed all who passed.

      But when a wounded Wilding consented to enter the house of Tisha the Wise to be healed she sensed that the quiet forest was no longer safe from those who joyed in killing. Shanah of Fallowden in the grasslands felt the shadow of exile as Those Who Wait grew uneasy in their guardianship. And there were others, all over Kyrannon, who learned that the time had come when they must unite to defend their freedom with all the strength of body, mind and spirit they could call on as the dark desires of Him Who Sits at Lirith shadowed their lives with increasing menace.

      Chapter One

      The Hunting

      Where the silver-foliaged forests swept in their wide arc between mountains, beside a stream that chattered between ferned banks, stood a stone house so old that its weathered walls seemed a part of the wood and the turf. The ancient moon-trees of the forest bent above the mossy roof and dropped web-soft leaves on the porches and paths. They made a gray carpet where the feet of Cara passed about her tasks, and they whispered down the roof when the rains of fall began.

      As season followed season, no change touched the house, or the wood, or the woman who lived there: for Tisha the Wise was slender and gray-clad and quiet-footed, as she had been for long and would be. But the years made great changes in the youngling who grew from child to woman. And Cara, no longer a child, began to dream of a world which must lie beyond the murmurous trees and patient mountains.

      “The world has been and will be,” said Tisha sharply, when queried. “When you have learned the secrets of the earth and the wood and the Wildings in the secret places, then you will have reason to look afar toward other mysteries. Do you yet understand the working of the seed you tuck into the garden soil? Can you look through the eyes of your little cat, to see the world as she sees? Until you have spoken with the People of the Heights in mutual trust, or with a Wilding in his cool fastness, do not seek to meddle with the world beyond the mountains.”

      “Yet I know that you have walked in the places over-mountain,” cried Cara rebelliously. “It did you no harm, and you surely learned much!”

      “Aye, I learned,” chuckled Tisha, narrowing her gray eyes as if against a light. “No harm? Perhaps, but no good, either, did it do for me. I learned to distrust all who dwelt beneath roofs. I learned to fear, and that is no light lesson. I saw beauty to make the eye start from its socket, coupled with cruelty that would astonish a wolf in the hills. And, having seen your fine world, sought out a finer place, suited to the life of a thinker and watcher and healer. Here, where my far grandsirs dwelt, I brought you, my child-in-heart, that you might grow unwarped by the terrible stresses of the world of men.”

      Cara leaned toward her mother and touched her sleeve. The light of anger died from her eyes, and she said softly, “How came we here? Never have you talked with me of our journey and its cause, or of my father, or the thing that drove you into the wild.”

      “Have never does not mean will never,” said Tisha, catching up a basket. “But now the nuts litter the ground beneath the brown-nut trees, and our winter store is not made. Come to the forest and forget your unease for now. Fall is no time for the heart to wander.”

      They went out into the scented winds that whipped their cloaks about their bodies and swept the pain from their tight hearts. Through the apple orchard they walked, stopping now and again to claim a windfall neglected when they harvested their crop. The crisp mellowness of the fruit lay on their tongues like a blessing, and they looked with gladness into the flying cloudwrack above them, feeling the season possess their beings through all senses.

      “This is a good world,” admitted Cara as they entered the narrow track their feet had worn, year after year, through the lofty forest on the way to the nutwood. The web-gray leaves cushioned their steps, and the silver skin of the trees glimmered with a light like the moon behind cloud. A Grack watched them solemnly from his perch on a high branch, bending his short neck and cocking his round black head, following their progress as they walked beneath him, until he was peering upside-down beneath the tree limb. Then Cara laughed aloud, walking backward on tiptoe in order to see his glossy tail anchored desperately on the near side of the branch.

      As if suddenly realizing his undignified position, the bird righted himself and gazed into the wood, ignoring them completely. Then Tisha joined in the mirth, and mother and daughter went down the path in a chime of laughter.

      They found the nut-wood awash with wealth for squirrel and bird and humankind, though but they two wore the form of man; before the afternoon was spent, the women had filled their baskets and their bags. Then they sat upon a stone, talking, watching their companions at their garnerings, and enjoying the spicy scent of the brown-nut trees.

      Then there came a sort of hush among the creatures gleaning among the leaves. Another Grack, just visible on a far limb, seemed to be observing some traveler on the path. Tisha stood then and said, “One comes, and no man or beast, I think. A Wilding? Let me see....” And she closed her eyes for a space of two heartbeats, seeming to fold into herself. “A Wilding,” she repeated positively. “And in pain. Come, Cara, gather up our store and follow, for there is need of a healer—and perhaps more than a healer.”

      They hurried toward the path, burdened with their brown-nuts, yet making all haste. No sound of footsteps guided them toward the newcomer; only Tisha’s sensing told her where he walked. Unerringly, she moved through the trees, along the path. It was not long until she spied the Wilding, who had stopped and was resting against a moon-tree, nursing his side and breathing in controlled gasps which told of severe pain.

      “Ho, wood-brother!” cried Tisha, setting down her burden and moving to his side. “You have great need of a healer, I fear. How came you in this state?” She moved his hands aside to see the wound, then gasped in shock as the ragged slash appeared.

      Cara hurried to them and knelt amid the leaves. “This is the wound of no weapon of the wood-people!” she said. “What nature of being assaults one of these gentle folk with such?”

      “Those who dwell in the ‘world’,” answered her mother, with a bitter twist to her lips. “Is it not so?” she asked the Wilding.

      He opened his long golden eyes, which glowed strangely in his umber-colored face, and the mane of short silver hair rippled on the back of his neck as he said, in a faraway, whispering voice, “So it was, Lady. A man from beyond the highlands, it must be, hunted us as we walked in the deep dells, gathering our winter fare. My mate and our young concealed themselves and I ran, keeping him after me, but I