The Sail Weaver (5 page)

“You can’t take that as anything less than a threat,” Alden said, all business. “If they are willing to risk that, then they were there to stop you. Getting caught there is death without trial, so whatever they wished to accomplish had to be worth that risk.”

Tristan opened his mouth, then stopped. He hadn’t thought about it that way, but it was true. “You’re right,” he agreed reluctantly.

“It’s a good thing I am here, if they will risk that, who knows what else they will risk. We have our differences, sir, you know it, I know it, but I know my duty as well.”

Tristan regarded him steadily. Alden was telling the truth and no matter how egotistical he was, he was loyal first and foremost to the Guild. The watch bell chimed the beginning of the forenoon watch. The Weavers’ Guild had reinstated the Navel practice of watches governed by bells and the entire Guild and Navy was set to “Guild Mean Time” so that no matter where they were, they would be on the same time as the rest of the Guild. The Navy didn’t like it, but the Guild called the shots. When Tristan had first joined the Guild
,
learning the series of watches broken up into “Bells” was one of his first memories of his days at the Guild Compound.

“Thank you.” Tristan stared at his computer for a moment, wondering if he was ready. “Let’s do this.”

The Elemental Interface was already waiting for him on its pedestal under the huge dome of the Weaving room. The willowisps sparkled in the perpetual dusk-dark of the room, drifting through the dome like tiny golden stars. Tristan paused long enough for his eyes
to adjust before walking into the center of the room where a Circle was carved into the floor. Created from a combination of ancient human and dragon symbols, it glowed faintly with its own power. As he stepped in, Tristan felt the gentle push of resistance that was part of the Circle’s security. Only Weavers could enter: the spell that had created the Circle made sure of that. He could see Alden standing just outside the Circle, and the medical team waiting by the door with a stretcher and a variety of life-saving devices. He hoped they wouldn’t be needed.

Tristan looked up, letting his mind clear and the Latin of the spell start to work its way through his mind. The spell the dragons had given them wasn’t
originally
in Latin, but even before the dragons’ appearance, the Magic Confederation had used Latin for their spells, believing that using a thoroughly dead language reduced the risk of the inexperienced attempting to work spells. Once the Guild was formed, they made it illegal for non-Guild members to even learn the basics of Latin with the exception of those few who were destined to become Guild Masters
,
and high ranking members of the Dragon Corps. Though the space stations stretching across the galaxy were designated by Latin numbers, the population at large had long forgotten that those names were indeed Latin.

Once he felt ready, he began to speak, the Circle glowing brightly as the words fell from him, filling the air. The willowisps began to move, he could feel them tugging and pulling in the air as he began to bring them together. One hand reached unconsciously towards the Elemental Interface and the Weaving truly began. The willowisps were dancing, shimmering in and out, up and down as the massive sails began to take shape. Tristan stared up at them, mesmerized, the tiny lights of the individual willowisps becoming larger and larger until the giant sails billowed over his head.
, hanging
from the special hardware they used in the Weaving dome to protect the sails from harm during their creation. He built each mast’s sails carefully, starting with the mainsail of the mainmast and finishing with the top gallants. He lost track of time, of everything, as he focused on the sails. He was only vaguely aware when, sometime later, he was gently guided onto the stretcher. He caught a last view of the golden sails as he was wheeled out, fluttering in the soft breezes in the chamber.

He sighed, it was finished and they were perfect. He could rest.

V

The soft strains of
music surrounded Tristan as he slowly became aware again. He opened his eyes and gazed up at the ceiling of the room he was in, the star-covered tiles marking it as one of the Weaving medical bays. He could hear the sounds of the machines that were monitoring him as well, but they were muted so that they were only the gentlest backdrop to the mu
sic. His preferences were clear:
the Ancient Music of Eighteenth Century on the old calendar. As he cast through his mind, he realized he had no sense of time—how long he’d been there or how long it had been since he’d created the massive sails. Smiling, he remembered the sparkling sails fluttering over his head as they rolled him to the medical facility.

He wished he could just lie there a little longer enjoying the quiet, but the job of attuning Alden to the sails had to begin as soon as possible. With a sigh, he punched the call button, an instant later one of the staff appeared at the door.

“Master Tristan!” he said, smiling.

“Doctor
Soronson
? Why are you here?” Tristan asked. Ron
Soronson
was Head of Medical for the Guild.

“It was a close call,” the doctor said frankly. “We were sure we were going to lose you.”

“What?” Tristan punched the button that lifted the head of the
bed. “No.”

“Yes. We’ve had Darius in here twice.”
Soronson
pulled a pad out of his pocket and began poking at it. “Do you know what it does to my staff to have
Darius
in here? Half of them refused to come to work for fear you would die on their watch, and Darius was very clear in the fact that if you died he would be
very displeased
.”

“Sorry. How long has it been?”

“Five days.”

“Five?!?” Tristan exclaimed. No wonder Darius had been worried. Fenfyr must be frantic. “What do you mean, five?”

“As I said, we were sure we were going to lose you. Medical science can only do so much when you drain your body like that, you know, sir.” The doctor made a
tsking
noise. “I am shocked they allowed it in the first place.”  He brushed a gray hair back from his face and met Tristan’s eyes. “We had to place you in a coma.”

Tristan relaxed and let the man mumble as he checked the monitors and made notes on his pad. Five days was unprecedented, and he knew he was lucky to be alive. The fact that he had no memory of anything since that last glimpse of the sails was proof enough. They must have induced a coma to block him from any stray energies that were in the air, but to force a coma
was
extreme. After several more
hmphs
and
tsks
,
the doctor smiled at Tristan and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Tristan reached for the communicator on the wall and called the dragon compound. Most humans found it difficult to understand that the dragons used electronic communications, believing they would prefer to use magical methods. Tristan laughed, dragons were nothing if not practical, and the electronic system was practical and not taxing.

“Guild Dragons,”
Ceriwyn
, the operator answered, she was human but had lived at the dragon compound for her entire life.

“
Ceriwyn
, it’s Tristan Weaver, can you connect me with…”

“Of course!” she practically shouted before he could finish.

A moment later
Fenfyr’s
voice rumbled over the line. “Tris?”

“Fine thing, I wake up and I’m all alone,” he said in a teasing voice.

“I was there!” Fenfyr boomed. “They wouldn’t let me stay! I tried everything, even hiding in the corner! They said the staff
couldn’t function with me there, but your room is big enough! I finally had Darius come.”

“I know, Fen, I was teasing,” Tristan said.

“I know,” the dragon replied, and Tristan could picture him, his fore feathers drooping in relief. “I didn’t know what to do when they said they were going to put you into a coma. What if…”

“No need to worry about that, there wasn’t a what if, so all is well,” he said lightly, then realized the dragon had paused. He could hear the soft intake of
Fenfyr’s
breath. “Okay, so things aren’t good. What, Fenfyr?”

“We will speak with you when you are well enough to come back to the compound.”

“We?” Tristan asked, sitting up.

“The Guild Master, Darius and myself. There was an incident.”

“What happened?”

“No, rest, my friend, an hour or two or a day will not make a difference. We have much to discuss. Wait until medical clears you and we will see you at your office.”

“Fen?”

“Things are worse than we ever dreamed, I think,” the dragon said softly. “But that you are alive is all that matters to me right now.”

“I’m okay.”

“You just better be, or I will be down to eat everyone there. I am bored with protein soup.”

Tristan laughed, a little louder than usual, more to reassure Fenfyr than anything. “See you soon.”

“Yes,” the dragon replied and broke the connection.

Six hours later, Tristan walked down the corridor to his office in the main compound. His assistant, Scott, stood at attention as he approached, a broad smile on his face
,
and with a “welcome back, sir!” handed Tristan a cup of the hot spiced tea he preferred in the afternoon. Mornings were for coffee, afternoons for spiced tea. Little eccentricities were not only tolerated but encouraged, and spiced tea seemed innocent enough. Some of the other masters took it too far in Tristan’s opinion, although he never brought it up unless it became
disruptive.

He set the tea down, and before he could step around the desk the alarms announcing the arrival of the dragons began to blare. “Let him in,” Tristan said into the intercom before Scott could buzz him, and an instant later Brian Rhoads strode into the room.

“Tristan! By the First Spell!” The man quickly crossed the room and crushed Tristan in a tight hug, pounding him soundly on the back before letting him go. “I thought we’d lost you.”

“So everyone says.”

“Because it is true, Tristan Weaver,” Darius said as he came through the door. Just behind him was Fenfyr, his feathers fluffed out in agitation. He waited until Darius stepped aside, then walked to Tristan, tapping him with his head tufts and wrapping one enormous claw around him. Tristan leaned into the embrace.

“I have to admit I’m a little surprised to see you all,” he said mildly. Fenfyr growled, the tone low enough that it wasn’t a sound, only a rumble against Tristan’s back.

“There was an incident,” Darius said.

“Yes, Fenfyr mentioned it, but didn’t say what it was. And where is Alden, shouldn’t he be here?” Tristan stopped as he looked at their faces. “Ah, so the incident is Alden?”

“I’m afraid so,” Brian said with none of his usual volume.

“What?” Tristan asked.

“His
shuttlecar
exploded,” Darius said.

“Exploded? There’s no way it could unless…” Tristan stopped.

“Right. Someone tried to kill him,” Brian finished for him.

“Tried? Is he alive
,
then?”

“He is,” Darius said. “We have taken him under our wings and have him at our mountain. You must come and speak with him.”

“I will, of course,” Tristan said immediately. “We will need a new Warrior.” The silence that greeted that remark made him nervous. “Won’t we?”

“The Naval creatures have suggested a Warrior of their own,” Fenfyr said.

“They did what!” Tristan exclaimed. It was beyond unheard of, it was a breach of protocol that had been in place for two centuries.

“Yes.” Brian’s voice lowered to a growl that mimicked the dragons. “A Rogue Weaver, left Guild formally two years ago.”

“And they think we will allow that?” Tristan was shocked by the suggestion.

“They do.” Brian and Darius shared a look and Fenfyr growled again. That’s when Tristan realized there was considerable tension between the three. “We have a plan to trump them.”

“How?”

Fenfyr’s
growl became audible.

“With you, Tristan Weaver. With the exception of the Guild Master you are the highest ranking member of the Guild. You created the sails, you do not need to be attuned to them, they are your sails. The Navy cannot refuse you as Warrior.”

Tristan was staring. He knew he was. When he’d entered the Guild, he’d actually thought about qualifying as a Warrior. The chance to fly one of the great warships was very tempting, but he had proved too gifted to be “just” a Warrio
r. He was fully trained in the W
arrior’s art, of course, but had never served as such. Generally when he flew on a ship he occupied a position rather like an admiral
—
a ranking officer, but not part of the day-to-day functioning of the ship itself. This was something entirely new.

“Me?” Tristan asked, aghast.

“Yes, you, Tristan Weaver,” Darius said. “We need this ship launched because we must know what is going on, what better way than have you there? You will reside with us until you leave for Terra Secundus.”

“I will?”

“Yes, and the dragons will escort you there. We aren’t taking any chances with your life,” Brian said. “This is too important.”

Fenfyr growled again, and Tristan found himself in agreement with the dragon. “This is insane, I am no Warrior.”

“You are the only one they absolutely cannot refuse, Tristan,” Brian said, raising his voice. “The only one.”

Tristan knew it was true, and he knew they had to find out what was going on with the
Winged Victory,
but still there were so many reservations. He was not a Warrior, he could Weave and Bond the sails, but could he make the ship fly? And what if they engaged in combat? “Just until we find out what’s going on,” he said firmly, coming up with a solution he thought was a reasonable balance between his hammering heart and their insistence.

“Of course, that is all we ask, Tristan Weaver. Just the maiden voyage, and we will find a Warrior or perhaps Alden will have gotten used to working with one arm by then.”

“One…?” Tristan shook his head. “I’ll get my things.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve already got your apartment ready for you,” Brian said. “You leave now.”

“Why the hurry? I just got here!” Tristan protested.

“Because the
shuttlecar
that brought you back from the Weaving area has caught fire. Your life is in danger and you are better off with the dragons than here. No one is getting up there.”

“Only dinner,” Fenfyr said, still growling but with a note of humor in his voice. “I will take you myself. Get a coat. It is cold.”

“What?” He looked up at the dragon.

“I’m flying you,” Fenfyr said. “I am in charge of security, and from here on out you are under my personal protection.”

“Until I reach the
Victory.
”

“No, I’m going with you. All ships have dragons, you are closer to the dragon than most,” Fenfyr growled. “Now, get your coat and let’s fly.”

Tristan stepped carefully over the dragon’s claw and headed to the closet to get his coat, hiding his smile. From what Darius and the Guild Master had said things were grim, but the prospect of flying on Fenfyr
with
permission for a change made his heart sing. He remembered the night he was declared Master Weaver of the Guild. The warm buzz of happiness that filled him every time he remembered that moment tingled along his spine, a laugh bubbling up as he recalled
Fenfyr’s
antics at the news. The dragon had launched himself over the ocean, silver, black and pearly gray feathers puffed out, his wings fully extended, skimming the waves, trumpeting at the top of his lungs, returning to grab Tristan in gentle claws before carrying them far from the land, soaring on the wind as the sun set and the stars flickered to life over their heads. They had returned long after the Weavers’ Guild compound was closed, the watchtower firing warning shots before they identified themselves. Fenfyr, as usual, thought it was a game and chased the missile before swatting it out of the sky with one sweep of his tail.

Tristan turned back from the closet, coat in hand, and caught the sparkle in the dragon’s eye. Fenfyr was remembering one of their
adventures as well. That night they had managed to get away with more than usual, since Tristan had just been raised in rank and Fenfyr was on the Council of the Dragons. Even so, since then they had gotten a stern talking to from Darius more than once.