“I’m pleased to meet all of you,” she said. Her voice was much more educated than Wend’s, and that reminded Mitt of the Countess, too. “I hear you’re looking for the Adon’s sword.”
“Oh, did Wend tell you?” said Maewen. “Yes. We’ve got his cup and”—she held up her hand with the ring on its thumb—“this.”
“Then one of you is truly riding the royal road,” the lady said, looking from Maewen, to Moril, to Mitt, with very strong interest. “At last! I thought no one would ever get round to it again! Very well. The sword is here. You’d better see if you can get it down.”
“The sword is here!” Moril was so astonished that his voice went up into a squeak.
The lady swung round on him. “What makes you so surprised?”
“Well,” Moril said awkwardly, “I heard … the Singers say … that the Adon’s wife—Manaliabrid—hid his sword when she went back to the Undy—er, her own people.”
“And so she did,” said Wend’s sister. “My poor daughter. She’d thought her Adon was of the Undying, too—and as I told her, so he might have been for all we knew, but when a man sets himself up as King, he puts himself in the way of assassins, and sooner or later one of them will strike lucky. There are many ways to kill the Undying, though we don’t die easily.”
“Manaliabrid,” said Moril, “is your daughter?”
“That’s right,” said the lady. She folded her arms and looked amused at the awe in Moril’s face. “And the name you’ll have heard for me is Cennoreth. Am I right?”
“Then you’re a witch,” said Mitt.
“You’re the Weaver,” said Moril.
Both of them turned to look at Wend. “My sister is both,” he said.
“So I should hope!” Cennoreth snapped.
“But you—” Moril said to Wend.
“Tanamoril,” said Cennoreth, energetically making her way between the piles of bobbins, “Osfameron, Oril, Wend, Mage Mallard—when a person lives a long time, names tend to pile up. Now, do you want this sword or not? Here it is.”
There was a fireplace at the end of the room opposite the window, made of stone as beautifully carved as the wooden walls. Hung on the wooden panels above the stone was a long dark thing. Maewen and Mitt both took it at first for a stuffed fish. But when they had edged over there along the narrow path between the bobbins, they saw it was actually a sword, probably quite a plain one, in a blackish leather sheath. The reason it was so hard to see in that dim room was that it was tied to the wall by innumerable long strips of leather. The leather thongs had been knotted to about a hundred rusty nails hammered into the paneling above and below the sword, and then knotted and overlapped and knotted again, until the sword was in a kind of basket of leather strips.
“Hey, Moril!” said Mitt.
Moril was still over by the door, looking across his shoulder at Wend, full of awe and amazement. Mitt could hardly blame him. This was the man Moril had been named after, twice over, the hero of half the stories the Singers learned to tell, and Moril’s own ancestor into the bargain. Wend was shifting about self-consciously, as if—just like a normal person—he had no idea what to say. He was obviously relieved when Moril switched his attention to Mitt.
While Moril was making his way through the bobbins, grinning and going like a sleepwalker, Wend said awkwardly, “These things happen—if you live long enough. You should think nothing of it—or not too much.”
“Think nothing of it!” Moril said, looking up at the sword and its thongs. “That’s asking a bit much! Those pieces of leather are knots and crosses. There has to be a catch.”
“Quite right.” Cennoreth stood by the hearth with her arms folded. “You’re an observant boy. You must understand that none of it is my doing. My daughter nailed it up there. Remember she was mad with grief—though I suppose you’re all too young to know how that feels—and try to forgive her. She was disappointed in her children, too. She expected too much of them, but there you go, I’m only her mother, and it didn’t matter what I said. So she set this sword up, knots and crosses, like redhead said, for the children of her blood and the Adon’s. That’s rather a lot of people these days, but that’s another thing she wouldn’t listen to, when I told her how it would be if enough time passed.”
“So what’s the catch?” Mitt asked.
Cennoreth shrugged. “The knots must be undone without touching sword or scabbard, and the sword must be drawn before it touches wood, stone, or earth. My daughter,” she said, “expected too much of her children’s children, too, if you ask me, but I wasn’t consulted.”
They all stared up at the sword in its cat’s cradle of leather. The thongs were black with age, and there was dust all over them. Maewen could see that each knot, beside being pulled fiercely tight to start with, had shrunk and hardened over the years—how many? two hundred?—and must by now be nearly impossible to undo. Just to think of the lasting fierceness of the misery that did this was appalling. Could one wet the leather and loosen the knots that way? “What happens if you break the rules?” she asked.
“She didn’t say,” said Cennoreth.
“Though you may take it that you won’t get the sword, lady,” Wend added from the other side of the room.
They stared up at the sword again. It was high above Maewen’s reach. I suppose if I knelt on the mantelpiece—the leather could just be old enough to crumble away when I touch it. Anyway, I don’t really need this sword—though it seems a shame, when I’ve got the ring and the cup.
Moril thought awhile. Then he sat down on the nearest pile of bobbins and started taking the case off his cwidder.
“What are you doing?” Mitt asked him.
“The leather was straight to start with,” Moril said. “The cwidder could tell the truth and make it straight again.”
It could, too! Mitt realized. Things unfolded with a crisp snap inside his head, and he saw that he and Moril had been so taken by surprise that they had not thought this through. Why don’t I think? he asked himself angrily. If Kankredin was talking to Noreth, and Noreth had listened to him all her life, then even if he and Moril could do for Kankredin—which was a stupid thing to plan when even the One could not do it—then the last thing either of them should do was to help Noreth become Queen. That meant the whole country under Kankredin. So—break the rules, quick.
Mitt was the only one tall enough to reach the sword. “No. That’s going at it the slow way,” he told Moril.
Moril’s fingers went slow and fumbling on the cwidder. As Mitt turned away and pulled out his knife, he knew Moril had seen the danger, too. Mitt pushed between Maewen and Cennoreth, reached up, and, quick as he could, slashed along the length of the sword, between the multitude of knots.
“Get ready to catch it!” he cried out merrily.
He had meant to call out too late. But to his annoyance, not all the age-hard thongs parted. He was forced to slash again, and again after that. Even then only the pointed end of the scabbard came loose. Mitt watched it with satisfaction, descending slowly to the mantel-shelf, tearing the other thongs as it came.
Maewen yelled out, “Careful!” and flung herself forward with both arms up at full stretch. She was just in time to catch the tip of it. The cwidder resounded as Moril set it hastily down and jumped forward to pretend to help her. He grabbed hold of the scabbard above Maewen’s hands and blundered artfully around her. But Maewen hung on grimly. All Moril managed to do was dislodge a long iron-handled hearth brush from beside the grate. It fell among their legs with a clatter.
Bother! Mitt thought. Hadd’s pants! He took hold of the sword’s hilt, thongs and all, and pulled. That ought to bring it down and make sure it touched the wall or the fireplace on the way.
The hearth brush seemed to set off an avalanche. Fire irons went on falling, with mighty clangs: ladles, toasting forks, a slotted spoon, shovels, two pokers, a mighty black roasting spit, a set of hooks for cauldrons. Cennoreth seemed to have a whole blacksmith’s worth of
implements in her hearth. Maewen and Moril stumbled on a firedog. Mitt found long tongs between his legs and reeled aside. This burst the last of the thongs. Maewen and Moril crashed backward onto Cennoreth’s feet, both trying to save themselves by hanging on to the scabbard. Mitt was left holding aloft a naked sword.
It was indeed a very plain blade, he saw. “I reckon we broke all the rules there,” he said in mock regret.
“You touched at least half a dozen knots,” Moril gasped hopefully.
There was a strange look on Cennoreth’s face. Possibly she was trying not to laugh. “No, he didn’t,” she said. “I was watching quite carefully. Which of you is supposed to be having the sword?”
“She is,” said Moril.
“Then please give it to her and then clear up my hearth,” Cennoreth said. “I think I’d better look at my weaving.”
Maewen got to her knees and held the scabbard out. Mitt slithered the sword inside it with an angry flourish. It looked ceremonial, done that way. Mitt had not the slightest doubt that Manaliabrid would consider that Noreth had won the sword. He turned away disgustedly to help Moril collect fire irons and prop them in noisy bundles by the grate. Clatter. It was not that simple to defeat Kankredin’s plans. Clang. Boing. Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? Kankredin was of the Undying, and that meant strong. After all, Old Ammet was so strong that just saying one of his na—Oh flaming pants! Mitt stopped with pokers bundled to his chest and looked up at the dangling, broken thongs and torn-out nails. This was why the Earth Shaker had reminded him of those names! And he had never even thought of using one. Clatter—flaming—CRASH. There.
Dejectedly Mitt followed Moril and Maewen over to the window. Wend was standing, leaning on the loom, watching Cennoreth smooth and smooth at the most recently woven end of her cloth. You could see the likeness between them now, Maewen thought, although Wend looked so smooth and young. But she also saw another likeness. That dreamy, devoted way Cennoreth was smoothing at her weaving was like Mum’s, when Mum was on a new statue. They were rather the same shape, though Mum’s hair was straighter and darker. Cennoreth clicked her tongue and shook her head as she stroked the cloth, again like Mum. A comb fell out of her hair, and she rammed it back impatiently. That was even more like Mum. “This is a pretty snarl!” she said.
It was odd cloth—even odder than Mum’s sculptures, which Maewen secretly considered quite mad. At first sight it looked as if the witch had used every color off all the bobbins at random, changing color so often that it all went down to reddish brown muddle. But after you had looked at it awhile, letters seemed to appear in the weave, small and close and almost making words. Then just as you thought you had found a word, you found instead patterns, large patterns and small ones, rambling and winding all over the cloth in various bright colors. The pattern Cennoreth was smoothing at was a rusty orange that suddenly turned into bright red. Indeed, it had turned red so suddenly and recently that the scarlet yarn was still in the shuttle, hanging down from the half-woven edge in a row of other shuttles, ready to be used in the next line.
“There’s no need to stare,” Cennoreth said. “My grandfather asked me to go on weaving. It’s not my fault it comes out as it does. Just look at this! I can’t think what you’re doing with my son-in-law’s sword, young woman. You’re not who you should be at all. What’s your real name?”
Their four faces stared at Maewen, and the shock on three of those faces was lurid in the low light from the window. Moril’s mouth came open. Wend was white. He and Mitt both edged back from Maewen, and Mitt frowned, calculating and enlightened, as this cleared up several mysteries he had not properly considered before.
Maewen backed, too, clutching the sword. She felt she might have dissolved with horror without something to hang on to. “M-Maewen,” she said. Cennoreth looked at her. Under those accusing blue-green eyes, Maewen found she had to correct herself. “Er, Mayelbridwen Singer, really.”
“Hmm. That sounds like an outlandish version of my daughter’s name,” Cennoreth said. “Where are you from?”
“The present—I mean, your future,” Maewen confessed.
Everyone was startled. “That can’t be possible!” Wend said.
“Oh yes—or at least, it’s quite true,” said Cennoreth. “That red snarl is from no bobbin here in this room. I was planning how to get that color dye, but I haven’t done it yet—though I suppose I will in time. I thought it felt strange when I threaded the shuttle the other day, but there’s been a fog, and the light wasn’t good. I didn’t really see it till now.”
Wend seemed completely shattered. His face looked older than his sister’s. “Unpick—unpick it!” he burst out. “Before it’s too late, Tanaqui—unpick!”
“Don’t be silly,” said his sister.
“But you’ve unpicked before!” Wend said.
“Not often and not for centuries,” she retorted. “And only when the One has asked it of me.”
“But I asked you last time!” Wend cried out. He seemed quite desperate. “Don’t you remember? I asked you when that slimy traitor killed the Adon. You unpicked then!”
“Duck, that was unpicking a death,” she said, very seriously. “You wouldn’t want me to unpick a living person.”
“Why not?” Wend demanded. “She’s an impostor. Unpick! Send her back! I don’t want her here!”
Maewen clutched the sword and stared from one to the other. Wend must be mad, after all. “But you do want me!” she said. “You sent me here! You told me in the palace you wanted me to take Noreth’s place!”
Wend rounded on her, so angry and tall and so full of queer power that she backed away again. “I do not want you! Why should I send you here?”
“Because,” Maewen faltered, “because the real Noreth disappeared and you know I look—”
“Disappeared!” Wend shouted. His eyes were not mad, Maewen saw, but so full of grief and shock and anger that they glared as if he was not really seeing her.
“I thought you knew,” she said. “What you said, you know, by the waystone—at Adenmouth—”
“What!” said Wend. “For so long?” He rounded on his sister. “Where is Noreth of Kredindale?”
Cennoreth ran her finger down the rust-colored pattern, and on down the scarlet twist of wool, until she came to the thread hanging off in the shuttle. “It’s not here. That part isn’t woven yet.” Wend made an angry noise. “Don’t you understand, Duck? I don’t know either.”
Maewen could have sworn that Wend was crying as he swung round again and glared at the boys. “And do you know?” Moril and Mitt shook their heads. “You wouldn’t!” Wend said disgustedly. “You only think of yourselves. Don’t you understand? All my hopes were on Noreth. There could have been a Queen again!”
“No, there couldn’t,” Maewen said unwisely. “There was a Ki—”
Wend swung round and shouted at her. “What do you know about this? You’re not Noreth! You’re no one! You’re not the one I’ve kept the green roads for, all these years! You can go hang, and the green roads with you! Not one step more do I go with any of you!”
He turned and stormed through the room, going from space to space between the bobbins in enormous strides. The door to the kitchen-room slammed behind him.
Very shaken, Maewen looked at Mitt and Moril. She was afraid they were going to be as angry with her as Wend. What she saw growing on both their faces was simple, devout relief. Mitt even gave her a shaky grin as he asked Cennoreth, “He do this often, your brother?”
Cennoreth was frowning out of the window, at the rocks and apple trees there, busily and absently attending to her weaving, tying off a thread of dark green yarn beside the hanging scarlet shuttle. Very like Mum when something upset her, Maewen thought. At Mitt’s question, Cennoreth gave a start and looked down at what her hands were doing. “Oh dear,” she said. “You must forgive my brother. There are times when he feels that every mortal soul just lets him down. He can behave like this when his heart is very muc
h in something. I expect he has gone to look for the real girl.” She sighed. “I think you’d better go and collect the supplies I promised you; they’re on the table in the kitchen. Your friends will be waiting.”
She turned back to her loom. Mitt and Moril nodded at one another, and the three of them worked their way through the bobbins to the kitchen door. There was no sign of Wend in there, but on the table stood a crock of milk, butter, a bowl of eggs, and a round of cheese. Maewen looked up from wondering if Wend had put them there, to find Mitt and Moril facing her meaningly across the table. Here it comes! she thought.
“Who are you, really? You said Singer,” Moril asked her.
“That’s a surname,” Maewen explained. “My dad said we had Singer blood. Believe it or not, he was showing me some of our family tree the night before I left, but the part from this time was really confused, and I’ve no idea whether I’m related to you.” It felt so good to be able to be herself again that she could have chattered on for minutes. “I may be called Singer, but I can barely sing a—”
“How long into the future?” Moril said.
“Oh. Er—two hundred years, I think.”
Mitt and Moril looked to one another. “That long!” said Mitt. “Then you’ll know what’s going to happen here—right?”
“Not really,” Maewen confessed. She was rather dashed to find that what they were really interested in was their own future. She had wanted to amaze them about planes and computers and television. “History doesn’t tell you about the Undying or the green roads or anything,” she explained. “It’s mostly kings and politics. Noreth didn’t come into any of the history I learned, but I’ll tell you who does: Amil the Great. I’m almost sure he’s almost now.”