Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“You make it sound very clinical,” Shandira said coldly. “Have you selected the man I am to give myself to?”

“No! You will undergo training, and you will study the Tapestry of the Worldweaver. The selection of a warrior is yours alone to make. And you should know that it is not uncommon for the druid to love her warrior… for the lovers to remain faithful to each other over decades, even centuries. It is that way with Natac and myself.” Miradel was surprised by how defensive she felt; never before had she considered her spell worked upon the warrior as anything other than a pure and sacred rite. How was Shandira able to twist everything around?

“And if I choose no one?”

“That is your decision to make. You will still have work to do here, and you will certainly hope that our world survives the onslaught of the Deathlord. If not, it will be the end… not just of Nayve, but of everything.”

Shandira drew a deep breath and turned away, stepping to the side of a massive oak trunk and placing her hand upon the bark, as if she would draw strength from the forest giant. She bowed her head, and Miradel wondered if she was praying, extending a plea for guidance-or succor-to the God in whom, perhaps, she still believed. At last, the black woman raised her head and looked over her shoulder.

“I will start this training,” Shandira declared. “I make no promises that I will do your bidding. But at least, I shall try to learn.”

“I could ask for nothing more,” Miradel said sincerely. She extended a hand to the taller woman, who accepted the gesture with her own strong fingers. “Come this way,” the elder druid declared. “You can start by observing the Hour of Darken.”

Darann was used to the stares and insults of the guards, but she couldn’t help bristling when one of them, a gap-toothed dwarf she knew as Blackie, suggested he’d have to subject her to a physical search.

“You lay a hand on me,” the dwarfwoman snapped, “and you’ll be pulling back a bloody stump!”

Blackie hooted in amusement as his cronies, the six guards at the Metal Gate of the ghetto, chuckled appreciatively. “Does that mean you are trying to smuggle a knife in to those cruds?” he asked, his eyes roaming freely down the outline of her tunic where it swelled over her breasts.

She ignored him, pushing past until she stood before the iron door. The black wall rose high above her, soaring nearly a hundred feet into the yawning cavern that was the Underworld. Water trickled through the sewers beside the street, gurgling through rusty grates as it passed into the ghetto, which was located in the lowest, soggiest quarter of the city of Axial. For most of her life this had been merely the quarter of the Seer capital that was home to its most benighted denizens, but for ten years now, since this wall had been erected by the king’s order, it had become a virtual prison.

Her heart pounded, and for a moment she wondered if the guards would call her bluff insisting that she be searched. But apparently she still had some status left in this city; none of the men-at-arms dared to lay a hand upon her. Finally, the metal barrier began to rumble upward, and she could again draw a breath.

A careful breath, she reminded herself, as the stench of the ghetto spilled through the opening and quickly surrounded her with its cloying miasma, a mixture of feces, disease, and death. She quickly stepped through, conscious of the ironic truth that she actually felt safer here, in the brackish hole of the goblins, than she did among the duly appointed guardians of her ancestral home. As usual, there was no one in sight of the opening gate. The goblins had learned through bitter experience that the portal was far more likely to reveal a thuggish band of young Seers looking for a little blood sport than any visitor engaged on a mission of mercy.

Darann advanced, displaying a confidence she did not feel. She felt the eyes of the guards on her back and held her shoulders straight, her chin high. It took all of her will not to hurry as she strode into the lightless street that gave access to the ghetto. As the metal plate rumbled downward behind her, cloaking the narrow street in murky shadow, she finally became aware of movement, scuttling figures creeping forward, wide nostrils gaping, sniffing loudly, confirming her identity.

“It’s the Lady,” one whispered in a gurgling voice that carried far along the darkened byway.

“The Lady!” others repeated, the sound washing like waves through the alleys and tenements of the ghetto.

She felt a gentle touch on her arm, others against her shoulder. One, probably a youngster, brushed light fingers along her knee. When she had first started coming here, these contacts had startled, even frightened her, but now she recognized them for the affectionate greetings they were. It had surprised her to discover that goblins were such tactile people, in many ways more empathetic and caring than her own race.

Her own people. How sad that she couldn’t even consider them, anymore, without the familiar flush of shame rising like a itch from her neck through the full-fleshed roundness of her face. It had been her own people, the Seer dwarves, lords of the First Circle, who had grown so fearful and afraid that they had locked these people away, behind the walls of this stinking ghetto, merely because they were different. Of course, there were good people among the Seers-her own father came immediately to mind-but there were too many who were afraid, who allowed themselves to become trapped in a mire of isolation and paranoia.

“Lady? It is I.” She heard the familiar voice, sensed the flat-footed goblin who had emerged to shuffle at her side as she moved down the narrow street.

“Hiyram? Hello, my friend.” She touched him on the shoulder and felt the shocking frailty of his body; he seemed to be nothing but papery skin draped loosely over ill-fitting bones.

“You are so welcome. But is it safe for you to keep coming here? I beg you, Lady Darann, think of yourself in this. My people are ever used to seeing to their own needs, and I would grieve beyond words if your caring for us was cause to bring you hurt.”

“You are kind to think of me, Hiyram, but there is much I can do to help. And I can’t ignore the guilt, to think that my people-mine and Karkald’s-have brought you to this! Please allow me to atone as best I can.”

“Ah, yes… good Karkald.” As the goblin spoke her husband’s name Darann’s eyes, even after all these years, watered. She saw her grief reflected in the goblin’s wide, shining eyes. “He would be very proud of you.”

“If he was alive, and here, none of this would be happening!” the dwarfwoman said passionately. “He wouldn’t let the king lock you away like this, take away your houses and shops and goods-none of it!”

Hiyram sighed loudly. “It is too bad, tragical bad, that it was the Marshal Nayfal and not the Captain Karkald who escaped the disaster in the Arkan Pass.”

“Nayfal?” Darann bristled. “He’s a coward and a liar. I don’t believe his story for one minute, I never believed him! Karkald wouldn’t turn his back on his men, even if he knew the battle was lost. I know he was there, fighting to the last!”

“Shhh, Lady,” the goblin urged, staring wide-eyed at the listening slits high up on the ghetto wall. “I cannot let you say such things! You know how the times are… what might happen, if you are overheard!”

“Bah!” snorted the dwarfwoman. She turned to look at the slits, where the king’s-and Nayfal’s-spies were certainly paying attention to her visit. Angry words rose to her tongue, but she bit them back, knowing the truth of the goblin’s warnings. Dwarves had disappeared for less insulting remarks than she had contemplated. Her reputation, as one of the two dwarves who had opened passage to Nayve more than four hundred years ago, would not protect her forever.