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Authors: E. K. Johnston
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would not be left unchaperoned with another man, not even one as respected as Firh Stonetouched.
Lo-Melkhiin had given him that name, he said. I wondered what his name had been before, if he had had one—or if the sun had baked it from his mind the day he carved Lo-Melkhiin’s
mother.
ON THE TENTH MORNING, when I woke alone in my comfortable room and was not dead, I was not surprised. A chill ran through my blood, and the walls closed in around me. I had
seen the strange power ebb and flow between Lo-Melkhiin’s hands and mine. I suspected that my inevitable death would not be the result of poison, nor a blade, nor his fingers crushing my
windpipe. There was something at work here that I did not understand; some wicked smallgod of Lo-Melkhiin’s family, or perhaps the demon from the stories, played upon our linked fingers. That
would be my end. I could not pray to the smallgod my sister had made of me. The words stuck in my throat. But I could pray as I always had, to the bones of our father’s father’s father,
even though they were very far away.
I breathed deep, as my mother had taught me, and drew the picture of clear blue sky and calm brown sand in my mind. Before, when my sister and I had done this, we had held hands and pinched each
other to keep from giggling. We did not lack piety by any means, but we were children, and children will find laughter wherever they can. My mother had frowned, but my sister’s mother smiled
with us.
“The smallgods hear of so many sad things, so many hopeless wants and desires,” she said. “Let them hear laughter for a time.”
I did not laugh now, and clouds roiled through the desert in my mind. In vain, I tried to call the blue sky into focus, but it would not come, and the smooth sand was punctured in many places by
sharp rock, and by bushes with thorns so long they would pierce a lamb’s heart, if the creature stumbled into them. I opened my eyes, and lamented my failure. Perhaps I really was too far
away from the places of my dead to pray.
On the top of the wooden chest in the corner of my room, there lay folded the dishdashah that my sister and I had made, the one that someone had brought to me when I wished for it. I rose and
crossed the room to get it, bare feet used to rug-covered marble floors at last. Holding it in my hands, I returned to my seat on the bed and closed my eyes once more.
This time, I did not call the desert. Instead I saw my sister’s hands as we worked the embroidery into the fine fabric. I heard her voice, whispering in my ear. And there was something
more, something else deeper in the vision. I let go of the focus on my breathing, and fell into it.
It was a regular sound, rhythmic and comforting. It was the loom on which the cloth had been made. I did not know who had crafted the cloth—our father had brought it with him when he
returned with the caravan—but I could feel her hands on the shuttle, the way her fingers picked apart the strings of the warp to make a pattern for the weft. The cloth of my dishdashah had
been of deepest purple, a mark of our father’s wealth. The weaving this time was the brightest orange, with fine gold thread added as an accent every half-handspan or so. Though the color was
less rich, the pattern and weight of the fabric made it priceless. This would dress a queen.
I felt the strength of the weaving, and called it toward myself. I saw orange fire run from the fabric to my hands, and though the color was not bleached from the cloth, I felt stronger, calmer.
I thought I could call the blue sky desert now, but found I no longer needed it.
When I opened my eyes, a serving girl was kneeling at the foot of my bed. I had not seen her before, and wished that there might be some consistency in the women who came into my rooms. She had
not interrupted me, and I was glad of it. Her eyes were wide, but I did not know the reason until I looked down at my hands, still holding the dishdashah. It was
Lo-Melkhiin had given him that name, he said. I wondered what his name had been before, if he had had one—or if the sun had baked it from his mind the day he carved Lo-Melkhiin’s
mother.
ON THE TENTH MORNING, when I woke alone in my comfortable room and was not dead, I was not surprised. A chill ran through my blood, and the walls closed in around me. I had
seen the strange power ebb and flow between Lo-Melkhiin’s hands and mine. I suspected that my inevitable death would not be the result of poison, nor a blade, nor his fingers crushing my
windpipe. There was something at work here that I did not understand; some wicked smallgod of Lo-Melkhiin’s family, or perhaps the demon from the stories, played upon our linked fingers. That
would be my end. I could not pray to the smallgod my sister had made of me. The words stuck in my throat. But I could pray as I always had, to the bones of our father’s father’s father,
even though they were very far away.
I breathed deep, as my mother had taught me, and drew the picture of clear blue sky and calm brown sand in my mind. Before, when my sister and I had done this, we had held hands and pinched each
other to keep from giggling. We did not lack piety by any means, but we were children, and children will find laughter wherever they can. My mother had frowned, but my sister’s mother smiled
with us.
“The smallgods hear of so many sad things, so many hopeless wants and desires,” she said. “Let them hear laughter for a time.”
I did not laugh now, and clouds roiled through the desert in my mind. In vain, I tried to call the blue sky into focus, but it would not come, and the smooth sand was punctured in many places by
sharp rock, and by bushes with thorns so long they would pierce a lamb’s heart, if the creature stumbled into them. I opened my eyes, and lamented my failure. Perhaps I really was too far
away from the places of my dead to pray.
On the top of the wooden chest in the corner of my room, there lay folded the dishdashah that my sister and I had made, the one that someone had brought to me when I wished for it. I rose and
crossed the room to get it, bare feet used to rug-covered marble floors at last. Holding it in my hands, I returned to my seat on the bed and closed my eyes once more.
This time, I did not call the desert. Instead I saw my sister’s hands as we worked the embroidery into the fine fabric. I heard her voice, whispering in my ear. And there was something
more, something else deeper in the vision. I let go of the focus on my breathing, and fell into it.
It was a regular sound, rhythmic and comforting. It was the loom on which the cloth had been made. I did not know who had crafted the cloth—our father had brought it with him when he
returned with the caravan—but I could feel her hands on the shuttle, the way her fingers picked apart the strings of the warp to make a pattern for the weft. The cloth of my dishdashah had
been of deepest purple, a mark of our father’s wealth. The weaving this time was the brightest orange, with fine gold thread added as an accent every half-handspan or so. Though the color was
less rich, the pattern and weight of the fabric made it priceless. This would dress a queen.
I felt the strength of the weaving, and called it toward myself. I saw orange fire run from the fabric to my hands, and though the color was not bleached from the cloth, I felt stronger, calmer.
I thought I could call the blue sky desert now, but found I no longer needed it.
When I opened my eyes, a serving girl was kneeling at the foot of my bed. I had not seen her before, and wished that there might be some consistency in the women who came into my rooms. She had
not interrupted me, and I was glad of it. Her eyes were wide, but I did not know the reason until I looked down at my hands, still holding the dishdashah. It was
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