Where am I?
It felt like neither night nor day here, but something in between.
Am I dreaming?she wondered.
Somewhere in the distance, a noise made her turn her head and listen:clack, clack, clack.
It drew her from the bed.
Safire followed the soft and steady sound through this strange maze of stained-glass walls, the glow of the candle illuminating her path, which twisted and turned as she followed the clacking sound. Twice she was greeted by dead ends. A third time she took a turn only to end up back where she started.
Finally, she found the source of the noise and stepped into a room lit by dozens of candles.
Eris sat cross-legged on a white carpet. Before her was a loom.
Safire knew she should announce herself instead of standing here spying, but she found herself immobilized by the haunting elegance of the girl at the loom. Eris’s sleeves were rolled to the elbows. Her hands were steady and sure as they moved the shuttle back and forth, back and forth, in a gentle rhythm that mesmerized Safire. The glow from the candles clustered all around Eris, catching in her pale hair, making it gleam.
Safire thought of the beach. Of her fingers tangled in that hair. Of those hands and how they knew exactly what to do.
Who are you?The question had been living inside her ever since the mysterious Death Dancer turned up in Firgaard.
Eris’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
Safire froze, caught.
Eris didn’t turn around, just kept weaving. So Safire came to the carpet and sat down beside her.
“Where are we?” she said, glancing around them.
“Across” was all Eris said.
From here Safire could see the color of the threads: sunrise red and creamy beige and sea blue. It was nearly finished, making Safire wonder how long she’d been at this.
“What are you making?” Safire asked.
“You’ll see.”
When Safire looked closer, she saw things were wovenamong the threads: beach grass, seaweed, and a small white stone with a hole worn through it, looped with yarn and tied in.
“Who taught you how to do this?” Safire asked, studying the weaving.
“The weavers at the scrin,” Eris said softly. “It was their job to preserve things. Stories, mainly. They kept the stories of Skyweaver alive by weaving them into tapestries.”
“Tapestries that burned with the scrin,” murmured Safire.
Eris nodded. “They say Skyweaver walks among us, here on the islands.”
Safire listened, mesmerized by the movement of her hands.
“The black tower that looms over Axis? It’s her tower. They say she spends all night up there, spinning souls into stars and weaving them into the sky.”
Safire could hear the bitterness in Eris’s tone as she said this. It reminded her of Dagan’s words:I have no use for a god who does nothing while her servants are slaughtered.
They both fell silent. Eris weaving; Safire watching.
“Why would she burn it?” Safire asked suddenly. “What threat could a temple full of craftsmen possibly pose to an empress?”
The loom fell silent as Eris’s hands fell still. “It’s a question I ask myself every day.”
