27

Ilna was alone.

She'd thought she'd see Garric and Tenoctris ahead of her when she plunged through the portal, but there was nothing: no figures, no ahead; even the portal had vanished.

She stood on a gray plain, though even the notion of standing was a distortion of reality when she couldn't feel ground beneath her feet. She had no sense of falling; no sense of anything really.

"Garric!" Ilna called. She could hear her voice but it had no overtones or echoes. There was no other sound.

The horizon was dead flat in all directions. The sky was minusculely lighter than the ground, but even that difference could have been a self-created illusion, a small madness her mind had worked on itself to keep from shattering completely.

Ilna reached behind her and waggled a hand through empty air. She couldn't have been more than inches from the gate of light by which she'd entered this limbo, but there was no sign of it now. She walked around the imagined doorway, hoping in vain it was visible from the other side.

She began to walk. One direction was the same as all others. She left no footprints behind her, nor were there any landmarks to prevent her from going in circles.

The horizon shifted as she moved toward it: sometimes the line of gray over gray was higher, as though she was looking up a hill, sometimes lower, as though she was on the crest. Each stride took the same amount of effort as the one before it, and the line of the horizon was always horizontal.

They abandoned you here, Ilna.

She held a steady pace, a ground-devouring pace that she could keep up all day and half the night besides. She wouldn't run. There was no place to run to.

They tricked you into coming here. They're laughing now about the way they got rid of you.

Her hands knotted the halter as she strode on. When they finished, the rope was a single mass the size of a man's head. Her fingers began to pick it apart again.

You weren't good enough for Garric and his new friends. They were embarrassed to have you around.

There was a point of light in the sky directly ahead of her. It was too small to be the sun, but it shone brilliantly sharp against the gray. She continued to walk.

The anonymous surface beneath her feet gave way to coarse gravel, though it was minutes of further walking before Ilna could see anything but undifferentiated gray. Her stride hadn't changed since she began walking. Her hands were knotting the rope again in a fashion wholly different from the first time, though the result would seem identical to anyone else.

The ground was like the shingle beach of Barca's Hamlet. They all laughed at you there too, Ilna.

When she first saw the tree she felt that she'd always known its presence. It was in black silhouette against the light gray sky, and the sun was behind it. She walked on.

You would have sacrificed everything for them, Ilna. But they cast you away.

The tree's trunk and surface roots seemed normal enough, but Ilna found herself wondering how far away it really was. Her strides didn't appear to bring the tree any closer.

Its branches were leafless and twisted into a loose knot, a stylized tree-of-life pattern. They began to move.

You're lucky to have found me, Ilna. There are terrible things in this place.

"Who are you?" Ilna said. Her voice vanished without an echo. There was nothing in any direction except the tree.

I'm your friend. I'll give you everything you want.

There were tears on her cheeks. "I want to go back!" She wouldn't beg. "Please let me go back!"

Of course I'll take you back, Ilna; I'm your friend. I know that you don't belong in this place, so I'll take you to where you should be. But you're a weaver. Wouldn't you first like to learn how to really weave?

"I don't understand," Ilna said. She didn't know when she'd stopped walking; she now stood motionless on the gravel plain. The rope was a limp coil in her hands.

I can teach you to weave patterns that will make you a queen, Ilna; a goddess, even.

"How can you . . ." Ilna said. Then she said, "Why?"

They won't sneer at you again, Ilna. Garric left you to run after that stuck-up hussy, but he'll never leave you again. They'll all notice you.

"I want to go back . . ." Ilna whispered.

But first shall I teach you to weave, Ilna?

"Yes," she said. She dropped the halter of rye straw and shouted again, "Yes!"

Then I'll teach you, because I'm your friend.

The branches were moving faster. The pinpoint sun glared hotter, brighter. Ilna had to turn her head.

Your only friend.

The branches continued to weave patterns in her mind; ever deeper in her mind. For the first time in her life, Ilna was not alone.