The Soul Weaver by Carol Berg

suddenly lost all hearing. The story itself carried little weight with me. To lose a son young, whether to disease or drink or to the ever-present Leirans who snatched boys to serve in the army was common among the poor of the Four Realms. And to blame the child’s fate on fairies or monsters was the usual practice. But I felt the father’s grief vividly. Until those years in Zhev’Na when I had watched the Lords stealing Gerick’s soul, I had thought seeing one’s newborn infant dead the most grievous of sorrows. But far worse was losing a child nearing adulthood, seeing life’s fullest promise dashed so bitterly.
    In selfish relief, I reached for Gerick’s hand that lay on the scuffed table. His fingers were stone-cold. I glanced up quickly. His skin was chalky, his eyes huge and dark. “Gerick, what is it?”
    â€œNothing,” he whispered, pulling his hand from mine and averting his eyes. “Nothing. It’s just a story.”
    Though the old man was a mesmerizing storyteller, the tale of a drunken sheepherder’s son paled in comparison with Gerick’s own strange adventures. “I think the boy ran away,” I said. “There was violence between him and his father. Perhaps this tale is the man’s way to explain it. What do you think?”
    Gerick shrugged, color rushing back into his cheeks. “I suppose I’d run away if I was beaten like that or tied to my bed. Can we go up now?”
    I laid down a coin for the landlord, and we climbed the stairs, leaving the laggards draining their mugs and mumbling about getting home before the sun came up.
    Sleep would not come. The rope bed and its straw-filled pallet seemed to develop a new lump or sag wherever I settled. I drifted in and out of dreams and worries and plans that seemed important, yet were indistinguishable by morning. Every time my eyes flicked open, I saw Gerick sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, wide awake. His elbows were propped on his drawn-up knees, his hands clasped and pressed to his mouth.
    When I woke from my last fitful nap, just after sunrise, Gerick was not in the room. I gathered up our last pack and hurried downstairs to find him. The Fire Goat’s common room was bustling with every sort of person, from tradesmen to officials with ruffled silk doublets and gold neck-chains.
    â€œTwo for Vanesta. Anyone here bound for Vanesta?”
    â€œParty of six for Fensbridge, looking for a strong swordsman.”
    The shouts came from every corner of the room. Concern about the bandits who plagued the mountain roads prompted travelers journeying any distance to join with other groups for mutual protection. Evard’s soldiers were off fighting the war in Iskeran or hunting down those who failed to pay their taxes and tributes to support the interminable conflict. None were left to keep the roads safe from highwaymen, and the number of highwaymen increased every day that men got more desperate to feed themselves and their families. Local officials like Graeme Rowan were outmanned, their territories too large to patrol in a year of trying.
    â€œTwo women for Yurevan. To accompany a family or larger mixed party. No ruffians. No peasants.”
    I pushed through the smoky, crowded room toward the door, fending off a disheveled man who smelled of wine and leered broadly at me, saying he’d take me wherever I wanted to go. I pulled my widow’s cap down lower and escaped into the yard, searching for Gerick.
    The muddy yard was packed with horses, wagons, baggage, and even more people, generally of poorer aspect than those inside. A familiar lanky form moved down a string of eight or ten horses, offering each a private word along with a handful of grain from a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. I would have sworn each beast looked more cheerful after Paulo had stroked its neck and whispered in its ear. One of the string was Gerick’s gray gelding, Jasyr, and