ched into a wall in an old cave outside Suxonli Village. Anybody remember it? No? All right, then, I'll repeat it to you.» Rowenaster paused, removing his bifocals from the bridge of his large nose. Regarding the group sternly, he said: By the venomous sting of his Chaos Thumb, Trickster pricks nine, one by one, His circle of genius for the turn ta come; Back Pocket People for that rainy day When the weave of the world pulls away. On the other side of the hedge, Kelandris leaned forward, her torn veil fluttering with the sharp intake of her breath. Rowenaster eyed his students with a mixture of impatience and nation. «Okay—so why am I reminding you of this poem? And what does a poem from a little known village in southern Tammirring have to do with me chastising one of my 'best students'?» He paused. «Plenty.» Tree cleared his throat. «Professor,» he whispered, «are you—are you okay? I mean—» Rowenaster snorted at the Jinnjirri. «As I was saying—there is a connection between the two. That connection,» he continued forcefully, «is Mystery. And Mystery cannot be approached by the mind's cleverness. Try it, and Mystery will smite you with outrage.» Kelandris fingered her shredded veil thoughtfully, her talons hidden. «We pride ourselves on our modernity—cool, capable. In control. But for how long? Every day we're confronted by the inexplicable.» Rowen paused. «I'm referring in part, of course, to the impossible statue standing on the other side of this hedge. No one knows how it got here. Yet it exists.» Kelandris crawled between the front paws of the obsidian statue and began grooming herself with teeth and tongue. «Now,» said the professor suddenly squatting in front of the group and studying each of their uneasy faces in turn, «the Suxonli poem is a mystery, too. It's very old. Its author remains unknown. Nevertheless, we do know this: the poem is a prophecy. A prophecy for our time,» he said in a low, emphatic voice. «Do you know what this means, children? Do you understand what we—your generation and mine—collectively face? Can you imagine what it will be like if the weave of the world pulls away without the help of Trickster? Without the control of the Nine?» No one said a word. During the intervening silence, something clicked in Kel's mind. The Nine. The Nine were important. The signal. Trickster would send out a signal to gather in one place. Nine would leave the hive; nine would fly to Speakinghast. But who were these nine? And, then she knew. Kel remained motionless staring at Rowenaster's face. «Goosebumps?» continued the professor. «Then you begin to know the potency of Mystery.» «It's just a poem,» retorted Torri. «Written by Tammi for Tammi. That makes the prophecy their problem—not ours, professor.» Rowenaster said nothing, cleaning the lenses of his bifocals with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. «That's exactly my point, Torri.» He set his silver glasses back on the bridge of his dark nose. «You—all of you—should've known about this prophecy before now. It was your birthright,» he added giving the three Tammirring in the group a look of consternation. «Nor should I have been the one to bring it to your attention.» Rowenaster shrugged. «Each draw has a responsibility to uphold in the greater scheme of things. As a Saambolin, mine is to teach what I know. The Dunnsung are here to remind us of the harmonies in the universal language of music and dance. The Piedmerri provide nurturance—be they farmers or parents. The Asilliwir keep cultures alive by the exchange of news and goods from one border of the continent to the next. The Jinnjirri must create—pursuing self-expression regardless of exterior conditions. And the Tammirring? Theirs is perhaps the most awesome responsibility of all. The Tammi are the caretakers of our collective soul. It is they who listen to the winds of the universe and translate the sigh into direction for all of us.» Rowenaster paused. «Now this is the point: if one landdraw sickens, we all sicken. And that play— Rimble's Remedy—is a shocking indication of a growing spiritual malaise—one that started in Tammirring at least sixty years ago. It has now spread to the Jinnjirri. I put it to you that the Saambolin will be the next to be so infected. Our problem, you see.» Tree stared at Rowenaster anxiously, listening to the angry comments of the Saambolin students sitting near him. He considered moving into the company of his own draw. If Rowenaster was going to foment a minor civil riot on the grounds of the Great Library of Speakinghast, he wanted to be among his own kind when tempers flared. Then, deciding not to call attention to himself by standing up, Tree put his head in his hands, muttering, «I don't believe this. I just don't believe this.» Rowenaster continued to speak from his unchallenged soapbox. Why do you think there's so much unrest in this city? Why do you Jinnjirri think Guildmaster Gadorian is cracking down on your quarter? Because he's afraid. There are far more Jinn in Speakinghast than Tammi. Let's face it—the Tammi are loners. But you, Jinn—you organize, you take sides, you reveal yourselves through your art. Although he doesn't know it, Gadorian senses a growing Tammi and Jinn despair. This can produce instability. Civil unrest in a city.» Rowen glanced at Tree. Tree bit his lower lip, thinking about the atmosphere of Decadence at the playhouse where the Merry Pricksters performed. He wondered if he had inadvertently contributed to it in way. He had always been somewhat of an artistic dilettante. Commitment, he mused grimly, had never been one of his strong points. Neither in artistic mediums nor in personal relationships. Tree winced, thinking about Mab. She needed stability right now. Did he have any to give her? He hoped so. «So Guildmaster Gadorian reacts,» continued the professor, «albeit blindly for the most part. Still, the Guildmaster wields a great deal of power in Speakinghast, so, blind or not, the effects of his reaction are strongly felt. Particularly by the Jinnjirri—who are our society's scapegoats at present. It's all quite unnecessary. But nothing can be done, you see, until we recognize what we're dealing with—namely change on a massive scale. And explosive spiritual turnabout. Meanwhile, the Jinnjirri suffer.» «And that's our fault?» asked Torri indignantly, referring to the Saambolin students who were present in the group. The majority of them were younger than twenty years of age. «I mean we did not create this world—or its prejudices, professor. If anyone's responsible for the problems of the Jinnjirri, I'd say it was your generation of landdraw.» The Saambolin sitting near Tree passed whispers back and forth. «Torri—you're not listening. I'm not blaming any one draw for our present predicament. I'm not even pointing the finger at the Tammirring. You're thinking only in terms of yourself. This is not a question of draw against draw—at least, I hope not. We're talking about a collective whole here. We're talking about a situation that affects all Mnemlith at once.» Torri gave him a superior look and said, «What has that to do with me? I mean, I get up in the morning, I go to school, I come home. In short, professor, I live my life as responsibly as I can manage. And I don't appreciate being told that I'm not only responsible for myself—but for the attitudes of my whole fucking draw! Much less the entire world!» Rowenaster shrugged cooly. «So?» Torri's eyes blazed. «So I take this class because I have to—not because I want to. And you shouldn't abuse your privilege as a teach at our great university by trapping students in this boxwood maze, forcing them to listen to your anarchistic opinions because they can't leave without running the risk of getting lost 'for days'!» Tree stroked his chin. Torri had a point. He regarded the professor steadily, curious to see what the old man would do with it. Rowenaster surprised Tree; he chuckled. «Torri, change is already upon us. It's no longer something we can avoid—it simply is. The Presence is not a static thing. It needs to grow as you and I do. And when the Presence grows, we're affected. These are great times when the Powers of Neath are loosed—like the wasp's poison in the poem.» «And that's another thing,» snapped Torri hotly. «You're obsessed with Greatkin Rimble. Just because Old Yellow Jacket was your area of emphasis, that doesn't mean he's ours! I mean, Rimble's not even real!» Rowenaster got to his feet, beginning to pace again. Everyone watched in silence. As he walked, the woman in black on the other side of the hedge played idly with Zendrak's Kindrasul. She fingered each of the marked beads haltingly, reading the inscriptions on the black glass through the tingling in her thumb and forefinger. Shadowy images formed in her mind. Kelandris blinked, her expression surprised. Rowenaster stopped pacing. Turning to face the mutinous but captive class in front of him, he asked, «How many of you believe in the Presence?» Thirty-six out of a possible eighty-nine raised their hands slowly. «And how many believe in the Faces of the Presence? I'm talking about the Greatkin, of course—including the Wasp,» he added drily to Torri. Half of the hands raised stayed up. Tree's was one of them. «I see,» said Rowenaster, his shoulders sagging. Torri interrupted here. «Tell me, professor—was it your intention to convert us into believers through this class?» Rowenaster shook his head. «No. Nothing that simple.» A few of the more sympathetic students tittered. «Then, what was your intention, Rowen?» asked Tree unexpectedly. Rowenaster smiled sadly at him. «I was hoping to expose you to Mystery. I was hoping to bring you into contact with something larger than yourselves. I was hoping to move you to wonder.» The professor paused, looking toward the direction in which he had sent the chastened Widdero. «Perhaps I should send you all home. Clearly, no one has entered the Great Maze this afternoon free of their everyday 'strings.'» «You make this field trip sound like an initiation rite!» Torri protested. «Do I? Well,» said Rowen thoughtfully, «maybe it is.» «You're also creating mystery where there isn't any,» Torri continued. «Perhaps—perhaps not. I certainly didn't create the mystery standing on the other side of this hedge. Obsidian is not natural to our draw, Torri. A solid block of cut glass. We 'moderns' can't duplicate it. Think of that.» Tree did, and it gave him chills. At that moment, Kelandris squawked like a bird. The woman in black stared wildly at the glass bead held between her thumb and forefinger. She had just found Zendrak's Mythrrim perspective on the events in Suxonli sixteen years ago. Voices. Images. Kelandris shook her head, her green eyes dazed. Here was the whole story. Kel's animal exclamation surprised and perplexed Rowenaster. He turned around. He walked cautiously toward the central chamber of the spiral, his students scrambling to their feet and following him in curious silence. Jaws dropped at the sight of the twenty-foot winged statue. As Rowen's class assembled behind him, Kelandris stood up, the feet and chest of the Mythrrim Beast framing her tall body. Rowenaster frowned, his expression bewildered. Themyth's daughter bowed to the group, saying, «Welcome, O my kin. Gather round, and you shall hear a Mythrrim of old made new in the telling of this time and place. Come, come—don't be afraid. I speak for us all.» Rowen's class hesitated, waiting to see the professor's reaction. Tree nudged Rowen. «That's her,» he whispered. «Who?» «The woman that scared Doogat. Po drew me a picture of her.» Tree paused. «She's crazy as a loon, Rowen. What do you think we should do?» «Humor her,» said the old man and proceeded to sit down. The rest of the class followed suit—all except Tree. Seeing that he was the only one standing, the Jinnjirri squatted beside the professor and asked, « Are you nuts? Po says she's got a knife—» «Yes,» replied Rowen cooly. «And there's something odd in all this.» «What's that supposed to mean?» asked Tree, wondering if Rowenaster was addling right in front of him. «It means, sit down and shut up!» replied Rowen in a low, urgent voice. Tree snorted but did as he was told. Kelandris smiled beatifically at them all. Then, clearing her throat, she proclaimed, «We shall call this Mythrrim by its proper name. Now listen and attend.» Chapter Thirty-Four The Turn of Trickster's Daughter In the winter, in the dead of winter In the mountains, in the snowy mountains In a warm cave, in a warm, wet cave, Civilization gave birth To Trickster's maverick daughter. She was the bloom of Story, She was the flowering of earth, She was the wild seed of Heaven. In a warm cave, in a warm, wet cave, No one hailed the impossible birth Of Trickster's dark-haired daughter. In Suxonli for seventeen years, The Wild Kelandris slept In waiting silence for seventeen years, Wild Kelandris kept covenant With the cave, with the warm, wet cave: She was Trickster's dormant daughter. Until one sacred eve when Greatkin power readied, Until one sacred eve when Greatkin power called A stranger to touch her blessed loins and heart In a forest bed, when Greatkin power made Her warm cave wet with fertile blood And roused Trickster's randy daughter. But while the Wasp Queen coupled with her mate, A boy cheated at the King's testing fire. While the Wasp Queen loved her chosen mate, Yonneth inflamed himself with deviant desire. Soaring drunk on Rimble's Remedy— Yonneth lusted for Trickster's lovely daughter. His penis cruel from thoughts of raping, Yonneth hunted the wood for the Wild Kelandris' flower. While his sister's dewy bloom was sweet lovemaking With the velvet touch of dark-eyed night, Yonneth hunted, he hunted the wild, wet wood For the rosy petals of Trickster's smiling daughter. But deviance itself foiled Yonneth's brutal desire: While the Queen learned kindness from the giving green, Yonneth stumbled under spell of the holovespa liar And railed against the power of unrequited dreams. Weeping, he wandered lost in phantasmagoric mire Far from the blush of Trickster's blossoming daughter. Now the Queen rose from her forest bridal bed, Now the Queen danced to the droning village drum, Now the Queen turned to the rise of her own ecstasy, Spinning alone, spinning free, the Queen soared On the passionate wings of her Greatkin female-he. All hail, Trickster's hermaphroditic daughter. Calling the Hive, she summoned Suxonli's mind, Pricking herself, she summoned eight more in kind. This was the nest for the shock of the new, The fate of the many rested on these few. Here was a Tammirring revel, not a Jinnjirri one Here was an ecstasy to which Yonneth could not come. So Yonneth was angry with Trickster's Daughter. Someone will pay, the Jinnjirri said Someone will come to my raping bed. So Yonneth took foul pleasure behind a silent tree From a young girl dazed on Rimble's Remedy, Yonneth forced Fasilla to his brutal bed. He smiled as her screams drowned out the repeating call Of Trickster's turning daughter. The Queen spun faster, the dance blurred round the fire! Hive mind united; suddenly rage and rape were the Queen's own mire The Queen's mind fell through Yonneth's shifting maw. Shock! Shock entered the Queen, shock entered the draw! Power surged and streamed, power screamed and Faltered… Inside Trickster's disoriented daughter. Stumbling, the he lost control of Rimble's line; Eight were too few to ground Yonneth's rage T'was a bad beginning for Rimble's first nine. As the minds of his circle began to cook and burn, All Suxonli was swept into the searing rogue turn Of Trickster's injured daughter. Flesh blackened as eight innocents fell dead, What power was this? Why was the Queen still alive? Then a boy emerged from the autumn wood Bearing the wrong answer for the questioning Hive: With glee, he threw bloody underwear at the masked face Of Trickster's menstruating daughter. Outraged, the meanest Elder of all proclaimed: «You have broken the Blood Day Rule, Suxonli's daughter has broken village law, Like a child, you played with maverick power, Like a child, you tampered with Tammirring draw. You knew the rule, You knew the law. Like an adult, you shall be punished For all Suxonli's sake.» Then, they bound Trickster's taboo daughter. The ropes charred, they fell away In unspeakable sympathy, the ropes would not stay. The spirit, hands, or heart Of Suxonli's Wild Kelandris, The ropes would not take part in Suxonli's rejection Of Trickster's Greatkin daughter. Now Kelandris spoke her mind: «You took a drug as you drummed the fire, You swallowed yellow holovespa liar. Weak, O my people, weak is this Hive— Were you stronger of will, eight might be still alive! Suxonli