THEBONNEEBOY

Niobe was the most beautiful young woman of her gen-
eration, with hair like buckwheat honey and eyes like the
sky on a misty summer morning and a figure that was
better imagined than described. But she had her trifling
faults, such as an imperious nature fostered by the ability
to use her beauty to get her own way, and she was of
only average intellect. Also, though she did not know it,
she had been marked for a more difficult destiny than she
had any right to dream of.

"But, Father!" Niobe protested prettily. "Cedric Kaf-
tan is but sixteen years old, while I am twenty-one! I
couldn't possibly marry him!"

Old Sean raised a pacifying hand. "Some rivers are
harder to cross than others, and some boats smaller.
These are not easy times, my daughter, for Ireland or the
world. He belongs to an excellent family, farmers and
scholars, and they take care of their own. His age is im-
material."

2                With a Tangled Skein

"Immaterial!" she snorted. "He is but a child! Father,
you do me wrong to marry me to one who is so young!"

The man's jaw tightened. He had the power of the pa-
triarch, but he preferred to have harmony. "Daughter, I
did not do you wrong. It is true he is young, but he's
growing. He will be a match for you when I am dead and
gone."

"Let him be a match for some little snippet his own
age! I absolutely refuse to put up with this indignity!"
Her eyes seemed to brighten with her anger, becoming as
intense as the midday welkin.

Sean shook his head ruefully, not immune to the luster
of his child. "Niobe, you are the bonniest lass in the
county, and nicely talented on the loom, but perhaps the
most headstrong, too! Twice you have balked at excellent
matches, and I was weak enough to let you. Now you are
becoming embarrassingly old for a maiden."

That shook her, but she fought back. "Oh, pooh! A fat
old moneybags and an ugly aristocrat! You call those
matches?"

"Wealth is not to be sneered at, and neither is aristoc-
racy. You could have had a very easy life, or a very noble
one. Such marriages are not easy to come by."

"Why can't I have a handsome, virile man of twenty-
five or so?" Niobe demanded. "Why burden me with a
child who probably doesn't know his nose from his—"

Her father's glance stopped her before she went too
far. She could only balk him to a certain extent, however
softly he might speak. "Because the war has drawn away
such men, so that none remain here who are worthy of
you. I will not give you to a peasant! You will not marry
beneath your station. Cedric is qualified and financially
comfortable, thanks to an inheritance, and—"

"And he's growing," Niobe finished with disgust.
"And I'm growing—sick of the very notion! I won't
marry such a child, and that's all there is to it."

Piers Anthony                   3

But that wasn't all there was to it. This time Sean's foot
was firm. Niobe raged and pleaded and cried, to no avail.
She was very good at crying, for her name meant "tears,'1
but her father was impervious. He was determined that
this match be consummated.

And so it was. The banns were duly published, and the
wedding was held in early summer, when the groom got
out of school. Everything was accomplished according to
form, but Niobe hardly noticed; she was too chagrined at
being married to such a youth. She wouldn't even look
directly at him. As the ceremony concluded, he at least
had the wit not to try to kiss her.

Thus they found themselves alone in a cottage, which
was his inheritance. It was in a glade near a swamp—
pleasant enough by day for those who liked that sort of
thing, but sinister by night. That was perhaps part of the
idea: a couple was supposed to be bolted inside during
darkness, huddled together for warmth and comfort.
There were great romantic possibilities; the locale was
conducive.

Niobe had no trouble resisting conduction. She
wrapped her lovely self up in a voluminous quilt—a wed-
ding gift—and slept on the bed. Young Cedric lay beside
the hearth, where there was dwindling radiation from the
embers. As the quiet chill of the night intensified, neither
stirred.

So they spent their nuptial night, the woman and the
boy, in silent isolation. In the morning Cedric got up,
stoked the ashes in the fireplace, and went out to relieve
himself and fetch more wood. Niobe woke to the sound
of an axe splitting billets of wood. It was a good sound,
for the morning air was chill indeed; soon there would be
physical warmth.

Or would there? She remembered that a fireplace was
an ineffective way to heat a house. A good stove put six
times as much heat into the surrounding air for the same




4                With a Tangled Skein

amount of wood burned. There was a stove here; she
would see to it. She might not be a genius, but she was
practical when it suited her purpose. For one thing, she
needed warm hands to operate her loom properly.

She wrapped her coat about her nightrobe and went out
to use the outhouse. There was an old catalog beside the
wooden seat, half-used, and a bucket of ashes. It was an
efficient system, she reflected, for this was the classic
place for reflection; one could read each page of the cat-
alog before using it, or simply stare at the pictures. The
mind was edified while the body was cleaned. The ashes
were to sprinkle over the refuse, cutting down on the
smell, and of course there was a ready supply of them at
the house. The refuse was periodically toted to the garden
for compost. It was an old-fashioned system, but a good
one; nothing, really, was wasted. Still, she would have
preferred a modern city toilet.

She emerged in due course, shivering in the cold, but
she paused to watch Cedric at work. He was not cold at
all; the effort of splitting heated him. She had to admit he
was good at it; he set each billet of wood on the chopping
block and halved it cleanly with a single blow of the axe,
so that the pieces toppled to either side. He was a boy—
but a big boy, with a fine ripple of muscle as he swung
the axe. His blond hair jumped as the axe struck, and a
muscle in his cheek tightened momentarily. A bonnie boy,
indeed!

He saw her and paused. "You're cold. Miss Niobe,"
he said with a rich backwoods accent that, like Niobe's
form, is better imagined than rendered. "Here, take my
jacket till I get the wood in. I'm too hot anyway."

"Don't call me miss," she protested. "I am, after all,
your wife." It grieved her to say it, but it was a truth she
could not deny, and honesty required that she not attempt
to. A marriage, however ill-conceived, was a marriage.

Piers Anthony                    5

He paused, half-startled. "Uh, sure, I guess so. But
you know, ma'am, it was none o' my notion to get married
like this; I'm not even through school."

She might have guessed! "It wasn't my idea either,"
she said. "At least not—"

"Not to an ignorant kid!" he finished with a rueful grin,
"Come on, now, take the jacket before you freeze your
toes off, miss—uh, ma'am." He approached her, jacket
extended.

"Just a moment," she said, constrained to assert her
independence even from this. "You look a lot more com-
fortable than I am. Give me that axe."

"Oh, that's not no woman's work, ma'am! I'll do it."

"That isn't woman's work," she said, annoyed by the
double negative.

"That's what I said!" Then he paused, embarrassed.
"Oh—you mean the way I said it. I'm sorry. I'm just a
backwoods boy, ma'am, and sorry you had to get stuck
with—"

"What's done is done, Cedric," she said firmly. She
wrested the axe from his grip, knowing he could offer no
effective resistance to her because she was an adult. She
set up a billet and swung at it—and caught the very edge
of it. The blade caromed off and plunged into the ground
beside her right foot.

"Uh, ma'am, please—" Cedric said, worried.

"No, I can do it!" she said, hauling the axe up again
in a wobbly trajectory.

He jumped to intercept her. "Let me help you, ma'am,
nooffense."

"You're afraid I'll break the axe!" she accused him.

"No ma'am! I'm afraid you'll chop off a toe, and I'd
sure hate to have anything like that happen to a foot as
dainty as that."

She relaxed. His diplomacy was effective because it
was unschooled. "So would I! I did come close, didn't




6                With a Tangled Skein

I? All my incidental studies about trees, and I never split
a single blivet of—"

"Billet, ma'am," he said quickly.

She had to laugh. "Of course! I don't use the language
as well as I supposed!"

"Oh, no, you talk real fine, ma'am," he said. "Now
you take the handle like this, see, and—" He reached
around her to put his hands over hers, setting hers prop-
erly on the handle. His hands were larger than hers, cal-
lused and strong, seeming too big for his body. She won-
dered whether boys, like puppies, had outsized paws if
they were still growing into them. If so, Cedric would in
due course be a young giant.

"How is it your hands are so rough, when your family
is scholarly?" she asked thoughtlessly.

He snatched his hands away. "Oh, you know, fight-
ing," he said, embarrassed.

Fighting. Well, boys would be boys. "There shouldn't
be cause for that here," she informed him gently.

"No, 'course not," he muttered, scuffling his feet.

"You were showing me how to chop," she said, taking

pity on him.

He got her grip right and her stance right, then guided
her through a swing at the billet. She felt the strength in
his arms and body as he moved in contact with her; it
was amazing how strong he was for his age. This time the
blade came down cleanly, perfectly centered, and cleaved
the wood asunder. The halves did not fly apart, as this
had not been a fully powered blow, but they offered no
further resistance.

Niobe tried the next one alone, following the procedure
he had shown her. Her strike was not sufficient to split
the billet, but it was remarkably close to the center. It
was a victory of sorts. She owed that, perhaps, to her
coordination with the loom; she could generally place an

Piers Anthony                    7

object where she wanted to, when not struggling with too
much weight.

But now the axe was stuck in the wood. She tried to
draw it free, but it wouldn't budge. "Just turn it over,
heave it up, and hit it backside, ma'am," Cedric advised.

She did so, struggling to haul up the heavy billet, and
brought the head of the axe down on the block. The wood
split itself on the blade and fell apart. "Oh, it worked!"
she exclaimed, pleased.

"Sure thing, ma'am," Cedric agreed. "You got a knack
for it."

"I have a knack—" But she realized that she did not
want to be lecturing him about language; it was not the
wifely way. "No I don't, either! I'm just a duffer. But it
is fun!"

She split wood for several minutes, and soon was warm
enough to remove her coat. "If I had known how satis-
fying it is to split wood, I would have done it long ago,"
she gasped.

"You sure look good doin' it," Cedric said.

"No I don't!" she protested, pleased.

"Yes you do, ma'am. You're one pretty woman."

"And you're one bonnie boy. But I'm getting tired; let's
go in and get some breakfast."

"No, I mean it, ma'am. You're the prettiest woman
I've ever seen, specially when you move like that."

She looked down at herself. She was glowing from the
exertion, breathing hard, and her nightwear was plastered
to her bosom. This was not her notion of feminine beauty,
but she was flattered all the same. "And I mean it too,
Cedric. You're a young Adonis. When you get your
growth, you'll be attracting all the girls." Then she
paused, flustered, realizing what she had said. Attract
girls? He was already married—to her. She felt the flush
climbing her face.




With a Tangled Skein

8

He did not reply. He stopped to gather an armful of
wood, then carried it into the cabin. But she could tell by
the flush on his neck that he felt just as embarrassed as
she did. He was young and socially inexperienced, but he
was a good young man, meaning well. It was as awkward

for him as it was for her.

"Cedric, I—" But what could she say that would not
exacerbate the situation? Better to let it drop.

Inside, she explained about the stove. "Sure, ma'am,"
he said agreeably. "We use a stove in winter." He showed
his expertise in getting it going, making sure the ashes
were not clogging the air vents, adjusting the damper in
the stovepipe, and carefully building a structure of paper,
kindling and wood in the firebox. "Got to start a cold
stove slow," he explained. "Don't want it to crack." But
soon enough it was producing comforting heat, and Niobe
was making pancakes on its surface.

"You sure know how to cook, ma'am!" Cedric said as
he wolfed down his share. He had a huge appetite, as
befitted a growing boy.

"I'm a woman," Niobe said wryly.

"You sure are!" he agreed enthusiastically.

She changed the subject. "I gather that you did not

want to—to get married?"

"Pshaw, ma'am, I'm not ready for nothing like that!"
he agreed. "I don't know nothing about women. And I
wanted to finish school, and get into the track program,
so I could maybe make something of myself, you know.
But you know how it is when the family decides."

"I know," she agreed. "I suppose it's no secret that I
objected to this—I mean, I didn't even know you, Cedric,
just your name and age and that you came from a good
family. It's nothing personal—"

"It's a good family, all right," he agreed. "And so's
yours, which is why—you know." He shrugged. "I just
wasn't, well, quite ready."

Piers Anthony                   9

She found herself liking this honest, unassuming boy.
She had an idea. "Look, Cedric—why don't you go to
school anyway? We can afford it, and if you really want
to get an education—"

His face brightened. "Say, you mean it, ma'am? You'd
let me go?"

"I would encourage it, Cedric."

"But you'd be alone here, ma'am, and—"

"I'll be safe enough. There are no dragons in these for-
ests." She smiled.

He paused, as if slightly stunned. Her smile had been
known to have that effect on men. Then he frowned.
"There is magic, though," he said darkly. "Those trees
cast spells—"

"Not against those who understand them," Niobe said.
"I have been studying the magic of the wetlands forest.
Those trees and plants only want to live and let live. But
when you come marching in with an axe—"

He was startled. "Say, I never thought of that! If I was
a tree, I wouldn't like it none neither!" Then he paused.
"Say—I know I didn't say that right. Ma'am, would
you—"

"If I were a tree, I would not like it any, either," Niobe
said carefully. "Eliminate the double negative."

"Were, ma'am?"

"That's the subjunctive mood, used to show supposi-
tion. I'm not a tree and never could be, but I'm trying to
put myself in the tree's place, so I signal this by saying
'If I were a tree.' To say 'If I was a tree' would be to
suggest I might have been a tree^ in the past, and that
would be a misrepresentation."

"It sure would!" He caught himself. "Certainly would.
It certainly makes sense the way you tell it, ma'am."

"Cedric, you really don't need to call me 'ma'am,'"
she said gently.




With a Tangled Skein

10

"Well, it's a term of respect for an older—" He broke

off.

Niobe smiled again. "Now we're even, Cedric. I mis-
spoke myself outside, and perhaps you did the same, now.
We are in a difficult situation, but we must make the
best of it. In time we shall not notice the five-year differ-
ence in our ages; it is little enough, really. Were it re-
versed—"

"Yeah, the men figure sixteen is prime for a girl," he
agreed. "Funny, isn't it!"

"Perhaps it is a prime age—if a person is not interested
in getting a genuine education."

He turned serious again. "You know, all my family
have been smart in—you sure about the school?"
"I am if you are, Cedric."
"I certainly am! I want to get smart."
"Lots of luck," she murmured.

He winked at her, and she realized he had caught the    |
irony. She blushed, suddenly and hard; he was smart
enough to know what she thought of him. "I did it again,"
she said through her burning face. "I owe you one."

"No, you already paid me when you told me the sub-
junctive, ma'am. Oops!"

She started to laugh, halfway hysterically. He joined
her. They both knew it wasn't funny, but it cleared the
air somewhat. They finished their breakfast in silence.

The day warmed rapidly. Niobe dressed and finished
with the dishes and straightened up the cabin, for she
believed in order. Cedric carried more split wood inside
so that there would be no problem the following morning.
Then it became awkward again, for they had nothing else
to do. This was not normally a problem for the newly
married, Niobe knew, so no provision had been made.

"I can set up my loom," she said. But it didn't seem
appropriate, this first day.

"I can go scout a trail to run on," he said.

Piers Anthony

That was right; he had mentioned being interested in
track. If he returned to school, he would have the op-
portunity, so training would be in order. But he, too, was
doubtful, knowing that this was not what honeymooners
were supposed to be doing.

"Let me help you," she said. "We can take a walk
through the forest, exploring it. I'm eager to verify the
local magic."

He smiled. To take a walk together: that was a suitable
occupation. "And leave the axe behind," he said.

"So as not to frighten the trees," she agreed.

They walked, and it was beautiful. The foliage had not
yet been jaded by the heat of summer, and the bright sun-
light kept the mosquitoes at bay. They discovered a path
that led down into the swamp, where the bases of the trees
became swollen and the green moss climbed high. Now
Niobe's expertise in wild magic came into play. She
showed him how the huge water oaks of the swamp ex-
tended protective spells for the little fish who lived among
their roots and helped fertilize them with their droppings,
and how the hamadryad, or tree nymph, could be
glimpsed if one had the patience to be still and really look
for her. "She dies when her tree dies," she explained.
"That's why she's so sensitive to the sight of an—" She
paused, then spelled it, "A-X-E."

"She's real pretty," he agreed. "Almost as pretty as
you. From now on, I'm not cutting no—not cutting any
live wood."

Niobe felt a warm wash of pleasure. It was foolish, she
knew, but she liked being reminded she was beautiful,
and nymphs were the standard against which mortals were
measured. Nymphs were eternally youthful and supple—
as long as their trees were healthy. A woodlands specialist
could diagnose the ills of a tree merely by looking at its
nymph.




12              With a Tangled Skein

They went on, getting their feet muddy in the slushy
sections of the path. "Maybe we could drain this bog and

farm this rich soil," Cedric said.

"Drain the bog!" Niobe repeated, shocked. "But it's
vital to the forest! It's a recharge region for water. It
stores excess rainfall and sustains the plants when there's
a drought. Without the wetlands, the land would lose
many of its best trees, and not just those that grow in it.
The water table extends everywhere, and the roots find
it—but the wetlands keep the level right."

Then, in her enthusiasm for the wetlands, Niobe burst

into song:

"I want to waltz in the wetlands,
The swamps, the marshes and bogs (oh, the bogs).
Yes, I want to waltz in the wetlands
With the birds and the fish and the frogs."

Cedric watched and listened, openmouthed, until her
conclusion:

"I want to waltz in the wetlands, a place where na-
ture gets by
And I ... will cry . . . will cry when the wetlands

are dry.
Yes I ... will cry . . . will cry when the wetlands

are dry."

She was so moved herself that the tears were streaming

down her face.
Cedric seemed awed. "Niobe, I don't want you to cry!

I'll never drain the wetlands. Never!"

She smiled at him, then accepted his handkerchief to
wipe away her tears. "It's only a song, Cedric."

"It's only a song," he agreed. "But you—you're spe-
cial."

"Thank you," she said, touched. She knew she was

not any great singer. The fit had come on her unexpect-

Piers Anthony                  13

ediy, and she had half expected him to laugh. Obviously
he was impressed, and that was very flattering.

They completed their survey of the region and returned
to the cabin. It occurred to her in retrospect that for the
first time he had called her by her unadorned name. She
wasn't certain how she felt about that, but she had after
all made an issue of his calling her "miss" or "ma'am"
and certainly he had a right to use her name. He was after
all her husband—in name.

"I'm going to study the wetlands!" he declared ab-
ruptly.

Ah, the impetuosity of youth! "They are worth study-
ing," she agreed carefully. "But of course you shouldn't
restrict your interests."

He just looked at her. She had seen that look in the
eyes of the family dog when he had been praised and pat-
ted. It was going to take time to adjust completely to this
situation.

Nevertheless, they felt more comfortable with each
other now. Niobe fixed their meals from the stores in the
cabin, and when these were depleted, Cedric hiked into
town to buy more and haul them back in his knapsack.
He liked to hike; he was a very physical person, with the
burgeoning energy of youth. But they also played games
together, including a contest of riddles. She quickly dis-
covered that he had a remarkably agile mind and could
best her readily at this sort of thing. She fed him the riddle
that had stymied her family for years: it concerned six
men trying to cross a river using a boat for two, with
certain conditions. He solved it immediately, as if it
wasn't even a challenge. He also caught on to the nuances
of correct speaking so rapidly that he was soon perfect.
She could understand, now, why his family had a schol-
arly tradition.

Meanwhile, he showed her how to manage the physical
things, such as stacking wood for the winter so that it




14              With a Tangled Skein

wouldn't rot and emptying the base of the outhouse. But
she continued to sleep on the bed, and he on the hearth;

there was no physical romance between them.

In two weeks Niobe came to know Cedric very well
and continued to be impressed by his superior qualities.
He was a strong and smart youth, with an amiable dis-
position and good potential—but he was a youth. He was
also her husband. Niobe knew she could not send him
away to college without consummating the marriage. But
how was she to go about it? She had no experience in this
aspect, and no great inclination. Still, it was evident that
Cedric was not going to initiate the matter; he treated her
with a respect bordering on worship. So it was up to her.
"Cedric," she said one pleasant afternoon.
He met her gaze, then looked away shyly. "Ah, Niobe,
and has it come to that now?" At times he seemed almost

to read her mind.

"When the honeymoon is over, my mother will ask me,

and your father will ask you. For the news."

He sighed. "That they will. But I am not so naive as
to think 1 could force my attention on a woman who

doesn't love me."

He had an excellent grasp of the fundamentals and he

expressed them well. "Oh? You have been loved be-
fore?"

He shook his head, embarrassed. "Never. I lack ex-
perience."

"So do I," she admitted.

"But you are supposed to lack it!"

She had to laugh. "Cedric, I am sure that had you been
permitted to wait until you could marry at my age, you
would have had it. But I hardly condemn you for this
particular lack. It means you come to me—pristine."

"I'm only sixteen," he reminded her defensively.
"Aye, there's talk among boys, but I'll wager I'm not the
only one who never—" He shrugged.

Piers Anthony                  15

"Of course," she agreed quickly. "A double standard
is hypocrisy. It is best that a man and a woman come to—"
She hesitated. "To learn together."

"It is hard to—" He, too, hesitated. "If you loved me
as I love you, it would be—" He faltered as he saw her
react, then blushed.

"What did you say, Cedric?"

"'Twas a slip o' th' tongue," he said, slipping back
into his idiom as he reddened further. "I apologize."

"You apologize—for loving your wife?"

"But you know," he said miserably. "It isn't real!"

"The marriage, or your love?"

He scuffed his foot. "Oh, you know. You're such a fine
woman, so lovely I get lightheaded just from looking at
you, and you know so much, you're so poised, you de-
serve so much better, and you certainly didn't ask for this.
I don't want to make it worse for you. I'm just a kid."

Niobe, her pulse racing, focused on the single thing.
"When? When did you know you loved me?"

He shrugged, as if passing it off as something beneath
notice. "That first day—when you sang in the swamp.
When you cried for the wetlands. I never heard anything
so—" He spread his hands, lacking a word.

"But I'm not even a good singer!"

"You believe!'" he said seriously. "You really do love
the wetlands—and I do too, now, because of you. What
you love, / love."

"Cedric, you never said—"

"And make another fool of myself?" he asked with mild
bitterness. "And maybe drive you away? Because here's
this gangling boy mooning over you? I'm not that stupid."

"Cedric, you aren't stupid at all! You're a fine lad—a
fine young man! I'm sure that—"

"Please, can't we just forget it?"

"No, we can't! Cedric, I can't claim I love you—that
sort of thing is more gradual with a woman, and—"




With a Tangled Skein

16

"And there has to be a man."

"Cedric!"

He just looked at her, and looked away. She knew there
was no way to make him lose sight of the truth: that she

didn't see him as a man.

Niobe had generally gotten her way, in life. This time
her beauty acted against her. It was, she realized, time
that she herself grew up. She would do what had to be

done.

"Cedric, we've been over this matter of age before. It's

a chimaera. It really doesn't matter. Love doesn't matter.

We're married."

"Love doesn't matter?"

"I didn't really mean that. Of course it matters! I meant
that I'm ready to do what I have to do, without waiting
for something that may never—I mean hasn't yet—"

"I understand what you mean," he said gravely.

"I do respect you, Cedric, and I am your wife. There
are many women married to men of mature age who
don't—who do what is required regardless of their per-
sonal feelings. It is time we made our marriage—real."

"No! Not with one who doesn't love me. It just isn't

right!"
She agreed with him, but had to argue. "Why isn't it?"

"It would be r—" He stalled on the word.
She flushed. "Rape?"

He nodded.
She felt as if she were in a pit that kept getting deeper

the more she tried to scramble out. Where were the eu-
phemisms, the handy oblique references that sugar-
coated the unfortunate reality? Cedric wouldn't lie, and
neither would she, and on that jagged stone of integrity
their marriage was foundering before it began. Where was
the way to make it right? They were each trying to do the
right thing, and the irony was that they agreed on what

Piers Anthony                  17

the right thing was, yet had to go counter to it. Of course
there should be mutual love!

And there was not. She could give him her body and
her best wishes, but not her heart. Not yet. She felt the
tears starting again.

"Oh, don't do that, please!" he pleaded. "I can't stand
to see you sad."

"Cedric, it's not your fault. You're right, you know.
You need a woman to love you, and I wish I—" Now
the tears overflowed, choking her off.
"Oh, miss—" he started.
"Missus," she corrected him, forcing a smile.
"I'd do anything to make you happy! But I don't know
how!"

"Then make me love you!" she flared.
There was a silence as they both realized what she had
said.

He shook his head, baffled. "Niobe, how—?"
"The same way any other man does. Court me!"
He looked at her sidelong. "You would sit still for
that?"

"Do you think you're some monster, Cedric? If you
love me, prove it!"

"And that I will!" he exclaimed. "Come to the water
oak where you sang to me, and I will sing to you."

"Yes!" she cried, as if it were a phenomenal break-
through. And, in a way, it was. The realization that he
loved her excited and flattered her; she had never been
loved that way before.

They went to the water oak, and she sat on one of its
projecting roots, clear of the water, and leaned back
against its massive trunk. The hamadryad peered ner-
vously down from the high foliage, wondering what they
were up to.




18 With a Tangled Skein

Cedric stood before her, then dropped to one knee and
struck a pose. Niobe kept a straight face, determined not
to spoil his effort. He took a breath and sang:

"Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields."

His voice was untrained but strong, and he had good
pitch and control, and a great deal of feeling. It was a nice
song, with an evocative melody, and she was impressed.

"And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks."

As he sang, he reached forth to take her hand.

"By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals."

At his touch, something happened. Suddenly there was
music, as of a mighty orchestra, filling the forest with the
power of its sound. His voice seemed to become ampli-
fied, magnificent, evocative, compelling, beautiful. She
sat stunned, mesmerized by his amazing presence, by the
phenomenal music, and she only came out of it when the
song ended.

". . . If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love."

As he stopped singing, the grand music also died away.
"What's that?" Niobe asked, awed, still holding his

hand.

He looked concerned. "Is something wrong?"
"That—that music! Where did it come from?"
"Oh—that. I thought you knew. It's my magic. It runs

in our family, off and on. I'm sorry if 1—"

Piers Anthony                  19

"Sorry!" she exclaimed. "It's absolutely beautiful!
How do you do it?"

He shrugged, letting go of her hand. "It just comes
when I sing, when I touch. See." He put his hand on the
trunk of the tree, and sang:

"Come live with me and be my love."

Niobe heard nothing special—but the tree shuddered
as if reverberating to some potent sound, and the dryad
almost fell off her branch.

Niobe put her own hand on the bark, and the orchestra
returned.

"And we will all the pleasures prove."

"Cedric—it's terrific! It's—an experience!" She was
unable to define it further.

"It's just—the way it is." He seemed nonplused by her
reaction.

"Sing to me again," she urged him.

"But the song's finished. All that follows is the maid-
en's response."

Niobe took his hand. "Then sing that, Cedric!"

He sang, and the orchestra was with him, buttressing
his voice and elevating it to the transcendence manifested
before. It was not mere sound or mere music; it seemed
to be more than three dimensions, as if pure emotion had
been harnessed into melody. Could love, she asked her-
self, be more than this?

"If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love."

These were words of negation, but it didn't matter; the
evocative power remained. Niobe realized that anything




20              With a Tangled Skein

Cedric sang would have similar effect. She remained en-
tranced until the last verse.

"But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love."

The song finished, and with it the magic. But now Niobe
gazed at Cedric with a new appreciation. He did indeed
have magic, and love was possible. "Take me home, Ced-
ric," she told him.

By the time they reached the cabin, however, Niobe
had had a chance to restabilize. It was, after all, only
magic; Cedric was no different than he had been, and their
situation had not really changed. It made no sense to do
anything she might be sorry for later. So she did not push
the matter, and Cedric did not, and their marriage re-
mained unconsummated.

After another week of this, Niobe realized that time
was running short. They had been given a full month to
themselves; thereafter the relatives would be visiting.
Niobe realized this as she was about to sleep.

"They'll know," she said, abruptly sitting up in bed.
"Yeah," Cedric agreed from the hearth.
"Cedric, come over here," she said in peremptory fash-
ion. "We must get this done. We can't face them, other-
wise."

He got up and perched on the foot of the bed. He
seemed to be afraid of her. "Cedric, it's really not all that
complicated," she said. "We've both been told about the
birds and the bees and we've seen animals."
"You are no animal!" he said, horrified.
That set her back. This remained awkward. If he had
come on like a bull in the mating pen, she would have
been appalled, but would have tolerated it; that, her
mother had warned her privately, was the way men were.

Piers Anthony                 21

At least the ice, so to speak, would have been broken.
She didn't feel quite comfortable with that metaphor, but
it seemed to apply. As it was, they were in trouble. "For-
get the animals," she said. "Come into bed with me. It's
ridiculous sleeping apart like this."

He moved up, and stretched timorously beside her on
the bed.

"Not in your clothes!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, ma'am, I couldn't—"

She reached across and took his hand. It was cold and
stiff. "Cedric, are you afraid of me?"

"Oh, no, ma'am!" he protested. But he was shivering.

"Of—what we have to do?"

"Terrified," he agreed.

"Cedric, this is ridiculous. You know I like you, and
if you sing to me—"

"That's the magic, not me."

And he wanted her to love him, not his magic. He had
a point. But she suspected this was mainly an excuse to
justify his fear. "Cedric, I know you're no coward.
What's really bothering you?"

"I couldn't—just couldn't do that to you, ma'am."

That "ma'am" again! She was trying to bring them
closer to each other, but was only succeeding in increas-
ing their separation. "Why not?"

"Because you're so—so beautiful and wonderful
and—" He shrugged, unable to express himself properly.

"But Cedric, I'm your wife!"

"Not by your choice!"

This ground was too familiar; she had to get away from
it. "But not by yours either, Cedric. We are two people
thrown together by circumstance and the will of our fam-
ilies, and they really have tried to do what was best for
us, and now we—"

"A woman and a boy," he said.




22

Piers Anthony                  23

With a Tangled Skein

There it was again. He felt inadequate—and she
couldn't argue with this assessment, privately. But she
knew she had to change that. "But you're growing," she

said.

"I don't think I'll ever be grown enough for you."

"Oh, Cedric, that's not true!" she protested. But she
knew she sounded like a mother encouraging a child. This
dialogue was going nowhere. Like all the others.

She considered, while he lay in uncomfortable silence.
After a bit, she said: "Cedric, maybe we're trying to do
things too abruptly. Let's start in stages. Take off your
clothes, lie beside me under the quilt, and sleep, tonight.
Nothing else."

"You promise?"

She laughed. "I promise, Cedric. What do you think I

could do to you?"

He had to laugh too, but it was strained. "What if it

gets cold?"

"Then we move together, to share our warmth under

the covers. That's the idea, isn't it?"

"But you—you aren't wearing much."

She sat up and unbuttoned her nightie, pleased at her
own daring. "I'll wear nothing at all."

He actually rolled over and fell off the bed with an awful
thunk. Alarmed, Niobe jumped out, ran around, and bent
to help him up. "Oh, Cedric, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?"

"Please, ma'am—your shirt—" He turned his face

away.

She glanced down. In the faint light of the dying fire,

she saw that her partially unbuttoned nightie had fallen
open, exposing part other bosom. "For God's sake, Ced-
ric, you can look at me! I'm your wife!"
"It's not right," he said, face still averted.
"Cedric, look at me!" she ordered. But he would not.

Anger flared in her exposed bosom. She got up and
stalked back around the bed and plumped back down.
What was she to do with this boy?

Then, through her cooling fury, she became aware of
something. She listened.

He was leaning against the bed and sobbing, trying des-
perately to muffle it so that she would not know.

Her emotion spun about in a full turn. "Oh, Cedric!"
she breathed, and started across the bed to comfort him.
Then she stopped, realizing that that might be the worst
thing she could do. She was no mother, and he no child,
and these roles had to be avoided like plague. She had
thought originally only of her own chagrin at being mar-
ried to a boy; now she realized that the problem was far
more acute for him. She had to find some way to free
them both from these perceptions, so that she would be
a woman and he a man.

Tonight was a loss. She would just have to let it grind
itself out and try to do better on the morrow.

She did try on the morrow. "Cedric, let's get drunk."

He was taken aback. "I never touch the stuff, ma'am."

"Niobe," she said firmly. "Call me by name."

"Niobe," he agreed reluctantly. "I don't drink,
Niobe."

"Neither do I. But there's a bottle of white wine on the
shelf."

"I don't know. Some folks get wild when they drink."

"Yes, don't they!"

He smiled. He seemed recovered from his distress of
the prior night, and she knew she had been right to leave
him alone. Tonight she would get him in that bed!

They opened the bottle after the evening meal. They
sat out on the slope of the knoll beyond the cabin and
watched the sunset. Each took a small glass of the golden
fluid and drank it down. "Oh, it burns!" Niobe gasped.




24 With a Tangled Skein

"Sure does!" Cedric agreed. "Say, that's good stuff!"
He refilled his glass, and she refilled hers, but she sipped
her second more cautiously than he did. She was not, she
found, all that partial to burns, and anyway she didn't
need to get drunk, just him.

It did not take long for the wine to reach their minds.
"Hey, my head feels light!" he exclaimed happily.

"So does mine," she agreed. "Maybe we'd better go
slow."

"Slow? Why? This is fun!" He refilled his glass, not
noticing that she had not yet finished hers, and downed
it at a gulp.

Niobe was getting worried; it was evident that the al-
cohol was carrying him away, and she wasn't quite sure
where it would take him. "Cedric, let's sing!" she sug-
gested, taking his hand so that he couldn't use it to take
any more wine, yet.

"Sure, Niobe," he agreed cheerfully. Without pream-
ble, he sang:

"Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge
with mine."

The orchestra manifested, because she was touching
him. It added its grandeur to the simple song. Again she
was entranced. When she had first heard the magic, she
had realized that there was more to Cedric than she had
supposed. This time she realized that she had developed
a definite fondness for him. She could love this bonnie
boy, in due course. It was easy to believe that, as the
music encompassed her.

After that he sang a straight drinking song, Three Jolly
Coachmen, about a trio that was merry for the evening,
knowing that they would be sober and therefore less jolly
in the morning. They pontificated on the man who drank
light ale—

Piers Anthony                 25
"He falls as the leaves do fall, so early in October!"

And on the one who drank stout ale—a jolly fellow!
The background music was becoming somewhat uneven,
as his mind was dulled by the wine, as if the players of
the orchestra were getting tipsy too. Niobe found that
excruciatingly funny.

As it happened, she knew that song, and had a couple
of verses to contribute:

"Here's to the girl who steals a kiss, and runs to

tell her mother.

She does a very foolish thing; she'll never get an-
other!"

Cedric, high as he was, laughed with agreement.

Then she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. He
looked startled. He glanced around, leaned forward, and
vomited on the ground.

Oh, no! He had had too much, and gotten sick. He was
in no particular distress at the moment, but Niobe knew
that this evening, too, was finished.

She managed to get him inside, and cleaned up, and
onto the bed to sleep it off. This time she slept by the
hearth.

In the morning, grim with hangover, Cedric picked up
the bottle and stared at the remaining wine. "It looks ex-
actly like urine!" he said savagely, and went to the door
and flung it outside. He simply wasn't cut out to be a jolly
coachman.

That evening Niobe tried again. She sat him on the bed
beside her, took his hand, and asked him to sing again.
She sang with him, and the magic surrounded them, and
it was very like love. But when it was time to complete
the act of love, Cedric could not. The magnitude of the
task rendered him impotent. He was chagrined, but she







26              With a Tangled Skein

was in her secret heart relieved; she had tried her very
best, and failed. It just did not seem to be time.

"But Cedric," she said. "You must sleep without
clothing in this bed from now on, and I will too."

He stared at her with dismay. "But—"

"So we can honestly say we slept together," she ex-
plained. "Would anyone believe that was all there was to
it?"

Slowly he smiled, as relieved as she. He joined her,
naked, in the bed. It was a cheap compromise, but it
would have to do.




COLLEGE

In the fall Cedric went to the local college. It was not far
distant, but inconvenient to commute to by foot, and it
would have been complex to arrange for a horse. A magic
carpet would have been ideal, but reliable ones were still
so expensive that it wasn't expedient for this situation. It
was best, all things considered, for him to board—and
romantic incompatibility did not even enter the picture.

Niobe sent him off with a kiss and a tear and watched
him march away with his knapsack full of clothing. He
would buy his books there and pay tuition and board; they
had budgeted for it and had a comfortable margin.

She was depressed when he departed and sorry they
had not been able to make their marriage work. Cedric
was certainly a fine boy with wonderful magic, and she
had become quite fond of him. Of course no one knew
about the failure of the marriage—or at least the relatives
were too discreet to mention any suspicions. With luck,
things would work out better after Cedric had matured a
year or two in college, and no one would ever know. As

27




28              With a Tangled Skein

a last resort, she could buy a love potion and take it her-
self; but if Cedric caught on, he would react negatively,
and she really didn't want to deceive him anyway. Love

was not really the problem.

Meanwhile, she was lonely. She could have gone home
to her parents for the term, but knew that, if she did, her
mother would worm the truth out other, and she couldn't

stand the mortification.

She made do alone. Running the house was simple
enough, and she did a great deal of reading and weaving
in the days and cultivated the acquaintance of the dryad
of the water oak in the swamp. It was an acceptable ex-
istence, for the time being.

She arranged the cabin to suit herself precisely, and it
was very comfortable. She worked on the yard, and that
was comfortable too. When she had the near portion of
the swamp nicely policed, she decided it was time to visit

Cedric.

She rented a horseless carriage for the occasion. This

was considerably cheaper than a carpet, but slower, and
the wheels bumped over the rutted track, jolting her un-
comfortably. Nevertheless she arrived after a day, reach-
ing the college in fair order, though her prim traveling |

dress was dusted with grime.                       I

She spied Cedric walking along a pathway between the S
dormitory and a classroom building. Only two months had j
passed, but he did seem to have grown. He was the tallest |
of the youths there, though he was a freshman, and two '
college girls flirted outrageously with him as they passed.

Then he spied Niobe and smiled. He had grown more
handsome, too! He seemed to be in his element here. But
he became diffident and awkward as he approached her.
The problem between them still existed.

She visited his dormitory room and met his room-
mate—a pudgy, scholarly type. Cedric showed her his

Piers Anthony                  29

work so far: projects relating to wetlands reclamation and
natural magic. It was evident that he took it seriously and
was learning a great deal. She was sure he was a joy to
his professors.

First she had a little chore to do. "Give me your cap,"
she said.

"My cap?" he asked blankly.

"Your college cap—the one you wear to show you're
a student. I believe you'll find it on your head."

Perplexed, he removed it and handed it to her. She
brought out her needle and thread and sewed a bright band
of silk around it. "That's to show the college girls that
you're married," she said firmly, returning it to him.

"Oh. Sure. Of course." He seemed nonplused.

She kissed him chastely, then returned to her carriage.
She found herself both reassured and disquieted as she
rode home, and it took time to ferret out the sources of
her feelings. But at length she realized that she was
pleased to see Cedric properly established in college and
doing well, pleasantly surprised to see him so tall and
handsome and confident, and jealous of the attention he
received from the girls of his own age. A married man,
after all, had no business attracting such interest. So she
had done what was necessary, but still was bothered.
After all, what had she done with him all summer, when
she had had him all to herself? There was the nagging
suspicion of failure on her part; or, if not exactly that, of
imperfection. Would they have succeeded in consum-
mating the marriage if she had been more alert to the
problem? If she had been sensitive to his side of it? If she
had refrained from correcting his errors, from being the
perfect lady, and just concentrated on being a person he
could relate to as he could to a college girl? Naturally he
had been diffident!

Having resolved the mixture of her emotions and gotten
them suitably shelved in her mind, she resumed her or-




30              With a Tangled Skein

dinary life and produced some truly fine tapestries de-
picting forest and wetlands scenes. One showed the water
oak in the swamp, with the hamadryad perched on its
lowest branch, posing. It had taken time and patience to
befriend the nymph enough to get her to do this, and
Niobe knew that not many human people could have ac-
complished this at all; she was quite pleased. If only she

could have done that with Cedric!

Near the end of the semester she visited Cedric again.
He had been dutifully sending her letters about his life
and progress at the college, and his writing showed in-
creasing perception and literacy. He was gaining mentally
and socially as well as physically; the college experience
was indeed good for him. He was majoring in Wetlands
Magic and already was learning things they hadn't taught
in Niobe's day. He knew how to test trees for their spe-
cific forms of magic and all about the ecological cycle.
Next term he would take a course in Wetlands Fauna and
their relationship to the vegetation. He was excited by the
enormous store of information available and determined
to master it all. But Niobe wanted to see for herself, just |
to be sure he wasn't exaggerating. The impetuous young {
were prone to exaggeration, after all.                  i
Cedric was taller yet and marvelously handsome in the
sunlight, and his ready smile charmed her. He had one
class to attend before he could give her his full attention.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, but his grin was one of ac-
commodation rather than chagrin. "I must attend; 1 have
a report to give. Then I'll be with you. But my Water
Magic Prof wants to talk to you anyway, so you won't be

bored."

How his confidence had grown! Niobe was almost dis-
mayed to see that her husband was prospering just as well
without her as she was without him. But she went to see
But she went to see
the Prof, who was expecting her.

Piers Anthony                  31

The Prof was typical of his breed: aging, stooped, with
a shock of white hair and a deeply serrated face from
which the eyes fairly gleamed with intelligence. "Ah,
Mrs. Kaftan!" he exclaimed. "I recognize you at once by
your extraordinary beauty!"

"Oh, come on!" she demurred, foolishly flattered.

"No, indeed!" he persisted loudly. All teachers had
voices that carried to the farthest recesses of the mind.
"I asked Cedric how I would know you, and he said when
I saw the loveliest mortal woman of this world, that would
be Niobe. Lo, it is so! He is much in awe of you, and it
is not difficult to perceive the reason. You are indeed
outstanding!"

"Enough, Professor! I'm an old married woman! Why
did you wish to talk with me? Is something wrong with
Cedric's program?"

"Quite the opposite, my dear!" he protested enthusi-
astically. "Cedric is the most brilliant and conscientious
student I have had in a decade. His work is outstanding
for a student! Do you know, Mrs. Kaftan, a mind like his
is seldom brought to these, if you will pardon the pun,
backwaters of scholarship like Wetlands Ecology. I
wanted to compliment you on the good work you have
done for our discipline by motivating him to enter it. I
know that when he matures he will carry our research
forward to new heights, as it were."

Niobe was taken aback. Evidently the Prof was a crea-
ture of superlatives! "I only showed him the local—I do
have some interest in—"

"Indeed you do, Mrs. Kaftan!" he agreed. "He tells
me that he owes it all to you. He says you took an ignorant
hick and showed him the wetlands in a way he had never
seen, and it changed his life. Mrs. Kaftan, you are a won-
derful woman, and I salute you!"

She found herself halfway overwhelmed by the Profs
enthusiasm. He was not bad at motivation himself! "Then




32              With a Tangled Skein

Cedric is—doing well?" It sounded inane, but she
couldn't think of an adequate remark at the moment.

"Straight A's," he agreed. "And we do not issue those
lightly! But that does not begin to suggest his potential.
Do you know, Mrs. Kaftan, if I may be so candid, at first
I wondered why a woman as lovely as you have been
confirmed to be would marry such a youngster, as ob- |
viously you could pick and choose among the best the j
War has left us, but as I came to know him, I understood
that you had picked the best. There is only one like him
in each generation. You will never regret that decision, I

am sure!"

"Uh, yes," Niobe agreed faintly.
"Cedric worships the ground you tread, and I am not
certain I mean that figuratively. If you had sent him to
business school, he would have become in due course a
tycoon. What a loss that would have been for science and
magic! You turned him instead to the wetlands—" He
shook his head, then impulsively reached out to take her
hand, lift it to his lips, and kiss it. "My most abiding
gratitude, Mrs. Kaftan. If there is ever any favor you re-
quire of me, do not hesitate to ask."

She found herself back outside in the sun, dazed. No
wonder Cedric was doing well; the Prof was an amazing
catalyst. Probably he treated everyone like that, turning
each student on. Still, he had had no need to call Cedric
brilliant unless it was true. She had known Cedric was
smart; apparently she had underestimated him. The col-
lege environment had evidently brought out the best in

him.
Cedric finished his class and rejoined her. He was still

a tousle-headed youngster under his banded cap, but now
she fancied she could see the smartness in him, radiating
out from his head. She remembered the magic of his
music. Yes, there was definitely more to him than youth!

Piers Anthony                  33

But again, in her private presence, he became shy and
awkward. "I—it's great to see you, Niobe," he said.
"What do you want to do?"

"Well, I will need to check your wardrobe," she said.
"I'm sure your clothing is wearing out and will need at-
tention." Which was not at all what she wanted to say
and, indeed, fell comfortably into the major category of
Things Never to Be Said, because she was being moth-
erly. But she couldn't even conceive of, let alone for-
mulate, what she might have intended to say. The Profs
remarks had colored her perspective, and she had not yet
completed her readjustment. She liked to keep things or-
derly, like threads in a tapestry, and hated it when a thread
broke. But mending a thread was a special process, re-
quiring time and consideration.

"Uh, sure," he agreed somewhat lamely. "You always
take good care of me."

Damn it! she thought furiously. She had definitely done
it again, putting him in the junior role. How could he ever
become a true husband this way?

So she wended her way home, bearing a burden of tan-
gled feelings greater than before. She might be an expert
weaver of ornamental tapestries, but she was plainly in-
adequate in marriage. She had expected to marry a more
experienced man and just wasn't competent to educate a
younger one in the necessary way. If only there were a
college course in—

She halted that thought in place. No, she certainly
didn't want Cedric taking that kind of course! Not with
those colleens! Marriage was a private thing.

The winter passed somewhat bleakly, and when the ice
melted from the surface of the swamp, she proceeded
again to the college. This time the students were out in
force, enjoying the first genuinely nice day in some time.
Some of the more voluptuous girls were in very brief out-
fits for sunning, and the youths were in shorts. Niobe,




34              With a Tangled Skein                 \

conscious of the flattery of the Prof last time, and not
wishing to be taken for a college girl, had garbed herself
this time in very conservative fashion. She wore an
old-fashioned long skirt her mother had outgrown, and
a figure-de-emphasizing jacket. Her hair was severely
bound back in a bun, she wore no makeup, and She had
button-down boots. She felt quite dowdy.

She checked Cedric's room, but he was not there, and
she wasn't sure what class he might be in at the moment.
So she sat on a bench near the dormitory and waited for
his return, taking advantage of the time to do some knit-
ting. She was good at that too; in fact she was adept at
any type of yarn manipulation. It really was pleasant
enough here, and of course she had arrived early; he
wouldn't be expecting her for perhaps another hour.

Several college youths came walking along the path.
They had evidently been drinking; in fact one still carried
a bottle of red wine, half-finished. Niobe's nose wrinkled;

she detested wine of every type, ever since the disaster
during the courtship. She was surprised and not pleased
that its use was permitted on the campus. Was Cedric
being subjected to bad influences?

One of the youths paused as they passed her bench.
"Say, who's the old lady?" he demanded half-facetiously,
staring at Niobe. She knew she looked older than the col-
lege girls, as was her intent, but he was exaggerating. He
was the one with the bottle, showing signals of intoxi-
cation; as he paused, he lifted the bottle and took another
swig. A driblet of pale red fluid ran down the side of his
chin; then he lowered the bottle and burped.

"Somebody's mother," another youth joked. Oh, that
stung, for a private reason she would never let them know,
"Hey, whose mother are you?" the first demanded.
"No one's," Niobe replied primly. "I am Cedric's
wife."

Piers Anthony                  35

"His wife!" the youth exclaimed. "He never let on he
was robbing the retirement home! He always claimed his
woman was beautiful!" And all four of them laughed
coarsely.

Niobe tried to ignore their gibes, hoping they would go
away, but the wine gave them persistent insolence. They
closed about her, their wine-soaked breaths fouling the
air. "Please go away," she said at last.

"But we just got here!" the bottle-holder said. "And
it's our dorm! Come on, old lady, you gonna show us a
good time?" He reached for her jacket and grabbed the
lapel, yanking the front open so that a button popped off.
"I'll bet you got some good stuff hidden away in there!"

Niobe jerked away and slapped his hand.

"Hey!" he exclaimed as the others laughed. Then his
mouth turned mean. "Hit me, will you? Well, how do you
like thisV And he poured the red wine on her head.

Niobe gave a cry of surprise and dismay and jumped
up, trying to get away from the stream. But he caught her
arm. "Beautiful woman, hell!" he said breathily. "You're
just a damned slut!"

She kicked him in the shin and spun away, knowing it
was not possible to reason with drunkenness. But one of
the other youths caught her about the shoulders from be-
hind and heaved her off the ground. A third grabbed her
legs. "Come on, let's see what she's made of!" he cried.
"Pull her skirt off!"

Niobe struggled valiantly, drawing up her legs and then
shoving, but the youths were too strong for her. They held
her at shoulders and feet, and the bottle-wielder dropped
the spent container and groped for her skirt, hauling it
down over her legs so that her undergarments were ex-
posed. "Say, she's not so old!" he said, pausing to
squeeze her left thigh.

Niobe screamed, but it did no good. The youth jerked
her skirt down to her ankles, and the one holding her feet

36

Piers Anthony                  37

With a Tangled Skein

let go of one so that the wadded skirt could pass around
it. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle again
and pushed it away, forcing her legs to spread. "Look at
those legs!" he exclaimed.

"Get her down on the ground," the bottle-youth di-
rected. "Hold her still, and we'll take turns." He licked
his lips and loosened his belt.

"Turns at what?" a new voice demanded.

Niobe recognized it. "Cedric!" she cried.

Indeed it was he, standing tall and dynamic as he flung
away his jacket. "That is my wife," he said, and it was
as if a cloud crossed his face, turning his normally sunny
expression pale and grim.

No pretense was possible, at this stage. "Get him!'* the
bottle-youth cried.

They dropped Niobe and turned as one to face Cedric.
They closed on him from four sides, not so drunk as to
give him any fair chance singly.

"No!" she cried, knowing that Cedric could not pos-
sibly prevail against four. She tried to get up, but her feet
got tangled in her skirt and she had to pause to get it on
again. As she did, she watched with dread while the four
attacked her husband.

Two took hold of Cedric's arms while a third drew back
his fist and struck Cedric in the stomach. Niobe winced—
but Cedric just grinned. "God, he's like a damn rock!"
the youth exclaimed, amazed.

"Now you have had the first blow," Cedric said. "I'll
have the last."

Suddenly Cedric brought his arms together in front of
him, hauling the two in from the sides as if they were
puppets. They stumbled along, colliding with each other.
Then he flung his arms out again, and they fell away on
either side. Cedric was free.

He stepped forward, his two fists swinging like sledge-
hammers. One connected to the gut of the youth who

had struck him, and his stomach was more like mush than
rock. He folded forward, the wind gushing out of him—
just as Cedric's other fist slammed into the side of his
head. The youth's hair flew wide and he staggered and
fell, semiconscious.

Cedric whirled and struck the bottle-youth on the chest.
The air whooshed out of him, too, and he sank to his
knees. But the remaining two had regained their feet and
were charging in again.

Cedric ducked down, caught one of them by arm and
leg, lifted him on his shoulders, and hurled him into the
other.

As suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over. Cedric
stood, his chest heaving, the muscles of his upper arms
bulging; the four youths were spread in various ignomi-
nious attitudes about the lawn. Niobe was virtually spell-
bound, looking at him. Suddenly he seemed twice the size
he had been before.

Then he stepped across to help her up. "You all
right, Niobe? I heard your scream and I got out of that
class—"

"Cedric—you never told me you could fight like that!"

He shrugged. "You told me I'd be through with that."

Now she remembered. He had liked to fight. She had
presumed it to be mere mischief. She looked around at
the four. Some mischief! "Perhaps I spoke prematurely.
Just what kind of fighting did you do?"

"Well, I was bare-knucks champ of my district, junior
division. But you were right; I had to put aside childish
things when I got married."

"Childish things!" she echoed, shaking her head. In her
spot memory she saw him again, shrugging off a solid blow
to the stomach; saw the two youths almost jerked off their
feet as he drew his arms together, then flung like rag dolls
to the ground. Now she felt the amazing power of those
arms, as he held her steady. She should have gotten the




38 With a Tangled Skein

hint when he had shown her how to split wood, for his
strength had been there then. "And I called you a bonnie
boy!"

Now a crowd was gathering, and the Prof she had talked
to before appeared. "What happened here?"

The bottle-youth struggled to his feet. "He set upon
us!" he cried, pointing at Cedric. "For no reason!"

Niobe's mouth dropped open at the audacity of this lie.
But she realized that there had been no witnesses to the
initial part of this incident—just her and the fouryouths.
The word of four against the word of one.

"Shall we see?" the Prof inquired, as if unconcerned.
He spied the bottle and picked it up, frowning. "Good—
a drop remains. We shall invoke the water magic."

He brought out a little dish containing a film of mold,
set it carefully on the ground, and upended the bottle over
it. A driblet of wine descended into the dish.

There was a pause. Then a reddish glow developed at
the dish. It expanded rapidly, and there were roils of
vapor in it, as the wine was vaporized in the magic pattern
stimulated by the potent mold. An enchantment of water,
certainly; Niobe was fascinated. She had known of such
magic, but had never before actually observed it.

"Move back, give room," the Prof warned. "We do
not want to interfere with the re-creation."

They all moved back, even the youths, who seemed to
be completely intimidated by the Profs presence. The
vapor diffused into the entire area, and stabilized, lending
a reddish cast to the air. Then it swirled and coalesced
into a ghostly image: a woman seated on the bench. "This
is a ten-minute spell," the Prof explained. "It should be
enough."

"But I don't think the wine was here yet," Cedric said.
"It had to have come with them."

"That is why the picture is fuzzy," the Prof agreed.
"You did not suppose my magic was vague, did you, lad?

Piers Anthony                  39

The wine was distant, but the magic is here; it is re-
creating a still scene until further definition is possible."

Several minutes passed. No one moved. All were ab-
sorbed by the promise of the water magic.

Then, abruptly, the image brightened. The woman be-
came Niobe, in color, though tinged with the red of the
wine's eye. The four youths barged into the scene, ghostly
yet clear. The early stages of the molestation were reen-
acted. Niobe felt Cedric wince as the wine was poured
over her figure's head; he had the same bad associations
that she did.

"So this is your 'no reason,'" the Prof murmured,
glancing at the youths.

At the height of the struggle, Cedric entered the picture.
Now, seeing him more objectively, Niobe was even more
impressed with his demeanor. He had indeed been grow-
ing; he seemed inches taller than he had been the day of
his marriage, and was now a young giant of a man. He
was so handsome in his righteous anger that a nimbus
seemed to surround him. Or was that the wine-haze?

Niobe saw now that Cedric had actually invited them
to grab his arms, and had deliberately accepted the first
blow. She saw the youth who had struck him pull back,
shaking his right hand as if it had been hurt. Then Cedric
started to fight, and in moments it was over. Bare-knucks
champ? Surely so!

The scene ended and the vapor dissipated into invisi-
bility. But the evidence was in. "Clean out your rooms,"
the Prof directed the youths. "You will be discharged
from this institution with prejudice; your illicit wine has
condemned you." They scrambled up and sheepishly de-
parted.

The Prof turned to Cedric. "You were intelligent to
provide them the initiation of the combat; now there will
be no question of abuse of your power. You were aware
that folk of your prowess are enjoined from abusing it?"

40

With a Tangled Skein

Piers Anthony

Cedric nodded soberly. "I knew I had cause, but if I

killed anyone—"

"You had cause, and you did not kill anyone," the Prof
agreed. "1 commend you on your discretion. Now take
your wife to the guest house; she is in need of cleaning

and comfort."

Indeed, now that the threat was over, Niobe was suf-
fering a reaction. She had almost been raped—and Cedric
had been set upon by four men! Never before in her life
had she been exposed to violence like this. She put her
face in her hands, and discovered it wet with tears, red-
dened by wine. She tried to wipe them away, but they
just got worse, and soon she was openly sobbing.

Cedric picked her up and carried her to the guest house.
She felt his arms like flexible steel, and his chest and
stomach like iron; he was seventeen now, coming into the
flush of his physical potential. Growing . . .

She had locked in the image of a boy, and never ob-
served the emerging man.

He set her carefully down on the bed of the guest house.
"I will fetch the nurse," he said, concerned. "You are

hurt."

But she clung to him. "Cedric, 1 need you!" she cried.

"I love you!"

He paused. "You're upset, Niobe, with reason. A bath

and some rest—"

She drew him down, desperately. "I've been such a
fool, and I reek of wine! Forgive me, Cedric!"

"There is nothing to forgive," he said gently. But he
allowed himself to be brought down to her until he was
lying beside her on the bed. "You have always been per-
fect, Niobe," he added, murmuring into her ear.

She rolled onto him, hugging him close. Her tear-wet
lips found his and she kissed him with a passion that as-
tonished her. Her breast was suffused with reaction and
emotion; she could not get enough of him. He responded,
as he had to, to the fire other desire, kissing her in return.

Suddenly she laughed. Startled, he lifted his head to
look at her questioningly.

She sat up, reached for his shirt, and unbuttoned it.
"There!" she said, smiling. "I have had the first blow."

Slowly he smiled. "But this is no fight."

"Isn't it? We have been trying to do this for most of a
year, and have always been defeated by our own reti-
cence. Cedric, you have fought for me, most valiantly and
effectively, and now you have won me. Take your
spoils!"

"Spoils!" he muttered wryly. "You are the woman I
love."

"And you are the man I love!" she replied gladly. "I
want to be yours—completely."

He kissed her. Then he undressed her. Her blouse was
sticky with drying wine, and her hair was matted with it,
but she knew better than to pause for even a minute to
clean up. Now was the time to strike!

Now Cedric looked at her body. She smiled and
reached up to him. She knew that her reaction was no
more important than his and that their physical interaction
was only a portion of their emotional one. For the first
time she truly desired him, and for the first time he be-
lieved he deserved her.

Still, he was inexperienced, as was she. She helped him
as much as she could without seeming aggressive and,
when he hesitated, she held him and kissed him passion-
ately; when he sought to come into her and found the way
obscure and paused in confusion, she thrust herself at him
and abated the obscurity herself. It hurt—but with the
pain came an unutterable pleasure and a closeness she




42 With a Tangled Skein

had never before known. "Cedric . . . Cedric ..." she
whispered, and gently bit his bare shoulder.

Yet simultaneously she found herself in the bog, by the
water oak, seeing it from three sides. From one side she
viewed it with the freshness of youth and innocence, as
if seeing it for the very first time. From another side she
viewed it with the cynical eye of experience, understand-
ing its nature and appreciating it for what it was. From
the third side she viewed it with the significance of age.
She had an endless memory of it in all its seasons, spun
out into an eternal thread and wound about her distaff,
the small staff on which her yarn was wound for spinning.
She was aware of its entire history. Yet the three views
were one, faceted, neither merged nor separated; all three
views comprised the impression of the whole, like colors
or contrasts. She understood that tree!

Somehow, too, there was a fourth view, but shrouded,
and she knew that it was one she never wanted to see,
for it was completely horrible. Yet it, too, was part of the
whole, the painful aspect of a generally positive reality.

Then the moment of ultimate rapture passed, fading
into a more general but pleasant awareness. She remained
locked in Cedric's embrace as the great tide ebbed. Im-
pulsively, she kissed him again. "Now I am possessed,"
she whispered. The word had a triple or quadruple layer
of meaning, relating to property, sexual expression, and
diabolical awareness. Her vision of the water oak seemed
to have fragmented her consciousness, so that what had
seemed simple now seemed marvelously complex.

In due course Cedric, fulfilled, fell asleep. Now Niobe
became aware of her discomfort. She got up, carefully
cleaned herself, washed her hair, and applied some heal-
ing salve. She did not want Cedric to think he had hurt
her, though it was a pain that changed her life. Then she
checked the bed and spied the stain of blood on the sheet;

Piers Anthony                  43

how was she to conceal that? Certainly she did not want
that going through the college laundry, betraying to the
staff not only what they had been up to, but that it had
been the first time. So she fetched a sponge, dampened
it, and worked on the stain until it had faded to the point
ofunidentifiability. Now, at last, she could relax.

She lay down—and Cedric stirred. She took his hand,
kissed it, and murmured a soothing word to him, and he
drifted off again. She was relieved; she loved him, but
right now she wanted to sleep.

In the morning she returned home, leaving Cedric to
his studies and his phenomenal new memories. But she
did not allow much time to elapse before she visited him
again. It was not that she had suddenly become a sexual
creature—she had been advised by her mother that no
woman could match the appetite of any man in this re-
spect—but that she missed him and wanted to be with
him as much as possible. Her tidy house no longer sat-
isfied her. She wanted it to be animated again by Cedric's
presence. She was indeed in love.

They made love again in the guest house, and this time
it was easier because they were slightly experienced.
Also, as she thought wryly, she was broken in. Again she
responded almost as rapidly and emphatically as he, de-
spite her mother's cautions, for love propelled her. Again,
at the climactic moment, she had a vision.

This time, as she stood before the water oak, she saw
a spider climbing an invisible strand. / can do that, she
thought. She reached up and caught hold of her own in-
visible strand and climbed it, for she had four hands and
four feet. In fact she was a spider, the ultimate spinner
and weaver. What a web she would make! But then the
ecstasy abated, and she was human again, relaxing in the
embrace of her beloved.

She thought to ask him whether he, too, had visions in

44

Piers Anthony                  45

With a Tangled Skein

that moment, but she desisted, fearing that it would seem
that she was bored with lovemaking. She wasn't; in fact
it seemed more likely that her visions represented a tran-
scendent overflow of pleasure. When a system was stim-
ulated beyond its rated capacity, it could short out or blow
off; could this be why the images were so far removed
from the present experience?

She had no decent answer—but she would be glad to
explore the matter further. She liked making love to Ced-
ric, and she liked the visions, even if the thematic con-
nection between the two was tenuous. "Oh, Cedric!" she
exclaimed, hugging him again. "I'm so glad we found each
other at last!"

"You're still the perfect woman," he said, and fell
asleep.

"You foolish man," she murmured fondly, and nibbled
on his ear.

Cedric completed his first year of college with outstand-
ing grades and came home for the summer. He now knew
more than Niobe did about the wetlands, and she was
fascinated by the lore he had acquired. He would squat
by a stagnant pool and scoop out a handful of glop and
show her how the algae in it emitted little spells of nausea
to discourage such interference. It was true; when she
came close to the handful, she felt like retching, but when
she stepped back she felt all right. Of course the smell
might account for it—but it didn't help to hold her nose,
so she was satisfied that it was, as he said, magic. He was
able to identify the exact species of water oak near their
cabin, and the variety ofhamadryad too. He knew where
the timid forest deer hid and what their preferred forage
was. "I owe it all to you, Niobe," he said generously.
"You showed me the wetlands!"

"I'll cry, I'll cry when the wetlands are dry," she
agreed, smiling. How little had she realized what her in-
nocent song would start!

And of course they made love again, for the first time
at home, erasing their prior failures here. Once more she
launched into vision—but this time it was sinister. She
saw the face of a saturnine man—and that man's mouth
curled into a sneer, and he winked at her. She screamed
and snapped from the vision to find Cedric frozen in mid-
motion, horrified that he had somehow hurt her.

"No, no," she reassured him immediately. "It wasn't
you! I had a bad dream."

"You were asleep?" he asked incredulously.

Then she had to tell him of the visions, for the mis-
understanding would be worse than the reality. He ad-
mitted that he did not have such visions, but had heard
of those who did. "Mostly women," he concluded.

"Oh? How do you know about women?" she asked
archly.

"My text in human biology," he said. "It's one of the
freshman required courses."

So she was, after all, typical. "But the awful face—
why would I see that, when I'm having such joy of you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe we should stop those visions."

"Oh, Cedric, I don't want to stop—"

"I said visions, not love!" he said, laughing. He was
no longer shy about sex; once he had gotten into it, he
liked it. "I'll try to sing to you, next time."

The notion appealed to her. The rapture of his magic
superimposed on that of the loveplay—the ultimate ex-
perience!

They tried it, and it worked. He did not even have to
sing aloud; if he ran the song through in his mind, the
orchestra played for her, and no visions came, no matter
how transported she was by the experience.

So it went through the summer. In the fall it was time
for college again, and she packed him off with genuine
regret. But he had a real future, once he completed his




46              With a Tangled Skein

education, and she refused to deny him that. She would
suffer through the separation and visit him often.

But it was harder on her than she had anticipated. She
felt chronically out of sorts, and sometimes ill. Then she
got nauseous in the mornings. What was wrong with her?

Suddenly she realized: she wasn't ill—she was with
child.




SHOOTING DEER

She had to tell him, of course. She did so on the next visit.
Cedric was amazed at what he had wrought, and pleased.
"I'll be a father!" he exclaimed, as if this were a com-
pletely unique experience.

"Well, it isn't as if you didn't try for it," she reminded
him.

"I guess that will have to stop now," he said regret-
fully.

"No, not yet. Just—carefully."

They were careful. The winter passed, and the baby
expanded within her. When Niobe reached the eighth
month, her mother came to stay with her and midwife the
birth if it occurred early, for there was no convenient hos-
pital. Cedric was ready to quit college and come home,
but Niobe made him remain to complete his courses; he
had gone too far to throw it away now. So it was that,
before he turned eighteen and just before he made it home
for the summer, Cedric became the father of a healthy
son.

47




48 With a Tangled Skein

He was pleased—but he knew there was a price. Niobe
had been able to make do alone, but she would no longer
be able to do that. Cedric had to retire from college and
become a full-time family man. He was ready—but she
knew he also regretted it. It had been clear that if he had
continued his program at the college, he could have be-
come a professional, perhaps even a professor in due
course. He could still be one—but now there would be a
delay, and by the time he could return, years hence, the
situation could have changed. So it was a calculated risk
for Cedric's career. Almost, she wished she had not con-
ceived so quickly.

"It doesn't matter," Cedric said. "A man's got to do
what he's got to do in the time he has, and I want to be
with you."

"That's sweet," she said, and rewarded him with a
kiss. Still, she felt guilty.

"Prof told me that if he'd had a wife who looked like
you, she would have had a baby just as fast," he added.

"Still, you have such a good career awaiting you; you
must return to it as soon as possible."

"We'll see," he said.

But when she thought of the baby, her mood swung the
other way. Junior was an absolute joy! She knew from
the first hour that he would be a genius like his father—
and he would have proper schooling from the outset. Oh,
she had such dreams for Junior!

Cedric took care of things, pretty well running the
household until she was back on her feet. Then, as time
opened up, he began spending time in the swamp. He was
making a chart of the local ecology—the trees, the smaller
vegetation, the animals, the insects, the algae, the wa-
terflows, and the observable interactions between them.

Hunters roamed the forest, in and out of hunting sea-
son, poaching game. Cedric came across the remains and
grew angry. "If the deer shot back, the hunters would be

Piers Anthony                  49

less bold!" he exclaimed. Then he paused in realization.
"Maybe I can arrange for the deer to shoot back!"

Niobe laughed—but he was serious. He was a wetlands
major, not a magic major, but he got a tome of spells and
searched through it, trying to find one that could be
adapted to his purpose. If magic could bounce an arrow
or a bullet back on its origin, so that the hunter in effect
shot himself—

But magic was no subject for amateurs, any more than
science was. It required years of study to master the basic
precepts and stem discipline; even then it had its special
hazards. Cedric was smart, but more than intelligence was
needed. "I just don't have the time!" he exclaimed, frus-
trated.

"You're welcome to take all the time you want, dear,"
Niobe said. She was nursing Junior and hated to see Ced-
ric upset. When he was annoyed, she tended to echo the
feeling involuntarily, and it seemed to change the milk
and make Junior colicky, and if there was one thing worse
than an upset husband, it was a colicky baby.

Cedric paused as if weighing something momentous.
"Of course," he agreed, and went outside. Had she some-
how offended him? Her husband seemed more nervous,
irritable, and generally tense than he had been. Maybe
she should try to hire a maid for the chores so that Cedric
could, after all, return to college. She knew what a sac-
rifice he was making and she wanted to set things right.
Their love was so wonderful that she hated to have any
strains put on it.

But when she broached the matter, later in the day,
Cedric would have none of it. "I'm through with college!"
he declared. "My destiny is here."

"But the Prof said you have such potential! I think he
wants you to become a—"

He put his big hand on hers. She felt a stirring of the
music in him, but this time it was a strange, discordant,

50

Piers Anthony                  51

With a Tangled Skein

disturbing sound. "It would not be worth the cost," he
said. "Prof understands."

She experienced a kind of dread, but could not fathom
its cause. The flickering image of a demonic face came to
her, and one of the water oak, three of whose views were
positive, the fourth an unglimpsed horror. What cost?
Separation from her? Yet Cedric had endured that before
and prospered. Why had he changed his mind?

"Cedric—is something wrong?"

"Of course not," he said quickly.

She didn't believe him, but realized that he would not
tell her the truth. That disturbed her further, and she had
to stop nursing Junior. She was sure it wasn't any fault
in Cedric's love for her; that was unfailing. He was a
father new, a proven man, yet sometimes even now she
would be working at the loom, and would look up to dis-
cover him watching her with a touching expression of ad-
oration. No, he loved her and wanted to be with her.
Still-
She laid Junior in the crib. "Cedric, we could move
closer to the college so you could commute—"

He took her in his arms and kissed her. "This is our
home. I love you—and the wetlands. My life is here."

So it seemed. She did not try to argue further, and in-
deed their life together was good. They resumed making
love as she recovered from childbearing, and Cedric was
enormously gentle and, he sang to her, and in those mo-
ments it seemed that nothing else mattered.

As Niobe grew stronger, she started taking Junior for
walks outdoors, for fresh air was good for babies. He
seemed to like the wetlands, especially the huge water
oak. Niobe would sit at the foot of the tree and sing, and
Junior would listen. The hamadryad got used to the new
arrival and came to like Junior. She didn't quite trust
Niobe, for adults had a long and bad history of cynicism
toward wild magic, but when Niobe set the baby in his

carrier by the tree and retreated a reasonable distance,
the dryad would come down and play with him. Niobe
was thrilled; very few mortals could approach any of the
wilderness creatures, either natural or supernatural, and
it was a mark of special favor when one could. Maybe
Junior would grow up to be a world-famous naturalist!
Certainly there was no threat from the dryad; Cedric had
assured her of that, and she believed it. In the dryad's
presence Junior was always alert and smiling.

Events elsewhere were not as sanguine. A developer
bought a large tract of land that included their swamp. It
was theirs in proximity and spirit, not in the eyes of geo-
graphic law. The company planned to drain the swamp,
cut down the trees, and build a number of identical houses
there.

Cedric exploded. He trekked to all the residents for
miles around and so impressed them with the need to pre-
serve the wetlands that they formed a citizen's committee
to oppose the development. They wrote letters to news-
papers and the county authorities; when these failed to
halt the project, they set about constructing deadfalls for
bulldozers. They filed suit in court to stop it. When the
company lawyer tried to suggest the swamp was nothing
more than a murky waste that posed a public health threat
as a breeding ground for disease-carrying mosquitoes,
Cedric argued persuasively that those mosquitoes carried
no diseases in this region, being the wrong species for
that, served as food for pretty birds, and wouldn't even
bite people who were sensibly protected by repellent or
a spell. Then he spoke of the other aspects of the wet-
lands—the fish and amphibians, the foxes and deer, the
trees that could grow nowhere else, the special interactive
magic these living things had developed to get along.
"There is no bad water coming from this region," he con-
cluded, and he had documentation to prove it: studies the
college had made. "No erosion, no bad flooding. The wet-




52

Piers Anthony                  53

With a Tangled Skein

lands keep the water pure and contained, so that we who
live near it can live at peace with nature. Too little of this
kind of natural paradise remains; how can we pave it over
with another foul city!" And such was the nature of his
eloquence that the spectators in the courtrooms ap-
plauded. Few had really cared about the wetlands before;

now they all did.

But man's law remained on the side of the developer,
and the judge, with open regret, ruled in favor of the com-
pany. The bulldozers would be allowed to forage in the
swamp.

"I'm so sorry," Niobe told him, but Cedric only
shrugged. "They will be stopped," he said grimly. But
he didn't say how.

One foggy morning Cedric kissed her with special ten-
derness and lifted Junior out of his crib. "I'm taking him
for a walk down to the oak," he said.

She was pleased—but somehow alarmed too. There
seemed to be an edge to his final words: "We'll be there."
Yet they were innocent words, and the water oak was the
safest kind of place for the baby; the hamadryad was vir-
tually a babysitter now. In fact, the nymph had begun to
teach the baby some wild magic—and if there was one
thing rarer than the company of a dryad, it was the sharing
of the magic of a dryad. Junior, too young to walk or talk,
nevertheless did seem to understand and almost seemed
to be able to do a spell. So why should there be any con-
cern? Niobe knew she was being foolish. There was, she
reminded herself firmly, absolutely no threat to Junior.

She labored at the loom, forming a fine picture of that
very tree, and as her hands moved, largely of their own
volition, she daydreamed. The image of the tree fogged
out and was replaced by that of the saturnine face.
"Today I come for you!" it said, grinning evilly. "My
emissary is on its way and cannot be stopped. You are
doomed, mistress of the skein!"

Niobe screamed. The image vanished, and there was
only the forming tapestry. She was shuddering with re-
action. This was the vision other lovemaking rapture, but
it was quite foreign to love. Cedric had banished it by his
music, but now it was terrorizing her directly! What did
it mean?

Then she heard a shot. She jumped. That was the sound
of a gun—and it was from the direction of the swamp—
and Cedric was there with Junior. He had no gun!

Horribly alarmed, she rushed outside and ran headlong
down the winding path to the oak. As she approached,
she heard a thin screaming from the tree. It was the dryad,
hanging by a branch, shrieking with all her frail strength.
Below her was the carrier, overturned.

"Junior!" Niobe cried, her horror magnifying. She
scrambled to the tree and took hold of the carrier.

Junior was in it, his body smudged with dirt, and now
he bawled lustily. But he seemed to be unhurt. He had
overturned and that had alarmed him; that was all.

She glanced up at the dryad. No, of course she wouldn't
have tried to hurt the baby! In fact the nymph was still
screaming, one little hand pointing away from the tree,
to the dark lower side where the gloom of the swamp was
strong.

Niobe looked in that direction—and saw Cedric's body
sprawled in the bushes. Suddenly her premonition of
dread had a sharp new focus. Not her baby—her husband!

She ran to him. He was face down, and blood welled
from the wound in his belly. He had been shot! He was
unconscious, but his heart still beat.

She looked up—and the dryad was there, for the mo-
ment away from her tree. "What—who—?" Niobe
asked, forgetting that dryads do not talk.

The nymph took a stick and held it like a rifle, then
shook it to suggest its firing. But Niobe already knew he




34             With a Tangled Skein
had been shot. "Have you any magic—for his wound?"

she demanded.
The dryad ran back to her tree, ran up it as a squirrel

might, and disappeared into the foliage. She returned in

a moment with a small branch.

Niobe took this and touched it to the wound. The flow
of blood abated. The nymph's magic was helping! "Thank

you," Niobe said.
But how was she to get Cedric back to the cabin—and

what was she to do with him there? He weighed far more
than she and would be almost impossible to drag, and the
movement could kill him. And there was the baby!
The dryad pointed to the tree. "You'll help?" Niobe

asked. "He'll be safe, there, for a while?"

The nymph nodded yes. So Niobe struggled to drag
Cedric the short distance to the tree and there she propped
him against its healing trunk. "I'll bring help!" she told
the dryad as she picked Junior up and hurried away.

Some hours later, that phase of the nightmare was done.
Cedric was in the distant hospital, receiving the best care,
and his family and hers had been notified. Both were quick
to respond. But that was as far as the good news extended.
Cedric was on the critical list and sinking. The bullet
had damaged his spinal nerve, paralyzing him, and it had
evidently carried an unidentified infection that was now
spreading through his weakened system. "We can keep
him alive for perhaps a week," the doctor said grimly.
"He has a fine constitution; otherwise he would be dead
already. Even if we could save him, he would be crippled
below the waist and in constant pain, and there is a chance
of brain damage. It would, I regret to say, be kinder to

let him die."

"No!" Niobe cried. "I love him!"
"We all love him," the doctor said. "He was doing a

great thing for the land. But we cannot save him."

Piers Anthony                  55

"But we may be able to avenge him," the wetlands
lawyer said. "Obviously the developer arranged to have
him assassinated so he could no longer rally the people
against the building project."

"But they had already won!" Niobe protested. "Why
should they do this now?"

"They must have been afraid he was planning some-
thing new."

Niobe remembered Cedric's confidence that the de-
veloper would be stopped. Indeed, he must have been
planning something! But that was no comfort to her now;

she wanted him alive and whole.

"How can I save him?" she asked, clinging to that
hope.

The doctor and the lawyer looked at each other. "You
must appeal to a higher court," the lawyer said.

"What court is that?"

"The Incarnation of Death," the doctor said. "IfThan-
atos will agree to spare him, he will live."

She was ready to grasp at any straw. "Then I will ap-
peal to Death! Where can I find him?"

Both men spread their hands. They did not know. "We
do not go to Death," the doctor said. "Death comes to
us, at the moment of his choosing, not ours."

Niobe took Junior and traveled hastily to the college.
There she sought the old Prof. "How can I find Death?"
she pleaded.

The Prof gazed at her unhappily. "Lovely woman, you
do not want to do this."

"Don't tell me that!" she blazed at him. "I love him!"

He did not misunderstand. It was Cedric she loved, not
Death. "And do you also love your baby?"

She froze. "You mean—I must choose between
them?"

"In a manner. You, perhaps, might reach Thanatos—
but your baby is beneath the age of discretion. He would




56              With a Tangled Skein

die. If you insist on making this terrible journey, you must

in fairness leave him behind."
She looked at Junior, horrified. "But—1 can recover

him, after—?"
"If you are successful," he said. "But, Mrs. Kaftan,

you have no guarantee of success. This is no ordinary
person you seek; he is a supernatural entity. You may

never return from such a journey."

"Suppose—1 place my baby with a good family?" she
asked with difficulty. "So that if I don't—don't return—

he will be well cared for?"

"That would be an expedient course," he agreed. "Of

course you would have to take a lactation-abate-
ment spell, and arrange to have him fed from a bottle

while—"

"Then you will tell me how to reach Death?"
"Then I will do that," he agreed reluctantly. "I did,

after all, make you a promise to help you when you

asked."

She drove her carriage hastily to the farm of Cedric's

cousin, Pacian. Pacian himself was twelve years old, six
years younger than Cedric, but his parents were kindly
folk with a strong sense of family loyalty. Yes, they would
board Junior; he was, after all, their kin, a Kaftan. Pacian,
a pleasant-faced lad who reminded her eerily of Cedric,

welcomed Junior as a little brother.

Then, with confused emotion and more than a tear or
two, she returned to the college, where the Prof would
show her the way to Death.

There was a small lake beside the college, and they had
taken an old, unseaworthy sailboat and spruced it up for
the event. Its leaks had been temporarily caulked, and its
sail was lashed in position. This craft could proceed only
one way: directly before the wind. But physical direction
didn't matter; spiritual impulse was what counted.

Piers Anthony                  57

The small deck was piled with kerosene-soaked brush.
A single spark would render the boat into a bonfire in an
instant. The sail was charcoal black and painted with a
picture of a bleached skull and crossbones: not the symbol
of piracy, in this case, but that of Death. Indeed, this was
a deathboat.

Niobe stepped onto the pier. She wore her most elegant
black evening gown, with black gloves and slippers, and
her flowing honey hair was bound by a black ribbon.
There was a murmur of awe from the assembled college
students, male and female,as she appeared, and she knew
that she had never been more beautiful. The anti-lac spell
had halted her production of mother's milk, but her
breasts remained quite well developed.

The Prof stood at the end of the pier by the boat. He
looked old and hunched, and his face was as pale as bone.
"Ah, lovely woman, it is a horror you face!" he mur-
mured. "Are you quite, quite sure—?"

"If Cedric dies, what life is there for me?" she asked
rhetorically. She braced herself against his arm and
stepped onto the boat. It wobbled in the water, and she
hastily sat down.

"Perhaps we shall meet again," the Prof said.

"Of course we shall," she said and blew him a kiss.
She knew he had done his best and she trusted his magic.
But her expression of confidence papered over a mon-
strous dread within her, akin to that of the fourth face of
the water oak tree. She felt like a deer stepping out before
the rifle of the hunter. It was in this sense a season for
the shooting of deer, and the huntsman was Death him-
self.

"Remember," the Prof cautioned her, "you can jump
off, and a swimmer will rescue you." He gestured to three
husky young men in swimsuits standing alertly at the
shore.




58

With a Tangled Skein Hers Anthony 59

"And forfeit my love?" she asked disdainfully. "I shall

not jump."

"Then God be with you," he said, and it was no casual

expression. He closed his hands together in an attitude
of prayer and lifted them toward the cloudy sky.

Where was God when Cedric was shot? she wondered.

But she smiled. "Cast off, please."

The Prof bent down and lifted the rope from its moor-
ing. The breeze caught the sail and the craft moved out
into the lake. Left to its own devices, it would in due
course bump into the far shore—but she had a different

plan for it.
She turned and waved to the folk on the shore behind.

Then she reached into her purse, brought out a big
wooden match, and struck it against the hard surface of

the deck. It burst into life.

For a moment she held the little flame before her. Then
she clamped her lower lip between her teeth, closed her
eyes, and flung the match forward into the brush. If it did
not ignite this tinder, would she have the courage to try

it again?

But it caught, and in a moment there was the crackle

of spreading fire. She opened her eyes, and saw the flame
and smoke pouring up. The fire did not spread instantly;

it took several seconds to infuse the full pile. Then it in-
tensified, and the sudden heat of it smote her body. The
sail caught, and became a bright column.

Now was the time to jump, before fire surrounded her.
She was tempted. Then she thought of Cedric, lying crit-
ically ill on the hospital bed, and her resolve solidified.
She stood, held her breath, and walked directly into the

conflagration.

Cedric! Cedric! she thought as the flame engulfed her.

/ love you!

Her dress caught fire, and her hair shriveled, but she
took one more step, bracing herself against the pain she
knew was coming.

It came indeed. All her world became fire. She inhaled,
and the fire was inside her, searing her lungs and heart.
The agony was exquisite, but she endured it, refusing to
collapse or even to scream. Death, I am coming for you!

The boat was formed of flame, now. The caulking
popped out and water spurted in, drenching her feet. But
the flame danced above it, and the smoke roiled about,
as if fighting the water for this living prize. Niobe stood
amidst it, her flesh burning, waiting for Death.

A figure came. It was a great stallion, galloping across
the surface of the water, bearing a cloaked and hooded
man. The horse came to the boat and stopped, standing
on the lake. The man dismounted and brought forth a
scythe. He scythed the flames as he would a field of tall
grass, and the flames were cut off at their bases, their
tops falling to one side. A path was cleared through the
conflagration, leading to Niobe. Death had arrived.

Thanatos paused beside her and extended his skeletal
hand. Niobe took it in her own, feeling the cold bones of
his fingers.

Abruptly the pain of the fire abated. Thanatos led her
along the scythed path to the pale horse and boosted her
up into the saddle, then mounted behind her. The horse
leaped into the remaining column of smoke—and through
it, up into the sky.

Soon the stallion was galloping through the clouds
above, his hooves sending little divots of fog flying back.
Then they emerged to a scene above, where the grass was
green and the sun shone warmly. Ahead was a mansion.
They came to it, dismounted, and Thanatos guided her
inside.




60              With a Tangled Skein

A motherly maid hurried up. "You brought a mortal!"
she exclaimed with surprise and perhaps indignation.
"See to her restoration," Thanatos ordered gruffly.

"She is not one of mine."

The pain returned when Niobe lost contact with Than-
atos, but the maid hastened to bring salve. Niobe's skin
was charred black, but where the salve touched, the nor-
mal flesh was instantly restored. The maid applied it to
Niobe's entire body and made her inhale its fumes, and
then no pain remained. Niobe stood naked and whole.

"My dear, you are beautiful!" the maid exclaimed,
spraying something on the frizzled hair. The hair grew
rapidly until it too had been restored to its former golden
splendor. "Why should a creature like you try to sui-
cide?"

"I love him," Niobe repeated.

"Ah, love," the maid breathed, understanding. She
brought a bathrobe and new slippers. It seemed that the
salve could not heal Niobe's incinerated clothing. "Than-
atos awaits you," she said and showed Niobe to a sitting

room.

Death—Thanatos—did indeed await her. He was like
a stern father in his manner, despite his skull-face and
skeletal hands. "You have done a very brave and foolish
thing, young woman," he informed her disapprovingly.
"You were not on my list. I had to make an emergency

call for you."

"It—it was the only way to get your attention," she

said, taking the seat indicated. "Thank you for coming."

And she smiled.
The skull itself seemed to heighten its color, showing

that Death himself was not immune to beauty. "It had to
be done," he said gruffly. "When an unscheduled death
occurs, the threads of Fate tangle."

Piers Anthony                  61

That was what the Prof had told her. There was a cer-
tain order in the universe, and the Incarnations saw to its
preservation. "I—where am I? In Heaven?"

Thanatos made a derisive snort, despite having no flesh
in his nose. "Purgatory," he said. "The place of inde-
cision—and of decision. All the Incarnations are here."

"Oh. I—haven't been beyond life before." She was
somewhat intimidated by all this.

"And what brought you, ravishing mortal maiden?"

"Oh, I am no maiden! I—my husband Cedric—I have
come to beg for his life. I love him!"

"Without doubt," Thanatos agreed. He snapped his
bone-fingers, and a servant hurried in with a file box.
Thanatos opened the box and riffled through the cards.
"Cedric Kaftan, age eighteen, to go to Heaven five days
hence," he remarked. "A good man, not requiring my
personal attention." His square eye-sockets seemed to
squint at the card. "A very good man! He loves you well
indeed."

"Yes. I must save him. You must—"

Thanatos gazed at her through the midnight frames of
his eyes, and suddenly she felt a chill not of death. It had
not occurred to her before that the Incarnation might re-
quire a price for the favor she asked—and what did she
have to offer?

Then she thought again of Cedric, lying in the hospital,
and knew that there was no price she would not pay to
have him whole again.

But when Thanatos spoke again, he surprised her.
"Good and lovely mortal, I cannot do the thing you re-
quest. I do not cause folk to die; I merely see to the proper
routing of the souls of those who are fated to die. It is
true that I have some discretion; on occasion I will post-
pone a particular demise. But your husband is beyond




62 With a Tangled Skein 63

Piers Anthony

postponement; to extend his life would be only to extend
his pain. He will neither walk nor talk again."

"No!" Niobe cried. It was literal; her tears wet her
robe. "He's so young, so bonnie! I love him!"

Even Death softened before that beauteous plea. "I
would help you if I could," Thanatos said. "To be In-
carnated is not to be without conscience. But the remedy
you seek is not within my province."

"Then whose province is it in?" she demanded bro-
kenly.

"At this point, I suspect only Chronos can help him."

"Who?"

"The Incarnation of Time. He can travel in time, when
he chooses, and change mortal events by acting before
they occur. Therefore if he—"

"Before the shot was fired!" she exclaimed. "So that
Cedric is never hurt!"

The cowled skull nodded. "That is what Chronos can
do."

The strangeness of talking to the Incarnation of Death
was fading. The renewed chance to save Cedric recharged
her. "Where—how—can I find Chronos?"

"You could search all Purgatory and not find him,"
Thanatos said. "He travels in time. But if he cares to meet
you, he will do so."

"But I must meet with him! I have so little time—"

There was a chime that sounded like a funeral gong.
"That will be Chronos now," Thanatos said.

"Now? But how—?"

"He knows our future. He is surely responding to the
notice I will send him shortly."

A servant ushered Chronos in. He was a tall, thin man
in a white cloak, bearing an Hourglass. "Ah, Clotho,"
he said.

"Who?" she asked, confused.

Chronos looked at her again. "Oh, has it come to that?
My apology; it is happening sooner than I hoped. In that
case, you must introduce yourself."

He had evidently mistaken her for someone else. "I—
I am Niobe Kaftan—a, a mortal woman," she said.

"Niobe," Chronos repeated as if getting it straight.
"Yes, of course. And you are here to—?"

"Here to save my husband, Cedric."

He nodded. "That, too. But that really is not wise."

"Not wise!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I love him!"

It was almost as if she had struck the Incarnation. He
blanched, but then recovered. "Love is mortal," Chronos
said sadly. "It passes, in the course of time."

"I don't care, so long as it passes naturally! Cedric is
dying and he's not yet nineteen!"

Chronos shook his head. "I could travel to the moment
before his problem commenced and change the event—
but I hesitate. The interactions can extend far, and we
interfere at peril to the larger fabric."

"But I love him!" she cried. "I must save him!"

Chronos glanced at Thanatos, who shrugged. They
might be Incarnations, but they seemed very much like
mortal men, baffled by the hysteria of a mortal woman.

"But you see," Chronos said reasonably, "to change
an event, especially this one, could lead to consequences
that none of us would wish."

Niobe began to cry. She put her face in her hands, and
the tears streamed in little rivulets through her spread
fingers.

"Perhaps a female Incarnation would handle this bet-
ter," Thanatos said, evidently feeling awkward. Men
tended to, in such situations; they didn't understand about
crying. Niobe didn't like this situation much herself, but
she couldn't help her reaction.

"I will take her to Fate," Chronos agreed quickly.




64              With a Tangled Skein

He came to Niobe and drew diffidently on her elbow.
"Please come with me, ma'am."

At the sound of "ma'am," the term Cedric had used
early in their relationship, Niobe burst into a fresh surge
of tears. She was hardly aware of Chronos taking firm
hold other with his left hand and raising his glowing Hour-
glass with his right. But suddenly the two of them were
zooming through the air and substance of the mansion as
if they had become phantoms. That so startled her that
her tears ceased.

They phased across a variegated landscape that was not
the world she had known. Then they homed in on the
most monstrous web Niobe could have imagined, its pat-
tern of silken strands extending out for hundreds of feet
in a spherical array. In the center the web thickened,
forming a level mat, and on this they came to rest.
"How—what?" she said, amazed and daunted.

"My Hourglass selectively nullifies aspects of the
chronological counterspell," Chronos explained. "Ena-
bling me to travel—oh, you refer to the web? Do not be
concerned; this is the Abode of Fate."

"Fate!" she exclaimed, realizing how this might relate
to her. "It was Fate who determined that Cedric—"

"Indeed," he agreed as they walked to the huge cocoon
in the middle of this resilient plane. "She should be more
competent to satisfy you than I am."

"But—this is a gigantic spider's nest!" she said.

He smiled. "I assure you, good and lovely woman, that
Fate will not consume you in that manner. She is—much
like you."

Now they were at the entrance. Chronos reached up,
took hold of a dangling thread, and pulled on it. A bell
sounded in the silk-shrouded interior, and in a moment a
middle-aged woman clambered out of the hole, very spry
for her age. "Why, Chronos!" she exclaimed. "How nice

Piers Anthony                  65

to see you, my backward associate!" Her gaze turned on
Niobe. "And a mortal woman who shines like the moon!"
She glanced slyly back at Chronos. "What are you up to,
sir?"

"Lachesis, this is Niobe," he said. "She comes to
plead for the life of her husband, who suffered a recent
accident. I—am unable to assist her in this."

Lachesis' eyes narrowed as if he had said something of
special significance. Then she studied Niobe with a cer-
tain surmise. "Come in, child," she said at last. "We shall
examine your thread." She glanced once more at
Chronos. "You, too, honored associate."

They followed her through the hole, which was a finely
woven mesh-tunnel that opened into a comfortable inte-
rior. Everything was made of web, but it was so thick and
cleverly crafted that it was solid. In fact, it was the ul-
timate in web—silk. The walls were woven in a tapestry
that was a mural, showing scenes of the world, and the
floor was a rug so smooth a person could have slept on
it without a mattress.

Niobe took a seat on a plush web couch, while Lachesis
stood before her, set her hands together, drew them apart,
and looked at the lines of web that had appeared magically
between her fingers. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "That is
a strange one!"

Niobe's brow furrowed. "Do you mean—me?"

"In a moment, dear," Lachesis said, preoccupied. She
looked at Chronos. "Tell me, friend, is this—?" she
asked. Then she shimmered—and in her place was a
woman of perhaps twenty, quite pretty, with a nimbus of
black hair, and cleavage showing. Her dress was yellow,
and very short. Then she changed again, and was the mid-
dle-aged woman in brown.

Chronos nodded slowly, affirmatively.

66              With a Tangled Skein

Lachesis seemed dizzy. She plumped into another
couch. "Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed. "This is a pretty
snarl!"

"I don't understand," Niobe said.

"Of course you don't, dear," Lachesis agreed. "Nei-
ther did I. But Chronos knew, of course." She mopped
her forehead with a bright silk handkerchief. "What am
I to tell her, sir?"

"I suppose the truth, to the present," he said.

Niobe was increasingly bothered by their attitude. "Of
course the truth!" she exclaimed.

Lachesis came to join her on the couch, taking her
hand. "My dear, truth can be a complex skein, and often
painful. I have looked at your thread, and—"

"Look at my husband's thread!" Niobe exclaimed. "I
must save him!"

Lachesis disengaged, put her hands together, and
stretched another gossamer thread between them. "Ced-
ric Kaftan," she said as if reading from a text. "His
thread—" She clapped her hands together, causing the
thread to disappear. "Oh, my dear, my dear!"

"You really are Pate? You can save him?"

Lachesis shook her head. "I am Fate—an Aspect
thereof. I determine the length and placement of the
threads of human lives. 1 arrange for what befalls each
person, in a general way. But this is a special case—a
very special case. I cannot do what you ask."

Now Niobe's sorrow turned to anger. "Why not?" she
demanded. "You—you arranged his death, didn't you?"

"I arranged his death; 1 did not decree it," Lachesis
agreed sadly. "I remember the case now. I did not want
to do it, but I had to. Now, thanks to Chronos, I begin
to understand why."

"Then tell me why!" Niobe cried. "I love him!"

"And he loves you," the woman returned. "More than
you can know. My dear, it would only bring you further

Piers Anthony                  67

grief to know more. Some deer must die, that the herd
prosper."

Some deer! That hurt her anew, for Cedric had tried to
protect the deer. "You refuse to tell me?"

Lachesis sighed. "I know how difficult it is for you to
understand, Niobe. You are a brave and good woman,
and your love is great, but you are mortal. I would help
you if I could, but 1 cannot." She raised a hand to forestall
Niobe's objection."To a child, life seems a series of ar-
bitrary constraints; the child longs for the freedom of adult
existence. But when the child becomes adult, she finds
that the constraints remain; they only change their nature,
becoming more complex and subtle. Even so, we Incar-
nations appear to have greater freedom of action than do
mortals—but our constraints exist also, of a nature few
mortals are equipped to comprehend. I can only assure
you that a situation beyond your control and mine decrees
that your husband must die. I can only say I'm sorry."

"Sorry!" Niobe flared. "Sorry! What possible justifi-
cation can you have for arranging the death of a man as
noble as Cedric?"

"I have two," Lachesis said. "One I may not tell you,
and the other I will not."

"Then send me to someone who will tell me!"

Lachesis shrugged. "Perhaps Mars; he is aggres-
sive—"

"I will take her to him," Chronos said.

Lachesis glanced at him sidelong again. "You have a
special interest, Chronos?"

"I owe—Clotho," he said.

Lachesis nodded, knowingly. "It is a tangled skein we
work from," she said. "A tangled tapestry we weave.
Thank you for informing me, Chronos."

Chronos nodded and stood, and Lachesis stood, and
they kissed briefly. This startled Niobe, but she was too

68              With a Tangled Skein

distracted by the frustration of her own situation to pon-
der theirs.

Chronos took her elbow again, lifted his Hourglass,

tilted it—and they were moving again, in their immaterial

fashion.
They came to a mighty stone fortress, with armored

turrets and embrasures and battlements and massive
walls. It stood on a mountaintop in Purgatory and looked
impregnable—but Chronos landed lightly before its main

gate. "Ho, Mars!" he called.
A tiny window opened. "He's at work," a helmeted

head said. "Down in France, you know."

"Oh, yes, the war," Chronos agreed. He tilted his
Hourglass again, and they slanted down through the
ground and the cloud and the air beneath. Looking down,
Niobe saw lands and waters passing by at supernatural
velocity; she felt dizzy, and had to close her eyes.
Chronos might be a man, but he had astonishing power!

As did Thanatos, she reflected. That business with the
scything of the flames, and that magnificent horse, and a
body made of bones without flesh that nevertheless had
voice and strength. Lachesis, too—that business with the
threads, and the way she had changed momentarily to
another woman—no mortal talent, that! They were all
phenomenal beings—yet strangely helpless to aid her.
She sensed that all three of them really wanted to help
her, but were unable—and could not tell her why.

They slowed as they approached the landscape of
France. At last they landed at the edge of a great trench,
part of a messy series of fortifications that seemed to ex-
tend endlessly. This was the frontline of the war, she
knew—the war that had drawn away most of the eligible
young men and left her to marry a sixteen-year-old youth.
She had cursed that war; now, perversely, she blessed it,
for without it she would not have known Cedric.

Piers Anthony                  69

A man in Greek or Roman armor—she was not enough
of a military scholar to distinguish between them—stood
between the trenches. This was evidently Mars.

"Ah, Chronos," Mars said, waving his red sword in
greeting. "What brings you here—with such a lovely
creature?"

"This is Niobe, a mortal. She came to see Thanatos,
to plead for her husband's life, but the matter is complex
and we are able neither to help her nor to explain it to
her."

"Naturally not," Mars agreed as a shell detonated
nearby. Shrapnel shot through the area, but none of them
were hit. Niobe realized that there was a spell to protect
them from such incidental mischief. Power, indeed!
"Mortals are not equipped to understand."

"Of course I don't understand!" Niobe said hotly.
"Fate pulled her string to seal my husband's doom, and
Death will come to take him, and Time refuses to change
it! I can't say I expect anything better from you!"

If she had thought to shame him into some favorable
action, she failed. Mars merely smiled. "A woman after
my own heart!" he said, pleased. "A fighter. All right,
Chronos, I'm curious too. I obliterate thousands in a sin-
gle battle, and there is scant justice in their passing, and
often great irony, and you other Incarnations tend to
glance askance at my work. So why are you killing in
seemingly arbitrary fashion now? That is not normally
your way. I should think that if this woman had the cour-
age to brave Thanatos himself, she deserves some con-
sideration. Where is your chivalry?"

Suddenly Niobe liked this gruff man better.

Chronos touched his Hourglass—and the world
blinked. Now he and Mars were standing in different po-
sitions, and the sun shone from farther along in the sky.

"You did something!" she accused Chronos. "You
changed time! Why?"

70 With a Tangled Skein

"I had to explain to Mars," he said. "I merely set you
forward half an hour, while we talked."

"Why not explain to we?"

"Do not blame him," Mars told her. "He has reason,
as has Lachesis. It turns out to be an unusual case."

"Then you won't tell me either. Mars?" she de-
manded. "You Incarnations must feel pretty big, teasing
mortals—" She was overtaken by tears of frustration,
a sudden torrent.

"She does that," Chronos murmured, embarrassed.

"Oh, come on, woman," Mars said. "I have delivered
similar tears to tens of thousands of women, though none
as pretty as you. What are you made of?"

A blind fury took her then. "And tens of thousands of
similar griefs to you, you unfeeling ilk!" she cried. "I
hope you choke on your own sword!"

Mars smiled. "Lovely!" Then he sighed. "I will try to
clarify it for you, in a general manner. You see. God and
Satan are at war, and there are countless skirmishes, oc-
casional major engagements, and some devious nexuses.
We Incarnations favor God, who is the Incarnation
of Good. At times it is necessary to make small sacri-
fices in the pursuit of eventual victory, and it seems that
your husband is such a case. Therefore, in the larger pic-
ture—"

"A small sacrifice? Cedric?" she demanded. "I love
him!" She had said that many times, and would say it
many more, if it could get him back.

"And he loves you," Mars agreed. "Indeed, he has
proved it. And it may be that because of this sacrifice,
our side will win the war. You should be proud."

Suddenly she remembered how Cedric had been before
the shooting. Almost as if he had anticipated what was to
come. "He—knew?"

Piers Anthony                  71

"He knew," Mars agreed. "He went voluntarily to that
mission, and great glory accrues to him therefore. I salute
him!" And he raised his red sword.

Cedric had known he was going to die! Stunned by this
realization, she hardly knew what to do next. Then she
stabilized. "Then I will take his place!" she said.

"You cannot," Mars and Chronos said together.

"Can't I? What do you care? One way or another I will
save my husband, despite all of you!"

Mars shook his head. "You had better take her to Ge,"
he told Chronos. "She will know what to do."

Chronos took her elbow. Niobe jerked it away, but he
caught it on the second try. Then they were flying again,
leaving the trenches of France below.

"I think you're all a bunch of—" she started, but
couldn't think of a suitable conclusion. These Incarna-
tions seemed to be in a conspiracy of silence! Yet she
remained shaken by what she had learned about Cedric,
confirmed by her memory. He had known, or suspected.
But why should he have gone, then? It didn't make sense!

They came to a dense copse of small trees. They passed
through it in immaterial fashion and came to rest in a
pleasant interior glade.

An ample woman sat on a chair shaped like a toadstool.
No, it was a toadstool, huge and sturdy. There were flow-
ers in the woman's hair and they too were alive, their
little leaves and roots showing. The woman's dress was
green, formed of overlapping leaves, and her shoes were
formed of earth that somehow flexed with her feet without
crumbling. This was surely the Incarnation of Nature!

"So you bring her at last to me, you nefarious time-
traveler," Nature said to Chronos. "Begone, you callous
male; I will do what you could not."

"As you wish, Gaea," Chronos said, seeming relieved.
He tilted his Hourglass and disappeared.

72 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 73

"You—you knew I was coming here?" Niobe asked.

"Mortal woman, you have generated quite a stir in Pur-
gatory," Gaea said. "I suspected those men would muff
it."

"But Fate—Lachesis—"

"Lachesis knows—but cannot tell. And I will not tell
either; trust the Green Mother to have some discretion!
In time you will understand. But I will explain to you what
you need to know at this time, and with that you will have
to be satisfied."

"Gaea, 1 want to take my husband's place!" Niobe ex-
claimed. "Let him survive, healthy, so he can have his
career, and 1 will die!"

The Green Mother gazed at her with understanding.
"Yes, of course you feel that way, Niobe. You are a
woman in love. But that cannot be."

"It must be! I would do anything to save him!"

Gaea shook her head. "Niobe, you cannot—because
he has already sacrificed himself for you."

"He—what?"

"You were the one Satan slated for early demise,
Niobe. Your husband asked the Professor about your bad
visions, and the Prof, who is a pretty fair magician, in-
vestigated. He was grooming the young man to assume a
chair at the college and wanted to be sure the background
was stable. He discovered the plot and informed your
husband. Cedric never hesitated; he went in your place."

Again, Niobe was stunned. She remembered her vi-
sions of dread. "He went—for me?"

"It seems that you are destined to be a real thorn in
Satan's side. None of us can know the details, of course,
not even Satan, but he moved to eliminate you. Satan has
terrible power, and he is subtle and methodical; we other
Incarnations did not realize. Almost before we knew, it
was done. The envoy of Hell was loosed—but Cedric took
the shot intended for you."

"How—?"

"The assassin was a hunter possessed temporarily by
a demon spirit. The demon's orders were to shoot the
mortal who was singing at a particular oak tree, with a
baby. Satan presumed that would be you. That was the
loophole."

"It would have been!" Niobe agreed faintly. "If Cedric
had not—"

"He loved you," Gaea agreed. "And he knew that
Satan wanted you dead. So he saved you and balked Satan
at one stroke. Seldom has a nobler deed been done."

"But if I—"

"You cannot make a mockery of your husband's gallant
sacrifice," Gaea said. "You must accept the gift he gave
you, and do what he has enabled you to do."

"I—but I don't know what—"

"That is what we may not tell you, though it is little
enough we know ourselves. But it is enough for you to
know, now, that Satan himself regards you as a dangerous
enemy, and surely he is correct. Live—and you will dis-
cover your destiny in due course."

Niobe realized that her quest had come to nothing. Ced-
ric had already done for her what she had thought to do
for him. She had no choice, now, but to accept.

She stumbled out of the glade, through the thickly grow-
ing saplings, and emerged—beside the water oak near her
home. The hamadryad recognized her and waved.

"Oh, Cedric!" Niobe exclaimed. "/ was the deer to be
shot—and how great was your love for me! Now I must
let you die!"

Then she lifted her tear-streaked face to the sky. "But
I will avenge you, Cedric!" she swore. "Somehow I will
make Satan pay!"

She sank down beside the tree, and cried against its
trunk, while the dryad wrung her hands. 0 Cedric!







4

CLOTHO

The following days were unpleasant, despite the grief-
abatement spells she was using. They merely dulled the
cutting edge of her sorrow, but did not—could not—
should not!—provide happiness in its stead. They enabled
her to function in a superficially normal manner, but
below, in a cavernous depth of despair, the agony re-
mained. There was only so much that magic could do.

Niobe went to the Prof and asked why he had not told
her what Cedric had done. "Because he forbade me," the
man replied sadly. "I hoped—by interceding with Death,

you might—but—"

"The murder was willed by Satan," she said. "It was

too late. One of us was doomed."

"He insisted that you be saved," the Prof said. "1,
selfish as 1 am, wanted him for the college. He had so
much potential! But he—and evidently Satan!—believed
that you were more important, and I could not refute that

case."

74

Piers Anthony                  75

"He was the one with all the promise," she agreed.
"Cedric was worth two of me. I have no idea what I can
do to justify my survival. But for his sake I will carry on,
raise our son, and seek my retribution against Satan. If
the Prince of Evil suspected that I would cause him trou-
ble, he has surely guaranteed that I will do so now!" But
once more she was overtaken by tears. She felt so des-
olate! Her marriage to Cedric had been, to a large extent,
promise—the promise of his maturity. The promise of the
life they would have together as two adults. They had just
begun to taste that joy—and now it was gone.

She went to the hospital in the city, where the doctor
still labored to hold life in Cedric. "Let him go," she said.
"I love him. I will not let him suffer longer." And she
kissed her husband's unresponsive lips, and wet his face
with her tears, and turned away. "May you have joy in
Heaven, my bonnie boy," she whispered. "May I join
you there—when my business here is done."

She went to Cousin Pacian's parents' farm, where Jun-
ior had been boarded for several days. Junior saw her—
and burst into tears. She picked him up, in tears again
herself, and held him close.

"But he was doing so well!" Pacian protested. "He
was having a good time here, honest!"

"Of course he was," Niobe agreed. "It's just that once
he saw me, he realized how he missed me. It's a natural
reaction." But what, she wondered bleakly, would be his
reaction to the permanent loss of his father?

Indeed, once reassured. Junior returned to his play with
Pace, and it was obvious that the two liked each other,
the baby and the boy, though about twelve years sepa-
rated them. It was more than kinship. "You are a truly
wonderful family," she told them as she departed with
Junior. "1 can never thank you enough."

76 With a Tangled Skein

"Bring him back to visit soon," Pace said, hiding a tear
of his own.

Niobe nullified the anti-lac spell and nursed Junior—
but he quickly turned colicky and screamed in pain, and
she realized that her grief for Cedric was in her blood and
in her milk, poisoning her baby. She had to restore the
spell and prepare a formula and return him to the bottle.
She felt guilty doing it and less a mother, but perhaps it
was for the best. Certainly she had no right to inflict her
pain on him.

And I—will cry—she sang to herself. /'// cry when the
wetlands are dry. It had new meaning now; it was as if
her own drying-up was an echo of the suffering of the
forest wetlands when man interfered.

She attended Cedric's wake, and Niobe smiled duti-
fully, but she had no taste for festivity. The ghost did
hover near the corpse, reluctant to depart before the bur-
ial, despite the burning candle and ritual eating of bread.
No one could make it depart until Niobe herself faced it
and tearfully demanded an accounting. Then the ghost
floated to her, touched her wet cheeks, shook its head,
kissed her with the touch of gossamer but also of music,
and faded away. It seemed to be a message of reassur-
ance, ironic in this circumstance.

Now it was over, and her life loomed bleak before her.
Come live with me and be my love, she sang to herself,
trying to remember the feeling of being with Cedric, but
she could not. She knew, too well, that he was gone.

She set about fulfilling as much of Cedric's ambition as
she could. She talked again with the Prof to see whether
it was feasible to develop a spell to enable the deer to
shoot back, but he said that such magic was beyond his
ability. "The magician who accomplishes that will be a
master," he said.

Cedric's death did accomplish something useful: the
suspicion that the developer had done the deed turned out

Piers Anthony                  77

to be unfounded, but local sentiment was now so solidly
against the project that all such plans were canceled. Per-
haps Cedric had known that this would be a side effect
of his sacrifice.

There was a death settlement on Cedric which left her
economically comfortable for the time being, but she also
returned to her weaving, producing fine tapestries for
sale. She kept herself'busy—but though she had lived
mostly alone for two years while Cedric was in college,
this wasn't the same. That had been temporary; this was
permanent. Now she knew he wasn't coming home, and
that hurt constantly. It was a tunnel with no light at the
end.

Increasingly she thought about her trip to Purgatory.
She had met five Incarnations—entities she had hardly
believed in before. She had seen some of their powers and
realized that there had to be more that she had not seen.
They had pleaded inability to do what she asked—but
they had enormous abilities nevertheless. What did they
do when they weren't talking with visiting mortals?

She had no life here on Earth, really. Even Junior would
be better off with his cousin's family; she knew that. He
was her baby; she loved him. But she had no illusions
about the long-term life she could provide for him, alone.

She went to the water oak, set Junior down to play with
the hamadryad, and explored the region near it where she
had emerged from Gaea's home. As she had expected, it
was now merely brush. The magic was from the other
end. She could not get to Purgatory this way.

Neither could she use the route she had used before.
When she had had a living love to salvage, she had been
able to face the prospect of incineration in a burning
boat—but she had no love to salvage now. She needed
to find another way.

But what did she have in mind to do there, once she
got to Purgatory? Ride Death's pale horse? Zoom about

78              With a Tangled Skein

the cosmos behind Chronos' traveling Hourglass? The
fact was, Cedric was not in Purgatory, either; it would be
just as lonely there as here on Earth.

She glanced at her baby, now asleep, lulled by the
dryad's soundless lullaby. Of course she wasn't entirely
lonely; she did have Junior. He was of Cedric's blood,
and that was an enormous comfort. But—he was only a
baby.

Increasingly, as the days passed, another emotion rose
in her—her need to be avenged on the true perpetrator
of this outrage: Satan. She wanted to find some specific
way to implement her vow. The Incarnation of Evil had
sought to kill her, and instead had destroyed her happi-
ness. She knew that if she had been the one to die, Ced-
ric's fists would have sought the hide of the one respon-
sible, though Hell barred the way. Instead he had chosen
to save her. Could she do less for her husband than he
would have done for her?

But how could she do it? She was only a mortal woman,
caring for her baby, while Satan was the ultimate bastion
of evil. She had no way to reach him, and no way to
prevail if she could reach him. It was ludicrous to believe
she could punish Satan—yet that was her vow and her
need. Mars would have understood!

She continued to ponder, for this need was restoring
some purpose to her existence. Obviously Satan was nei-
ther all-knowing nor all-powerful, for he had muffed the
job on her. Also, she must have some power he feared,
for otherwise he would not have tried to snuff her out.

What could Satan have feared about her? Surely he did
not try to kill a person without reason. He had to be a
very busy entity, seeing to all the wrongdoing in the
world, constantly waging his war against God and the
other Incarnations. She had not thought of interfering in
Satan's designs before and was hardly a threat to him.
She was not smart like Cedric or magical like the Prof;

Piers Anthony                  79

she had no great muscles, only her beauty and skill with
tapestries. Yet he had sought her demise—now she knew
her visions had been the first suggestion of that evil—and
the other Incarnations seemed to agree that Satan had
reason.

So she did have some power—if only she could ascer-
tain what it was. Power enough to make Satan notice!
What could it be? And why should the Incarnations refuse
to tell her of it? She knew they were not in league with
the Prince of Evil! It seemed to make no sense.

And Cedric—why had he not simply saved her from
death? Surely he had not been required to go in her stead!
He could have told her of the plot against her, and they
could have gone far away until the danger was past. Ced-
ric had had free will and had loved life; it just didn't make
sense for him to seek death.

But it had to make sense! Cedric had been an extraor-
dinarily intelligent young man, with a clear notion of his
destiny. He had talked with the Prof and, instead of telling
her, he had sworn the Prof to secrecy.

The Prof! He had to know why! But she knew he would
not tell her. Why?

For days she mulled it over, debating with herself. She
knew she was not nearly as smart as Cedric had been,
but she was sure she could solve this riddle if she kept at
it. It was like a code puzzle, with the letters of a sentence
changed to other letters so that it seemed to be gibberish.
But the underlying pattern remained, and bit by bit the
letters could be corrected until the original sentence was
restored. She had a number of hints, if only she could
understand their application.

Bit by bit, she pieced it together. Satan feared her—so
she must be more than mortal. The Incarnations knew of
her, and Chronos knew her personally; he had called her
Clotho. She had almost forgotten that, but now in her
deliberations it came back. Chronos had also seemed to

80              With a Tangled Skein

have a personal interest in her welfare; Lachesis had re-
marked on it, and certainly he had gone out of his way
to help her. He had jumped her ahead half an hour so that
he could explain things to Mars, who had then agreed.
Yes, Chronos had known her—but the others had not.
How could that be? Didn't the Incarnations work to-
gether? Well, presumably each focused mostly on his-her
speciality; Chronos might know people the others didn't.
Yet Lachesis had acted as if it were more than that. She
had shimmered and changed into a young, lovely form,
then back, and Chronos had nodded. He had confirmed—

what?

Also, Lachesis had called Chronos "my backward
friend." That had obviously not been an insult. What did
it mean? Chronos was not backward, either physically or
magically; his power had been as great as any. In fact,
Gaea had called him a nefarious time-traveler.

But backward also meant to travel in reverse, as in a
person walking backward. Yet Chronos was not fixed on
the past; he seemed rather to know something of the fu-
ture.

And then it came to her: Chronos, the Incarnation of

Time, could travel backward in time! He could know the
future, having been there and back. In fact he could have
come originally from the future!

He could have seen Niobe there first—then recognized
her here in the present. He had known her as Clotho. But
who was Clotho? The name did have a certain familiarity.

She concentrated, focusing on it—and placed it. The
Incarnation of Fate had three aspects: Clotho, who spun
the threads of life; Lachesis, who measured them; and

Atropos, who cut them.

Chronos had remembered her as an Aspect of Fate!
She sat perfectly still, shocked at the implication. Her-
self—Niobe—as Fate? How was it possible? Yet it ex-
plained so much: the diffidence of the Incarnations and

Piers Anthony                  81

Satan's effort to eliminate her. As Pate she could indeed
interfere with Satan! She wasn't sure how, but was sure
she could. Those Incarnations had their special abilities!

Yet if that were so—if it could be so—why hadn't they
told her? The question brought the answer: they hadn't
known, except for Chronos—and they didn't want Satan
to know. It might be that if they had told her, that would
have changed it so that it wouldn't come true. A paradox.

But Satan had known! Or had he? Could Satan see the
future? He was the Incarnation of Evil, not of Time; his
foresight had to be relatively limited. More likely he had
some crude divination, some indication that she was going
to cause trouble for him, or at least had the potential. So
he had struck at her. And the Prof, reading the same di-
vination, or interpreting her visions—which suddenly fell
into place in this connection!—had told Cedric, and Ced-
ric had done what he had done.

But, again—why hadn't Cedric simply told her. so she
could avoid it? Why had he died, then come to her as a
ghost with his gesture of encouragement?

She wrestled that about and finally concluded that prob-
ably Satan's minion had been told to go out and kill and,
if balked, would continue to try, again and again, until at
last successful. Who could avoid a demon-spirit forever?
Distance would not have balked it; it would have flown
wherever they could have gone, taken over the body of
someone there, and stalked them. That would have been
a sustained horror, with only one ending. But once it com-
pleted its mission by making the kill, it was done and
would be no more threat. Satan's minions did not survive
beyond their missions. So Cedric had saved her by in-
terposing himself, by abating the demon's imperative—
with his life. Cedric had not told her, so that neither Satan
nor the demon would know of the ruse. And so she would
not scream and carry on and cry, forcing him to desist
from his sacrifice. Now it was done, and it seemed that




82

Piers Anthony                  83

With a Tangled Skein

Satan was unable to attack her again. That one demon
must have been all that the Prince of Evil could spare. Or
perhaps he simply hadn't checked and didn't realize that
she hadn't died.

It did seem to fit together. It did account for Cedric's
action—and that was a perverse but considerable comfort
to her. Cedric had acted to abate once and for all the threat
to her so that she could fulfill her destiny—which was,
apparently, to become an Aspect of Fate.

But how was she to do that? Again, she knew what the
answer had to be. She would do it; Pate would do it—
when the time was right. When, perhaps, she needed the
skill of a mistress of weaving. Fate—the ultimate worker
of thread! The ultimate weaver of tapestries.

All Niobe had to do was wait. She was probably safe
as long as she did nothing to attract Satan's attention to
her. Of course the Incarnations weren't talking; the fewer
who knew a secret, the better it was kept.

But now she had some hope. She could not bring Cedric
back, but she could tackle Satan. When she became Fate.

But what about Junior? Surely she couldn't take him
to Purgatory! She would have to give him up.

If Cedric had lived, she realized, none of this would
have been possible. Had he known that, too?

Perhaps he had tried to tell her at the wake: that he
wanted her to do this, to assume the office, that this was
part of his motive. 0 Cedric!

She could not turn it down, now.

She continued about her routine, her grief slowly eas-
ing. She took Junior daily to play with the hamadryad,
for he really looked forward to it and seemed to be learn-
ing something, though she was uncertain what. She
worked hard to complete her current tapestry, lest it be
forever unfinished if she were called suddenly away. She
took Junior to visit Cousin Pace, because now she knew
that one day he would have to go there to stay. She did

not want to part with him, but knew this would be nec-
essary—and that it had better be done sooner rather than
later, to make his emotional transition easier. She quietly
put her finances in order, arranging for a trust fund that
would pay a stipend to his guardian, so that he would be
no financial burden on others.

Weeks went by. Almost, she began to doubt. Then a
fat letter arrived. It was addressed to her—but inside was
a ticket to a city on another continent, with another wom-
an's name on it. One Daphne Morgan.

Niobe looked again at the envelope. It was definitely
addressed to her. She looked for the return address and
found none. The postmark was indecipherable. Evidently
the wrong ticket had been inserted, but there was no way
she could send this letter back.

Wrong ticket? Why should she receive a ticket at all?

Who was Daphne Morgan? Had she received something
intended for Niobe? From whom? Why? This seemed like
total confusion.

Yet someone had prepared the envelope, and mailed it.
It could not be a complete mistake.

She thought about it. She nodded. "Of course!"

She bid farewell to the hamadryad, explaining that she
would be going away for a while and would not be able
to bring Junior to the tree. The dryad didn't answer, but
looked so sad that Niobe felt terrible. But this was a thing
she had to do. "Maybe the family who will be keeping
him—maybe they will bring him here," she said. "I'll ask
them to."

The dryad smiled, and Niobe felt better.
She turned Junior over to Cedric's cousin's family. She
had taken a null-grief spell, but still it hurt. "Once be-
fore," she told them, "I boarded my baby with you, un-
certain whether I would return. I am uncertain again. I




84 With a Tangled Skein

have arranged for regular money to cover his expenses—''
She could not continue.

"He is kin," Pacian's father said gravely as his wife
took Junior. That said it all for these good folk. The Kaf-
tans would do anything for kin and do it generously, with-
out asking any return. Niobe could tell by Junior's re-
action to them that he had had loving care here. Wise
indeed had Niobe's parents been when they had her marry
into such a family.

Niobe felt her tears starting again. She kissed her baby
farewell and kissed the good man and good woman, too,
and Cousin Pace, who seemed stunned. At age twelve,
he had never been kissed by a truly beautiful woman be-
fore. "There is a tree, a water oak near our cabin," she
said. "If—well. Junior has befriended the hamadryad
there, and—"

"We will take him there," Pacian said eagerly, and the
others nodded.

Then Niobe turned quickly away and returned to her
carriage.

She rode directly to the train station, bought a ticket,
waited for the train's arrival, boarded, and settled into
her seat. She was on her way. She sobbed silently into
her hanky.

In due course she was at the port city of Dublin. She
presented the ticket she had been sent, the one made out
to Daphne Morgan, and it was honored without question.
She was provided a first-class cabin, and her meals were
covered. As Miss Morgan, she traveled in style. But what
would happen when she arrived at Miss Morgan's des-
tination?

The ship got up steam and set sail. As it got out on the
larger swells of the open sea, the captain invoked the
proper spells and the wind manifested and filled the sails.
Some of the passengers turned greenish as the continual
sway got to them and lost their appetite, but Niobe had

Piers Anthony                  85

sensibly brought along a spell against motion sickness and
had no trouble.

There were men aboard, of several generations, who
seemed to view her as approachable; she declined po-
litely. "I am a recent widow," she explained—and then
had to retreat to her cabin as the tears welled up again.
0 Cedric!

Thus it was that, five days into the voyage, she had not
made any genuine acquaintances. She spent much of her
time alone, reading. She missed her loom and her baby
and she tried not to think about Cedric, without success.

She looked up from her book to discover a spider de-
scending by its thread. It reached the floor, then shim-
mered and became a human woman. "Lachesis!" Niobe
cried.

"Niobe, do you understand what we ask of you?"
Lachesis asked.

"To become—part of you," she replied. "To be an
Aspect of Fate. I am ready."

"But we must be sure you understand completely, for
this is no simple thing. We are three, but we have only
one body. If you join us, you will never be alone."

"I have lived too long alone!" Niobe exclaimed.

"Because we are three in one, there is no privacy or
separate identity," Lachesis continued. "No individual
rights. Each must do what is needful for the whole, with-
out exception. If, for instance, it is needful to dally with
a man—"

"Oh. You mean—my body might have to—"

"To indulge with my man," Lachesis finished. "The
most youthful Aspect generally bears the onus of such
endeavors, because of the nature of men, just as the mid-
dle Aspect bears the onus of household chores, and the
oldest performs grandmotherly functions."

This set Niobe back. She had never imagined having
physical relations with any man other than Cedric and

86              With a Tangled Skein

hesitated even to commence such imagination. "But what
of the spinning of the threads of life?"

"That, too," Lachesis said. "But you will have no trou-
ble there. A woman is not a single-purpose creature, and
most purposes you are already prepared for. Our use of
the distaff is merely more sophisticated than what you
have known before." And in her hand appeared a glowing
distaff, the short staff on which thread or yarn was
wrapped, "We have only to keep the skein orderly; it is
the social aspect that can be difficult."

Difficult indeed. The idea of being with another man—
another woman's man—appalled her. Yet she could see
that it did have to be a consequence of joining with other
women, when there were not enough bodies to go around.

"Suppose—I decline?"
"My dear, we do not force anyone to join us! It may

be different with a couple of the male Incarnations—
though of course there is no law about that, only custom—
but we women are more accommodating. If you elect to
remain mortal, you will return to your prior life, and we
will select another woman for the exchange. But I confess
that we do like you, and not merely for your beauty; sel-
dom does a mortal person have the courage to approach

Thanatos as you did."

"I have no courage!" Niobe protested. "I had to do

it!"

"Oh? Why?"

"To save my husband, the man I love!"

"And for love you went literally into the fire. If that is

not courage, it remains a quality we deeply respect."

"And it was all for nothing!"

"Yes, it is an irony. We could not give you what you
desired, then, and we offer you some of what you do not
desire now. Yet there are compensations."

Piers Anthony                  87

Niobe knew she would burst into tears again if they
remained longer on the subject of what she had desired;

she had to focus on new things. "Compensations?"

"Immortality—as long as you choose. Power—as
much as you can manage. Purpose—for you will spin the
ultimate threads of man's existenceultimate threads of man's existence. We are Fate."

Niobe thought about returning to her former life—with-
out Cedric. Then she thought of immortality, power, and
purpose—and the opportunity to seek to settle her score
with Satan. She would rather have had Cedric, but she
really had no choice—as Chronos had known. She was
destined to accept this role. "How do I join?"
"Take my hand," Lachesis said, extending it.
Niobe took her hand. There was an odd sensation of
flux. She felt simultaneous loss and gain. Then she saw
that Lachesis had changed to the form of the young, pretty
woman who had appeared momentarily in her Purgatory
Abode.

Their hands separated. "Farewell, Daphne," Lachesis
said. "And welcome, Niobe."

What? Niobe looked down at herself—and discovered
she looked like Lachesis.

Yes—you are with us now, Lachesis said silently to her.
Your body has gone to Daphne—the former Clotho. Be
silent; your day is coming, while hers is done.

Niobe was silent. She watched and listened and felt,
while Daphne turned about, verifying her new separate-
ness, then faced them. "Farewell, old friends," Daphne
said, and her own eyes were bright with tears. "And thank
you, Niobe. You have given me back my life." She
opened her arms, and Lachesis embraced her; this time
there was no transfer of personality.

Tell her she is welcome, Niobe thought, feeling an al-
most overwhelming surge of nostalgia. Her body~—
changed to that other form—gone forever!




88 With a Tangled Skein

You tell her, Lachesis replied. Something shifted—and
Niobe was back in her own form. Except that two other
minds were with her.

She glanced in the cabin's mirror—and there she was,
as lovely as ever, standing beside Daphne. Fate had as-
sumed her likeness!

"You are welcome. Daphne," Niobe said.

Then, suddenly, she was crying uncontrollably.
Daphne opened her arms to her, and they hugged each
other, the tears streaming down both their faces.

At last they pulled apart, looked at each other, two
comely young women, smiled—and burst into tears again.
For pity's sake! the third mind in her body grumbled. That
was, Niobe realized, Atropos, the oldest Aspect.

Eventually Niobe and Daphne ran dry. "I can see you
resemble me," Niobe said tearfully. "I hope you have the
very best of lives ahead of you."

"I surely do," Daphne replied. "Fate pulled a thread."

They had to laugh at that. Then Niobe turned the body
back to Lachesis, who turned it into the spider, and they
climbed nimbly up the thread to the cabin ceiling, on
through the ceiling, and up out of the steamship and into
the sky, suddenly cruising with great velocity along a
cable extending across the world. In a moment they slid
into their web-home in Purgatory and resumed human
form.

"You will not need to learn the way things are by your-
self," Lachesis said. "We will guide you when you need
it—and routine homelife is mostly my department any-
way. But you will need to spin the threads."

First Lachesis introduced her to Atropos. The body
assumed the form, and the old woman went to stand be-
fore the mirror so that Niobe could see her clearly through
their eyes. Atropos was in her sixties physically, with
iron-gray hair, deep wrinkles, and an overlarge nose; she
looked like anybody's grandmother. "I lived a routine life

Piers Anthony                  89

on a goat farm," she said. "I helped my husband milk
the goats and I cooked and washed and bore four chil-
dren—one of them died of smallpox when he was eight—
but my two girls and remaining son grew up and married
and moved away. I felt put out when they made it on their
own; I had, I confess, enjoyed running their lives. So I
concentrated on my husband and made him sell the
farm—the market for goat's milk was declining as the big
cow-dairies got established, though of course their milk
could not compare in quality to what we produced—and
invest the proceeds in a furniture factory. But we had been
deceived about its prospects; it went bankrupt, and we
lost our life savings. My husband took sick, got con-
sumption, got pneumonia, and died broken-hearted, and
I knew it was my fault; I should have left well enough
alone. But meddling in other people's lives was always
my predilection, and when Fate came to me and asked
whether I wanted a real chance to meddle—well, here I
am! I've been at it fifteen years, and I'm satisfied. And,
I trust, I am not ending people's lives frivolously."

But doesn't Death—Thanatos—end people's lives?
Niobe asked in thought. She couldn't talk aloud when she
didn't have the body.

"Thanatos sees to it that the souls of those who die go
to their proper appointments—Heaven, Hell, or Purga-
tory. He must judge the balance of good and evil in each
soul, and tend to the difficult cases personally. But / de-
termine when each life shall end; I cut the threads."

You cut the thread ofCedric's life?

"I had to. He had arranged to take the place of the
thread I was supposed to cut short, so I had no choice.
I do not have complete autonomy, especially when there
are changes in the existing tapestry. 1 do not act capri-
ciously. I must operate within parameters so that no
thread extends beyond its proper position, or ends too
soon. Otherwise the tapestry would be distorted."




90

Hers Anthony                 91

With a Jangled Skein

But why any thread? Niobe demanded. Why not let
good folk live?

Atropos formed a weary smile. "Child, that is a com-
mon fallacy of mortals. They assume that Death is the
enemy and that everything would be all right if only they
could live forever. It's just not true; the old must pass
that the young may come into being. None of us would
exist today if our elders had not made place for us. So
each thread of life is given its appropriate term, some
being longer than others, and each must end as it begins,
according to the pattern of the tapestry. I simply tailor
the individual threads for the good of the whole tapestry,
facilitating the greatest good. It is not for any single thread
to decide its own place in the tapestry! It would be disaster
to live forever!"

What about the Incarnations? Niobe still felt guilty that
she should have such a future reserved for her, while Ced-
ric, the one with the most promise, had been cut short.

"The Incarnations are immortal, but not forever,"
Atropos explained patiently. "We maintain our lives
without aging, as long as we hold our offices—but we do
not hold them for all time. We have variable terms. Your
predecessor, Daphne, served for twenty-six years, dou-
bling her mortal life—until she spied a situation that was
too tempting to resist. She found a good man—there's
much to be said for a good man!—and he needed a good
woman he would not otherwise obtain—and she simply
had to have him. So she has left the office. Now she will
age normally, until I or my successor cuts her thread, and
she will move on to the Afterlife. Similarly, the other In-
carnations change office, all in their own fashions. Than-
atos dies when he becomes careless and is slain by his
successor; Chronos assumes office as an adult and lives
backward until the hour of his birth or conception—I have
never quite been certain which—"

Backward? This was confirmation of what she had sus-
pected. How can he associate with others?

"When you want to talk, here in the Abode, just take
over the mouth," Atropos advised. "When we are in the
company of others, we maintain separation of identities,
but we can relax here at home. But to address your ques-
tion: Chronos controls time. He can reverse himself in
order to converse with others, or he can reverse them to
align with him, for brief periods. At any rate, immortality
is not perfection, and we Incarnations do eventually be-
come bored or tired, and so we leave office. Only in mor-
tality can the true guts of existence be experienced. Theo-
retically one of us might continue forever, but it has never
happened, except in the case of God and Satan, and I'm
not entirely sure about Satan."

The old woman seemed to have the answers. Things
did seem to make sense—but still Niobe could not accept
the necessity other husband's death. "Would it have hurt
the Tapestry so much," she asked, discovering that she
could indeed assume control of the mouth without the rest
of the body, when Atropos permitted, "if Cedric had
lived?"

Atropos shifted to Lachesis. "That is my department,
Niobe," she said. "I measure the threads of life, which
means I determine their approximate length and place-
ment. I don't actually weave the tapestry—it is far too
complex for any individual mind to compass—but I set
the threads according to the pattern and see that they are
properly integrated. Mortals tend to blame Fate for their
failings and fail to credit Fate for their successes, which
is annoying, but actually my options are limited. The over-
all pattern is determined by the interactive compromise
between God and Satan—the macrocosmic balance be-
tween Good and Evil—and we other Incarnations simply
implement it to the best of our ability. Certainly there
would have been no harm if your beloved man had lived;




92

With a Tangled Skein

he was supposed to live. Then we were forced to substi-
tute your thread for his—and then to eliminate that too,
for you are no longer listed among the mortals, though
they are not aware of your departure. Let me show you."

Lachesis gestured, and the mirror clouded, then opened
onto an awesome scene. It was a phenomenal pattern in
glowing colors, a Tapestry as wide as the world, with
threads in their myriads like stars in the nocturnal welkin,
forming a pattern of such marvelous intricacy as to baffle
the mind of the beholder. Niobe had never seen a tapestry
as magnificent as this; she simply stared, entranced.

"Your thread, and Cedric's, are approximately here,"
Lachesis said, using the distaff to point to one section,
which expanded obligingly to show a better definition. It
was like descending to Earth from Purgatory, watching
the continents expand until they lost their cohesion, only
this was not land but the enormous and splendid Tapestry
of human existence. The line of color that Lachesis in-
dicated became a mighty river of threads, and these con-
tinued to be magnified until at last the individual threads
showed like cables, each in its separate region. "To this
side is the future, and to this side the past," Lachesis
continued. "The present is the precise center of the
image; as you can see, it is moving."

Indeed, the cables seemed to be traveling toward the
"Past" side, so that the center drifted steadily toward the
future without actually moving. The Tapestry was like a
river flowing by. Niobe had to blink and blink again to
avoid being mesmerized—but this was futile because at
this moment Lachesis had the body and control of the
eyes.

Lachesis indicated two cables in the near past. They
converged from different parts of the Tapestry and linked,
twining about each other. "Your marriage to Cedric,"
Lachesis said. The two continued on, separating a little
to show when he went to college, and touching again when

Piers Anthony                  93

she visited him there. There was a sparkle at one point,
and Niobe blushed in her mind when she realized that was
their first lovemaking, a significant point in their rela-
tionship. Then, after a bit, a new thread started, tied in
to theirs: Junior's conception or birth. Then the two major
threads exchanged places, and Cedric's ended. There was
his death—in lieu of hers.

Finally her thread separated from Junior's and faded
out. It was not cut off; it just became obscure. Her as-
sumption of the Aspect of Clotho. Its texture changed:

Daphne. Niobe's mortal flesh had not left the world, only
her spirit.

"So you see, the Tapestry now has one thread where
there were two," Lachesis concluded. "And that one dif-
fers. We have tied it in in such a way that no one who
does not inspect this region closely will realize that any
change occurred. But the Tapestry as a whole is basically
unchanged, no cohesion lost."

"But Cedric—"

"Incarnations do not make policy. We conjecture that
Satan anticipated your assumption of the Aspect and
sought to prevent it. In that he failed—but there generally
is a cost when one foils the Prince of Evil."

"Then Satan can force mortals out before their time?"

Lachesis sighed. "Niobe, our firmament is not perfect.
God and Satan made a Covenant ofold^that neither would
interfere with the operations of mortal humanity. The idea
is that each soul is given its chance in life, to make of it
what it will, and those who prove they deserve to be in
Heaven then go there, and those who deserve to be in
Hell go there. All of mortal existence is merely the prov-
ing ground for the classification of souls, which is one
reason why eternal mortal life cannot be permitted: it
would clog the Tapestry and interfere with its function.
But there was one loophole."

94 With a Tangled Skein

Lachesis turned away from the mirror and went to the
Abode's kitchen to fix a meal. Niobe was half afraid that
the larder of this spider's den would contain some huge,
juicy fly for consumption, but the food was normal. She
realized that Fate, unlike some of the Incarnations, did
not have a household staff. As a woman—or three
women—Fate preferred to do for herself. Niobe ap-
proved.

"God, as the Incarnation of Good, naturally does what
is right; He honors the Covenant," Lachesis continued
as she worked. "Satan, being the Incarnation of Evil, nat-
urally does what is wrong; he cheats. So Satan is con-
stantly interfering in the affairs of mortals, yanking the
threads about, generating no end of mischief. We other
Incarnations, who are supposed to be neutral, must thus
oppose Satan, just to get our jobs done. So the answer to
your question is: Satan shouldn't take out mortals before
their time, but he does. We try to prevent this—but your
own case is an example of the problems we encounter. It
is no easy thing to deal with determined evil, as we all
know to our cost. I am sorry; we would have saved you
and your husband if we could, but Satan has agents in the
Purgatory Administration office, and he has absolutely no
scruples. Your husband's death is a miscarriage of what
was supposed to be—but it happened."

And with that Niobe had to be grudgingly satisfied. It
strengthened her resolve to make Satan pay. Somehow.




vom

It took a few days for Niobe to get into the routine. She
learned how to travel on threads she flung out magically
at will so that she could slide quickly to any portion of
the globe. These were travel-threads, not the same as the
threads of life; they appeared when needed and vanished
when done. She learned how to generate the ' 'Read Only"
threads between her fingers for spot checks on individual
lives, though she could obtain only a fraction of the defi-
nition that Lachesis could; it was a skill that went with
the Aspect and experience. She learned how to change
into spider form for special occasions. As Fate, she had
an affinity for the web weavers, and no spider would pro-
test her presence in its web or her intrusion onto its hunt-
ing ground. In fact, spiderwebs were convenient landing
places when she traveled; she could slip to one much
faster as an arachnid, then change to human form for
whatever task required her attention,

She gained confidence: she might appear to be a weak
woman, but an invisible net of web surrounded her, mak-

95

96 With a Tangled Skein 97

Piers Anthony

ing her invulnerable to any mortal attack. She learned
where the Purgatory Administration Building was, and
who the key personnel were. These were not Incarna-
tions, but lost souls—people whose balance between
good and evil was so exactly even that they could not be
relegated to either supernatural realm. They seemed like
ordinary folk, which of course they were, and quite solid,
which they were not. They were really ghosts, able to act
only here in Purgatory. And she learned to spin souls.

But first she had to fetch the raw stuff of souls, and
that was no easy task. "It's in the Void," Lachesis ex-
plained.

"The Void?"

"In the beginning, the earth was without form and void.
God created the world from the stuff of the Void, and
reality as we know it came into being. But not all of the
Void was used. What remains of it occurs at the edge of
Purgatory, and no one can go there except you."

"Me?"

"As Clotho. Not even we two other Aspects of Fate
can go there; we become tuned out. This is the one jour-
ney you must make alone."

"But I'm so new here! I know so little about any of
this! I can't—"

"There is no one else," Lachesis said. "Do not be un-
duly concerned; it is not a dangerous trip. It is merely a
unique one."

She had to do it; it was a duty of the office. But she
dreaded it. Her nightmare visions of what was to happen
at the water oak had proved to be well-founded; now she
hesitated to go into any truly challenging situation alone.

Lachesis took her to the edge of Purgatory. It looked
quite normal and it was—but it was the boundary beyond
which it was unsafe for any other person to go.

"And you and Atropos won't be with me, even in my
mind?" Niobe asked uncertainly. She had found she liked
their company; it abated the grief in her memory.

We will be with you—but unconscious, Lachesis replied
in thought, for they were no longer at the Abode. It would
have seemed strange if any other person overheard her
talking to herself. Our minds cannot face the Void. But
we know yours can, for Daphne went many times. She
told us it became easier each time.

"The first, the worst," Niobe agreed wanly. "And I
must seek the heart of it?"

Yes. Only there is the essence pure. Don't forget to play
out the skein.

So she could find her way back. This time a temporary,
vanishing travel-thread would not do; she had to be guided
by the Thread of Life itself. She certainly would not ignore
that detail!

She walked on along the road. If no one could go be-
yond this point, for whom was the road?

Some do go beyond, Lachesis replied, more faintly.
Tolerances differ. But you must go where no other goes.

"Oh? Who else uses this road?"

Some of the other Incarnations. Now Niobe had to
strain to pick up the fading thought. Mars, Gaea. ... It
was gone.

Niobe walked on, and the road dwindled into a footpath
through a dense forest. Evidently the vegetable kingdom
did not feel limited! "The Incarnation of War," she mur-
mured. "And of Nature. I wonder what business they
have here?" But there was of course no answer. She was
on her own.

The forest darkened and the path narrowed until it was
a vague ribbon through the gloom. The trees became op-
pressively large and close, as if seeking to encroach on
the path and squeeze whatever was on it. She did not




98 With a Tangled Skein

recognize their types; they were simply walls of rough
bark, extending up until the branching foliage closed over-
head, sealing off the light. But her eyes adjusted, and she
could still see. It was mostly her apprehension that was
affected.

Nervously, she looked back. Her thread glowed be-
hind, marking the way she had come. She was surprised
to see that it soon curved out of sight; she had thought
she was going straight. But it was a comfort to know she
could not get lost, and she continued to hold the distaff
so as to let the thread unwind. It was a thin thread, and
she worried about its breaking. But she reminded herself
that no one except Atropos could sever the Thread of Life
and that there was no one else out here to interfere with
it anyway.

The path ended ahead. She stopped, dismayed, then
realized that, though a sullen tree blocked the way, it was
possible to go around it. She squeezed on by—and found
another tree blocking her off. It was just as if they were
stepping in front of her, like aggressive men. A false
impression, surely! She squeezed around that one, too.
Because the trees took up more volume of space above,
they could not stand trunk-to-trunk at ground level.

They tried, however. Their roots spread out of the
ground and interlocked, and their lower branches reached
down. But there was always a way through, however tor-
tuous. The trees might try to balk Fate, but could not
succeed. Probably this path was so devious because it
fitted through the avenue of least resistance, no straighter
or broader than it had to be.

Then the trees seemed to lose cohesion. They became
misshapen, with trunks either swollen or shrunken, and
their foliage—

She paused to blink and stare. The foliage was wrong!
It was no longer green, but purple, and the individual

Piers Anthony                  99

leaves were formed into the shapes of stars or squares or
triangles. How could that be?

Obviously it could be, because it was. She moved on.
The forest retreated from the path, the trees becoming
stranger yet. Now they were multicolored blobs of wood
and brush, and some were floating. Apparently the laws
of reality were weakening.

The path led her to a slope, and the slope became steep.
She walked along the contour, and on her left a mountain
stretched until the peak was lost in the brightness of the
sun, and on her right the slope continued down into a
valley so deep as to give her vertigo. As she proceeded,
the slope increased until it was almost vertical—but her
feet held the path, which was a level niche cut into the
slope. Then the slope above actually passed the vertical,
and overhung the path, while that below became under-
cut, so that the path was no more than a ledge cut into a
horrendously leaning cliff. One misstep would send her
hurtling down!

Niobe had never been timid about heights or depths,
but this daunted her. Still, she saw no reasonable alter-
native other than to continue on. It was, after all, sup-
posed to be safe, and Lachesis and Atropos, her better
two-thirds, would not have sent her to her doom. Their
own identities were in similar peril.

But what did they really know? Apparently Daphne had
never told them exactly what she had faced here. Maybe
it wasn't possible to convey the full effect—or maybe the
attempt would cause needless alarm. After all, the soul
substance had to be gathered, and this was where it was,
so there was no choice.

She walked on. The slope became more extreme, until
the upper wall curved down over the path and the lower
wall seemed -to curve up under it; she was walking in a
notch or groove cut in the roof of a cave. There was no
floor, just cloudy vagueness.

100 With a Tangled Skein

Then the upper wall curved down until it was below
the path, and the lower seemed to curve above. She was
walking in the eye of a pinwheel! Who could believe ge-
ography like this?

At length she emerged from the strange configuration.
Ahead was a river—no, it was the path, but—

She stopped and looked back. Behind her was the ver-
tical pinwheel, its walls spiraling outward from the center,
which was her path, and expanding in ever-greater
sweeps, until she was unable to trace them with her eye.
To the sides was open space, with a few faint stars wink-
ing. Before her was—well, it started like a path, but con-
tinued like a stream. She kept trying to focus on it, but
kept not succeeding.

One way to find out. She resumed her walk—and the
path softened. Soon she was sloughing through muck. So
she removed her yellow cloak—there was no mandatory
color-coding, but it seemed that Clotho traditionally wore
yellow, Lachesis brown, and Atropos gray—and laid it
on the path. Then she stepped into it, trying to bring as
little mud along as possible. There was no problem; the
mud did not adhere to her shoes at all. It was like soft
plastic, slimy and flexible but cohesive, sticking only to
itself.

She settled down cross-legged, feeling exposed in her
under-clothing, though there really wasn't anyone to see.
She set the distaff in her lap, stretched her hands out to
either side, and set her fingers in the stuff. She pushed
off—and the cloak moved slightly forward. She pushed
again, and it slid farther forward. After several pushes,
the cloak was sliding along well enough.

Then the current caught it, and she was floating on
down the stream. Her cloak formed into a saucer-shape;

it made a decent if somewhat clumsy boat. She wasn't
sure why it didn't collapse in on her, but she wasn't sure
about much else in this region, either. She took hold of

Piers Anthony                 101

her distaff before it could spin out of her lap, and played
out the lifeline of thread.

The stream carried her by a floating tree, which now
seemed more like an island, and on through the starry
sky. Perhaps it was a reflection in the water—except that
the only water was the stream that the path had become.

Then the islands became big puffs of nondescript mat-
ter, which fell apart into lesser blobs that in turn sundered,
until she was in a great cloud of pebbles, and then motes,
and then smoke. The smoke dissolved, and she found her-
self drifting in nothingness.

She glanced at her distaff, and discovered that her
thread had almost run out. But the stream had not yet run
its course; it was carrying her somewhere, which meant
that she had not yet gotten where she was going. She
couldn't stop now, but if she didn't, she would leave her
thread behind, and she was pretty certain that would not
be expedient. She had to have more thread!

She considered a moment, then dipped her hand over
the side and scooped up a handful of substance. It was
like thin jelly or thick water. She stretched it between her
hands, and it thinned into a taffylike strand. Could she
fashion a thread of this? Why not; it was part of the stuff
of the Void. It might not be pure, but it might do for this
temporary purpose.

It was awkward doing it barehanded; she really needed
a spinning wheel. Most yarn or thread was spun into fi-
bers, ranging from the half-inch long cotton to the infi-
nitely long silk; each type required its own special tech-
nique. The object was to render the fibers into a
continuous thread that could then be worked into what-
ever fabric was required. The essential process in this
conversion was spinning—which, very simply, was the
winding of fibers together so that they became the thread.
It could be done by hand, and she knew how to do it. She
was, after all, a woman.




102             With a Tangled Skein

She had her distaff and spindle, but nothing to card or
comb out the fibers. But this stuff of the Void didn't seem
to be fiber; it was more akin to taffy. Presumably she
could stretch it out into whatever diameter and length she
wanted, and fix it in that form by spinning.

She experimented. She stretched some out between her
hands, then used the distaff to take up a crude skein.
When she had what she wanted, she used the spindle to
twist the line, and she wound it fairly tightly on the spin-
dle. The trick was to stretch and twist and coil in just the
right manner to produce an even, strong, and fine thread.
This stuff was unlike any she had worked before, but
Niobe had excellent coordination and experience. If any-
one could do it, she could.

Indeed she could. Her body looked and felt exactly like
the mortal one she had left behind, but she was Clotho
now, and had magic. Under her will and guidance the stuff
of the void spun into crude thread, and this she spun onto
the end of the thread she had brought with her, extending
it. Now she could safely continue.

At last the cloak drifted to a halt. At least, so she
judged; she had no external reference points, but she no
longer had to play out the thread. This, evidently, was
the heart of the Void, where she had to collect her month's
supply of soul substance.

She had no container, so she used her skill again. She
took a handful of the stuff she floated in, and processed
it in the way she had the river. This was almost intangible,
so she seemed to be going through the motions, spinning
in a vacuum. But she felt a slight resistance and had faith
she was succeeding. Soon she had some crude substance
on her distaff: her skein of soul. She didn't know how
much she needed, but knew she could come back for more
when she ran out. This had not been as bad as it might
have been.

Piers Anthony                 103

Now she had to get back. She had drifted to this region,
as it was the natural direction; things always drifted to-
ward entropy. Now she had to go against the current—
and how was she to do that?

First she tried the obvious—and it worked. She hauled
on her lifeline thread. She and her makeshift boat moved
readily forward as she hauled; she seemed to have no
inertia, no resistance. And she realized now that in the
Void inertia was as baseless as matter; the rules of matter
were unformed, here. Her thread was now her only con-
nection to the material frame—if it was fair to call Pur-
gatory that—so she was actually hauling herself in to her
anchor. She hadn't needed the thread for finding her way,
but for making her way.

The floating blobs reappeared, and the river became
more evident; it was a runofffrom organized matter, flow-
ing from the organized to the disorganized. She had had
to get beyond it, because the river was polluted by some
aspects of organization. For new souls, the substance had
to be as pure as she could make it; Lachesis had stressed
that.

She reached the mucky portion of the stream, and fi-
nally had to get out and slough to the solid path. She was
reentering contemporary reality.

"Hi, babe."

Niobe jumped. Someone was there, standing in the
path, where no person could be!

"I see you are surprised, sweets," the figure said. He
was hazy in outline, but seemed familiar.

"No one—can be here," she faltered. "Except Mars,
or Gaea, or—"

"Or Satan," the figure concluded. "Where God can go,
so can His Nemesis."

Her whole body stiffened. This was the Prince of Evil—
the one who had arranged for her death! The one she

104 With a Tangled Skein

intended to punish—somehow. "I hate you!" she ex-
claimed.

The figure laughed. "Of course, you phenomenally
lovely creature! I am the Incarnation of all Evil, and hate
is far from the least of evils! Did you realize they have
issued a postage stamp in My name? It says HATE-
HATE-HATE-HATE-HATE! Already you are coming
into My bailiwick!"

This gave her pause. It was true; when she indulged
herself in hate, she drew closer to Satan, even though it
was Satan she hated. A treacherous situation indeed! She
really couldn't afford to hate him.

She realized ruefully that Satan had scored against her
at the outset. It was his advantage. "What are you doing
here?"

"I need to clarify certain matters, sugar, as we shall
doubtless be interacting henceforth."

She couldn't help herself. "Why don't you clarify why
you killed my husband!"

"That is precisely why I have come here, luscious
plum," Satan said. "It is known to Me that you have some
misunderstanding about that matter, and it is not meet for
confusion to exist between Incarnations."

"I have no misunderstanding! You interfered in my
life!"

"Not so, sweet rose! I specialize in evil; I understand
its workings better than any other entity does. Evil is
everywhere, to greater or lesser degree, except perhaps
in God, who is, frankly, naive in this matter. Let me show
you the evil that is in the other Incarnations."

Niobe hurried along the path, poking her distaff forward
to move Satan out of the way, but he floated back without
moving his legs. He was simply fixed in place in relation
to her, like a mirage. She could not escape his attention.
"I—won't listen to this!" she exclaimed. "The other In-
carnations aren't evil!"

Piers Anthony                105

"Evil is as evil does, love," Satan said. "From your
contaminated thread on, evil lurks in every mortal crea-
ture, and it is not necessarily expunged by Incarnation."

"Contaminated thread!" Niobe exclaimed. "I just
fetched it from the purest essence of the Void!"

"Purity does not exist in the Void, delicious thing,"
Satan said. "Only chaos. What you have is virtually pure
entropy—that is, complete disorder. When you spin it,
you are imposing order—your brand of order—on the
purest chaos you can obtain. That is because you want
to define its order completely, with no contamination by
order from any other source. But because chaos is com-
plete, it excludes nothing, not even a smidgeon of order.
You are necessarily working with imperfect substance, 0
heart's desire; in fact it is that contamination of order that
enables you to spin it. Without that, you would not be
able to get a grip on it. But that is only part of it. That
substance is a mixture of good, neutral, and evil, and it
is impossible to tell which will prevail in the end. There-
fore we run it through the ultimate test for its bias: ani-
mated free will."

Niobe was trying not to listen, but not succeeding. The
voice of Evil was insidiously compelling. "I'm making
this thread for life!"

"Exactly, darling. Animated free will—otherwise
known as life. By the time each modicum of this soul
substance runs its course, the nature of its individual bal-
ance between good and evil is known, and final order can
be achieved. Eventually the last of the Void will have been
processed, and the entropy of the universe will have been
reduced to zero. All good will be in Heaven, and all evil
in Hell. The job will done, and the system will be shut
down."

Niobe was appalled. "All—life—just a—a laboratory
to classify the substance of the Void?"

106 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 107

"Indeed. Beautiful, isn't it? Just like you, cutie. On that
day of final reckoning we shall at last know which is dom-
inant: God or Satan. The score will tell."

"Then what am 1 doing here?" she demanded, feeling
dizzy.

"You are initiating the sequence, honey," Satan said.
"You are taking another spoonful of chaos out of the
Void. It is a good and necessary task. But evil is in your
thread of life; were it not so, we would not need life at
all."

"Well, the Incarnations aren't evil!" she said stoutly.
"You said yourself that this task I'm doing is good."

"The task is good, to be sure, doll. But the Incarnations
are human—which is to say, imperfect. They have human
ambitions, weaknesses, and lusts."

"Lusts!" she exclaimed indignantly. "What are you
talking about?"

"I'm so glad you asked, precious." They were passing
through the pinwheel now, the Incarnation of Evil still
drifting before her like a specter, unavoidable. He was
becoming clearer, and more eerily familiar. "Indeed the
Incarnations do have lusts! They indulge them on occa-
sion with mortals, but this is problematical. You see, rav-
ishing one, the Incarnations do not age, physically—but
mortals do. It is difficult for an Incarnation to maintain a
relationship with one who constantly ages, particularly a
romantic connection. So it is better to do it with another
of his kind."

It had not occurred to Niobe that that sort of thing ex-
isted in Purgatory. Still, Lachesis had mentioned the pos-
sible use of the body; perhaps that was not merely an
extreme occasion. She herself retained her grief for Ced-
ric and her anger at Satan for his connivance in that. She
knew from her personal experience already that much of
what Satan told her was true: Incarnations did retain
human passions.

"Unfortunately, scrumptious," Satan continued re-
lentlessly, "there are relatively few Incarnations, and
most are male."

"Chronos, Thanatos, and Mars," Niobe said shortly.
"And you."

"Those are the major ones. Some would consider God
to be male too, though that really doesn't matter. God is
indifferent to mortal passions other than power."

"The major Incarnations? There are others?" She was
still trying to ignore him, but he kept intriguing her cur-
iosity.

"Didn't you know, sweet-buns? There's Hypnos, who
is in charge of sleep, and Eros, in charge of—"

"Never mind. What's your point?"

"My point, fair creature, is that there is a severe scar-
city of Incarnate young flesh. Gaea can of course assume
any form she wishes, and she can be a lusty wench indeed,
but she lacks one quality that most males prize in a fe-
male."

He paused, as if inviting her query—and Niobe was
hooked. She had to ask. "What quality is that?"

"Innocence," he replied succinctly.

Niobe mulled that over. She could think of only one
relatively innocent female in Purgatory: the newest one.
Herself. "Surely you don't mean—"

"Consider Chronos, beautiful," Satan said. "He lives
backward. He remembers the future, and doesn't know
the past. Association with a mortal woman is, if you will
excuse the expression, hellish for him. They just don't
understand."

"But he can change time to coincide—"

"For short periods, cutie. Not for long-term. Which
means that if he wishes to have a liaison once a week
without a hassle, he must find a woman who understands
his situation and is willing to accommodate him. That




108             With a Tangled Skein

means another Incarnation. Gaea, or—" Again he

paused, artfully.

"Are you implying that /—?" she demanded indig-
nantly. Again she remembered how solicitous Chronos
had been, and how understanding the other Incarnations
had been during her first visit. And how closemouthed.
That gave her an abiding disquiet.

"Chronos surely remembers," Satan said. "What is to

be, has been, for him."

She was becoming outraged. "And you claim he—I—
we—that I'm here because Chronos wants—"

"And the other Incamative males," Satan agreed.
"Fate is known as an accommodating woman. But of
course those males prefer her youngest and firmest As-
pect, as perhaps your better two-thirds have already ex-
plained to you."

Niobe could not answer. She had been told. Now that
notion was becoming much less theoretical.

"You see, honeypot," Satan continued inexorably,
"we Incarnations have to get along with each other. We
are too small a group, and our duties overlap; if we do
not cooperate, the world will revert to chaos and all will
be lost. We are not antagonists; we are the several As-
pects of the job. Fate cannot operate without Time—so
it behooves her to keep him satisfied, and she has one
exceedingly potent mechanism therefor."

"I can't believe that!" she cried, beginning to believe.
"You may verify it very simply, roundheels. Ask

Chronos. He remembers."

"No!" she said. "I love Cedric! I will never—" But
she had already agreed when she assumed the office.
What had she thoughtlessly gotten herself into?

"Ah, yes, Cedric. Your sacrificial husband, the boy
wonder. Allow me to clarify the story on that."

"No!" she said, turning her face away. But she con-
tinued to listen.

Piers Anthony                 109

"The Incarnations—and not just Chronos—wanted a
new face and body and innocence in Purgatory," he said.
"I mean, even the sexiest and most accommodating
young woman—and Daphne was certainly that!—palls
after a few years or decades, especially when her body
doesn't change at all. Especially when her mind gets too
knowing. She's a good one to visit—don't I know!—but
not to stay with. The novelty is gone, and novelty is
chronically in short supply in Purgatory. So when Clotho
found a compatible situation among the mortals, she took
it. She was bored out of her gourd, as the saying will one
day go, and—"

"How can you know what a future saying will be?"

"Chronos uses expressions he remembers from the fu-
ture, and some of them are apt. At any rate, trixie, the
Incarnations did an informal survey of mortal flesh, and
you were the prettiest innocence they found, and your
ability with loom and distaff made it even better. The
perfect unliberated, docile sex object! So they arranged
to bring you in. That meant eliminating your man."

This was appalling. She had to deny it—yet could not.
Satan might be the personification of evil, but he was mak-
ing sense. Still, she tried to fight, weakly. "But it was me
they—you tried to kill, not Cedric."

"So they told you, cheesecake. But that was a ruse, to
shift the blame to Me. After all, they could hardly have
found a better surrogate for blame! So that you would
agree to join. It does, in that limited sense, have to be
voluntary; you have to think you want it. They have to
remove the one you love, to leave you no further reason
to remain mortal. They conveyed to your innocent bonnie
boy that you were the target, thus very cleverly tricking
him into doing exactly what they wanted—"

"No!" Niobe cried like a drowning woman.

"And it worked perfectly, as you know, trophy-piece.
Now the most desirable and innocent morsel of a young




110

With a Tangled Skein

woman on Earth is in Purgatory and available for duty.
The Incarnations are already champing at the nether bit.
I could hardly have done it better Myself—but of course
such evil is Mine anyway, by definition. I suggest you
relax and enjoy it, toots."

"Relax, hell!" she screamed.

Satan smiled. "Exactly."

She peered at him more closely. His image had been
slowly clarifying as they progressed, and now at the verge
of the forest he was at last recognizable. He had assumed
Cedric's form.

"You utter cad!" she screamed, trying to push him into
a tree. "You have no right to—to—"

He caught her hand. "Shall I kiss you, sweetlips?" he
asked in Cedric's voice. "I, too, find you desirable, and
I can make you forget—"

She struck at him with the distaff she had been re-
winding. He ducked, and the thread sprang out and settled
about him in a tangle. "Get out! Get out!" she screamed.

Satan resumed his normal form, and sighed. "Another
time, perhaps, when you have been suitably broken in."
He faded away, leaving her with the tangle.

Niobe stood and cried in rage and grief for some time.
Damn Satan! He had changed her promising new exis-
tence into a torment of savage emotion.

But after a while she reasserted such cynicism as she
could muster. She detached the tangled mass of threads,
as they were from the borrowed section of the river, spun
the ends together, and resumed her walk. She was not a
plaything of Fate; she had free will, and she could leave
this position if she wanted to. They had explained that
each Incarnation, except perhaps Chronos, had a trial pe-
riod in office, after which he or she was granted indefinite
tenure if suitable. She would simply declare herself to be

Piers Anthony                 111

unsuitable and return to mortality. Certainly she would
not serve in the—the capacity they wanted!

She wended her way through the trees, her tears drying
on her face. What a monstrous conspiracy she had fallen
into! To think that Cedric had died in order to make her
available for—

She was still furious as the forest retreated and thinned,
and the path straightened and became a road. She was
back in structured reality, now—and not one bit pleased.

What's the matter, Clotho?

They were back! "You should know, you hypocrites!"
she flared.

She was met by a thought of amazement. Why do you
say that?

Niobe let loose a torrent of why.

Wait! Wait! We can't assimilate all that! We can feel
your anger, but you will have to vocalize to clarify the
reason.

"Cedric!" Niobe shouted. "You conspired to kill Ced-
ric, so I would—would—" Her tears started up again,
and her emotion was a confusion of love, sorrow, and
fury reminiscent of the chaos of the Void she had just
departed. Perhaps, she thought in an isolated flash of
humor, she had brought the Void with her—in her head.

Cedric? We explained about him!

"Well, Satan explained it better! I'll not stay in this
job! You had no right to—"

Satan! Lachesis' thought came.

That explains it! Atropos agreed.

"Yes, Satan!" Niobe agreed. "He really understands
evil! He was there in the Void, and he—"

And he told you an intricate lie, Lachesis continued.

And you believed him, Atropos concluded.

"Yes, I believe him!" Niobe cried. "And I want to go
back to mortality! At least there my body is my own!"

112

Piers Anthony                 113

With a Tangled Skein

You believed the Father of Lies, Atropos thought.

It is your right to return, Lachesis agreed. But first we
must hash this out. You must know the truth before you
act, lest Satan lead you to tragedy.

"Why should he do that?"

He does not want you in the office. He knows that
somehow you will cause him great trouble. That is why
he tried to kill you before you could become Clot ho.

Niobe suffered doubt. Satan had been persuasive—but
he was the Incarnation of Evil, and certainly he would lie
to suit his purposes. She should not believe him without
establishing the case thoroughly. "How can I verify
this?"

Perhaps Chronos knows.

"Chronos!" Niobe exclaimed indignantly. "All he
wants is—"

That is a half-truth.

"You admit to half of it?" Niobe demanded.

Lachesis made a mental sigh. Satan has poisoned your
mind. You must cleanse it yourself. Go to Chronos, chal-
lenge him. We will be silent until you address us.

That, of course, was the answer. Chronos was at the
heart of this. She would give him ajagged fragment other
mind!

She returned to the Abode, deposited her new batch of
yarn—she would reprocess that into much finer thread
later, as she spun out the lives of new mortals—assuming
she remained in office that long—and set off along the
line that connected to Chronos' mansion. She was awk-
ward in her use of the travel-thread; it would have been
faster and smoother if one of the other Aspects had han-
dled it, but she needed to master the techniques herself
in order to—

To what? Be a good Clotho? When she had no intention
of retaining the position? Unlikely chance!

She made it to the mansion. She had learned that time
reversed when a person entered Chronos' residence, so
that she would actually depart before she arrived. She
found that aspect of it intriguing. It existed so that others
could converse comfortably with Chronos; otherwise
each would be talking backward at the other.

She knocked on the door, and was admitted immedi-
ately. Chronos met her, wearing a pure white robe; he
stepped right up, smiling, and took her in his arms and
kissed her.

Niobe was so surprised that she simply froze for a mo-
ment. Then she recovered, jerked back her head, brought
up her arm, and slapped him smartly across the cheek.
"What kind of nerve do you have, trying a thing like
that?" she cried.

He turned her loose, a look of astonishment on his face.
"Why, Clotho—what happened?"

"What happened?" she repeated furiously. "You just
grabbed me and kissed me!"

"But of course! As I have always done, here at home."

"Always done!" she screamed. "Then it's true!"

Now a look of realization spread across his counte-
nance. "The time—are you just beginning your cycle?"

"My what?"

"Have you just begun your office? As Clotho?"

"Of course I have, as you well know! And if you think

I—"

"But I don't know!" he protested. "That's in my fu-
ture, and you have never said exactly when—"

Because he lived backward. Now she understood.
"You—you couldn't have conspired to—because it
hasn't happened yet, for you!"

"I would never conspire against you, Clotho," he said.

"I love you."

She felt as if a demonic hand had squeezed her heart.
She reeled, and sank onto a couch. It was true—they were




114

Piers Anthony                 115

With a Tangled Skein

going to have an affair! This man she didn't know, and
certainly didn't love!

"Ah, Clotho," he said. "I didn't realize. You have not
done this before. You don't—remember. Had I real-
ized—I'm sorry. I should have known. Long ago you told
me the date of your origin. I had forgotten. I apologize
for—"

"What do you remember?" Niobe asked dully.

He took a seat opposite her. "When I assumed my of-
fice, thirty-five years hence in your view, I was bewil-
dered by everything. I did not know what to do, or how
to do it—even the Hourglass was a mystery to me. But
you, in your three guises, came to me, and took me in
hand, and set me straight. It was as if you had known me
all along, though we had never before met. You did so
much for me, and I was grateful, and then you—"

He broke off, putting his face in his hands. "Oh, Clotho!
It's over at last, and so abruptly! I owe you so much and
I will miss you so much!"

Suddenly he reminded her ofCedric, as he had been at
the outset of their marriage. So forlorn and lost and unable
to come to grips with what he knew had to be. She, in
her naivete and insensitivity, had only exacerbated his
problem. How much she regretted that now!

And the magnitude of Satan's lie was manifest: Chronos
had never, could never conspire. She had initiated their
romance—thirty-five years hence. And now she was
blaming him!

If she had known, at the outset other marriage to Ced-
ric, what was to be, she would have been far more un-
derstanding and careful. Now she faced a roughly similar
situation. She did not love this man—but neither had she
loved Cedric, at first. The lesson was there.

Did she really want to return to mortality? Cedric still
would not be there. If she had to live without him,
wouldn't it be better to do it with the power of the In-
carnation of Fate, rather than as a simple mortal? Chances
were that this job would offer her many distractions. She
could keep herself busy—and she could leave whenever
she chose to. She didn't have to make a decision yet.
Yet—

Satan had tried to talk her into leaving. He wouldn't
have bothered if she were not destined to cause him some
grief.

Chronos remembered three and a half decades' asso-
ciation with her. That showed her decision and her future.
What point to rail against it? Better to take herself in hand
and do what had to be done. Cedric was dead; he would
never live again. She had to face reality, and the sooner
the better. This was her moment of commitment. She did
not relish the prospect, but she had to put the past firmly
behind her.

She dried her face, arranged her hair, and stood.
Chronos sat with his face covered. He was not pretending;

he was a decent, vulnerable man, and he was mourning
a relationship he knew was past. Indeed it was, for him.
It was an emotion she understood.

She crossed over to him and put one hand on his shoul-
der. "Chronos, I understand. But this—is the last time."
He looked up. "The first—for you."
"For me. I do not—love you, but—" She shrugged.
"I misjudged you, Chronos, and I'm sorry. I—I give you
this. There is only now, for us. Such as it is."
"Such as it is," he agreed, lifting his hand to her.
She took it. "When next we meet, it will be different.
I will not remember—this. Or know of it."
"I will not speak of it." He drew her down to him.
She tried to conceal her aversion to being handled by
any man not Cedric. She felt guilty and unclean—but,
perversely, she was sure she was doing right. She was no
longer married, no longer mortal, and she had a job to do
here and a role to fill. It turned out that Chronos' long




226

Piers Anthony

With a Tangled Skein

117

experience with her future self gave him a special touch,
and it became easier to cooperate.

When it was done, she dressed and departed, using an
exit opposite to the entrance she had used so that there
was no chance of encountering her arriving self. She did
not want to try to explain or justify what she had done to
that self!

Then, because she also did not wish to return to her
web Abode before she had left it, she elected to spend an
hour elsewhere. That would allow for the half hour she
had spent in Chronos' mansion, and carry her another half
hour beyond. The net effect would be the same as if her
half hour within had been composed of normal, forward
time.

Where would she go in that period? Where else! She
went to Earth. She slid down a thread—this was good
practice!—to the farm where Junior was. She walked up
to the door and knocked.

They were surprised and pleased to see her, with
masked concern. "I am only visiting. My other business
is not yet done; I must still leave Junior with you."

She saw relief in them, and it gratified her. They really
wanted to keep Junior, and she knew it wasn't for the
support stipend. This was certainly the place for him.

She picked him up and held him and kissed him, then
set him down. In a moment he was back playing with
Cousin Pace.

"That's a very nice water oak," the woman remarked.
"The dryad came right down to join him when we re-
treated."

They were doing it! At least the dryad was not being
deprived. "She is teaching him magic," she said with a
wink.

"If he can learn it, he'll be some magician!" the man
said.

Yes—she had done right here. The loss of her baby
hurt her, but she could adapt to this, just as she could
adapt to the affair with Chronos. She was a different per-
son, now, with new and different commitments. Even her
body wasn't her own, but a construct from the flesh of
Fate, as if formed from the substance of the Void.

But she was no creature of the Void! She had a new
kind of life to live. She hoped it would turn out better
than the old one.




Piers Anthony                 119




-6-

GENEALOGY

Niobe's life as Clotho settled in comfortably enough, now
that she had made the necessary emotional decisions.
Each Aspect slept for six or eight hours, and they gen-
erally staggered these, so that at any given moment one
Aspect would be dominant—would have the body—and
another would be keeping her conscious company, while
the third would be tuned out or asleep. For convenience
they generally proceeded from sleep, to company, to dom-
inant, so that an Aspect could be fully alert and ready the
moment she took over the body. Thus Niobe, as Clotho,
would sleep, then keep Atropos company for her shift,
then assume the office while Atropos slept and Lachesis
kept her company. Sometimes they varied it, and special
circumstances caused them all to wake or sleep together,
but normally the routine held.

Niobe liked the other two. They talked with each other
a lot, comparing notes on experiences and feelings. The
other two had eavesdropped on Niobe's first engagement
with Chronos, for this was as novel to them as to her.

118

They had indeed not conspired to put her in that position;

they had not been having an affair with Chronos. Evi-
dently he, in the progress of his life toward their past, had
not been interested in the to-him new Clotho. "But the
body is only the body," Lachesis said philosophically, as
Niobe spun her Thread of Life from the supply of yarn
she had fetched from the Void. "You are young, you like
to think that there is only one man for each woman and
one woman for each man, but any combination can occur,
and couple, and love. In this office we are forced to be
less romantic and more pragmatic."

"Yes," Niobe agreed sadly. "And Chronos is a good
person. But I'll always love Cedric."

"There is no love like the first," Lachesis agreed, tak-
ing over the lips again. "I remember mine ..." And she
recounted her own first romance. It was not as immediate
as Niobe's experience, but it had its own poignancy, and
it did show that the older woman understood. Men tended
to think in terms of the physical, while woman related to
the social; men focused on bodies and action, while
women focused on character and feeling. They agreed that
woman's way was more sensible, but on occasion man's
way had merit, and it was possible for the two to relate.

They learned each other's jobs, to a certain extent.
Niobe normally slept while Lachesis measured the
threads, but not always, and of course she was alert while
Atropos cut them. The cutting was not merely at the ter-
minal end; the threads had to be started, too. So after
Lachesis had analyzed, measured, and marked each po-
tential life, on the endless thread Clotho spun, Atropos
would cut and place it. The beginning of a cut thread was
the conception of a baby; it had to be tied in to the threads
of its parents before moving out onto its own course in
the Tapestry. The physical, mental, and emotional qual-
ities of a life were determined by heredity, provided by
the parental tie-in, and its development was influenced




120 With a Tangled Skein

considerably by environment. But its circumstance—the
odd coincidences that governed every life—was arranged
by Fate. Some excellently endowed lives were doomed
to disappointment and failure, while some seemingly
weak strands were destined for greatness. Lachesis
planned these threads with an eye to the esthetics of the
larger picture. Some she regretted, as when a thread had
to be measured short, meaning that a child would die. But
it had to be done, for stresses in the fabric of the Tapestry
could distort the whole, and lead to the damage of many
more innocent threads unless the correction was made in
the key region. It would not have been easy to explain to
the average mortal why he should suffer, as the stresses
were cumulative and subtle; indeed, tfiere were generally
several ways in which a given stress could be alleviated.
But it was Lachesis' job to select a course and implement
it, and this she did.

Cedric's early death had not really been Lachesis'
doing. Satan had stretched the fabric in such a way that
only the truncation of a specific thread would alleviate
it—and Niobe had been that thread until Cedric abruptly
switched places with her. Lachesis had had to mark it for
elimination, and Atropos had had to cut it—but that had
been in the nature of emergency surgery. They were still
adjusting for the distortion in the fabric caused by that
unscheduled removal; it tended to buckle, and several
more distant threads had had to be cut short, and new
ones added elsewhere. Now Niobe, tracing the pattern
and grasping the stresses on it, understood how complex
the matter of Pate was. Fate was not all-powerful or ca-
pricious; she merely had to accomplish a purpose that
mortal man was not properly equipped to appreciate. It
would make as much sense for an individual soldier in
battle to break ranks and demand of the general why he
should be subjected to this danger.

Piers Anthony                 121

But Niobe was no longer a foot soldier. She had become
an Aspect of an Incarnation. She was now in a position
to grasp the larger picture—and to understand just what
Satan had done to her. She still had a score to settle with

him!

The problem was, she didn't see how. Satan had no
Tapestry; she could not mess up his threads. She con-
cluded that whatever it was that made Satan object to her
presence as Clotho had not yet manifested and that she
was on the way to gaining her satisfaction merely by re-
taining her office. Eventually her chance would come—
and then she would take it with a will. Meanwhile, she
just had to be patient.

In due course the routine became dull. Then the inter-
actions with the other Incarnations, including Satan, be-
came more interesting. Niobe did not love Chronos, but
he was so grateful for the particular favors she rendered
that it became a kind of pleasure for her. She did have to
work with him quite a bit, or rather Lachesis did, for only
Chronos could accurately locate the timing of the key
events in each life—the kinks in each thread. The Tap-
estry would not be right if the threads were too loose or
tight, or crossed each other in the wrong places. It was
especially important that Atropos inform Chronos of the
precise end of each thread, for Chronos programmed the
watch that Thanatos carried. IfThanatos was not present
for particular terminations—the souls in close balance be-
tween good and evil—those souls could escape and drift
back to the Void, causing the whole effort to be wasted.
No one approved of wasted lives.

But this, too, became dull. Therefore the Aspects of
Fate were wont to visit the mortals directly when slack-
time was available. They would merge anonymously with
the throngs of people, and pretend to be going home from
work, or taking a vacation, or performing some business.
People tended not to perceive the Incarnations as such,

122 With a Tangled Skein

and to forget them, so it was simple enough to do. Each
Aspect had her favorite region of the mortal world to visit.
It was a kind of holiday.

Lachesis liked to go to special restaurants and enjoy
good meals. The Incarnations did have natural functions,
including the need to eat. If they did not eat, they would
not starve, because of their immortality, but they would
become increasingly uncomfortable. They had everything
provided in Purgatory, but there was something special
about doing it among the mortals. The male Incarnations,
Lachesis confided wickedly, sometimes indulged other
appetites with mortal women, though they had to be care-
ful not to change the lie of any particular thread. An In-
carnation could not sire a baby, because of the freeze on
aging—a baby would never develop beyond the single-
cell stage—but that was not the only way to affect a mor-
tal. Once Mars had formed a relationship with a mortal
Amazon—he had a weakness for violent women—and
her thread had changed its course. This affair superseded
one she would otherwise have had with a mortal man that
would have generated offspring. Lachesis had had to bail
him out; she had measured that thread but found no way
to attach it to start the baby. The necessary interaction
had not taken place. She had spoken sharply to Mars
about that, requiring him to break off the affair so that
the natural order could reassert itself; then she had tied
in the new thread a little farther down the line. Clotho
had had to sweeten the pot for Mars until he found a new
mortal to dally with. It was a private scandal.

Atropos preferred to go to orchestral recitals, operas,
and plays. Indeed, she had a reserved box at one prom-
inent playhouse. Niobe got to watch these too, and
learned to enjoy them. In this manner she was able to
acquire some culture. Once, however, a gentleman had
challenged Atropos' credentials; it seemed they had not
been able to verify her social credentials and suspected

Piers Anthony                 123

she was a commoner in disguise. At this point Niobe had
taken over the body, smiled, and asked the man what he
meant. He blinked, for she was young and beautiful in-
stead of old and homely; he had apologized for the con-
fusion and departed. Atropos resumed form and watched
the opera in peace.

Niobe herself went to visit her son. At first she went
as she was, but she soon realized that this could not con-
tinue. For one thing, she did not age; she was locked at
the physical age of twenty-three, and before long this
would be noticed. Also, she did not want Junior to be
accustomed to her presence; it was better that he forget
her and orient entirely on his new family. It would be
easier on him, in the long run. And—it was evident that
young Cousin Pacian was smitten by her. This sort of
thing happened with adolescents; it was a liability of
beauty. She deemed it best simply to absent herself.

Still, she wanted some personal interaction with her
son. So she asked Atropos to pose as a grandmotherly
friend who visited relatives in the area and liked children.
Atropos, with Niobe's silent advice, cultivated the lad's
acquaintance, and in time Pace, ever on guard for any
threat to his little friend's welfare, came to accept her
also. As the years passed, and Junior became an active
child and Pace a tall and surprisingly handsome teenager,
Atropos took them to light operas and plays of interest
to all ages. Because Atropos had a wide knowledge of the
form, she knew which ones were appropriate, and it
worked nicely. Both boys enjoyed it, and Pace's parents
looked with favor on it. Atropos herself found this to be
a rewarding experience, so it was good all around.

But there was one experience that shook them all. It
happened when Junior was six years old and Pace eight-
een. It was the day of the annual fair, and everyone
went—but the old folks soon got separated from the
young folks in the press of the throng. Atropos counted

224

Piers Anthony                125

With a Tangled Skein

as a young folk; Pace hardly needed supervision, but little
Junior did, and anyway they had long been a threesome
for such jaunts. They cruised the fair, trying the games
of pseudo-skill, eating candy, and riding the small captive
sphinx. They watched a magic show that was somewhat
faked up to make the magic appear more impressive that
it was, and sat through two choruses of the Nymph-vs.-
Satyr dance. But though it was suggestive, it wasn't po-
tent; the participants were authentic, but in the course of
a dozen shows a day they lost their ardor. Nevertheless,
little Junior's eyes almost bugged; he wasn't supposed to
be in here, but enforcement was lax and he had promised
not to tell the folks. Niobe herself had grave reservations,
but Atropos had pooh-poohed them: "The lad's interested
in magic, and this is an aspect of magic. It isn't as if he's
never seen a nymph before." Of course that was true,
because of the hamadryad of the water oak.

Then they passed a prophecy booth. "Hey, tell my for-
tune!" Junior cried. This was magic, so he liked it.
"Ah, it's probably fake," Pace protested.
"I can verify that, if you wish," Atropos said.
What are you doing? Niobe thought at her. The fortune-
teller will recognize you!

"Very well, let's test her," Pace agreed, as he liked to
expose humbugs. Junior clapped his hands.

So they stopped there, and Atropos paid the seer. The
woman looked at her, then proffered the return of the
money. "You seek to fool me, immortal one?" she de-
manded. "You know I cannot read your like!"

"She's authentic," Atropos reported, and pushed the
money back. "Do it for the two boys; they are mortal."
"You're immortal?" Pace asked, looking at Atropos.
"I'm old, but I won't actually live forever."

He wasn't quite satisfied with that explanation, but let
it pass. "Very well. Do us together, me and my little
brother here." He hefted Junior up to sit on the counter.

"Who are we going to marry, and will our children be
famous?"

Junior giggled at the audacity of the question, not be-
lieving that the present order would ever change, but the
seer took it seriously. "Give me your hands," she said.

She took Junior's right hand and Pace's left, and closed
her eyes. In a moment they opened again. "Hooh!" she
exclaimed, as if letting off a head of steam. "A most re-
markable pair!"

Niobe became more interested. What did the seer see?

"Each to possess the most beautiful woman of her gen-
eration, who will bear him the most talented daughter of
her type," the seer intoned. "Both daughters to stand
athwart the tangled skein, and one may marry Death and
the other Evil." She cast loose their hands, seeming
shaken. "More I dare not say."

Pace lifted Junior down, and they moved away from
the booth. "That was a true telling?" he asked, awed.

"So it seems," Atropos said. "Of course interpretation
changes things, so it may not mean what it seems."

"That prophecy is loaded!" he exclaimed. "The most
beautiful daughter?"

The tangled skein? Niobe asked. That's our business!

"And one may marry Death, the other Evil," Atropos
said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I like the smell of that."

Niobe had similar doubts. Death is Thanatos, and Evil
is Satan. Their daughters will marry Incarnations?

"What's a tangled skein?" Junior asked.

"Trouble!" Atropos said.

Trouble, Niobe agreed.

They settled down under a tree and talked it out. "This
is not a bad prophecy," Atropos told the boys. "It is no
disaster for a man to possess—that is, to marry—the most
beautiful of women, and to have talented offspring. If they
stand athwart the skein, that probably means they are to
be very important figures. As for marrying Death and




126 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 127

Evil—well, remember the prophecy says may. Any per-
son may get into trouble if careless! You have your warn-
ing; you must educate your children to beware of such
things as Death and Evil, and there should be no prob-
lem."

"Say, yes!" Pace agreed, brightening. "We have been
given warning. We can make it come out all right."

But little Junior, oddly, was more pensive. "Aren't
prophecies un—un—"

"Unavoidable," Atropos finished for him. "Yes, a true
prophecy will be fulfilled, and this seems to be a true one.
But it does provide leeway."

"I want another," Junior decided. "A corr—corr—"

"A corroborative opinion," Pace finished.

Atropos shrugged. "I suppose it can't hurt."

Asking for a corroborative opinion? Niobe thought. My
son is smart!

So they went to another seer. Again Atropos proffered
the money, and again the seer did a double take. "What
do you do here, you sinister trio?" she demanded.

"It is for the boys," Atropos said, knowing it had not
been the physical three the seer referred to. This was an-
other qualified one! "Do them together. What is to be-
come of them and their children?"

The seer took the boys' hands, as had the first one—
and her eyes also widened. "One to be savior of deer, his
child savior of man; other to love an Incarnation, his child
to be one. But the skein is tangled—oh!" The seer tore
her hands away. "I cannot finish; it is too much for me."
Indeed, she was shaking.

They retreated and discussed this one. "Deer?" Junior
asked.

His father sought to enable the deer to shoot back at
the hunters, Niobe clarified. So Atropos explained about
that, and the boy was satisfied.

"I'm going to do it!" he exclaimed. "Hama will show
me how! I'll make the deer shoot back!"

But Pace looked narrowly at Atropos. "How do you
know about that? My cousin Cedric died before you met
us;"

"I know his wife. Junior's mother," Atropos said. "I
told you I was a friend of the family."

"Oh? Where is she now? She hasn't visited us in a long
time."

"She is locked into a very special project," Atropos
said. "A secret one. That is why she couldn't have Junior
with her."

"She's the most beautiful woman I ever saw," Pace
said dreamily.

"What's an Incarnation?" Junior asked.

"The Incarnations are human personifications of the
important aspects of existence," Atropos said carefully.
"Love, War, Time—"

"Death, Evil," Pace put in. "That other prophecy—"

"I think," Atropos said, "your daughters are going to
associate with some remarkable figures, and perhaps be-
come—"

"An Incarnation," Pace said. "Is that possible?"

"Mortals do become Incarnations on occasion," Atro-
pos said. "But it is a very rare thing."

"Which one?" Junior asked.

Atropos spread her hands. "As both seers said, it is a
tangled skein. I doubt we can unravel it before the event—
and it may not be wise to try."

"Yes, I think we should stay away from prophecies
after this," Pace said. But Junior didn't seem convinced.

They went on to other distractions of the fair, but the
boys were pensive, and so was Niobe. As Aspects of Fate,
she and Atropos could trace the threads of life—but not
far into the future, for the vision of the Tapestry soon
fuzzed. This wasn't because of hostile magic, but because




128

Piers Anthony                 129

With a Tangled Skein

the Tapestry itself was so immensely complex that only
direct inspection of its present portion could unravel any
of it. But Niobe knew that the threads for both Pace and
Junior were of normal length; neither would die young.
After Cedric, she had made sure of that! But she could
not see their precise interactions in the coming Tapestry.
These prophecies seemed to confirm that the boys, who
were already associating with an Incarnation, would con-
tinue to do so. In that sense the outlook wasn't as re-
markable as it seemed. But obviously there was a great
deal destined to occur!

Time moved on, and none of them discussed the proph-
ecies further, but Niobe knew that the boys had not for-
gotten. From that point on. Junior focused increasingly
on magic. He bought a magic kit, and practiced simple
conjurations and transformations. He wasn't really good
at them, but no other boy his age even attempted genuine
magic; it was easier to hire a professional magician, or to
buy packaged spells. Junior did seem to have a special
talent for imprinting stones; it seemed the hamadryad had
shown him that. He could take a pebble from the shore
of a lake and cause it to glow or make a sound. Stone-
magic was a specialty that few did well, and his ability
was remarkable in one so young. Niobe bought an inter-
mediate gemstone, a green aquamarine, and had Atropos
give it to him for his eighth birthday. He was thrilled, and
indeed the quality stone was much more responsive to his
spells than the crude pebbles were. He fashioned it into
a homing stone that showed by its glow which way home
was, so that he could never get lost. "That boy is going
to be a major magician, mark my word," Atropos said.

Pace progressed to other interests, as well as taking
over most of the management of the family farm. When
he was twenty-two he married Blanche, a schoolmate
with hair so fair it was almost white. Blanche was a fine
person, warm and generous and competent about the

farm, but by no stretch could she be termed the most
beautiful woman of her generation. Pace gave Atropos a
significant glance at the wedding, showing that he re-
membered the prophecy—and had deliberately avoided
it.

Niobe was uneasy. The prophecy had said "possess"
rather than "marry"; if he did not marry the most beau-
tiful woman, how would he associate with her? But she
kept her misgivings to herself.

The following year, when Junior was eleven, Blanche
gave birth to a baby girl. From the start, Blenda was daz-
zling, certainly the prettiest baby in the vicinity. She grew
into a stunning child. If Pace hadn't married the prettiest
woman, he seemed to have fathered her, and in that sense
possessed her. Blenda was the talk of the county.

Junior was now an only child, for Pacian and Blanche
lived separately. It was a considerable adjustment for him
at first, for his cousin/brother had been much of his family.
He knew that his natural father was dead, and his natural
mother absent, but his identity was with his cousin's fam-
ily. He turned inward, focusing even more on his pursuit
of magic. Niobe hated to see him lonely, but could do
nothing; she had given him up, and, anyway, it was the
sort of adjustment a person had to make in life. But Atro-
pos seemed to take it harder than Niobe herself did. The
old woman had really come to like the boy and missed
the threesome adventures. Perhaps by no coincidence,
Atropos decided to retire from her Aspect. "I've had
enough of immortality," she said.

Lachesis searched the Tapestry, and located a widowed
grandmother who would do. They went to visit her, in
the form of Atropos. The woman listened gravely while
Atropos explained her nature and her desire. "But if what
you say is true, I will become immortal and you will die
of old age!" the woman pointed out. "Why would you
seek such a bargain?"




130             With a Tangled Skein

"It is true that I will not survive long as a mortal,"
Atropos agreed. "But I have lived fifteen years beyond
my time, and I have no fear of the Afterlife. I know I have
done well enough and will see Heaven and I am ready for
it."

They showed the woman their other two forms, and
she was duly impressed. "Do you mean that I can be
young again, and be like that? I have never seen a woman
as beautiful!"

Niobe had the body now. "You can share with me,"
she explained. "But I will govern; you will be an observer,
just as I will be an observer when you govern. But after
a while we seem to overlap; we become in effect a single
person with alternate forms. In that sense you can become
me, if you wish."

The woman shook her head. "I am astonished. Let me
think about it."

She thought about it for a week, then put her affairs in
order and joined Fate. No complexities of meeting were
necessary, as this was not a person Satan opposed; Niobe
had been a special case. This time Niobe watched from
inside as Lachesis took the woman's hand, and her es-
sence entered them, while the old Atropos departed. In
a moment the Atropos they had known stood before them,
a separate person, molded from the flesh of the mortal
woman. Again there were tears; however voluntary the
transition was, there was sorrow in it too. They separated.

It took time to break in the new Atropos, and to get to
know her well. Now Niobe knew what the others had gone
through when she had joined. It wasn't good or bad, it
was mainly a lot of work and adjustment, for the person-
ality of the total entity of Pate had made a significant shift.
The fascination with opera was gone; new interests took
its place. It was months before they were really com-
fortable as a group. But the process did serve to distract
Niobe's attention from Junior for a while, for she was too

Pier's Anthony                 131

busy to visit the mortals on any but a strictly business
basis.

When Niobe did go to visit Junior again, she had to do
it in her own form, for the new Atropos had no interest
in this matter. Lachesis would have helped, but they de-
cided it was better to save her as a reserve, in case it
should be necessary to change identity quickly. So Niobe
donned a wig and applied makeup to make herself look
older.

She discovered that the prior Atropos, the one she had
known in office, had settled in Ireland, and was now vis-
iting Junior as a mortal. They still enjoyed attending plays
together, and she was able to provide magical materials
for him that he could not otherwise obtain. They went
regularly to visit the hamadryad of the water oak.

Niobe considered that situation, and decided to let well
enough alone. Atropos really did like the boy, and would
see that no harm came to him. "Bless you," Niobe mur-
mured to herself. Then she reconsidered, and visited the
old woman privately to repeat the sentiment aloud.

"Well, you know my own kin wouldn't know me any-
more," Atropos said. "They think I died fifteen years
ago. I'm a grandmother; I need to practice my art."

Evidently so. But Niobe kissed her anyway.

Time passed. Junior grew to adulthood. He specialized
in magic when he attended the same college Cedric had,
and showed similar brilliance. He progressed beyond the
level of his professors. For his Ph.D. project he developed
the spell that enabled the deer to shoot back: any missile
discharged, whether from bow, gun, or hand, swung
around to score on the hunter. Suddenly hunting lost its
appeal, not only in the local wetlands, but in all wetlands
and most of the remaining wilderness of the world. Sim-
ilarly developers were balked; their bulldozers tended to
crash back on their starting points, unable to penetrate
far into the living wilderness. Junior made an A for the

232

Piers Anthony                 133

With a Tangled Skein

project, and the construction industry filed a lawsuit
against the college. In the end they had to compromise:

the deer-magic would be applied only to those regions
officially designated as parks. But the closest one was so
designated immediately. Junior had fulfilled his father's
ambition. The hamadryad was so thrilled she gave him a
kiss, then hid in the deepest foliage for three days, blush-
ing.

Junior became Magician Kaftan, a professional en-
chanter of stones. His business increased; soon he was
filling orders from all over the world. He did not become
famous because he maintained a low profile; the lawsuit
against the college had taught him caution. The stones
were merely a business to support his continuing re-
searches into magic. He was fast becoming the most for-
midable magician in the world. Magic was all he cared
about, especially after Grandma Atropos passed away.
He would disappear into his laboratory and not reappear
for days.

Concerned, Niobe went to visit him. She wore her wig
and makeup, but he recognized her instantly. "Hello,
Mother! How is Pate treating you?"

She sighed. Her son the Magician was now thirty-four
years old, eleven years older than she, physically, and he
was a genius in his trade. Perhaps she should not have
been surprised; his father had been brilliant, and Junior
had had unique schooling along the way, beginning with
the hamadryad. Naturally he had researched his own line-
age, and discovered exactly what had happened to his
mother.

"I am doing well," she said. "But you. Junior—I wish
you would not seal yourself off from the world so much.
It's not healthy."

He smiled, prepared to indulge her in small matters.
"What would you have me do. Mother?"

"Socialize a little, at least with your friends and rela-
tives! How long has it been since you visited the water
oak?"

"Five years," he confessed.

"And how long since you've seen Pacian?"

He counted off on his fingers. "A decade. It wasn't the
same, after he married."

"Well, go see them," she urged. "You owe a lot to the
hamadryad, and Pacian is a good man, with a nice fam-
ily." She studied him with motherly solicitude. "Speaking
of which—when are you going to marry?"

"When I encounter the most beautiful woman of her
generation," he said, smiling. "According to the proph-
ecy." It was evident that he no longer credited the proph-
ecies. Possibly he had researched them, too, using his
superior magic, but she doubted it. That wasn't his type
of magic, and it was difficult for any person to research
his own destiny; paradox closed in rapidly.

"Well, all in good time. I want you to visit your cousin,
at least," she said firmly. "He was very good to you."

He nodded, remembering. "He was, indeed. Very well,
Mother, I will visit the water oak and Pacian."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"And soon," she said, and changed into arachnid form
and slid up her thread to Purgatory. There was no point
in concealing her magic from him anymore.

The Magician was as good as his word. The following
day he phoned Pace, and later that week they had a re-
union. In the interim he visited the water oak. The ha-
madryad was glad to see him, though the passage of years
made her diffident. "Mother tells me I should get mar-
ried," he said, and she nodded agreement. "But where
on Earth will I find a mortal woman as beautiful as you?"
She shrugged and blushed, forgiving him his five years
neglect; even immortals were subject to flattery.




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With a Tangled Skein

At the reunion he met Blenda. He had seen her as a
baby and occasionally as a child. Now she was twenty-
three, the same age as Niobe's body, and she was so beau-
tiful she seemed to light the room she entered. It would
have taken an expert to judge between her and the ha-
madryad—but she was mortal. She smiled shyly at the
visiting Magician—and worked on him a magic more fun-
damental than any he had studied.

They were married the following year. Niobe attended
the wedding, at her son's request, doing it in her own
guise, as no one would recognize her now. After all, she
was fifty-eight years old, chronologically; who would ever
believe she could be the mother of the groom? But Pacian,
the father of the bride, gave her a single piercing look,
then shrugged, not able to believe the wild thought that
had touched his mind.

It was a lovely wedding. Niobe sat alone in the crowd,
in the section reserved for the groom's relatives, and
cried. When the two exchanged vows, she could hardly
contain herself. "I am losing my son!" she sobbed. More
than one head turned to face her, perplexed.

Between the wedding and the reception, they posed for
pictures. The groom could not present any proud parents
for this; the family he had known belonged to his cousin,
the father of the bride. "Indulge me, dear," he murmured
to Blenda, and beckoned to Niobe. She approached un-
certainly, stifling tears.

"This is a blood relative; she can pose in lieu."

So Niobe stood beside Blenda and smiled, and Blenda
smiled—and there was a murmur of awe through the as-
semblage. "Look at them!" a woman exclaimed. "Like
twins in beauty!"

Niobe realized it was true. She had been said to be the
loveliest of her generation, and Blenda of hers. Niobe's
hair was dark amber, like buckwheat honey, while Blen-
da's was light amber, like clover honey; with both, it
flowed loose to the slender waist, and both sets of eyes
were bright blue. They were a match of feature and figure,
like two scintillating gems. It was a remarkable coinci-
dence.

The photographers went on to other subjects, and
Niobe and Blenda had a moment together. "Please," the
girl begged. "Tell me who you are! Kaf said he had a
beautiful relative, but I never suspected—"

Niobe had of course checked Blenda's thread of life,
and knew she was a fine person all around, as her mother
was. She could be trusted, and she deserved to know.
"You will find this hard to believe—"

"After seeing Kafs magic, I can believe much!"

"I am his mother."

Blenda's perfect mouth dropped open. She looked
across the room at her new husband, who nodded gravely,
though he could not have overheard their dialogue. Then
she recovered. "Oh—a youth spell! Of course! He said
his mother was the most—but you know that, of course!"

"And his father was as handsome and intelligent as
any," Niobe said, feeling the tears begin again. "Like
yours. It is not a youth spell, precisely. I never aged. I
became an Incarnation. That's why I had to give up my
baby."

"An—?"

"Fate."

"Fate!" Blenda's eyes widened in realization. "Did
you arrange—?"

"For my son to marry you? Not in that manner! I sim-
ply told him to get back in touch with his closest friend,
his cousin Pace, and the rest happened. I confess I wasn't
even thinking of you, but I'm glad it happened. You are
worthy of him, dear, and it does fill the prophecy."

"Prophecy?"




r

136

With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 137

"That my son would possess the most beautiful woman
of her generation, and have a daughter who would be the
most talented of her type and love an Incarnation."

"My father mentioned a prophecy," Blenda said. "But

he said he foiled it."

"Prophecies are hard to foil," Niobe said. "Certainly
it seems to be coming true for my son, and if the rest
follows, your daughter will consort with the Incarnation
of Death or Evil. That is not necessarily bad, horrendous
as it may sound. But she is also to be the savior of man
and to stand athwart a tangled skein. Since there is an
entity who objects to the salvation of man, she could be

in danger."

Blenda made a soundless whistle. "I shall do my best
to protect her! In fact, I will consider carefully before I
bear her. I thank you for telling me of this prophecy. I
had not known the full nature of it."

"No one ever knows the full nature of a prophecy—

until it is too late."

They kissed, then moved on to the reception chamber,
where Blenda had to rejoin her husband and cut the mon-
strous cake. She picked up the knife, and the groom put
his hand on hers, and they brought it to the outer layer.

"Hold!" the Magician exclaimed. "There is evil here!"
He drew his bride back and brought out a stone.

There was a hush. The Magician held the stone high
and moved it in a circle. When it approached the cake, it
glowed brilliantly. He nodded; there was the focus of evil.

"Go to your parents," the Magician said tersely. "This

may be messy."

"I knew cake was fattening, but ..." Blenda mur-
mured. She went to join Pacian and Blanche, and the three |
watched anxiously from one side, while Niobe and other
guests watched from the front. What was wrong with that
cake?

The Magician brought out another stone and held it
carefully before him. Suddenly a beam of light speared
out from the stone, into the center of the cake.

There was a crackle of scorching frosting. Then the
cake exploded. Splotches of icing sprayed out, plastering
ceiling. Magician, and guests. Someone screamed. From
the cake leaped a demon. The thing had red skin, a barbed
tail, and a horrendously horned head. With an inchoate
roar it leaped at the Magician—and bounced away from
an invisible shield. Naturally the adept had seen to his
own protection.

"So you refuse to die. Kaftan!" the demon cried, its
voice so guttural that it was barely comprehensible. "But
it takes two to make a child!" It whirled on Blenda, mak-
ing a prodigious leap.

The Magician threw a stone at his bride. "Catch it!"
he cried.

Blenda, almost frozen in terror, moved automatically
to catch the stone just before the demon landed. The
demon bounced again, for now she had the protection
stone. The monster rolled off the side of the invisible
sphere—and came down on Blanche. Its outsized mouth
opened, and its terrible fangs closed on the woman's
throat. Blood spurted.

"Mother!" Blenda shrieked in absolute horror.

Then the Magician brought another stone into play.
Blue radiance spread from it to encompass the demon—
and the demon screamed and melted into a bubbling pud-
dle.

But it was too late. The bride's mother was dead. The
demon had gotten neither its primary nor its secondary
target, but had wrought terrible mischief in its failure.







CHANGES

Niobe was an Incarnation, but she could not do anything
about the tragedy. She had not thought to check Blanche's
thread. Satan had scored a partial evil again. As it had
been when he tried to strike at Niobe herself, he had been
balked, but an innocent party had suffered. "I should
have seen it coming," Lachesis said with deep regret.
"Perhaps I could have rearranged the threads in that part
of the Tapestry—"

"But I'm the one who cuts the threads," Atropos said.
"I've been with you long enough to know—"

"That thread was cut by your predecessor," Niobe
said. "But I'm sure I checked it when Pacian married her,
and it was of normal length. When Satan strikes, we all
make mistakes. No one was supposed to die at that wed-
ding; Satan interfered by sending his demon to—" She
shrugged and swallowed, then continued. "And now we
simply have to patch the Tapestry on a makeshift basis,
as we have done before."

138

Piers Anthony                139

"Still, it could not have happened if I hadn't become
careless," Lachesis said. "When Thanatos gets careless,
he gets killed by his successor; when I get careless, in-
nocent mortals suffer. It is time for me to retire."

Naturally Niobe protested. But they all knew it was
true: Lachesis, as the measurer of the threads, should
have been alert to Satan's interference in her measure-
ment. No Incarnation could successfully interfere with
another, if the other was on the job. Satan prospered by
deceit—and Lachesis had been deceived. She had erred.

They located a suitable prospect, a woman of middling
age who had no close family and had a talent for managing
things, and approached her. She agreed, and the change
was made. This time Niobe, as the senior remaining As-
pect, handled it. She took the woman's hand, and the
woman's essence entered while Lachesis' essence de-
parted. Again it was done—and they had a new Aspect
to break in.

Unfortunately, the change of Lachesis-identities did
not make Fate's job easier. Satan took this opportunity
to yank the threads about to his benefit. Once again it was
a struggle to stave off disaster, and once again the staving
was not complete.

The political scene was constantly in flux across the
world, whatever nominal form of government a country
had, and Satan was adept at the corruption of politicians.
At any given moment, the representation of good and evil
in politics was about even, worldwide. Every time an evil
power-wielder was ousted, another developed. It was ev-
ident that Satan was really trying to gain a clear political
advantage that he could use to gain a social advantage.
Nowhere was the war between good and evil shown to
better advantage than in politics.

Quite a number of Niobe's countrymen had emigrated
to America, and now they were achieving political rep-

140             With a Tangled Skein

resentation there. Whether this was good or bad depended
on the particular men, but she tended to favor her own.
Thus when, in trying to clarify the nature of the job for
the new Lachesis, she discovered a Satanistic tangle of
threads in the Tapestry, involving one of this lineage in
America, she investigated. Satan was certainly up to
something; tangles never occurred naturally. But she
could not make it out clearly, and Lachesis was as yet

too inexperienced to do so.

"Someone's thread is to be prematurely cut," Atropos

said.

They zeroed in on it. Sure enough, the thread of a po-
tential future candidate for the American presidency was
to be artificially cut. That would seriously distort the Tap-
estry. But they weren't sure how bad it would be.

Niobe consulted with Chronos, who remembered the
future. Her affair with him had proceeded intermittently
for thirty-five years, and she was really quite fond of him;

he was a decent man. Because the two of them moved
temporally opposite, there was always a certain novelty
in it, and it was a relationship they found mutually con-
venient. It was true: it took one Incarnation to truly un-
derstand another. But Chronos was unable to help her
in this. "As you know, I have only been in office a year,
and I have no knowledge of the world's future beyond

that."

"I didn't know!" she said, startled. "I—I suppose I

thought you were eternal, though I'm sure you told me
at the outset." Indeed, now she remembered the reverse
situation, when he had forgotten that her beginning-end
was near. It was easy to do, over such a timespan! "Why,
that means we'll have to be breaking you in, soon!"

He smiled. "You have done that very competently,
Clotho; I will always be in your debt. I hope someday I

can repay the favor."

"You did, Chronos," she reassured him.

Piers Anthony                 141

Lacking the perspective of the future, they could obtain
more specific information only by going to Earth to check
the living threads. There they discovered that a demon
had been dispatched from Hell. It would drive a car to
intercept the senator on a back road at night and crash
into him. Rather, the demon-spirit was to take over the
body of a Satanist—a Satan worshiper—for this mission;

naturally the mortal had not been told that he would prob-
ably lose his own life. He merely understood that, in re-
turn for assisting Satan, he would be richly rewarded.

The old, experienced Lachesis could have twitched the
threads expertly to clear the tangle and prevent Satan
from interfering. But what would have been simple for
her was complex for the new one. It did take time to gain
proficiency. They had to take the direct route: a visit to
the senator himself.

The night the "accident" was scheduled, Niobe took
the body and slid a thread to the spiderweb nearest the
country house where the senator was having a private
party with his workers, volunteers, and friends. There
was a lot of liquor going around, and many of the atten-
dees were comely young women. Niobe didn't approve;

if this was one of the good politicians, what were the bad
ones like? But of course a man could not be judged by
his private entertainments; it was his performance in of-
fice that counted. Women could not be blamed for being
attracted to the focal points of power like bees to flowers;

that was their nature. She herself had not loved Cedric
until he had shown his power. At least this made it easy
for her to infiltrate; she was assumed to be a professional
of another type.

She filled a wineglass with water and carried it about
so that no one realized she was not imbibing. She had
never imbibed since that night Cedric got sick. She fended
off the approaches of interested young men and worked




242 With a Tangled Skein

her way to the senator himself. "Senator, your life is in
peril," she murmured as she danced with him.

He smiled in that vote-getting way he had. "You are a
Russian agent?"

"Just a friend of the status quo. There is a car ready
to crash yours. Do not go driving tonight. Senator."

He smiled again, but this time there was a certain
masked malice behind it; he did not like to have anyone
tell him what not to do. Politically he stood for the right
things, and more often than not did the right things, but
that did not make him a perfect man. There was, she had
long since learned, a mixture of good and evil in every
thread of life—which was the point of life, if Satan was
to be believed. She had never been satisfied that that was
the whole of it, but it was at least a half-truth. So he was
annoyed at her warning—but she was physically the type
of woman the senator did not openly affront. That was
why she had approached him in her own form, in a re-
vealing gown. In a moment he would make a pass at her,

"You have something better to offer?" he asked.

"Your life," she replied evenly. "This house is pro-
tected; the assassin will not enter. It must catch you on
the road, tonight. Remain here; by morning the threat will
abate." For they had ascertained that this particular
demon-spirit could not survive away from Hell for more
than a few hours.

"Remain here—with you?"

"No, Senator. I am here merely to warn you, not to
entertain you. Heed my warning, and all will be well."
She turned and walked away.

When she was out of his sight, she changed to Lachesis,
so that the senator could not recognize her, and moved
on out of the house. Outside, she shifted to spider form
and sat on the branch of a tree, watching.

Sure enough, her warning had not sufficed. Once a
thread was positioned, it was hard to reposition, and this

Piers Anthony                143

one was locked in a tangle. The senator emerged with a
young woman; he was going to take her for a ride. He
was married, but such men did not take such things too
seriously.

Niobe, uncertain what to do, slid down a line to land
on the senator's shoulder. She would just have to go along
and hope she could enable him to avoid the assassination.
Maybe if he saw the assassin-car approaching, he would
take heed and get off the road in time. Of course, then
the demon might come after him afoot, but perhaps she
could balk it. Certainly she had to try. How she wished
that this tangle hadn't occurred just now, when Lachesis
was inexperienced—but of course that was why it had
occurred. Satan never passed up a chance!

The senator got into a small car, and the girl took the
passenger seat. He drove out the back way, avoiding the
guard at the front; he evidently didn't care to be recog-
nized and have news of this tryst relayed to his wife. The
fool!

Niobe knew the assassin was lurking out there, waiting
to spy the senator's car. There would be little chance to
escape once that happened.

It was difficult to talk while in spider form, but possible.
"Senator!" Niobe said near his left ear.
He glanced at the girl to his right. "Yes?"
"What?" the girl asked.

"She didn't speak," Niobe said. "/ spoke. I'm the spi-
der on your shoulder."

The senator looked left, startled. "What sorcery is
this?"

"Just a little shape-changing. I'm the woman who
woman who
warned you before."

"The lovely one!" he said. "I didn't know you were
magical!"

"What is this?" the girl on the other side demanded.

144

Piers Anthony

With a Tangled Skein

145

the senator ex-


There is a spider talking to me,

plained.

"A lovely spider?  I don't believe it!"
"Take warning!" Niobe cried. "Get off the road before

the assassin spies you!"

Now the senator was doubtful. "I thought it was a ploy
for attention. But you disappeared. Now I learn you're a
shape-changer. But why should you care about me?"

"I don't care much about you personally," Niobe said.
"If I did, I'd probably tell your wife what you're up to
tonight. But you are one of the better men in the bad mess
that politics is today and you may have a considerable
future, so I don't want an evil force to take you out.
Please, Senator—turn about, get back to your party. Save
your little dalliance for some other night."

"Now / hear it!" the girl exclaimed. "How can a spider

talk?"

"I'm not sure," the senator said, and Niobe knew he
meant about the situation, not about talking spiders. That
was one of his weaknesses: the inability to make a firm
decision on short notice. Normally he had advisers and
scriptwriters to put words in his mouth; perhaps he de-
pended on them too much. When caught unprepared, he

could seem positively tongue-tied.

"Then play it safe!" Niobe urged. "The most you can
lose is one tryst! The alternative will cost you your life!"

Still he hedged. "You may be magical, but I don't really
know your motive. There may be danger at the party."

"Then go somewhere else!" Niobe cried in her tinny
spider-voice. "Take a walk through the forest! Anything
but a drive along this road tonight!"

He ground to a decision. "All right—I'll check this out.
Emjay, you take the wheel. I'll get out and watch. If
there's an assassin looking for me, he won't bother you—
and I'll know him if I see him." He brought out a pair of

tinted glasses and put them on as he brought the car to a

halt.

"But I don't know the way!" the girl protested.
"Just follow the road; it dead-ends at the beach. It's

not far; I'll catch up with you there, once I've verified

Miss Spider's story. I want to see what else is on this

road."

"Well, if you say—" the girl said doubtfully. She
moved over and took the wheel. She moved slowly on
while the senator hid behind the bushes at the side of the
road.

As the car's headlights retreated, the senator addressed
Niobe. "All right, spider-woman—change back to your
human form! You got my attention, all right!"
"I didn't come here to—" Niobe protested.
"Change—or I'll squish you where you sit!" He
brought up his open hand and made as if to slap his shoul-
der.

Niobe hastily changed. It wasn't that she was vulner-
able in arachnid form; she was protected by the same web-
ambiance that kept her safe when in human form, no mat-
ter how exposed she might seem. Thanatos and Chronos
had their cloaks; she had her web. But she didn't want
to tell the senator her true nature, so she obeyed his de-
mand. She leaped off his shoulder and landed in her own
form before him.

"Now that's better," he said, reaching for her.

She skipped away. "Senator, if you think this was all
a device to get you alone out here—shouldn't you be
afraid it's a trap?"

"Nope." He tapped his glasses. "These show evil.
There's hardly any evil in you; you're just as lovely
through these lenses as you are without them."

"Well, I'm not evil, but also not—" She broke off,
hearing something.




146             With a Tangled Skein

He heard it too. He crouched behind the bushes, peer-
ing down the road.
The car came slowly from the direction the girl had

gone. Its glass was reflective in the night, bfil the motor
had an ugly sound. The senator stared—and gave a stifled
gasp. Niobe put a hand on his shoulder, cautioning him

to silence.
The car passed. The senator faced her, removing the

glasses, his eyes round in the moonlight. "That thing in

the car—it was a demon!"

"It was a man possessed by an evil spirit," Niobe

agreed. "Now you know."

"If I'd been out there—"

"It would have spotted you, accelerated, and deliber-
ately rammed you. It doesn't care if it dies; it's already
dead, though the living man it possesses isn't."

He glanced down the road. "Will it go after Emjay?"

he asked, worried.

"It shouldn't. It's targeted for just one person: you."
"I'll go after her anyway," he decided. "I don't want j

her out here while that thing's on the road!" He started

down the road at a lumbering run.
Niobe paced him. "It's not safe for you afoot either,

Senator! That demon will be back, and—"

"I'll hide when it comes!" he puffed, slowing to a walk;

he was in no condition to run the whole way.

The assassin car did return, and the senator did hide in
the bushes. Demon-possessed people were not very alert
or observant because it took most of the demon's energy
to operate the host's body, so the thing never even looked
to the sides. It would have worked better if the demon-
spirit merely rode along in the body, letting the living per-
son follow instructions—but when the instructions in-
cluded a suicide collision, that was not feasible. The
demon had to retain complete control so that there would
be no last-moment balking. That was probably why it

Piers Anthony                147

wasn't destined to survive long; it took a great deal of
spiritual energy to translate into physical energy.

Why hadn't Satan sent a full physical demon, as he had
to the Magician's wedding? Probably because that was
very awkward to do. True demons were confined to Hell,
and only on very rare occasions could they be sprung
loose. The mortal plane was a hostile environment for
demons, as it was for angels. It was easier to spring
demon-spirits, as in this case—but they were less reliable.
Probably Satan had not expected Fate to come to the
scene personally; he had forgotten the score Niobe had
to settle with him.

They reached a bridge that crossed a minor inlet of the
sea, and stopped, appalled. The wooden guardrail had
been smashed. Obviously the car had gone off the bridge
and into the water.

"She didn't know the road!" the senator exclaimed.
"See—the bridge curves, and she was going straight—"

He ripped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. He
dived into the water, searching for the car. In a moment
he surfaced, gasping. "It's down there!"

He dived again, and surfaced again. "I can't get it
open!"

Niobe sent a magic thread down and slid along it, im-
pervious to the water. But in this mode she could only
observe, not act on anything physical. She saw the car,
and the girl inside.

She returned to the shore. "She's dead," she reported.
"There's nothing you can do. Get on back to the house."
Then, sick at heart, she retreated to Purgatory.

Satan himself awaited her there. "So you sought to in-
terfere, sugarplum," he said. "Well, you did not suc-
ceed."

"I saved his life!" Niobe retorted angrily.
"And exchanged it for that of an innocent girl," he
countered. "And My purpose has been served. I don't




148

Piers Anthony                 149

With a Tangled Skein

care whether that man lives or dies; I just want him fin-
ished politically. That has been accomplished."

Niobe brushed on by, refusing to speak to him again.
But the following events proved Satan correct. The sen-
ator put out the story that he had been driving the girl
back to town, and had taken a wrong turn and blundered
into the bay; he had fought free of the car but she hadn't.
Some believed that; some did not; after all, his bulk was
twice that of the girl. How could he have been more agile
in escape than she? There were too many questions. The
senator had been perhaps the leading candidate of his
party for president; after the scandal of the girl's strange
death, he could not come close to nomination. He con-
tinued as senator, but he would never be president. His
career had been capped. All because he had let the girl
drive an unfamiliar road alone.

"If I hadn't been inept with the threads ..." Lachesis
said.

"It takes many years of experience to foil Satan,"
Niobe said grimly. "He is an infinitely wily and indefa-
tigable opponent. We thought it was the senator's life
Satan wanted, not merely his career. It was probably too
late to undo the damage when we became aware of the
tangle." But her rage at Satan was renewed. So many
times she had tried to foil him and had taken her losses,
as it had been with Cedric, with Blanche, and now with
the senator. She wished she could skunk Satan com-
pletely. But the person of goodwill seemed always to be
at a disadvantage before the completely unscrupulous
power that was Evil Incarnate.

Chronos' time was growing short. He became less con-
fident as he approached the moment of his changeover.
For him it was the assumption of his office; for the others,
it was the termination of it. Each Chronos officeholder
took the Hourglass, the single most potent magical in-

strument in existence, after a mortal existence. In this
respect that office was similar to the others. But from that
moment Chronos lived backward until the moment of his
origin, when he had to pass the Glass on to his prede-
cessor. It was an exceedingly awkward adjustment.

Niobe had always been—would always be—closest to
Chronos, and now it was especially important. Physically
he was twice her age, but in other respects he was much
younger. There was now a kind of desperation in their
lovemaking, as if he needed reassurance that some things
remained as they had been in his mortal life. He could
change time itself, but lacked experience, and that made
him highly insecure.

Finally it came to the first time. Niobe knew it, because
she had had the foresight to ask him, as if playfully, how
many times they had done it, and then she had kept count.
Now he was obviously smitten by her, but afraid to con-
fess it, and unable to get a proper grip on his job while
this impasse remained. She seduced him gently, letting
him know it was all right, that she understood. Indeed
she did! In her mortal life, so long ago, she would have
been appalled to see herself now. But she was thirty-six
years wiser now, and she knew Chronos better than he
could believe at this stage. He was an old friend, and
though she never had loved him, she regretted no part of
their relationship. Satan, of course, called her a call girl,
but it was a calling that had its self-respect. The under-
standing she brought to Chronos was important, yet she
missed the true love she had once had, so briefly, as a
mortal.

The affair was over, or had not yet begun. It came at
last to Chronos' last/first day in his office. He was so
bewildered she knew she had to take him literally in hand,
leading him to his mansion where she could explain things
more comfortably. Away from the mansion their times
were reversed, making communication difficult, for now




150             With a Tangled Skein

he had not yet learned how to use the Hourglass to control
time. She had to use printed signboards to tell him how
to reverse himself long enough for her to take him in hand,
for the print was comprehensible whether a person was
traveling forward or backward in time.

The place was near an amusement park, where he was
standing, bewildered. She knew, from what he had told
her before, that this was an hour after his assumption of
the office; he had blundered out of the park by himself,
and wished she had found him earlier. But now she under-
stood why she had not (would not): she needed that hour
to orient him. So her printed sign told him how to use the
Hourglass to reverse himself. When he did that, he was
suddenly moving forward in time again, and they could
talk. Once they were in his mansion they were still to-
gether—but now she was reversed, not he. The half hour
of his reversal canceled the half hour of hers, so that she
emerged at the same time as she had started the dia-
logue—a convenience she had carefully arranged.
Chronos now understood enough to continue, and was in
the hands of the loyal staff of the mansion; she knew it
would work out, however haltingly, because she remem-
bered that it had.

Now she had to get on with the other part of it: seeing

the new Chronos in. Chronos was too important to her
job to be left to chance, as it were; she had to know exactly
what she had to deal with. She returned to the amusement

park and explored the situation.

She picked up a few minutes after she had intercepted
Chronos with her printed signs, before. This time she con-
cealed herself from him. She retained her body, because
Lachesis was too inexperienced to handle this, and it was
Atropos' off-shift. She concealed her face somewhat with
a kerchief, so that Chronos wouldn't recognize her if he
saw her—not that he had any notion of her identity or
nature at this point. He hadn't met her yet. She followed

Piers Anthony                 151

him as he meandered backward into the park. No one else
paid him attention; mortals seldom noticed Incarnations,
and the backward-living Chronos was difficult to relate
to. So though they were in a crowd, it was in effect just
the two of them, playing a kind of hide-and-seek.

She felt sorry for him, seeing him so confused and ill
at ease. She knew what he was feeling, because he had
told her about it. She knew him better than any other
person did, now, and better than any other person would.
Thirty-six years as associates and lovers did make for
mutual understanding. Perhaps it would have been better
if she had loved him, for certainly he had loved her. But,
she decided, it had been necessary for one of them to be
objective; that had enabled her to cope with the backward
nature of their association, and not to take misunder-
standings too seriously. She remembered when they had
agreed to try the act of love in their natural states, moving
in opposite temporal directions. They had had to coor-
dinate it carefully, before and after. It had turned out to
be possible and intriguing as a novelty—but, for her, not
really much different from the normal act, because she
had been only slightly aroused. She had simply been there
for him, and for her own curiosity. So it had been a dis-
appointment—but now she remembered it clearly, for
what reason she was not sure, as she watched him wan-
dering backward through the crowd. Perhaps, she
thought, this was an analogy of the human condition: each
person blundering along in his own course, trying to relate
to others, and succeeding only fractionally. Because each
person, mortal and immortal, was traveling along his own
unique timeline, unable to tie in with others perfectly,
however much they all tried.

Finally he backed into the horror house. She followed.
Neither of them bought tickets, as the park proprietors
were no more aware of them than the other mortals were.
It was not a matter of invisibility, just of not being noticed.




152             With a Tangled Skein

There, too, she thought, was an analogy of mortality: the
key forces that governed the lives of people were gen-
erally unobserved by those who were most concerned.

The horror house was stocked with ghosts who floated
out periodically, made faces, and yelled "Boooo!" sup-
posedly scaring the paying customers. Only the smallest
children were actually frightened; the others knew that
ghosts were insubstantial and therefore harmless. Still, it
was fun, in the sense that playing the rigged gambling
games was fun. The illusion of fear and potential riches
was what this sort of park was all about.

Niobe paused beside a ghost. "But what do you get out
of it?" she asked. "Don't you feel pretty stupid, play-
acting like this?"

"Well, it does get dull, and it is stupid, and it contrib-
utes to the prejudice people have against ghosts, but the
pay is good," the ghost replied. "A ghost can't get a job

just anywhere, you know."

"But what use do you have for money?"
"Well, it's like this," the ghost said, clarifying into the
semblance of a woman. "I was on my way to work, when
I was alive, and I was late, so I cut through this alley. I
knew I shouldn't have, but I'd been late twice before that
month, and I was on notice; I just had to get there on
time. Suddenly a masked man jumped out at me. I
screamed and ran, but he chased me down, held a knife
to my face, and raped me. I was screaming all the time,
but no one came to help me—and there were others in
the alley, too, who could have helped. Finally—too late—
I got mad, and I grabbed his hand and bit it. The last thing
I remember is his knife coming down at my neck."

"Ah, yes," Niobe said. This was much more of an an-
swer than she had sought.

"By the time I recovered consciousness, I was dead,"
the ghost continued. "I guess it took me a few minutes
to die, while I was unconscious. There was my body,

Pier's Anthony                 153

naked from the waist down, and my throat was a mass of
blood, and the rapist was gone. Well, I didn't exactly take
kindly to that. So I stayed around, determined to find out
who had done it and make him pay. But that takes money,
because private eyes don't work for nothing, so here I
am, earning money. Pretty soon I'll have enough to hire
one for a day, and if that doesn't do it, I'll keep working
until it does get done." She shrugged. "When you get
down to it, geeking isn't so bad." She paused to jump out
at another child, screaming "Booo!" The child eeked and
giggled, pleased, and went on.
"I wish you luck and fortune," Niobe said.
"Say—how is it you see me as a person?" the ghost
asked. "I mean, most of the living folk don't—"

"You are a person," Niobe said. "I spun your thread
myself. I'm sorry it was cut short."
"Oh—you're Fate! I didn't recognize you!"
"Few do," Niobe said, and proceeded on after
Chronos, who had backed up the passage.

Why, she wondered, had Chronos chosen to make the
change here? It was the next Chronos who had done it,
the one coming from the future. He had not been bound
to the site of birth, just to his moment of origin. He picked
the place he wanted, and his successor had to come to it
and take the Hourglass. Exactly how the successor knew
where to come she was not sure; apparently there was a
guidance in these things, and not the normal guidance of
Fate. Lachesis had, of course, measured his mortal
thread, but when that person became Chronos, that de-
leted the thread from the Tapestry as if it were an un-
scheduled demise. Chronos—the one she had known so
long—had remarked that his mortal existence had seemed
pointless and dull—jejune was the actual term he had
used—so that when the opportunity came to become an
Incarnation, he had taken it. But he hadn't realized that
it meant living backward, or battling Satan.




154             With a Tangled Skein

Well, she was about to learn about the future Chronos.
She watched from a cranny of the horror house as the
Chronos she knew backed to a dark chamber illuminated
only by the glow of the Hourglass. From the far side an-
other figure came, walking forward. The other Chronos!

No—it was the one she knew! She could tell by the way
he moved. He walked forward, and the other walked
backward, and they met in the center of the chamber. The

Hourglass flared.
Suddenly, in the glow of the Glass, there were three:

two young women and a child! Of all times for horror-
house customers to pass through!

But the women looked oddly familiar. Niobe saw one
in silhouette as she turned: wasp-waisted, hair flowing—
She stifled an exclamation. It was her double!
The double walked right toward her. "Come with me,
Niobe," she said. "I'll explain." She took Niobe's hand.

Bemused, Niobe suffered herself to be led out of the
dark chamber, leaving the other women and the child be-
hind. What was happening?

Out in the light of day, her double turned to her with
a smile. "I am yourself, two hours later," she explained.
"You remember how you double up when you spend an
hour in Chronos' mansion?"
Oh. "Yes. But—"

"There are three of you then," the other continued.
"Self One is the one approaching the mansion; Self Two
is the one within it, living temporarily backward; and Self
Three is the one living forward again, after emerging. You
have always avoided each other before."
"Urn, yes. But—"

"Right now you are Self One. I am Self Three. Self
Two is with Chronos, living backward."
"But this is not his mansion!"

"He reversed us for an hour. He wanted company to
see him out. He's only a child, after all."

Piers Anthony                 155

"The—child I just saw?"

"Chronos can be any age or sex, as can any Incarna-
tion," Self Three reminded her. "He'll tell you about it,
as he told me. I'm just making sure you understand the
situation."

Niobe took a deep breath. "I—think so. But who—
who explained things to you when you were Self One? I
mean, if we are all parts of the same person—"

"Self Three explained then, of course."

"But you are Self Three!"

"I am now. Then I wasn't. I was you."

"But—"

The other laughed. "Don't try to analyze it, self-sister!
You'll lose your mind. There really aren't three of us, just
one in three consecutive roles. Remember, Chronos is
immune from paradox, and so are we when we interact
with him."

Niobe nodded, though she felt dizzy. "Now I know
how Chronos felt when he started in office, just a few
minutes ago. It's almost too much to grasp!"

"I know. But it's hard for the other Chronos, too. He's
afraid. So be kind to him; it won't hurt you. I'm in a
position to know."

Then they both laughed; they were by no coincidence
very similar people.

The two of them reminisced for the rest of the hour,
finding themselves compatible. "We'll have to do this
again some time!" Self Three said, and Niobe agreed.
"Next time we spend time in Chronos' mansion—which
I don't think will be for lovemaking—you come early, and
I'll wait for you."

"Agreed." They shook hands.

Then, as the moment drew near, they returned to the
chamber. "We must part," Self Three said, hugging her.
She was a very huggable person. "It's been nice talking
with you."




156

Piers Anthony                 157

With a Tangled Skein

"Yes," Niobe agreed. She saw tears on the other's
cheeks. In all the years she had been Clotho, she had
never done this before. Now she realized what she had
been missing.

Niobe entered the chamber, hesitated, turned—and
Self Three waved her on. So she walked to the center,
where the child stood with the other woman. "Hello,"
she said.

",olleH" Self Two replied.

Then Self Two suddenly stepped backward into Niobe.
There was a mild jolt, and Niobe stumbled forward.

"Hello," Niobe said.

",olleH" the other replied. But the other was backing
away.

"I guess you know I reversed you, Obe," the child said.

Startled, she looked at him. He was about eight years
old, with tousled sunbleached hair and eyes as blue as her
own. He was indeed Chronos, for he carried the glowing
Hourglass.

"Yes," she agreed. "You—want company. For—the
change."

"I've never died before," he confided. "I just didn't
want to do it alone."

Niobe glanced about, seeing Self Three escorting Self
One out—or rather in, as they were moving backward.
She was Self Two, now. She had exchanged greetings
with her other self, coming and going. To each, it had
seemed that the other had spoken second, because of the
reversed perspective. Now she had another job to do.
"It's not death," she said reassuringly.

"It's the same thing, for me," he said. "I'll be in
Heaven—or Hell."

Niobe shifted to Lachesis, who checked her threads.
His was obscurely looped back on itself, but seemed
otherwise unsullied. "Heaven, I'm sure." She changed
back.

There were two chairs by the wall. "I hope," he said
as they sat. "I know I shouldn't worry, but I'm just a kid.
I'm scared!" Then his eyes brimmed over, and he was
crying.

Niobe reached across and pulled him in to her bosom.
She had never in her life been able to resist a person who
required comforting, and she understood tears about as
well as anyone could. "Of course you are, dear, of course
you are!" she said soothingly. "Not one of us is sanguine
about—that."

Soon his tears abated, but she continued to hold him,
much as she had held his successor. There were times
when men of any age needed the special favor of a wom-
an's embrace. It was too bad that people of either sex
tended to confuse this with sex.

"You know, Obe," he said, "when you came in, three
years ago I guess it was, maybe two, I was mad; I liked
Lisa. But when I got to know you, I liked you even better.
You're prettier."

Lisa, evidently, was her successor—two or three years
hence. Niobe stifled her shock. She had had no idea her
own term was ending. "Beauty is no indication of merit,"
she said. "I'm sure Lisa was a fine woman."

"Oh, sure. And when she got mad at me, she'd tease
me with that gibberish language others. But you—"

Niobe changed the subject. "How did you come to be
Chronos?" she asked, glancing at the glowing Hourglass
which floated before them. He had set it there when he
started crying, and it remained.

"Oh, you know." He straightened up, shrugging.

"I don't know," she reminded him. "I wasn't there,
remember? Lisa was."

"Oh, yeah. Well, the Glass was going to be changed,
but the guy coming for it chickened out." He smiled tooth-
ily. "He saw it, and he ran! He just got the hoorah out
of there. I was playing in the park, and I just knew some-




158 With a Tangled Skein

one had to take it, so I just stepped up and grabbed. I was
too young to know any better. And here I am, eight years
after. Before, I mean."

"I'm surprised you were able to handle the job," she
murmured.

"Aw, Maw Cheese showed me how. I got the hang."

"Maw Cheese?"

"You know, Obe. Your middle third."

Oh. Lachesis. The accent was properly on the first syl-
lable, and the ch was hard: LAK-e-sis. But obviously the
child didn't take names seriously. Maw Cheese! Lachesis
snorted mentally. This whipper-snapper—

"But I always liked you best, Obe, after Lisa went,
though Atta-pose is okay too. If I coulda growed up, I'da
married you."

"Immortality does have its liabilities," Niobe said,
smiling.

And so they talked, and Chronos was comforted, and
as the hour ended he was ready for the Afterlife. In the
final minute he lifted the Hourglass, and Niobe bent to
kiss him, and backed off. As the Hourglass was taken by
the shadowy other Chronos, the spell of reversal left her,
and she moved toward again.

Quickly she intercepted the confused Self One. "Come
with me, Niobe, I'll explain." She led the woman' out
before their presence could interfere with the backward
dialogue of Self Two and the juvenile Chronos. "I am
yourself, two hours later," she explained, and went on
to clarify the situation. Her prior self was duly impressed.
It was fun, now that she knew what she was doing.

In due course she guided her other self back into the
chamber, and waved her on when she hesitated. She
watched as Self One and Self Two merged—and suddenly
they were both gone. There was only the child Chronos,
waiting nervously for his company.

Piers Anthony

How had he known she would come to him am
to be reversed for that hour? Obviously she had t(
she would do it when the time came. Nevertheless
a good thing that Chronos was immune to parade

She departed quietly. She had had enough of this
it was time to get back to her regular business.

One thing stayed in her mind, though. Three }
or two—until she left her office! To be replaced b




Piers Anthony                 161




8-

SECOND LOVE

From time to time Niobe checked on her mortal family.
The rawness of the tragedy of the wedding eased. Her son
the Magician seemed to be quite happy with his bride
Blenda. She was a schoolteacher, disdaining to exploit
her beauty by going into show business. Blenda visited
her father, Pacian, often, making sure he took care of
himself during his bereavement. It was her bereavement
too, but she used a spellstone her husband provided to
damp its misery. This was not, Niobe knew, from any
selfishness. It was simply that, with a husband and a fa-
ther to attend to, and a class to teach, she could not afford
to be incapacitated at this time. This was one of the ben-
efits of modern magic; it did make it easier for people to
survive such crises. Pes' :ps it was for similar reasons
Blenda postponed starting her own family.

But Pacian was not doing as well. He refused to use
magic to ameliorate his misery, and his suffering did not
appear to ease with time. He maintained himself with sol-

760

emn dignity, meeting his commitments, keeping up his
health, but he seemed to be aging too rapidly.

Niobe was concerned. As the mother of the Magician
whom Satan had sought to strike down, she felt a guilty
responsibility for the tragedy of the wedding. Also, as an
Aspect of Fate, she knew she should have been able to
balk Satan more effectively than she had. So it was at
least in part her fault. Pacian had been her son's best
friend in youth, virtually his brother; it was not right to
let him suffer.

She visited him in her own form and apologized. At
first he hardly listened, but then he remembered. "You—
you are the Magician's relative! The one who posed with
my daughter."

Niobe wrestled briefly with her sense of propriety and
decided it didn't matter. "I am related to the Magician,"
she reminded him. "Closely."

"He has no little sister," he said. "I am his only cousin,
once-removed, so you cannot be related that way. Yet
you are strangely familiar. Exactly how are you related?"

She delayed a moment more, hesitating before the
plunge. "You have met me before."

"I'm sure I have—or someone like you. It nags me
every time I see you! But I can't place the connection."

"Certainly you can. I am the Magician's mother."

He laughed. "Sure, and you're sixty years old!"

"Closer to sixty-two."

"I knew his mother when I was a boy. She was the
prettiest woman extant! But after she left Junior with us,
she visited for a while, then disappeared. She had some
kind of important job that took all her time. I think she
just couldn't stand to stay around where cousin Cedric
had died." Suddenly his animation deflated. "I know the
feeling."




162

With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 163

"I am Niobe Kaftan," she said firmly. "What you say
is true; I could not remain. I loved my baby son, but I
knew I could not raise him as well as your family could,
so I gave him up. I have never truly regretted that deci-
sion; your folks did a fine job with him—and with you."

"He was always a good boy," he agreed. "I was so
pleased when he took an interest in my daughter. Of
course they are second cousins, but it reunified a family
that had been drifting apart." Then he refocused on her.
"The irony is that you do resemble her. But you are no
older than my daughter."

"I never aged, physically," Niobe explained. "I am
still the physical age I was when you were twelve. When
I kissed you and departed."

"That kiss ..." he murmured, remembering.

But he was still unable to accept it. Blenda, being
younger, had readily acclimatized to the truth and kept
her mouth shut, but Pacian at age fifty was too adult to
swallow the impossible readily. "The Magician, perhaps,
has a spell for eternal youth—but he has never used it,
and certainly he did not have it in time for his mother's
use."

"I became an Aspect of Fate," she said. "An Incar-
nation. They are physically frozen; they are Incarnations
oflmmortality—forawhile. So, asClotho, I never aged."

He looked at her again. "You are beautiful," he said
as if yielding a point. "Probably as lovely as she was. I
had a crush on her—"

"I know."

He sighed. "Very well. I will entertain the notion that
you are she, unaged. I'm sure the matter can be verified
readily enough; the Magician will know."

"He does."

"But I require proof of my own. As I recall. Fate has
three Aspects—"

"Yes. I assumed the Aspect of Atropos to continue
visiting Junior—and you."

"Atropos?"

"The oldest Aspect of Fate. She—"

"You can change—just like that?"

"Yes."

"Do so."

She gave the body to Atropos.

Pacian shook his head. "No, you are not she."

"Of course I'm not," Atropos said. "The Atropos you
knew retired to be with you and the boy until she died;

I am her successor." She gave the body back to Niobe.

"And you were there, too, in the body—all the time?"

"Yes," Niobe said.

"There is something that happened—"

"The prophecy."

"Which I voided. I married Blanche. She was the finest
woman—"

"But not the loveliest of her generation," Niobe fin-
ished.

"Correct. You were that."

She laughed. "So I have been told. And Blenda is the
one of her generation. She honored the prophecy by mar-
rying—"

She broke off, suddenly making a connection. She
stared at Pacian. He stared back with similar astonish-
ment.

Then he turned away. Niobe got up quickly and de-
parted.

Back in her Purgatory Abode, Niobe tried to concen-
trate on her spinning, but the others wouldn't let her. "I
wasn't there," Atropos said. "But what's wrong with Pa-
cian?"

"He's my husband's cousin!" Niobe retorted.




264 With a Tangled Skein

"Your husband died almost forty years ago, didn't he?"
Lachesis asked. "And Pacian's wife four years ago. You
are both free, now."

"But we never thought of each other in that way!"

"But he had a crush—" Lachesis said.

"And you are the most beautiful—" Atropos put in.

"To Hell with the prophecy!" Niobe cried.

"That is what Satan would like," Lachesis said snidely.

"To Hell with Satan!"

"Exactly how did that prophecy go?"

"Each boy would possess the most beautiful woman of
her generation," Niobe said, concentrating to remember
it accurately.'' Each would bear a most talented daughter.
One girl would love an Incarnation, and the other would
become one. No, wait—there were two prophecies; I've
got them mixed."

"That's all right," Lachesis said. "Remember all you

can."

"Both would stand athwart the tangled skein," Niobe

^ said.

"That's us!" Atropos said.

"One may marry Death, the other Evil," Niobe said,
fishing another fillip from her memory. "One to be the
savior of man—the daughter of the savior of deer. I think
that's all of it."

"Then it's the Magician's daughter who will save
man," Lachesis said.

"But he has no daughter," Atropos pointed out,

"And Pacian's daughter certainly didn't marry Than-
atos or Satan!" Niobe said. "So it remains a mishmash;

it doesn't—"

"Unless you marry Pacian," Lachesis said. "And give
him another daughter."

"That's preposterous!"

"You are leaving us within a year," Atropos said.
"That would be a fine way to do it."

Piers Anthony                 165

"You damned matchmaker! I don't love Pacian!"
"Yet," both other Aspects said together with her
mouth.

It was a month before Niobe could bring herself to face
Pacian again. He looked at her with a certain resignation.
"Prophecies are difficult to void," he said.

"And often not understood until too late," Niobe an-
swered. It was a familiar dialogue.

"I want you to understand that I never—"

"Of course. I'm over sixty years old."

"And you look younger than my daughter. In addition,
your love was Cedric, mine Blanche. I am sure you .would
not wish to be untrue to your love any more than I would
to mine. So we really should dispense with this foolish-
ness—"

Untrue to her love. Niobe sighed. She had been phys-
ically untrue to Cedric a thousand times! Yet that had
provided her with a better perspective. She had entered
a new life, a new role, after Cedric's death, and it would
have been wrong not to fulfill that life and that role in the
requisite manner. Her private love had remained sacred,
and that was what counted.

"Pace, I'm not sure it is foolishness. Those prophecies
have not been voided after all. When you married
Blanche—"

"I generated the most beautiful woman my cousin was
destined to marry," he finished. "The skein was more
tangled than I realized. But that doesn't necessarily
mean—"

"There have been other signals. It seems I am to leave
my office soon. I think I must at least explore the pos-
sibility that it is to marry you." There—she had said it.

"Niobe, you owe nothing to me! That prophecy dates
from when I was a teenager!"




166

Piers Anthony                 167

With a Tangled Skein

"But you see, Satan has evil plans for the world. 1 sus-
pect that if the prophecy can be voided, that means that
the child of my son and your daughter will not be the
savior of man. Maybe she will never be bom—unless the
full prophecy is honored."

"That's ridiculous! Prophecies don't hold parts of
themselves hostage for the performance of the rest."

"I am Fate," she said slowly. "A prophecy is a signal
of Fate. The threads of our lives run true, and we try to
interfere with them at our peril—and perhaps the peril of
man. I'm not sure we have the right to toy with such
destiny. Pace—I must know!"

He shrugged. "It is not that I have any aversion to you,
Niobe. Far from it! I loved you in my secret heart until
I came to know Blanche, and I think that feeling remains.
But I always knew you were never to be mine. I simply
would not tread upon my cousin's grave."

"Nor I on your wife's! But if the prophecy is voided,
and there is no savior of man—" She spread her hands.
"Pace, I married once because it was destined to be, not
for love. Love came after. I would do it again—if I were
sure."

"How can anyone ever be sure about a thing like this?"
"I would like to consult with—an acquaintance. Per-
haps she will know."
"And who is that?"

"Gaea. You would call her the Incarnation of Nature."
"Nature." He nodded. "Yes—such an entity might
know."

"I want you to be with me, so she can see us both."
He laughed tensely. "Niobe, I can't enter your realm!"
"Yes, you can—if I take you. Will you do it?"
He pondered, then shrugged. "I agree that this should
be settled, one way or another. If you can take me, I will

go.

She held out her hand. "Then we shall do it."

He was startled. "Now?"

"I have time available now. Don't you?"

"It's the weekend."

She took his hand. "This will be a trip to remember."

"That is my fear." But he smiled.

She flung a strand to Purgatory and slid along it, bring-
ing him with her. They passed through the walls and the
foliage of a tree, then up into the sky. Pace watched with
the wonder only a mortal could have, and that restored
some of the wonder for her, too. She had become jaded
in thirty-eight years, as was natural enough, and it was
good to be reminded of the phenomenal nature other pow-
ers. She was not eager to give them up!

They slid through the cloudbank underlying Purgatory
and stopped before Fate's Abode. "This is where I live,
now."

"A giant spiderweb?"

She shifted to her arachnid form, and back to human.
"I am no longer an ordinary woman."

"You were never that," he said.

"Now I will take you to Gaea's green mansion." She
flung another strand, took his hand again, and slid the two
of them across the pleasant landscape of Purgatory. She
remembered how Chronos had taken her from Incarnation
to Incarnation, so long ago—his parting favor for her,
laying the basis for her eventual understanding. In the
interim since then, a significant segment of the Tapestry
had moved by!

They arrived at the edge of the Green Mother's de-
mesne. Before them a hillside slope dropped into a broad
valley covered with waving grain. On the far slope of the
valley stood Gaea's vegetable palace. All they had to do
was cross.

They started down. "You can't fling a web across?"
Pacian inquired.




168 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 169

"Not here. Ge protects her environment, so it can be
a challenge to reach her."

"You have not been here before?"

"Oh, yes, many times. We often consult. But this time
I'm bringing you along, so her defense system has been
activated. It's just her way."

"Nature does have her way," he agreed.

"All the Incarnations do."

He shook his head with mock wonder. "All this—up
in the clouds!"

"This is not in the clouds; it just seems that way. Pur-
gatory is between Heaven and Hell, but it is impossible
to define their locations. For convenience, we think of
Heaven as above. Hell below, and Purgatory between."

"And I suppose this isn't really physical, either."

"It's indeterminate. You and I are alive and solid, but
many of the others who seem that way are neither."

He paused and turned to her. "Niobe, I am glad after
all these years to learn where you have been. I can ap-
preciate now why you had so little time for mortal mat-
ters."

"I had time for mortal matters!" she said defensively.
"I was spinning the threads of life!"

"Of course," he agreed, and she felt guilty for her sharp
comment. He was a good and decent man, not looking
for any quarrel. It was hardly his fault that she still thought
of him, in a sense, as a twelve-year-old boy. She had not
changed, physically, but he had.

They reached the level floor of the valley and waded
into the grass. At the first step it was knee-high; at the
second, waist-high; at the third, chest-high.

They stopped. "Oh-oh," Niobe said. "I forgot about
the challenge. It's not a matter of just walking across.
There's no telling how deep this valley really is."

"It could be a V-shaped valley—concealed by level
grass?"

"It could be. Ge can do anything she wants with
plants."

"Then we can walk under the grass," he said. "It's not
far."

"We'll have to," she agreed uncertainly.

They proceeded. The slope continued, while the height
of the grass rose until it was taller than they were. Soon
it was twice their height, the long, thin stems giving way
elastically before them so that the broader blades at the
top were undisturbed. The light dimmed as they went
deeper; it was like descending into an ocean, toward the
utter dark at the bottom.

Niobe put her foot down—and found nothing. "Oh!"
she exclaimed as she lost her balance.

Pacian's strong hand caught her windmilling arm, and
he drew her back. Then he squatted to check the ground.
"There is a dropoff," he reported. "About a yard, here—
but I suspect that is only the beginning. We need a light."

Niobe extended a glowing strand of web. Its light was
not great, but it was enough. It showed that the even slope
was converting to a treacherous pattern of rocks and crev-
ices.

They moved on down, now holding hands for safety.
When they reached a dropoff of more than six feet, Niobe
spun a strong thread and looped it about Pacian's waist.
Then he braced himself to support her weight while she
lowered herself down. After that, he knotted the web to
the stout base of a grass-stem and let himself down. She
was unable to dematerialize, here.

Now the gloom was Stygian indeed! She had to extend
several glowing strands to illuminate the ground clearly,
for even a small hole could trap a foot and break an ankle.
Even so, it was no fun.

Then the ground shuddered.

They paused. "What's that?" Niobe whispered ner-
vously.




170 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 171

"The tread of a monster," he whispered back. "Now
I believe in live and let live; I value the wilderness as my
cousin did, as the Magician does now. But the denizens
do not necessarily feel the same way."

"No, they don't!" she agreed. "And we are in some
kind of channel or ledge, here in the gloom, without de-
fensive means. Pace, let's get out of here!"

"Agreed!"

They hastened up the slope the way they had come.
Pacian gave her a boost up the line they had left, though
she didn't need it; she climbed her threads magically. But
he was being unconsciously chivalrous, and she appre-
ciated the gesture. In a moment he followed, climbing up
hand over hand. The thread, so thin it was almost invis-
ible, was spelled not to cut flesh, and he was in good
condition for his age. He had no trouble.

The ground shuddered again; the monster was coming
closer.

They rejoined hands and hurried up the slope, following
the line she had left. There was no way to tell how close
the monster was; the shuddering was everywhere. Pant-
ing, they scrambled out of the grass and into the sunshine.

"Oh!" Niobe gasped. "I was so frightened!"

"Aren't you invulnerable, as an Incarnation?"

She laughed. "Of course I am! How silly of me to for-
get!" Then she frowned. "But you aren't."

He smiled, reminding her fleetingly of Cedric. They
were, of course blood kin; if Cedric had lived to this
age . . . "Just as well we hurried, then," he said. Some-
how they both knew that they were safe in the bright light;

the monster would not leave the shelter of the deep grass.

She looked across at Gaea's treehouse, so near and yet
so far away. "But we still need to get across."

Pacian considered. "You know, that looks like a roving
ocean. The surface ripples in waves under the wind."

"Too bad we can't sail across it," she joked.

"Can't we? If this is a magic challenge—"

Her mouth dropped open. "It could be!"

He looked about. "Perhaps a raft. I see some drift-
wood." He walked over to the bonelike branches of a
dead tree and began collecting them. "This wood is strong
and light. If we lash pieces together—"

"I have threads," she said. "They'll work for that. Do
you really think it will float—on grass?"

"With magic, anything is possible," he said cheerfully.
It was evident that he liked a challenge. He was more
animated now than she had seen him in the past two years.

As Pacian worked, he commented on a river-crossing
riddle that this effort brought to mind. Niobe remembered
that one from her days with Cedric. "All right," Pacian
said, smiling. "Then try this one: A coin dealer has twelve
coins, one of which is counterfeit ..." He defined the
problem for her, and she struggled without success until
he explained the key step in the solution. He had the same
joy in such puzzles that Cedric had had.

As they talked, he arranged the larger branches to make
a framework, which she bound together with lengths of
her thread. Then they tied smaller branches on until they
had a raft about six feet square. They saved two long,
thin branches to use as poles, and several more for pad-
dles. "But a sail would be better," he said.

That reminded her of her voyage across the college
lake, on the patched-up sailboat. She was not reassured.

There was no suitable material for a sail. With time and
a loom she could have woven one from her threads, but
of course she had no loom here. They heaved the raft
onto the surface of the thick grass—and it floated.
"That's it!" Pacian exclaimed. "It would never work
without magic; this isn't real water. But your friend Na-
ture has enchanted it as a challenge, and we have found
the key."




172             With a Tangled Skein

Had they? Niobe hoped so. Pacian helped her aboard,
and they shoved off. The raft floated somewhat uncer-
tainly, and the feel was not the same as for water, but

they were on their way.

Poling got them well into it, but then they went beyond
the depth the poles could reach. Pacian sat down, hooked
his feet into the twisted planking, and set up the two long-
est paddles as oars. "Um, we need to anchor them," he

said.
Niobe saw the problem. She knelt and tied the oars to

the edges with more loops of thread, so that they swung
on crude fulcrums. Then Pacian started rowing—and the
raft moved. The oars tended to slide past the leaves of
grass, but there was enough friction to make it work. They

were on their way, again.

There was a jet of vapor down the valley. "There she
blows!" Niobe exclaimed. Then she had a second
thought. What kind of whale would swim in grass?

Pacian had the same thought. He accelerated his row-
ing, but the clumsy raft moved slowly, while a second
plume erupted, closer. The whale was coming toward

them!

"Is that coincidence?" Niobe asked worriedly.

"Here? I doubt it," he puffed.
"I don't think we can outrun it." She was alarmed.
Pacian ceased rowing. His face was red from his effort.
"Another challenge?" he gasped.
"I'm—afraid so. And this time we can't retreat. It

would catch us in a moment."

He hefted a paddle, pondering. "I suppose I could try
to fend it off," he said. "If it's big enough to take a bite
of us, it's big enough to get a paddle or a pole wedged
edgewise in its mouth. But 1 don't like molesting wildlife.
After all, we are intruders on its preserve."
"You're a soft-hearted fool!" she chided him.
"It runs in the family," he agreed without rancor.

Piers Anthony                 173

She was stricken. He was right. Once Cedric had taken
to the wilderness, he had refused to harm any of it. And
Junior's long association with the hamadryad of the water
oak had left him with a profound appreciation of the magic
of the wetlands. She herself felt the same. Pacian was very
much in that mold.

The leviathan drew near. Its huge snout broke the sur-
face of the grass. The thing was big enough to swallow
them whole, raft and all!

"They say that music has charms to soothe the savage
breast," Pacian said. "That is most often misquoted as
'savage beast.' It just may be worth a try, rather than
futile force."

Niobe liked the way his mind worked, but the leviathan
terrified her. Already its ponderous jaws were cranking
open. "You mean—sing it a song?"

"Sounds silly, I know—but it's harmless, at least. I
have sung to the animals on the farm with some success.
We can always try to fight, as a last resort. Have you any
idea what it might like?"

Doing requests, for a monster? Niobe found her mind
largely blank. "I—maybe a round—"

He nodded agreement. He faced the leviathan as if
about to deliver a speech. He sang, crudely but ade-
quately:

"Have you seen the ghost of Tom?
Round white bones with the flesh all gone!
0-0-0-0-0-0-O!
Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on!"

Niobe started to laugh, hysterically. To sing a Hallow-
een song to a monster!

The leviathan paused in place. The jaws stopped open-
ing. It was listening, and like some animals, it could not
focus its attention on two things at once.




174             With a Tangled Skein

"Have you seen the ghost of Tom?" Pacian sang, with
greater volume and confidence. This time Niobe picked
up on it, repeating the first line as Pacian continued with
the second line, for it was indeed a round. It worked out
rather prettily, despite the macabre and foolish words.

They went through it three times, and the leviathan did
not move. Whether it liked the song was uncertain; per-
haps mere curiosity held it. But that was certainly pref-
erable to an attack.

When they stopped, the jaws slowly resumed motion.
Quickly Pacian started another song, one long beloved in
his culture:

"0 Danny-Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountain-
side ..."

Niobe joined in, making the harmony. She had not sung
like this since her mortal days, and had almost forgotten
how grand it was.

"The summer's gone, and all the leaves are
falling ..."

Pacian turned while singing, and reached to take her
hand.

"'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide."

And Niobe was transfixed as the song abruptly ex-
panded to magnificent sound. He had the magic! The
same phantom orchestra that Cedric had had when he
sang. The same phenomenal magnification of the music!

Of course! This, too, ran in the family! Not in every
member, for her son did not have it. But here and there.
She had never guessed! No wonder Pace could pacify an-
imals!

Piers Anthony                175

The leviathan was aware of it too. Slowly, now, its jaws
subsided, no longer menacing the raft. They had indeed
found a way to soothe the beast.

But Niobe's attention was only partly on that. She had
thought she would never love again, after Cedric. Now,
suddenly, amazingly, she knew it was possible. The
prophecy had not been based on what she knew, but on
what she would discover.

They finished the song, and the internal music faded.
The leviathan did not resume its aggression, but Niobe
now had need of more music. She clung to Pacian's hand,
and started a song.

"In the gloaming, 0 my darling, when the lights are
dim and low ..."

He joined the song and the music rose in them and sur-
rounded them.

"Will you think of me, and love me, as you did once
long ago?"

Even as she sang, Niobe felt the love expanding from
her long-isolated heart, encompassing her being. The be-
ginning of her love for Cedric had come with the magic
music. She had not seized upon it, then, and so had wasted
much of the scant time they had had together. She was
much older, and perhaps wiser now—and she found her-
self entering into it as into a primeval sea, gladly giving
herself to its tide. 0 my darling . . .

When the song ended and the music faded again, the
leviathan was satisfied. It backed off slowly and turned
about, and swam away.

"It seems we have navigated the crisis," Pacian said.
"Now we can go to meet Mother Nature." He reached
for the oars.




176             With a Tangled Skein

Niobe put her hand on his arm again. "Pace—do we

need to?"
He considered, then laughed. Then he drew her in to

him, and they kissed. The grand music encompassed

them.
They reversed course and returned to her Abode, and

then to the realm of the mortals. As they landed back in
his house, he said: "I don't think I'm going to be lonely
anymore. But let's not act precipitously."

"This is very sudden," she agreed. "We can afford
time to be sure it's real." But she already knew it was.

He nodded. "And if it is—"
"Then I will retire on schedule, to become mortal—

and be your wife."

"Fulfilling the prophecy," he agreed.

She left him without further comment. The moment she
was alone, a babble broke out among her Aspects. Did
you feel that music? He's a rare one! If that's what your
first love was like, no wonder you waited for his like! We'll
have to locate your successor, whatshername. Lisa.

When's the wedding?

"Enough, you hens!" Niobe exploded. "It's tenta-
tive!"

Lachesis snorted. As tentative as a pregnancy, girl!
Indeed, all that developed over the course of the fol-
lowing months was certainty. Niobe visited Pacian sev-
eral times, and each time it was as if another layer of love
was added. "I do love you. Pace," she said. "I must

marry you."

"I thought I would never be whole again, after I lost

Blanche," he said. "But it is no denigration of her to
confess that now I love you as I did her. When I was a
child I adored you hopelessly; now I am a man I have
reason to live again. It is as if you were saved for the time
in my life when I would most need you." He paused. "Is

that coincidence?"

Piers Anthony                 177

She shook her head. "I am an Aspect of Pate—but my
power is limited. Lachesis handles the disposition of the
threads of life I spin—but her power too is limited. It was
Satan's interference that caused me to lose my spouse,
and you yours. Fate never planned those horrors, and now
the Tapestry is healing."

"Yet the prophecy—"

She sighed. "Yes, there must be a deeper current of
Fate, beyond our awareness, that the seers drew from.
Maybe our manipulations of the Threads of Life are only
to restore the pattern Satan sought to disrupt. It has made
for a tangled skein!"

"Which our daughter—and granddaughter—will stand
athwart," he agreed. "But for the moment, there is only
our love."

They kissed, and there was music. He was right; their
offspring might be destined for horrendous adventures,
but at the moment love made all that beside the point.

In due course, as the time of her departure from office
neared, Niobe made it a point to bid adieu to her friends,
the other Incarnations. First she went to the Green
Mother. This time she had no trouble reaching the dom-
icile of Nature. "You knew, didn't you?" she charged the
woman. "You arranged that challenge course!"

"Love is one of my Aspects," Gaea admitted. "I knew
your heart and his. I only facilitated what was inevitable.''

"So we never even consulted you!"

"Not overtly."

"You are devious, Ge."

"Coming from Fate, that is indeed a compliment."

They embraced, and Niobe cried a little, and they
parted. Gaea's face was serene—but when Niobe stepped
outside the domicile, she discovered a gentle rain falling,
and knew that Ge was crying too.

A few days later, in the course of routine business, she
visited Thanatos. Pate worked most intimately with




178 With a Tangled Skein

Chronos, but she also had considerable interaction with
Thanatos, for the threads had to be terminated as well as
started. "I am soon to return to mortality," she said. "I
pray you do not come too soon for me or the man I love."

The death's-head smiled. "I will postpone it as long as
your successor permits. Who is she to be?"

"I don't know. We are conducting a search, but no
suitable prospect named Lisa has shown up."

"Will Lisa be as pretty as you?"

"Not quite. But you are sure to like her."

"I envy you, Clotho. You are able to step down vol-
untarily, returning to life. I will be assassinated by my
successor, even as I assassinated my predecessor."

"Yet it was to Heaven you sent your predecessor, and
to Heaven you will go."

"That is a comfort," he agreed.

She embraced him, not repulsed by his skeletal hands,
and she kissed his grinning skull-face. His business was
grim, but he was a decent person. He was not the same
one she had first met, but the office had made him similar.

Her supply of yam ran low, and she made her monthly
trip to the Void for more. She wondered, as she often did,
whether this monthly cycle stood in lieu of the feminine
cycle that had abated when she became immortal. There
were, indeed, patterns she did not understand.

"So you are quitting, cutie," Satan said, appearing be-
fore her.

"Go to Hell," she told him shortly.

"You have been a delectable thorn in My side for too
long," he continued blithely. "It will be an excellent rid-
dance."

"Go damn yourself."

"I really will enjoy working over your successor,
scrumptious."

She paused. "Why so positive. Lord of Flies? Can it
be that you don't want me to go?"

Piers Anthony                 179

He puffed smoke. "Of course I want you to go!" he
said.

She nodded. "Because I am fated to produce a mortal
child who will be a real pain in the tail for you."

He did not respond with the derogatory or cynical ex-
clamation she expected. Instead he was oddly pensive.
"There are currents of destiny that perhaps only God
comprehends," he said. "Our glimpses of the future are
fleeting and imperfect. I have taken a reading on your
daughter and I see only a terrible storm perhaps forty
years hence, and she is caught up in it—and so am I. I
do not know the outcome."

Niobe suffered a chill. "And one may marry Death, the
other Evil," she said, again recalling the prophecy.

"I am the Incarnation of Evil!" he said. "Why should
I ever bind Myself to a mortal woman?"

"She is to be an Incarnation."

Satan turned and paced in air, his gaze downcast. He
was almost handsome in that moment of reflection. "And
what woman, whether mortal or Incarnation, would ever
bind herself to Me?"

It was a serious question. "Only an evil one," Niobe
said.

"Are you about to birth and raise an evil woman?"

"Of course not!"

"Of course not," he agreed. "For you are indeed a
good woman, as well as a lovely one. She can only oppose
Me. Yet the prophecy—"

He was genuinely disturbed! "Satan, what are you get-
ting at?"

He faced her without any sign of cruelty or mockery.
"Simply this: there is a tangle coming in your skein that
neither of us understands. Never would I bind Myself to
a good woman, nor would she to Me. Something very
strange is brewing. Let us avoid the whole issue, and op-
pose each other on conventional grounds. Keep your




180

Piers Anthony                181

With a Tangled Skein

present office, 0 lovely woman! Do not generate that
child."

Niobe was astonished. "You are pleading with me to
do you a favor—by abrogating the fulfillment of my
love?"

"I suppose I am, Clotho. I can proffer inducement if
you prefer. I could assume the likeness and manner of
your—"

"You're crazy!"

Satan sighed. "No, I am evil, not crazy. I have merely
confirmed that no decent woman would accept Me if she
knew My nature, however I might clothe Myself. You
know Me, therefore you will not do for Me what you did
for Chronos."

Niobe stared at him. "You—desire my favor?"

"I do desire it."

Almost, she felt sorry for him. Then the memory of
Cedric surged back, and the emotion became anger.
"Well, you will never have it!"

"That I know. Still I would have you remain in office."

"You should know better!"

"You will not do it?"

"I will not do it!"

Now he flared brightly with his abrupt fury. "I tried to
be reasonable! To be honest, though it pains Me! I'm not
good at it, I know, but I did try. Now you will feel the
brunt of My wrath!"

"Go to Hell, Satan," she repeated mildly.

"And your child will suffer too!" he cried as he faded
out. "You and yours will rue this hour!"

He was gone—and Niobe found herself shivering with
reaction. Had she made a mistake by refusing to deal with
Satan? He had seemed oddly pensive, and his expression
of desire for her had seemed honest. Satan, of course, had
all the women he wanted, in all the forms he wanted, in
Hell—yet none of them were good, by definition. Did he

have a hankering for the opposite type? Was there some
good even in the Prince of Evil?

Surely not! Satan's designs were always evil, also by
definition. If she opposed him, she was probably correct.
If he was angry, she should be pleased. She was fulfilling
the vengeance she had so long sought against him.

Yet Satan was also devious. The Father of Lies knew
how to deceive by indirection as well as by direction. Why
had he come to her to make his plea and why had he shown
such obvious anger when she declined it? That suggested
that it was an act, and that she was in fact doing exactly
what he wanted.

She shook her head. Her safest course was to pursue
her course as she intended, not allowing herself to be in-
fluenced in any way by Satan. Still, it bothered her. She
brooded on it throughout her business in the Void. Would
she—and her daughter—be vulnerable to Satan's wrath,
as mortals?

She visited Chronos next. Mindful of his reversed
timeline, she phrased her farewell carefully. "Hello,
Chronos. I thought I would introduce myself, as we shall
be working together for the next two or three years. I am
Clotho, an Aspect of Fate."

"Oh, go on!" the child snapped. "You aren't Lisa!"

"Of course I'm not. Lisa has gone mortal. I am Niobe."
She smiled.

Chronos was eight years old, physically and emotion-
ally. He melted like ice cream in the radiance of that smile.
"Gee, you sure are pretty, Obe! I guess you're okay!"

"I guess I am," she agreed. "I know you and I will get
along well." She tousled his hair.

"Hey, wait a minute!" he protested. "You live for-
ward, not backward like me! You've already been through
it!"

She smiled again, daunting him. "Smart lad! Yes, I
know you a good deal better than you know me, though




182

Piers Anthony                 183

With a Tangled Skein

that will change as you advance into my past. But when
your tenure comes to a close, and you are afraid, I will
come to you and hold your hand. So don't annoy me,
okay?"

"Geez, it's weird having you come in like this, knowing
so much! Lisa was sorta timid and sweet, specially at the
end when she forgot my language. I'll sure miss her."

Forgot his language? How could that be? But Niobe
preferred not to discuss it with him. "Just remember,
sport—I chose her."

"Yeah, I know. Yesterday. Funny thing, you coming
up with her."

"What's so funny about bringing in a woman who can
do the job?"

He stared at her a moment, then laughed teasingly.
"That's right! You don't know her yet. You'll find out,
Obe!"

"I'll find out," she agreed, kissed him on the forehead,
shifted to spider form, and climbed out of his sight. He
always enjoyed that trick.

This was getting stranger. First Satan's pointless offer
and threat, then Chronos' reaction. Chronos knew some-
thing she didn't, of course. They had been searching dil-
igently for Lisa, and still had not found her, one day be-
fore the event.

What would happen if they failed to find her? Would
there be another snarl in the threads, pinching the Tap-
estry, and could Niobe find herself stranded in office, un-
able to turn mortal and marry Pacian? Was that the mis-
chief Satan contemplated?

No, it couldn't be, for the change to Lisa had occurred
tomorrow; Chronos remembered it, and Chronos was no
tool of Satan's. She really didn't need to worry about it;

what would be would be—and she would be mortal, to-
morrow.

But tomorrow came with no further illumination. There
was no sign of Lisa even as the hour approached. Niobe's
better two-thirds were as mystified as she was. "The
thread has to be here in the Tapestry," Lachesis said.
"But nothing distinguishes it. So it is lost until we find
it. There simply is no signal that Lisa is to step out of life
and into Pate."

"I'll bid farewell to Mars," Niobe decided. "Then it
will be time, and we'll see."

She sailed down a thread to the spot on Earth where
Mars was working. This was the great double city of Bu-
dapest, at the moment torn by strife. Huge Soviet tanks
were moving in the streets, and buildings were burning.

She landed on a street beside him. Mars, too, was dif-
ferent from the one who had been in office when she first
came to Purgatory. She wasn't certain what the mecha-
nism for his changing was, but it seemed to occur irreg-
ularly and without warning. But this one had been in office
for several years, and she liked him well enough, consid-
ering the differences in their philosophies. "Mars, I came
to say good-bye."

He glanced at her. "Ah, so soon, lass? There'll never
be a sweeter or prettier Clotho than you! Give me a buss!"

She submittted to his embrace and hugged him back.
She had had liaisons with him on occasion, as appropriate,
and so had Lachesis. "How's it going. Warrior?"

He released her. "Always a novelty! See that line of
refugees?"

She looked where he pointed. A seemingly endless line
of bedraggled civilians were walking along the side of the
street, going north. Obviously they had been bombed out
of their homes and were fleeing to whatever safety they
could find.

Now he took her by the shoulders and turned her to
face the other way. "And those?"




184             With a Tangled Skein

She looked dutifully. Another line of refugees was trav-
eling south. "But they're each going where the other's
coming from!" she exclaimed.

"True. What do you make of that?"

"It has to be a tragedy! No hope for either group!"

"Now you have it, lass," he agreed gruffly. "War is

hell."
She knew better, but she couldn't help herself. She

challenged his rationale: "How can you encourage such
an appalling situation. Mars? Those are living, feeling
people there, surely innocent of the causes of this war!"

Mars, always ready for combat, answered without hes-
itation. "Aye, lass, that they are, by your definition. But
not by mine! They sought freedom, so brought this con-
sequence on their heads!"

"Freedom?"

He nodded. "Freedom to speak, to assemble, to read,
to choose their own work. They forgot they were a sat-
ellite nation. Those tanks are here to remind them."

"And you approve of this?" she demanded incredu-
lously.

"To be sure! Freedom is the most precious thing man
can grasp, and its price is commensurate. These people
suffer to prove that they are worthy of what they seek,
and I'm proud of them!"

"And what of the tanks?"

"I am proud of them, too."

"Oh, Mars, you're impossible! I wish I could save even

one of those poor souls!"

Mars made a gesture that included both lines of refu-
gees. "Take your pick, Clotho."

"What?"

"If you are exchanging your office in a few minutes,
you can do it with one of these. She, at least, can be

spared."

The incredible boor! Lachesis thought.

Piers Anthony                 185

But it may be true, Atropos replied.
"All right, I will!" Niobe walked out to the line going
north and stopped the first young woman she spied who
seemed to be traveling alone. She was a dark-haired,
pretty girl of perhaps twenty, toting a large suitcase. She
stared at Niobe.

"Would you like to become Fate?" Niobe asked.
The woman's large eyes looked at her blankly.
"To exchange places with me and be forever free of
this?"

The woman spoke unintelligibly.
Of course! Atropos thought. She's Hungarian!
Doesn't Mars speak all tongues? Lachesis thought.
"Yes!" Niobe said. She took the woman by the hand
and tugged her across the street toward the Incarnation
of War. The woman seemed to have been stunned by the
horror of the violence around her. Perhaps she thought
Niobe was offering her a place to stay in safety for the
night.

"Mars, tell her," Niobe ordered. "Ask her to ex-
change."

Mars spoke to the woman in her language, gesturing to
Niobe. The woman shook her head, not believing it. Then
a shell landed nearby, blowing out part of a building, and
the woman changed her mind. She nodded affirmation.
"Any port in a storm," Mars translated.
It was Atropos' turn to handle the change. She assumed
the body. "Farewell, Niobe," she said. "It has been a
pleasure working with you."

Good-by, sister Aspect, Lachesis thought, giving her a
mental kiss.

Atropos took the woman's hand—and Niobe found her-
self standing separately, in her own body, facing Atropos.
"Farewell, sister Aspects!" she cried—and as always,
tears flowed.




186             With a Tangled Skein

Mars touched one of his pockets and brought out a frag-
ment of reddish stone. "Take this, Niobe," he said
gruffly. "It is from my planet. It will guard you from harm

until you can reach your destination."
Niobe took the stone. She opened her mouth to thank

him.
Another shell burst, close by, momentarily blinding her

and causing her to cower. When she straightened up, both
Mars and Fate were gone. She was on her own. Deprived
of her two alternate Aspects, she felt abruptly naked.
They—and immortality—were no longer part of her. Her

tears continued.

But she could not remain here, crying in the street of

the war-torn city. She knew where she was going. She
hefted the suitcase and started walking.




9

TWIN MOONS

Thanks to the Mars fragment, she made her way safely
from Budapest, across the Iron Curtain, and to Ireland,
where Pacian was waiting for her. She was tired and be-
draggled and felt exceedingly mortal, but she was ready
to marry him.

But first she consulted with her son the Magician.
"Satan swore to harass me and mine," she said. "Is it
possible to be secure from this?"

"Satan is constrained to operate somewhat through
channels," he replied. "My power does not approach his,
but I can protect us all from his mischief." He gave her
a bright green garnet, mounted on a silver chain. "Wear
this always. Mother, and you will be secure. I will see to
the daughters in their turn."

"Thank you, son," she said, smiling. He was now
forty, she twenty-four, physically.

"And one for Pace," he said, handing her another.

The wedding was in spring, and by summer Niobe was
pregnant. The Magician's wife, Pacian's daughter Blenda,




With a Tangled Skein

188

turned up pregnant that same summer, after five years of
marriage, by what coincidence or design only Lachesis
might know. Niobe and Blenda took walks together and
compared notes, still seeming like sisters though Blenda
was now five years older physically.

When spring came again, both women gave birth to
daughters within a week of each other. Niobe named hers
Orb and Blenda named hers Luna, for they were like twin
moons. The Magician presented each baby with a polished
moonstone, to protect her from misfortune.

The two girls were raised together and were amazingly
similar even after allowing for the fact that they were
closely related. Niobe and Pacian were the ancestors of
both; strangers assumed that Orb and Luna were twins.
The Magician still tended to bury himself in his studies,
and Blenda had retired from teaching in order to assist
him, so that Luna would spend days at a time at Niobe's
house. Pacian, always a farmer, was now going into tree
farming, gradually remaking the wetlands without de-
stroying it; this took long hours. Thus most of the child
care fell to Niobe. She loved it. She had given up her first
child. Junior, and now was glad to make up for it by raising
two. It was her fulfillment as a mother, forty years de-
layed.

She put them together in a double pram for walks
through the countryside and, when they grew old enough
to do their own walking, she took them through the wet-
lands to admire the fine magical trees Pacian was culti-
vating. Sometimes they would ride their family carpet to
the place where she and Cedric had lived. The old cabin
had been replaced by a modem bungalow, complete with
electricity and central heating, but the old water oak re-
mained. The hamadryad was now a middle-aged nymph,
showing it more by manner than by form, but she re-
membered Niobe, once she introduced herself, and came
down cautiously to play with the little girls. Niobe was

Piers Anthony                 189

as happy as she had ever been, despite the nostalgia. But
she always made sure both girls were wearing their pro-
tective moonstones, for Satan could be lurking, awaiting
his chance for mischief.

The children reached school age, and Niobe took them
there together and got them enrolled. She had to wrestle
verbally with the clerks who assumed that two similar
children whose surname was Kaftan had to be sisters if
not twins. "Orb is mine, Luna is my son's child." They
stared at her, for she was physically thirty.

Both girls were bright as well as pretty. Niobe's side
of the family accounted for the beauty, and the Kaftan
side accounted for the brilliance. It was genetics more
than merit, but still she was inordinately proud.

As school progressed, the girls became more differ-
entiated. They adopted different clothing and hairstyles;

one would wear pink, the other green, and then they
would switch. One would grow her hair long, while the
other cut it short—and again they would switch. Luna's
hair was clover-honey, like her mother's, and her eyes
were pearl-gray; Orb's hair was buckwheat-honey, like
Niobe's, and her eyes pale blue. But they could still be
very similar when they chose.

Luna became interested in art, while Orb liked music.
Luna showed real talent with pictures, proceeding from
crayons to pastel chalk to watercolors and finally to oil;

her efforts were always prominently represented in class
shows. Orb started with the guitar and gravitated to the pi-
ano, then centered on the harp. She had genuine talent for
it, and when she was ten, she gave a recital of The Shep-
herd's Song that sounded so like the magic music her
father and grandfather had had that Niobe was stunned.
She had the magic—and it reached a short way out be-
yond physical contact to touch those who listened closely.
The audience, though it heard only the physical music,
was still entranced, and applauded her enthusiastically.




190              Wt'ffc a Tangled Skein

By the time they were twelve, both girls were almost
as pretty as their mothers had been, and their talents were
solidly established. "It's time they had better equip-
ment," Pacian said and he took Niobe to see the Magi-
cian.

"The instruments exist," the Magician said. "But they

have to be won. They are in an annex to the Hall of the
Mountain King. The King sleeps, but an attempt to steal
anything would wake him, and that would be unfortu-
nate."

"I don't want them stealing anything!" Niobe pro-
tested. "They're honest girls!"

The Magician smiled tolerantly. "To be sure. Mother.
But you must understand the Mountain King's definition.
He will freely give the instruments to any person he deems
worthy of them—but what he calls worthy, we might call

theft."

"That's preposterous!"

"Not so. Mother," he informed her patiently. "A per-
son who can take the instrument deserves it; the one who
cannot, but who tries to, is a thief."

"There are standards—an examination?"

"A series of three challenges to gain entry," he said,
"Then a demonstration of proficiency for the specific in-
strument."

"Challenges?" She wasn't sure she liked the sound of

it. Not for twelve-year-old girls.

"The Annex is deep in the mountain, of course. There
are cliffs, pitfalls, monsters—that sort of thing. Routine."

"Routine! I'm not sending my child or yours into that!

Those girls are only—"

"Twelve years old," he finished for her. "Mother, the
challenges are only illusions. No danger—as long as the
unworthy person does not attempt to steal an instru-
ment."

Piers Anthony                 191

Now it was coming clear. "They run the course—and
if they get through without making an error, then they can
try for the prizes?"

"Precisely. And if they do make an error, they have
simply to depart immediately, without waking the King.
He gets angry when awoken."

"And proceeding on, after an error, wakes him?"

"Yes. It really isn't wise to do that."

She pondered. "Exactly what would happen if he
wakes?"

"He would turn the challenges real."

"Real pitfalls, instead of illusory ones?"

"That's it. Mother," he said with the calmness that a
person of normal intelligence assumes when dealing with
one of limited intellect. "And if that person attempts to
steal—"

"Then—not that our girls would, but—?"

"Then the Mountain King would personally intervene.
I could not protect them in the King's hall; he is omni-
potent there. The moonstones protect them from evil, but
the Mountain King is not evil, just tough. But it should
never come to that."

"I wouldn't let them take the risk!"

He shrugged. "Why don't you go along to chaperone
them? Then you can be sure they don't do anything fool-
ish. The Mountain King is a fair man; he will not bother
anyone who honors his rules."

"I can do that? Run the challenges with them?"

"Of course you can. Mother!" he said, as if her intellect
had turned out to be below his already-modest expecta-
tions. "The King is not fussy about details. I would take
the girls in myself, but he wouldn't tolerate my presence.
Rival magic, you know."

"The instruments are good ones?"

"The best that exist. Mother," he assured her pa-
tiently. "State of the art."




192             With a Tangled Skein
She sighed. "Then I'll do it."

She took them in, parking the car beside the huge sign:

MOUNTAIN KING—ANNEX. They entered the marked ap-
erture, which resembled a jewel-encrusted cave. The girls
were thrilled and nervous. They had heard stories about
the nefarious halls of the Mountain King, but had never
hoped to visit them personally. They had wanted to dress
prettily, but Niobe had insisted on jeans and sneakers.
"This isn't a fashion show!" she snorted.

Inside were signs with arrows: TOURISTS—CHALLENGES.
They took the latter direction.

The passage opened into a large cave with a rocky floor.
A painted yellow line wound around between the rocks
to the far side. Several motorcycles were parked at the
near side. A big sign said INSTRUCTIONS.

Niobe moved over to read the sign. Smaller print on it
clarified the conditions of the challenge. She read and
whistled. "This really is a challenge!"

The girls read the sign. "Mother, we can't do that!"

Orb protested.

"I confess I don't like it," Niobe agreed. "But remem-
ber: the hazards are not real. They're illusions."

The challenge was to ride a motorcycle along the line,
which was the only safe route across the minefield. Be-
cause this was the first, one error was permitted. Because
the mines were illusions, they would merely flash brightly
when set off, rather than blow the transgressor apart.
"How sweet of the Mountain King," Niobe murmured

with a certain irony.

"But if we set off two," Luna said, "we can't get our

instruments?"

"That's right, dear. Because if we took anything after

failing the challenge of passage, those mines would be-
come real." It was, she had to admit, a nice device of

Piers Anthony                 193

selection. Those who could handle the challenges would
have no problem; those who could not would be absolute
fools to trigger the non-illusory threats. The Mountain
King played a hard but fair game.

"Ooo," Orb murmured softly. She was the more re-
active of the two, quicker to turn on or off, quicker to
anger or to forgiveness. "But if we play the game hon-
estly, we have nothing to fear."

"That's right. That's a good rule for life." Niobe looked
at the motorcycles, and at the minefield, and the mean-
dering line. How much clearance was there on either side
of it? And the girls—neither had ridden more than a bi-
cycle before. One would be sure to waver too far. This
was too much of a challenge!

"I'd better take you across, one at a time," Niobe de-
cided. "The largest cycle will handle two."

She wheeled out the large motorcycle, started it—trust-
ing that the cave was large enough to handle the fumes
of the exhaust—and rode it up and down the side, making
sure she had the hang of it. Obviously the Mountain King
had expected a man to challenge, rather than a woman
and girls. When she was satisfied, she put Orb on it behind
her, the girl clasping her about the middle, and rode up
to the side again. "Now lean with me when I make the
turn," she said. "The balance has to be just so, as with
a bicycle."

"Yes, Mother."

"Luna, you have the eye for depth. You watch us, and
cry warning if I seem to be misjudging a curve."

"Yes, Grandma." The girls enjoyed their real relation-
ships in private; in public they preferred to consider them-
selves cousins.

Niobe nerved herself and started along the line. The
first curve went well, but when she hit the reverse curve,
Orb got confused and started to lean the wrong way. She

294

Piers Anthony                 195

With a Tangled Skein

corrected herself in a moment, but it was enough to nudge
the cycle off the mark. A mine was touched, and a brilliant
flash blinded her.

"I can't see!" Niobe cried.

"Neither can I!" Orb screamed.

The motorcycle wavered as she tried to guide it along
the course by memory. But she knew it was hopeless; by
the time her vision recovered, she would be in the middle
of the mines, and thoroughly disqualified. Unless—

"Luna!" she called. "Can you see?"

"Yes," Luna replied. "You're drifting right."

"Direct me!"

Luna was a smart and levelheaded girl. She understood
immediately. "Bear left."

Niobe obeyed, maintaining a velocity so the cycle
would not waver out of control.

"Now turn right, slowly," Luna called. "A little
more—yes. And straight. Coming up is an acute left
turn—make it sharp on the mark. Ready—mark!"

Niobe and Orb leaned left, and they made a sharp left
turn.

"Now go straight—nudge right—yes—now an S-turn,
right then left, not too sharp—more right—now edge
left—more—that's it—and right again. Now straight;

you're almost there."

Thus did they navigate the field without setting off an-
other mine. Niobe parked the motorcycle, waited a few
minutes for her vision to clear, then rode back alone to
fetch Luna. "You did a good job there," she told the girl.
"Your judgment has preserved our chance to win
through." The girl flushed prettily with pleasure.

The second trip across was less eventful; sight and ex-
perience made all the difference. They parked the mo-
torcycle and walked down the passage to the next chal-
lenge.

This turned out to be a subterranean river, broad and
deep, with a wire mesh fence bisecting it lengthwise, bar-
ring passage across it. But there was another explanatory
plaque. "This is a section of the River Lethe," Niobe
read aloud. "One drop in the mouth will cause a person
to forget for a moment; one swallow will cause forget-
fulness for an hour. Water in eyes will cause the forgetting
of the ability to see. Beware lethal monster who patrols
at irregular intervals."

"That's funny!" Orb exclaimed. "The lethal monster
swims in Lethe!"

"Not funny if it catches you," Luna reminded her.

"We shall have to swim across," Niobe said. "The
problem is the barrier in the center—we'll have to dive
under it. That means closing the eyes tightly. We'd better
do it singly, with the others watching while one dives."

"But—our clothing!" Orb protested.

"You're right. We'll have to leave it here. We don't
want to carry the water of Lethe around with us! Also,
wet clothing is no fun."

"But we have no bathing suits!" Luna said.

Niobe looked at her. "Dear, soon enough you will be
proud to stand nude for self-portraits. There are occasions
when modesty is dispensable. This is one such. We are
all family and female, and the Mountain King is asleep.
No one will see. I daresay this is part of his challenge:

have we the courage to go naked to his lair? Remember,
the danger is only illusion; if we gulp the water we will
not actually forget, we'll merely disqualify ourselves and
have to give up the quest. The real test is modesty." She
proceeded to undress, carefully folding her clothing and
setting it well clear of the water.

Luna shrugged and followed her example, not unduly
sensitive about the matter. After a pause. Orb followed
suit, obviously less at ease. They were, at this age, in the
process of developing, neither women nor children, and




196 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 197

were understandably somewhat reticent about exposure.
The Mountain King was giving this party a greater variety
of challenge than anticipated.

"Now we can dog-paddle to the barrier," Niobe said.
"Right after the monster passes. Who's first?"

Orb shrugged. "I'll try it. Someone yell if the monster
turns back." They waited, watching for the lethal mons-
ter. In a moment it appeared—a globular mass of jelly
that seemed to have forgotten its original form. "Ooh,
ugh!" Orb exclaimed.

"It's only illusion," Niobe reminded her firmly. "But
don't let it catch you. Now scoot!" She slapped the girl
on her bare bottom.

Startled, Orb stepped into the water and dog-paddled
across, glancing nervously after the monster. "Remem-
ber—no peeking!" Niobe called. "Keep your eyes closed
after you come up on the other side, until you're sure the
water's clear."

Orb nodded, then took half a breath, squinched her eyes
shut, and dived. Her legs went up, then slid under. Both
girls were good swimmers; it was only the special nature
of this challenge that made the swimming awkward. In a
moment she came up on the far side, eyes and mouth still
firmly closed, and resumed her dog-paddling—in the
wrong direction. She was swimming downstream instead
of across.

"You're going wrong!" Niobe called. "Turn about!"

The girl, still sightless, didn't understand. She reversed
course, now swimming upstream, making little headway.

"The monster's coming back!" Luna whispered.

"She'll never avoid it!" Niobe said tersely. "I'll go get
her clear!" She waded in and stroked as swiftly as she
could without splashing. Fortunately the monster was
slow; she outdistanced it. She closed her mouth and eyes
and dived, finding the bottom of the barrier and hauling

herself under. Then she angled for the surface in the di-
rection she hoped Orb was. Her head broke water, drip-
ping—and she didn't dare open her eyes.

"To your left!" Luna called.

Niobe lunged left, and encountered one of Orb's arms.

"But the monster's between you and the shore!" Luna
called. "You can't get by it! It's turning toward you!"

"This way!" Niobe ordered Orb. "To the barrier!" She
side-stroked back, half-hauling the girl along with her
other hand. She found the wire. "Climb up it; you don't
need to look!"

Wordlessly, the girl obeyed. Niobe made sure Orb had
hold of the wire, then let go of her and used hands and
feet to climb up out of the water.

Once clear, she used the back of her hand to wipe out
both eyes, then cracked one open. Orb was beside her,
climbing blindly up the barrier. The monster was below,
trying to find them; its limp tentacles flailed about.

"Up here, idiot!" Niobe told it.

The monster heard and tried to reach out of the water,
but its substance was too flabby for support. It could not
extend any part of itself beyond the river. After a while
it gave up and drifted on downstream.

"Very well," Niobe said. "Orb, clear your eyes and
climb down. We'll swim the rest of the way across."

They did so. Then Luna crossed and, with the help of
Niobe's called instructions, managed to avoid all hazards.
They had surmounted the second challenge.

Naked, they proceeded to the third. This one turned
out to be awesome; it was a deep chasm, crossed by a
narrow rope bridge. They would have to walk or crawl
across it. There was another instruction plaque that said

BEWARE OF THE VAMPIRE BAT.

That needed no clarification. Obviously a bite by that
bat would disqualify them—and the bat would attack




198 With a Tangled Skein

whoever was on the bridge. But the instructions advised
them that one of the magic wands could be used to fend
off the bat. Sure enough, there was a rack holding three
wands.

One for each of them. How convenient! Or was it co-
incidence? Niobe didn't quite trust this, but saw no al-
ternative to proceeding. They were two-thirds of the way
through; it would be a shame to muff it now.

Orb stared down into the gulf and shuddered. "I don't
think I can—"

"Nonsense," Niobe said, though she herself found the
depth of the chasm awesome. "Remember—it's illusion.
If you lose your balance, you won't get hurt; you'll just
be disqualified."

"Oh, yes," she said, brightening. "It's just a flat floor,
like the mine caves, and the bridge's a line through it."

"But we'll be careful, anyway," Niobe cautioned them.

"I'll go first," Luna volunteered. She took a wand, held
it firmly in her right hand, and stepped out on the bridge.
It sank beneath her weight, startling her, but she kept her
balance and walked on.

"Ooo, it's swinging!" she exclaimed as she moved over
the gulf. Indeed it was, swinging grandly back and forth
like a pendulum.

"Compensate!" Niobe called. "You're all right!"

Luna did, and continued across. At midpoint the bat
appeared.

The thing was huge and ugly. Bright red eyes stared at
the prey. The black wings spread out a good yard. As it
approached, the draft from those wings blew Luna's hair
back and made her lose confidence.

"Fend it off with the wand!" Niobe called. "Just stand
there, keep your balance, and point the wand at it."

Luna tried, but she was now quite nervous. The bat

Piers Anthony                 199

flew at her; she lunged with the wand. The bat sheered
away. She lost her balance and started to fall.

"Grab the bridge!" Niobe cried.

The girl dropped the wand and grabbed the bridge with
both hands, hugging it. The wand plunged into the chasm,
slowing turning in the air, taking a long time to fall. Some
illusion!

The bat, seeing the girl helpless, banked and came back.

Niobe charged out onto the bridge. Her long experience
with the threads of Fate made her competent; she wasn't
worried about missing a step or falling. TShe almost dived
at the bat as it came down, jamming the end of the wand
into its furry body. There was no resistance; the wand
passed through. The bat shrieked almost audibly and
lurched away, seemingly hurt.

"Get up, girl," Niobe snapped. "Go on across."

"I can't!" Luna cried. Indeed, she was in tears. She
was a sensible girl, but she was, after all, only twelve.

"Then crawl across! I'll protect you."

This the girl could do. She scrambled on hands and
knees, while Niobe followed her and watched the bat. The
creature tried to come in for another pass, looked at
Niobe's militant stance, and stayed clear.

On the far side, Luna was able to stand again. She was
all right.

"Your turn, Orb," Niobe called. "Can you make it
yourself, or shall I come to help you?"

Orb looked at the swinging bridge, and at the hovering
bat. "I—you'd better come."

Niobe walked back, holding off the bat with a mere
glance. It had come to know the difference between a
frightened girl and an embattled woman. "All right—walk
ahead of me. I'll protect your rear. Just focus on Luna
over there and keep your balance. It's not hard."

"How can you be so brave?" the girl asked, awed.




With a Tangled Skein

200

"I'm a mother. It comes with the office."
It was an offhand quip, but Orb took it seriously. "Hav-
ing a child makes you brave?"

"When you have something you would die to protect,
it ceases to be a matter of courage," Niobe explained.
"You just know what you have to do and you can't afford

fear."

They moved on across. The bat came at them, and Orb
cowered. "Get away!" Niobe screamed at the bat. "Or
I'll ram this down your throat, batbrain!"

It spun in the air and fled. Even illusions could be
cowed!

"Why is it afraid of you?" Orb asked, amazed.

"Because I wasn't bluffing," Niobe answered. "I
would wring its neck if it touched you, and it knows it."

"Oh, Mother!"
"Any parent would do the same. You will, when you

are one."

They made it across. Luna shook her head. "You've
had to save us each time. Grandma. We'd never have
made it alone."

"It's a cooperative effort. But I think you'll have to
win your instruments for yourselves."

They walked to the next chapter. There were two cab-
inets. In one was a paintbrush with a silver handle; in the
other was a miniature golden harp.

"This is it," Niobe said. "There are your instruments."

"But—" Luna said. "How do we—?"

Niobe looked around. She saw no instruction plaque.
"I think you have to figure that out for yourselves."

Luna shrugged. She stepped up, opened the cabinet
doors, and took the brush. She made a pass in the air—
and the brush left a smear of yellow hanging there, un-
supported.

Surprised, she moved the brush again, marking an X
across the smear. Black appeared, a big X in air.

Piers Anthony                201

"It makes color from thought!" Luna exclaimed,
pleased.

She went to work seriously, erasing the smear and X
with deft strokes, then painting a picture of Niobe. Luna,
young as she was, was good; it was a remarkably accurate
rendition. Niobe had never seen the girl paint so fast and
well before. Of course, she wasn't totally thrilled to have
herself painted nude at the physical age of thirty-six; she
had put on some weight and was no longer the most beau-
tiful woman extant. The stretch marks from birthing Orb
didn't help. But she wasn't in a position to protest; she
wanted Luna to paint well enough to win the brush. The
instrument was obviously ideal.

Then Luna added a gauzy halo of almost colorless
paint. "What are you doing?" Niobe asked.

"Painting your aura," Luna replied.

"My—?"

"I can see it, so I'm painting it."

Niobe was silent. If what the girl said was true, she had
more talent than anyone had judged.

Luna paused and stepped back. "There," she said. She
had painted a huge seashell partly enclosing the figure.
"Nude Grandmother on the half-shell."

"For pity's sake!" Niobe exclaimed with mock annoy-
ance, and Orb giggled.

Then the picture moved in the air. It tilted, developed
a frame, and moved into the cabinet. The glass doors
closed.

"I think your picture has been accepted," Niobe said.
"You have earned the brush."

"Oh, goody!" Luna exclaimed. "Thank you, Mountain
King! I'll use it always! It's the best brush I ever dreamed
of!"

Now it was Orb's turn. She opened the cabinet and
lifted out the golden harp. It was small, but exquisitely
crafted, surely the finest instrument of its kind. She seated




202             With a Tangled Skein

herself cross-legged on the floor, set the base of the harp
within the circle of her legs so she could hold it steady,
and touched the strings with her Fingers. A fine chord
sounded. "Ooo, it's truly magic!" she exclaimed. "I can

really play this!"

Orb paused a moment, mentally selecting a song. Then
she began singing, accompanying herself on the harp.

"I want to waltz in the wetlands ..."

Niobe was astonished. She hadn't known that Orb
knew that song; she must have learned it at school. She
was doing it very well, and the magic harp amplified both
the sound and the natural magic she had, so that the back-
ground orchestra sounded loud and clear and stereo-
phonic.

Twelve years old! How well would Orb sing and play

and project when she achieved her full proficiency? Prob-
ably well enough to turn professional, if she chose.

"Yes I—will cry—I'll cry when the wetlands are dry,"
Orb finished and bowed her head. There were tears on
her cheeks, and on Luna's and Niobe's too; it had been

truly beautiful.
Then the song sounded again—but Orb wasn't singing

or playing. The cabinet was doing it. The song had been
recorded, magic orchestra and all!

The replay ended, and the cabinet doors closed. This,
too, had been accepted. Orb had won her harp.

"It's done," Niobe said, relieved. "Now we can go

home."
They started back. The bat cave had been turned off,

and was now apparent as a concavely curving floor eight-
een inches below the swinging bridge; the bat was a trans-
parent light projection. The wand Luna had dropped lay
on the stone; its long fall had been illusion.There had,
indeed, been no danger.

Piers Anthony

203

"To think I crawled on hands and knees!" Luna said
ruefully.

"As a challenge, it was valid," Niobe said, picking up
the wand to replace it in the wand-holder. "Even illusions
can hurt, as when we were blinded. Life is like that too;

the unreal can be as important as the real, and sometimes
it becomes real." She was consciously lecturing the girls,
knowing that all too soon they would enter the arena of
social and sexual awareness, where the pitfalls were in-
deed of perception.

They crossed, not bothering to use the bridge, and took
the tunnel to the next chamber. This was unchanged;

there really was a river and a barrier.

"That's a relief," Luna said. "I'd hate to think I went
naked to swim through water that didn't exist!"

"But now it's just water," Orb said, scooping up a
handful and sipping it. "And no blubber monster."

They waded in, the girls holding their instruments clear
of the water as long as they could. There was a momentary
flicker of light. Then Orb dived under the barrier and came
up on the other side. She took a breath as she broke the
surface—and screamed.

Niobe halted at the barrier. "What is it, dear?" she
called, alarmed.

"I can't see!" Orb cried. "I'm blind! I'm blind!" She
flailed about, dropping the harp, which sank to the bot-
tom.

"Wait, dear!" Niobe cried. "Relax! It can't be—"

"Where am I?" Orb cried, still flailing. "How did I get
here? Why can't I see?"

Niobe exchanged glances with Luna, whose mouth
opened in an appalled 0. "The Lethe!" the girl whis-
pered. "It's on again!"

"And this time it's real!" Niobe exclaimed. "Some-
thing's wrong!"

204             With a Tangled Skein

The lethal monster appeared, moving slowly toward

Orb.

"Get back out of the water!" Niobe cried to Luna. "I'll

rescue her!" She took a breath, closed her eyes, and dived
under the barrier. She was able to spot Orb by the noise
of her splashing. She took hold of the girl and used the
life-saving technique to haul her along. Niobe had to trust
that her sense of direction was true and that she was swim-
ming for the opposite bank. She did not dare open her
eyes, or try to speak to her daughter; some water would
be sure to splash in. She had no notion how close the
monster was; she just had to keep them moving.

She made it. She found the bank and hauled Orb out.
She cleared her eyes, then shook the girl by the shoulders
to get her attention. "Be still. Orb! You've been dosed
with the water of Lethe, so you can't see or remember,
but the effect fs temporary. Soon you will see and re-
member. Just relax. Relax!"

Slowly the girl calmed. "Oh, Mother," she cried, and

hugged Niobe. "I'm so scared!"

So she remembered the basic relationship. Probably it
was only the most recent events that were gone. "It will
pass," Niobe reassured her. "You're not hurt, just in-
convenienced for a few minutes. Just sit here and don't
move." Then she looked across the river. Luna was
standing on the far side. "Are you all right, Luna?"
"I'm all right," the girl called. "Should 1 cross?"
Niobe considered momentarily. "No. Go to the other
cave and see whether it too has been reactivated. Don't

try to cross it, though!"

"I wouldn't dare!" Luna said seriously. She disap-
peared into the tunnel.

Orb's tears seemed to help clear the spell from her eyes,

"Mother! I can see a little!"

Piers Anthony                205

"Yes, of course, dear," Niobe said, expressing more
confidence than she had felt. "Just have patience, and
you will soon be back to normal."

After a while that seemed longer than it was, Luna re-
turned. "It's back," she reported. "I knelt at the edge
and reached down, and I couldn't feel the floor at all. Then
the bat came, and I ran."

How did the illusion of a chasm become real, Niobe
wondered. An eighteen-inch fall could not duplicate the
effect of a hundred-foot fall. But she was sure that chasm

was now there. The Mountain King's magic was no il-
lusion!

"You'd better come across, then," Niobe decided.
"It's easier for you than it would be for Orb, and I think
we can handle the mine-chamber better."

"What happened?" Orb asked as Luna crossed. Evi-
dently her memory had not caught up to the last few min-
utes.

"We were crossing the river—and the magic came on,"
Niobe said. "I don't know why. It's as if we were sud-
denly considered thieves instead of worthy winners."

"But we're not thieves!" Orb protested.

"Of course we're not!" Then something occurred to
her. "But maybe there is a thief, somewhere in here, and
he activated the magic—and we got caught."

"But we saw no one else!"

"True." Niobe sighed; it had been such a good expla-
nation. Then she thought of an answer. "One could have
tried the first challenge, and set off more than one mine,
and not retreated. That might account for it."

Luna emerged from the water. "I got it!" she ex-
claimed, brandishing the harp. "I felt for it on the bottom,
and there it was!"

"Oh, thank you. Moth!" Orb exclaimed.




206             With a Tangled Skein

"That's okay. Eyeball," Luna replied, smiling as she

handed it to her.
Niobe was startled in a minor way; she had not heard

these particular nicknames before. She wondered how
much of children's activities inattentive adults missed.

They dressed and proceeded cautiously to the mine-
cave, half expecting to encounter the thief, but there was
none. The cave was empty. They tested it by tossing a
stone into the center and hiding their eyes.

The explosion was horrendous. It shook the whole
cave, and several more rocks dropped from the ceiling.
The hazard was certainly back—and now the mines were

truly destructive.
Niobe looked at the one motorcycle on this side, the

one they had ridden across on. Her mouth went dry. She
had crossed this cave three times, once while blind—but
she was supremely reluctant to do so again. This time the
hazard was real. She and the girls could be blown up! The
very knowledge of that could cause her to waver on the
cycle and go astray. Already her hands were shaking.

"Where's the thief?" Luna asked.

Where, indeed! If the thief had done this by pushing on
regardless, he should be here—either alive or dead. The
motorcycle he had used should be visible, either whole
or wrecked. But there was none—and all the other cycles
were still parked in their places. There seemed to be no

thief.

Well, maybe the Mountain King was cheating. He

might have had no intention of giving away his precious
magical instruments, so he arranged to balk the girls' es-
cape as if by accident.

That angered Niobe. "Two can play at that!" she mut-
tered. She picked up another fallen rock. "Watch your-
selves!" she warned, and heaved it.

Piers Anthony                 207

There was another detonation. Again the cave shook,
and more rocks dropped. As soon as the cave was quiet,
Niobe picked up another rock and heaved it.

"What are you doing. Mother?" Orb asked after the
third explosion.

"I am clearing a path through this trap!" Niobe said
grimly. "A mine can't explode when it has already been
exploded." She heaved again.

"Oh!" Orb exclaimed, smiling. "How smart of you,
Mother! Can I do it too?"

Why not? "Yes you may—but shield your eyes."

The girl picked up a rock and heaved, then turned away.
She clapped her hands with delight as the mine went off.
Children of either sex seemed to have a certain muted
passion for violence, Niobe reflected.

Before long they had cleared a broad channel across
the cave. They tossed in a few more rocks, just to be sure
there were no live mines left. Then Niobe ferried them
across as before. She wasn't sure what would happen if
they simply walked across and didn't trust it; the motor-
cycle was easy enough to use, now. Safely across, she
parked it, and the three of them turned to the entrance/
exit passage.

But as they approached, a man came through it from
the other direction. He was huge and hairy and ferocious,
he carried a giant sledgehammer, and his eyes fairly
sparked so that they threatened to set fire to his beard.
"Thieves!" he roared. "You would rob the museum of
the Vanir? I will destroy you!" He lifted the sledgeham-
mer.

"The Mountain King!" Luna squeaked, falling back.
Something akin to a berserker rage flooded through
Niobe. She stepped forward, sidestepped the swinging
sledge, and slapped the man resoundingly on his hairy

208             With a Tangled Skein

cheek. "Leave that girl alone!" she snapped. "She's no

thief! You are!"

The man could hardly have been hurt by the slap, but
he paused, astonished, as he stared at her. "Clotho!"

"Not anymore!" Niobe said curtly. Then she, too,
paused. "How did you know me?"

He set his sledgehammer down and leaned on the han-
dle. "How could any man forget the face of the loveliest
creature to grace the pagan realm? What do ye here, 0

divine one?"
Niobe stifled a flush of pleasure. "Urn, how long have

you been asleep this time?"

The Mountain King ticked off numbers on his fingers.
"Twenty-five years or so. Why?"

That explained it. He had been asleep all the time she
had been mortal. "I returned to ordinary life thirteen
years ago," Niobe said. "I'm here with my daughter and
granddaughter. We did not come here to steal from you."

The man glanced at the instruments the girls held. "If
you speak for these, Clotho, I'll not challenge them. In-
deed, methought in my dream I heard the music of my
harp, played in a manner it was Grafted to be." Then he
did a double take. "A granddaughter—in thirteen years?
Your body would madden any man's mind, but—"

"By my prior mortality," Niobe said quickly. She ges-
tured to Luna. "Your cabinet accepted the picture she

painted, so—"

"True. Then why the alarm?"
"That's what I want to know! We were halfway out

when—"

"Tis not of my doing," the giant said. "I will have the

truth of this. Follow me, Clotho." He strode into the
cave, and his footprints glowed in his wake. He was
angry.

Piers Anthony                209

They followed, not bothering with the motorcycle this
time; the glowing prints were their guarantee of safety.

When the Mountain King came to the middle cave, he
stepped into the water—and it evaporated instantly, leav-
ing the floor dry. When he reached the barrier, a gate in
it swung open to let him pass without pause. There was
no doubt he was the master of this place. They continued
to follow, awed.

The chasm was there in the third cave, and the vampire
bat alert. The King strode into it, and the illusion or reality
vanished, leaving the cave empty. The tremulous light-
pattern that was all that remained of the vampire bat fled.

They came into the display room. There was a demon
with its finger in the harp-cabinet. Evidently that evil in-
fluence was what was triggering the thief-alarm; as long
as that demon remained, no one could pass.

"Ho! Loki's work!" the Mountain King exclaimed, and
hurled his massive sledge as if it were a toy.

The hammer struck the demon. The creature puffed into
smoke. The cabinet exploded.

The Mountain King retrieved his sledgehammer. The
far-flung fragments of the cabinet imploded, re-forming
their original shape, with a hint of the music Orb had
made.

"Go in peace, Clotho," the giant rumbled. "You and
yours. My apology for this nuisance."

"Quite all right, sir," Niobe said, somewhat taken
aback. She hustled the girls out again. This time there
was no problem in any of the caves.

The instruments were wonderful, and both girls con-
tinued to prosper in their talents. By the time they com-
pleted school, each was as skilled as any Niobe knew.
She was sure both would prosper in life, if Fate permitted.

210 With a Tangled Skein

But there was the matter of the tangled skein that had not
yet materialized.

After Blenda died, the Magician Kaftan moved to
America with Luna, apparently unable to face the old
country in her absence. Niobe was saddened more by
Luna's departure than by her son's, for she had actually
been closer to her granddaughter. But she could not pro-
test. Luna was a fine, levelheaded young woman, and she
would take good care of her father.

Then, after twenty-two years of their marriage, Pacian
died. He was seventy-four, by no means young, but it
came as a shock; somehow she had always thought of him
as eleven years younger than herself, and she was only
forty-six, physically. She had lived twenty-three years in
her first mortality, and the same number in her second.
It was as if she had finally completed the term set for her
original love of Cedric. She still loved Pacian, but the
intensity of it had eased over the years. Now she had
raised her family, and was satisfied to meet the necessary
severance of threads. She had seen Pace ailing, and had
done what she could for him, never thinking he could
actually die. Satan seemed to have no hand in this; the
cause had been natural.

After the funeral, she tended to retreat from partici-
pation in worldly matters. Orb went away on tour as a
singer; indeed, she had been traveling about the world
from the time she turned eighteen. There just wasn't much
left for Niobe in the mortal realm.

Then she received news that her son, the Magician, had
also died. This was entirely unexpected; he was only
sixty-three. Luna wrote to report that she now lived alone
in the Magician's house, carrying on his business, and that
she was dating the new Thanatos, exactly as the prophecy
had foretold. Niobe had no stomach for that business. She
kept her letters polite and left the girl alone. What, after
all, had she expected of mortality—perpetual youth, bliss,

Piers Anthony               3,.
S^ £r "t•ssoait ———— " "V

But the following year, things changed.




LACHESIS

The spider descended before her on a thread of silk, then
transformed into a comely young woman with hair so light
it was almost white. "We must talk with you," the woman
said. "Do not utter the name of him who must not know."
She had an accent, but was intelligible.

"Clotho!" Niobe said, suddenly remembering that mo-
ment a quarter-century before when she had drawn a ref-
ugee girl from a line in Budapest. "Lisa!"

The woman smiled. "You have changed; I have not."
Then she patted her hair. "Except cosmetically. I am eter-
nally grateful for what you did, rescuing me from that city.
It gave me a new existence, and I was able to help my
troubled friends. They never knew I had—changed."

"I understand," Niobe said. "It is nice of you to let

me know."

"But this is not a social call," Lisa said quickly. "We—
have something very important to ask of you."

Niobe smiled. Privately she was dismayed by the con-
trast between them. When she had selected Lisa to be her

Piers Anthony                213

replacement, Niobe herself had been a slender beauty,
while Lisa had been attractive but less stunning. Now, a
quarter-century later, Niobe knew herself to be lined and
dumpy; she hadn't seen any reason to maintain herself,
the last two years especially. Lisa had remained exactly
as she had been. What a terrible scourge mortal aging was!

"If your question is whether the—unnamed one—has
been interfering in my life since I turned mortal, I'm not
sure. I can think of only one instance, when I took my
girls to—"

"No, no," Lisa said quickly. "Not a question. I—I
have been selected to ask you this, because I am the only
one of us who has met you. Lachesis and Atropos have
changed—"

"Terms are getting shorter these days!" Niobe re-
marked. "I was an Aspect for thirty-eight years!"

"Yes, you were one of the great ones, and you dealt
well with—the anonymous. I—we—had a difficult
time. He twisted the threads without license, he confused
us—"

"He does that," Niobe agreed. "If I was proof against
him later, it was because I had some hard lessons early!
I'm sure I was no better than—"

"Yes, you have had much experience. More than any
other mortal. That is why we must ask this thing of you."

This sounded serious! "Exactly what is this thing?"

"You must come back."

"What?"

"To be an Aspect of Fate. We need you again."

Niobe was so surprised she stuttered. "To—to be—I,
I—Lisa, I'm forty-eight years old, in mortal terms! Only
a young woman can—"

Lisa shook her head. "Not to be Clotho. To be Lach-
esis. That is the key Aspect—the one who governs the
Tapestry."

214 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 215

Lachesis—of course. Niobe was now middle-aged in
body, and looked it. Lachesis was the middle-aged As-
pect. Yet—

"Lisa, I never dreamed—it's never been done before!
Once an Aspect returns to mortality—once any Incar-
nation leaves the office—"

"True. That is one reason we believe it must be done
this time. The unnamed will never suspect."

To fool Satan. That was one way to do it, certainly!
"Lisa, I'm flattered that you should think of me for this!
But I've had my turn at immortality, and don't really de-
serve—"

"It is much to ask of you, we know," Lisa said hur-
riedly. "But you are the only one who can do it. Other-
wise—"

"Now wait. Lisa! New women come into the office all
the time! Everyone leams on the job, and Fate is more
fortunate than the other Incarnations, because there are
always two experienced Aspects to guide the new one.
So you certainly don't have to—"

"Please," the woman said. "Perhaps I do not make
myself clear. I could speak better in my native ton-
gue—"

"You are speaking perfectly! I'm just trying to
say—"

"Please, I must explain. We—we must depart our As-
pects—all together."

"All at once? That's impossible! There would be
no—"

"Yes, we think the unnamed has arranged it. There has
been much trouble, and your son's child Luna is central.
All of us have had to help intervene to save her. He tried
to make her die, but Thanatos would not permit it—"

Something clicked in Niobe's mind. "That period last
year, when people mysteriously stopped dying—?"

"Yes. Thanatos stopped taking souls so he would not
have to take hers, because he loves her. Finally he faced
the unnamed down. Luna was spared, and Thanatos went
back to work. We—Lachesis arranged to select him for
the office, so that would happen."

"You interfered in the selection of another Incarna-
tion?" Niobe asked, horrified.

"We—it was necessary. This is—we think it is the
major battle of the war. I do not like war." Lisa paused,
and Niobe knew she was remembering Budapest. "But
when the tyranny of Evil advances, it must be fought by
whatever means. The battles are terrible, but ... "

Now Niobe saw the tangle of the skein. Her grand-
daughter was indeed standing athwart it—and the reason
for her astonishing association with Thanatos was appar-
ent. Only Thanatos could stop a person from dying, once
that thread had been cut. Still—!

"How did you know about the plot against Luna?"

"The Magician, her father, he knew. He studied magic
all his life and knew of a prophecy that the unnamed in-
tended to void. The Magician planned everything and
gave up his life to introduce Luna to Thanatos in a manner
that would deceive the—"

"So that's why he died young! They never told me!"

"They could not, lady. No one could know until it was
done. The Magician knew he had to protect his daughter
beyond his own time, for the fate of mankind depends on
her."

"So little I knew!" Niobe lamented. "I thought he was
burying himself in magic just for—for a hobby. Or busi-
ness. But he must have understood the prophecy far bet-
ter than—"

"Yes. Then there was something strange. We think
Chronos was involved, and that he stopped the unnamed
from doing something else, but he won't say. He knows
the future, but if he said, it would change, so—"




r

With a Tangled Skein

216

"So the Incarnations are all involved in—in a major

engagement," Niobe concluded.

"A twenty-year engagement," Lisa agreed. "The un-
named means to take political power on Earth. His agents
are at work in every nation, but America is difficult be-
cause its politics are so chaotic anyway. If he prevails
there, the rest will fall in line, he believes, because of the
economic leverage. So he must be stopped there, and
Luna will cast the key vote against him—if she survives."

"And she wanted to be an artist!" Niobe exclaimed.

"Now we believe that we, the three Aspects of Fate,
are at the center," Lisa continued. "The unnamed means
to be rid of Luna, and we know that—"

"That I would give my life, happiness, and honor to
protect her!" Niobe finished. "Of course I will do it—
will become the Aspect of Lachesis—if that's what it
takes! But I never performed in that Aspect before, and—
what's this business about all three of you changing to-
gether? If the unnamed is pressing you as you suggest,
that would be absolute folly! Three novices together—"
"Yes. Folly. That is why we come to you. You have

experience—"

"That part I see! But you other two would have to

remain, at least for a year or two—"

"We cannot," Lisa said. "We must change now—this

week."

"That's preposterous, girl! You know what's at stake!"

"We know. But we have opportunities that come only
once in a lifetime, if ever. We cannot turn those down,
any more than you could have turned down your second
love. The chance to have your daughter—"

Niobe held up her hand. "You make your point. We
are all frail human creatures! Yet if you know, or suspect,
that these opportunities have been arranged by—"

"He has, as you say, sweetened the pot to the point
where we cannot desist. But it is more than that. You see,

Piers Anthony                217

we do not know what he plans—and if we retain our As-
pects, he will know we cannot be fooled, and he will do
something else. Something we perhaps cannot prevent.
So this trap of his—we decided it was better to fall into
it—"

"With one experienced Aspect he doesn't know
about!" Niobe concluded. "To spring his trap—and de-
stroy it!"

Lisa smiled. "I knew you would understand."

Niobe mulled it over. She had sworn to have her reck-
oning with Satan for Cedric's death, but somehow she
had never had a satisfying denouement. She had told her-
self that just doing her job, as an Aspect of Fate, had been
sufficient, and seeing to the upbringing of Luna and Orb
was sufficient, since they were integral to the foiling of
the Prince of Evil. But how much better it would be to
foil Satan directly, personally!

Her mortal life was over anyway. She had nothing left
to live for. It was really no contest. "I'll do it."

Lisa smiled. "We're so pleased. We know you will do
what has to be done. We know that our mortal situations
will be protected from evil, with you in charge." She ex-
tended her hand.

Niobe was taken aback. "Wait! I didn't mean right this
instant! I have to put my mortal affairs in order—"

"Lachesis will do that for you," Lisa assured her. "Be-
fore she moves on to her own situation."

Surely she could trust an Aspect of Fate to know the
importance of the proper disposition of Earthly affairs!
Especially when it was vital that Satan not know of the
change.

Niobe took Lisa's hand. There was the odd jolt she had
experienced twice before.

Then she was inside Lisa, looking out out through her
eyes. A nondescript middle-aged woman stood before
her: the old Lachesis.




218             With a Tangled Skein

Good-bye, mortal situation! Niobe thought with abrupt
nostalgia. No life was easy to leave, even a completed

one.

"Take the body," Lisa said, and turned it over to her.

Niobe stood again in her own form, in different flesh.
Her original flesh had been lost when she had become
Clotho, so long ago, and when she had returned to mor-
tality she had taken Lisa's flesh. Her pattern, even to the
genes of reproduction, had carried across. Now that flesh
was subject to the will and image of the prior Lachesis.
Surely Lisa, too, felt nostalgia, knowing that the flesh that
had been hers had just passed to a third identity. It was
a familiar yet strange business.

Niobe shook hands with the woman who had been
Lachesis. "I think you already know anything I would
say. Go to your situation and be happy."

"I can never thank you enough—Lachesis," the
woman said. "Do you know what mortality offers for me

now?"

"It's really not my business—"

"A title," the woman exclaimed. "I am in a position
to inherit a title and a grand estate in Europe, and be a
lady of quality with servants and functions and respon-
sibilities. I always longed for this and feared it could never
come about. As Lachesis I indulged my propensity for

managing things—"
"That's a quality of those suitable for that Aspect,"

Niobe agreed.

"But now it can be real. I mean, mortal. And the estate
needs me; without a person of the blood, it will fall prey
to greedy distant claimants and taxes—it would be de-
stroyed. But now it has come to me, if I claim it in time,
and I know so well how to manage it! If I die of some
disfiguring disease within twenty years, still I shall be well

satisfied!"

Piers Anthony                219

Obviously so. Different folk had different dreams, and
the right dream was worth one's life. "Bless you, and
prosper," Niobe told her warmly.

"Bless you, wonderful woman!" the other responded.
Niobe returned the body to Lisa so that she and Atropos
could bid farewell to their companion. It was strange,
sharing Fate with the woman who had succeeded her as
Clotho, but evidently she had chosen correctly, on that
day a quarter-century ago. Lisa had done the job.

When the other two were done, they changed to spider
form and slid up the web to Purgatory. How quickly it all
came back! Niobe did not for a moment regret her second
tenure as a mortal, and she felt a lingering pang for that
suddenly lost life—but she also felt an abiding joy for her
return as an Incarnation. To be an Immortal—there was
no mortal experience to match it!

The Abode was unchanged: a cocoon, a house made of
silk, the most comfortable retreat for the spinner and han-
dler of threads. Still there was no staff, for the three
women of Fate remained too independent to be waited
on. There was a reasonable supply of Void-substance for
Clotho. Everything was in order.

"Now it is my turn," Lisa said, and started out again.
"Already?" Niobe asked. "But we just got here!"
"Yes—to be sure you had your bearings. As you can
see, I have arranged things for my replacement; it will be
a fortnight before she has to visit the Void." She paused.
"What an experience, that first time!"

Niobe shrugged, mentally. It was essentially the busi-
ness of each Aspect to choose her successor, and the time
other own return to mortality. Niobe had become Clotho,
in large part, because the prior Clotho had liked her, and
now was Lachesis because the three Aspects had agreed
she was needed. She would go along with what had been
decided.




220             With a Tangled Skein

Clotho descended a thread toward the western coast of
America. "To what situation are you going?" Niobe

asked.

"True love," Lisa answered raptly. "One day last

month I was hiking in the mountains when a young man
floated down on a flying carpet to ask directions. He had
an accent I recognized. 'You're from Hungary!' I cried.
He was taken aback. 'My parents were,' he said. 'My
mother was carrying me when they fled during the—' and
he shrugged, for in America few understand how it was
in Budapest. 'I'm from there too,' I told him, and I spoke
to him in our language. 'Wait!' he cried. 'I am not good
at it! All my life has been here.' But he understood
enough. Now he wants to marry me. He understands
about how I am, almost twice his age. We did not tell his
mother about that—she would not understand—so 1 told
her my own mother had told me how it was with her when
she fled, and then I told her in our tongue my own ex-
perience as if it were my mother's—and I think it could
have been my mother's, if she hadn't died in the invasion
of our homeland—and his mother cried with the memo-
ries, and she reminded me so much of mine, I cried too!
I think she wants me to marry her son twice as much as
he does! I will move in with them, and I know I will never

have trouble with my in-laws!"

Niobe hated to raise the question, but felt she had to.
"Yet you believe this is the work of—of the anonymous
one—to get you out of the way?"

"Yes. Lachesis—the one before you—verified how
that one had nudged that thread to place him flying where
I was hiking, so we would meet. So little a thing—but
though there was manipulation, the person is genuine.
There is no great evil in him. The unnamed knows I would
not take an evil man. An Aspect of Fate cannot be de-
ceived by fool's gold! So the intent may be evil, but the

Piers Anthony                221

offering is good. It is not for me the evil is intended, but
for you."

Yes, surely so. The ways of Satan were devious but
effective. But maybe this time the Father of Lies would
find himself outmaneuvered, for the Incarnation of Fate
was no innocent mortal to be fooled by manipulations of
chance. Especially not with a former Aspect returning,
with her firsthand knowledge of Satan's ways. You have
a surprise coming, 0 Evil One! she thought.

They came to ground in an unsettled area. A young
woman was walking at dusk toward the high cliff that

descended to the crashing sea. She was Oriental and quite
pretty.

Lisa intercepted her. "Where do you go, solitary
maiden?"

"What does it matter? My life is over."
"But you are young and pretty and intelligent," Lisa

protested. "You have much to live for!" Obviously Fate

had researched this woman's thread.
"No, I have nothing to live for," the girl demurred.

"My family has cast me out for not following the old

ways, for being too willful and violent, and now I have

no family."

Niobe knew that the Oriental cultures could be very
strict about their traditions, and that there were some-
times conflicts with the ways of the Occidental world. The
girl had probably refused to marry the man the family had
chosen for her. Niobe could understand, even though her
own arranged marriage had been a good one. She disliked
admitting it, but parental judgment did seem to be as good
as that of the participants. But America touted itself as
the land of the free, and it had become unacceptable for
girls to heed the judgment of their elders. There was more
to tragedy than lost romance.

Amen! Atropos agreed.




With a Tangled Skein

222

"And now you are ready to depart this world?" Lisa

asked.
The girl glanced at the cliff. A gust of sea breeze ruffled

her black hair. "If I have the courage."

"I have an alternative." And Lisa explained about Fate
and the role of Clotho.

It took the young woman a while to grasp it, under-
standably, but when she peered over the dark and savage
ocean, she decided that this was a better alternative. Atro-
pos took over the body, extended her hand, and it was
done. Clotho had changed.

Lisa now stood in her physical form, just like herself;

all traces of Oriental heritage had vanished. Niobe had
never quite understood the magic that did this, but of
course that wasn't necessary. Welcome, Clotho, she
thought, and the process of education began.

They returned to the Abode and relaxed for a few hours.
Niobe, as Lachesis, took over the body and contemplated
the Tapestry, while Atropos continued to explain things
internally to Clotho. The prior Lachesis had left the Tap-
estry in good order, considering the troubled times, so
there was nothing urgent to do at the moment. Niobe had
seen the job performed during her prior tenure as an As-
pect, but now the responsibility was hers, and that was
different. She hoped Satan would leave them alone for a
few weeks while she got into it—and knew he wouldn't.

Next day it was Atropos' turn^ There had been an ac-
cident, and her mortal great-grandchildren had become
orphans. They would become wards of the state and be
assigned to separate foster homes unless she, their only
remaining blood relative, assumed control. They were
eleven and nine years old; Atropos believed she had
enough mortal years left in her to get the older one to the
age of discretion before she died. She had to do it; they
were her blood kin. Satan did not seem to have arranged
this; rather, he had foreseen the opportunity and arranged

Piers Anthony                 223

for the other two Aspects to leave at the same time Atro-
pos did. If Lachesis had not caught the hint in the Tap-
estry, Satan's ploy would have been effective. As it was,
no easy time was coming, Niobe was sure, but at least
they had a chance to win.

Atropos slid down a thread to the one she had selected.
This brought her to a slum area where an old black woman
sat in her rocking chair on a rickety porch, watching chil-
dren play handball in the street. She looked up as Atropos
appeared before her. "'Bout time you got here," she re-
marked.

Even Atropos was taken aback by this. "You know
me?"

"I know you. I was expecting Death, though, not
Fate."

"I have come to ask you to take my place. If you do,
you will meet Death only as a business associate."

"I thought he already was. I've buried more kin than
I can count on my hands.'' She held up her gnarled spread
fingers.

"If you take this office, you will cut the threads on the
lives of a million times that number."
"Somebody's got to do it."
Atropos turned the body over to Niobe. "Then take my

hand," Niobe said. "But do not think the job is always
easy."

The old woman hardly blinked. "No job worth doing
is." She took the hand.

Then the old Atropos was sitting in the rocker, and the
new one was with Fate.

At that point a child dashed up. "Grandma! I made a

score!" Then, seeing a stranger in the chair, he skidded
to a halt.

Niobe gave the body to the new Atropos. "It's okay,
Jimmy," she said. "She's just visiting."
"Oh." Suddenly shy, the boy backed away.




With a Tangled Skein

224

"Jimmy, it's time for me to go away," the new Atropos
said. "You do me a big favor, now, and show this lady
to the bus stop. Tell the folks I'm gone."

"Gone where?"

"Just gone. Jimmy. They'll understand."

"Okay." The boy, given an important job to do, led
the old Atropos away down the street.

Niobe took over the body again, changed to spider
form, and mounted a thread. Now that's some trick! the
new Atropos thought. / always squish bugs.

"Not anymore," Niobe said in her spider's voice.
"You will master this trick too."

She brought them to the Abode and resumed her human
form. "In fact, we had better practice the basic motions
right now," she said. "Because things may get hectic
soon."

Hectic? both others inquired.

Quickly Niobe explained how Satan had conspired to
get three new Aspects of Fate together. "Now I am a
retread," she concluded. "I had several decades expe-
rience as Clotho, ending twenty-five years ago. We hope
Satan doesn't know that." She felt free to name the Prince
of Evil, here in the Abode, because it was secure from
uninvited intrusion. Each Incarnation was supreme within
his or her home. "So we can afford to fumble about at
first; that will reassure him, and he may be careless. But
we have to take care that we don't do too much damage.
These are human lives we are manipulating, remember."

They practiced using the mouth to speak, assuming the
spider form, climbing the web, and using the travel-
threads to move about rapidly, so that any of the three
could get about well enough. Then Niobe explained the
three jobs: how Clotho spun the threads of life, Lachesis
measured them, and Atropos cut them to their lengths.
"I hardly know my own job," she confessed. "So I really
am learning too. I'm likely to mismeasure the lengths I

Piers Anthony                225

need for particular parts of the Tapestry, which will result
in some of what the mortals take to be odd coincidences.
We won't have to pretend, to make thinks look awk-
ward."

"But we could use a real bad blunder to start off,"
Atropos concluded. She seemed to have a ready grasp of
the essentials; the prior Atropos had chosen well.

Clotho tried some spinning. She had no mortal expe-
rience at this, so was clumsy. She had been selected as
much for availability and militant spirit as for dexterity,
for the notice had been short. Niobe had to guide her
carefully, and even so, the thread was somewhat loose
and irregular. But she could do it, however slowly.

Now it was Atropos' turn to try some cutting. Niobe
measured a thread, then turned the body over to the old
woman. Atropos took the little scissors and snipped one
end, then the other. "Oops," she said. "I cut it too long!"
She cut a small bit off the end. "There—that's about
right, now."

They prepared about twenty threads, snipping freely to
trim them down to size. "When we get more experi-
enced," Niobe said as she took them to the Tapestry for
placement, "we'll do them wholesale. There are far too
many lives on Earth for us to handle individually." She
set the threads in—and they fell out.

That was funny. "They always seemed to grow right
in place for the Lachesis I knew in the old days." She
recovered a thread and set it in place again—and it fell
out again. "I don't remember her having to tie them in."
"Maybe I spun them wrong," Clotho said nervously.
"I don't think so. But we can try some new ones."
Clotho spun some more, and Niobe measured, and
Atropos snipped, still having trouble getting the lengths
exactly right; more snippets fell to the floor. But the new
threads also refused to stay in place.




226 With a Tangled Skein

They couldn't figure out what was wrong. The floor of
the Abode was littered with snippets, but no threads had
been successfully emplaced in the Tapestry.

There was a peremptory knock on the door. Niobe took
the body and went to answer it.

Thanatos stood there, more forbidding in his hooded
cloak and skull than she recalled him. The off-white bones
of his fingers clenched spasmodically. Truly, he was
Death Incarnate. "What are you up to?" he demanded.

Niobe was taken aback. "I'm just trying to do my job,"
she said.

Thanatos' square and bony eye-sockets stared darkly
at her. "You have changed."

"We have all changed," Niobe said, and had Clotho
and Atropos show their forms briefly. "But we're having
some trouble—"

"Trouble!" Thanatos exclaimed, striding into the
Abode. Beyond him, outside, Niobe saw his fine pale
horse, the one she had ridden on, back at the outset.
"Twenty-six babies needlessly dead!"

"Babies—dead?" Niobe asked. "I haven't emplaced
any threads, let alone cut them short!"

"No? What do you think these are?" Thanatos de-
manded, stooping to pick up a handful of snippets. He
was angry, and he frightened her even though she knew
he was no threat to her.

"Just the trimmings—"

"Trimmings!" Thanatos roared. "You don't trim lives
from the front ends!"

Niobe fell back against the silken wall, stunned.
"The—the front ends?"

Thanatos held up one of the full-length threads. "Here
is a Thread of Life," he said scathingly. "Here is the
front, here the rear. When you cut off a segment from the
rear—" he made a snipping motion with two bone-fin-
gers—"you shorten that life by that amount. When you

Piers Anthony                227

cut it off at the front, you shorten that life by this
amount." And he dropped the whole thread to the floor.

"Leaving only this." He held up two fingers, almost
touching each other.

"Oh, no!" Niobe exclaimed with horror. "We cut them
off after days—or hours!"

"And twenty-six babies died, poisoned in the hospi-
tal," Thanatos continued grimly. "Because a dietician got
the wrong container and put salt in their formulas instead
of sugar! The mortals think that's a tragic accident, but
I knew it was your handiwork. / had to take those ba-
bies!" His fury fairly shook the Abode.

Niobe burst into tears. She was middle-aged, but it

made no difference. She was too appalled to react any
other way.

It was Atropos who took over the body and the situ-
ation. "Don't chew her out. Death," she snapped, "/did

it, and I'm mortified. I didn't know—and I sure as hell
won't do it again!"

Thanatos looked at her, their situation registering. "All
three—new?" he asked. "No experience?"
"Not exactly," Atropos began.

Don't tell him! Niobe urged. If he knows, Satan will
know!

"But all three of us have changed in the last few days,"
Atropos said. "And as you can plainly see, not one of us
is experienced in her role."

"How could all three of you change at once?" Thanatos
asked. "You lose your continuity!"

"Now he tells us," Atropos said. "This morning I was
sitting in my rocker, waiting for you to come haul my soul
away. Now I'm apologizing to you for messing up."

Thanatos relaxed. "I was new, too, last year, and your
forerunners helped me greatly. I know how it is; I made
mistakes too. I'm sorry I ranted at you. Let's see if we
can work this out." He sat on the silk couch and drew




228             With a Tangled Skein

back his hood. The face of a rather ordinary young man

emerged.

Atropos did a double take. "You're a living man!"
Thanatos smiled. "They didn't tell you? I suppose they
didn't think of it, with all of you changing so rapidly. Yes,
all the Incarnations are living people, frozen at the ages
when they assumed their offices. We are the temporary

Immortals."

"You mean I won't grow older?"

"Not until you return to mortality—which you will do
only by your own choice, unlike me."

"You're different?" There was a lot Niobe had not yet
told the other two, owing to the press of time. She kept
quiet; this was actually convenient, as she did not have

to finesse any questions about herself.

"I continue until my successor kills me. Then he will

assume my office."

"But then you're not immortal!"

"Oh, I am immortal—until I grow careless. No person
or creature can harm me, not even Satan himself, as long
as I am careful. The only one who can kill me is my suc-
cessor—and even he will fail unless I let him. My cloak
is invulnerable to natural attack, and my person to su-
pernatural menace. But I cannot step down alive, unlike

you."

"That must be a horror!" Atropos exclaimed.

"No, it's all right. Much better than the suicide I con-
templated as a mortal." At this Clotho perked up, men-
tally; she knew about that sort of thing.

"But isn't your life sterile?" Atropos asked. "No hell-
raising, no gambling, no women?"

He laughed. "You don't think much of young men, do

you!"

"I think a lot of them! I've known a few myself, when

I was young and sexy. But I know their nature. A man
without a woman is hell-bent for trouble."

Piers Anthony                229

Thanatos smiled. "Well, I have a woman. She's mortal,
but she knows my nature. Her name is Luna Kaftan. I
love her and I guarantee she will not die before her time.
I can't marry her, because I have no legal mortal identity;

I'm listed as deceased. But I'll always be with her."

Niobe was glad she didn't have the body now; she
would have given herself away. She had forgotten, in
these last few hours, that Luna had taken up with Than-
atos! As a mortal, she had disapproved; now, suddenly,
she approved. This seemed to be a fine young man, com-
mitted to his role. He could indeed protect Luna from
death itself. That portion of the prophecy had turned out
to be much more positive than anticipated.

But Atropos was learning rapidly. "Suppose I—I never
would, mind you—suppose I cut your girl friend's thread
short?"

Thanatos' hood was away from his head, but a shadow
of the skull seemed to pass across his features, and his
skin took on the hue of bone. He was, indeed. Death.
"You did that once before—your prior person did. Satan
had forced it. I refused to take her. You do not end the
lives, you merely schedule them. Only when I take their
souls do they actually die. As I took the souls of those
twenty-six babies. I had to do it; their bodies were ravaged
and they would have suffered had they lived, so I stood
aside and let them drift to Heaven. But I am the one in
charge of that, and by my decree a dying person can live
indefinitely, regardless of his suffering. We Incarnations
have to cooperate, or it becomes untenable."

Atropos nodded. "I thought it was something like that.
We won't kill any more babies, that's for sure! Let's run
through it now and make sure we've got it right."

Clotho took the body and spun more thread. Then
Niobe measured it, and Atropos cut it carefully, only once
at each end. Then Niobe took it to the Tapestry and laid
it in the place where she knew it belonged.




230 With a Tangled Skein

This time it took. The thread anchored, and extended
into the fuzzy future portion of the Tapestry.

"That's the way," Thanatos agreed. He drew his hood
back into place. "I must go; I have business elsewhere.
If you have doubts about anything, check with me or an-
other Incarnation, and we'll try to help. Chronos, espe-
cially, must work with you closely; he lives backward, so
he knows the future, not the past."

Thanatos departed, riding into the sky on his pale horse.
The three Aspects of Fate collapsed onto the couch. That
had been some session!

But Clotho had a question: if Chronos knew the future,
wouldn't he know about Niobe's prior experience in of-
fice?

"Not if we don't tell him—some time in the future,"
Niobe said. "I think we had better just forget about my
past and carry on in the present. But about Chronos—
there may be something else you should know, Clotho."

"What's that?"

"He—in the past—he has been very close to us. Es-
pecially to Clotho."

"Friendship is good, isn't it?" the girl asked, per-
plexed.

"Lovers."

Clotho was silent. Niobe was not sure what was going
through her mind, for the three did not share their
thoughts when they chose not to.

"The way I see it," Atropos said, "this isn't our mortal
body anymore. This body must have been through a lot
we don't know about."

"Yes," Niobe agreed.

"So maybe it doesn't matter too much what we do with
it, as long as we do our jobs right."

Still Clotho didn't comment. Niobe remembered how
difficult this particular aspect of being an Aspect had been

Piers Anthony                231

for her, at first. Well, an accommodation would be
achieved, in time. Time? Chronos!

They fixed themselves a meal from the available sup-
plies and lay down for a rest. Then they worked out a
regular schedule of operations—which Aspect would take
what shift, which would be backup, and which would
sleep. The body itself was indefatigable; it needed neither
rest nor sleep, but the minds within it did.

Fate, however tenuously, was back in business.







11

TANGLE

But next day the axe, figuratively, fell. Niobe was paying
a call on Chronos, because she needed his advice and
assistance on the placement of specific threads. The Tap-
estry tended to follow its natural pattern, but left entirely
alone it would soon develop rents and tangles as threads
got crossed. She had to set the threads properly, and tim-
ing as well as placement was essential. For example, when
a marriage occurred, the threads of the man and woman
intersected—but if the intersection occurred before the
mundane ceremony, a new thread could be started before
the term of marriage, which could be awkward. Chronos
could check such things directly; indeed, he knew the
timing of every significant human interaction, though
most of the routine was left to his staff. Fate, too, had a
staff for the routine, but she could not afford to leave the
important matters to underlings.

But first came the introductions. "I realize that you
have known us for some time," Niobe said. "But from
our viewpoint, this is our first encounter. We are all new

Piers Anthony                233

in our Aspects, in the past few days, and all inexperienced
in our duties. So allow us to present ourselves, and for
you this will be our parting. I'm sure you will find our
precedessors competent."

"Ah, is it that time already?" Chronos asked. "I have
seen two of you change—"

"Please, we prefer not to know," Niobe said quickly.

"Of course. Let me only say that all three of you have
been kind to me in my past, and I have a deep respect
for you and shall be sorry to see you go. I hope I get along
as well with your replacements."

"I'm sure you will," Niobe said, and flashed through
the Clotho and Atropos Aspects for him before returning
to Lachesis. "But since none of us go back to that time
as Aspects, we have no firsthand information. We're all
new, and we are making embarrassing mistakes."

"Yes, I know," Chronos said sympathetically.

"Those snippets of threads—twenty-six babies need-
lessly dead—Thanatos was in a fury!" Niobe said.

"Oh, pardon. I thought you were referring to the UN
incident."

"The UN incident?" Niobe asked blankly.
"But of course that hasn't happened yet, for you, just
as the dead babies haven't for me. Sorry I mentioned it."
If we're about to blunder again . . . Atropos thought.
Ask him about it, Clotho concluded. They had not yet
gotten their shifts down pat, so all three were awake for
this interview. They were three quite different individu-
als, but the disaster of the babies had unified them in their
horror.

"Please don't apologize," Niobe said. "We are eager
to avoid future blunders. If it is not a violation of your
ethics, we would like to know more about it."

Chronos smiled. "Incarnations don't have ethics in that
sense; all of us do what we have to do, or we leave our
offices. We assist each other whenever asked. After all,




234             With a Tangled Skein

as I believe you explained to me, Lachesis, when I first
assumed my office twenty years hence, it is our common
purpose to balk the machinations of Satan and promote
those of God. The UN incident was very simple, but it
had phenomenal consequences. It seems that someone
sneaked a psychic stink bomb into the United Nations
complex in New York. When it detonated, the—"

"Psychic stink bomb?" Niobe asked. She remembered
the time Luna and Orb, as children, had obtained a phys-
ical stink bomb, one of the type called "little stinkers,"
and set it off in her kitchen. The stench had taken days
to clear. Girls would be girls, she knew, but she had made
them scrub floor, ceiling, and walls anyway. They had
been less mischievous thereafter—but their reputations
in school had escalated dramatically for a while.

"It generated an emotional atmosphere that no one
could tolerate," Chronos said, suppressing an illicit smile.
"No laughing matter, of course. The United States was
expelled from the UN and the headquarters was moved

to Moscow—"

"Moved to Moscow!" Niobe exclaimed indignantly.

"Well, you see, the international diplomats had some
difficulty appreciating the humor of the situation,"
Chronos said. "Though I understand that both the Soviet
leaders and the American conservatives suffered some
private belly laughs. It was of course impossibk to con-
duct normal business—"

"Satan's work!" Niobe cried with dismay. But both
Atropos and Clotho were stifling their own amusement.

"Naturally," Chronos agreed. "It was amazing how
much profit Satan reaped from that simple incident. There
was a steady attrition in world harmony and a resurgence
of evil. Mars was kept quite busy managing the wars that
later developed—"

Piers Anthony                235

"We've got to stop it!" Niobe said firmly. Atropos and
Clotho settled down enough to agree; this was evidently
a major ploy by Satan to generate disharmony.

"I'm sure the beginnings of the tangle are in your Tap-
estry," Chronos said.

"Let's take a look." Niobe had learned how to generate
the image of the Tapestry, so that she could place the
threads properly. She caused it to manifest now. The pat-
tern seemed to be in order.

"If you will permit me," Chronos said. He lifted his
Hourglass; the sand changed color, and the Tapestry ab-
ruptly slid forward. Niobe kept her face straight despite
the amazement of the other two Aspects; she knew that
Chronos had the power to affect an image she had gen-
erated. The Hourglass was truly the most marvelous of
instruments. "Five days hence, your time," he explained.

Niobe looked. There was a monstrous tangle that re-
sulted in a distortion of the entire Tapestry. Atropos and
Clotho were as appalled as she was; they would never get
that back in proper order once it occurred!

"We've got to stop it!" Niobe repeated. "Once it hap-
pens, it's too late; we have to see that it never happens!"
Then she glanced at Chronos. "But if we prevent it, and
you've already seen it happen—"

"Don't be concerned. I am immune from paradox. I
change events all the time, literally, to put right what goes
wrong. I had quite a campaign with Satan, let me assure
you, back when I started! I had to traverse eternity itself
to get my bearings back. If you change it, you change it,
that's all; I will remember it merely as one of the alternate
timelines."

"Then we shall," Niobe said, relieved. "If that bomb
goes off in five days, it means we have four days to track
down who is to do it, and cut his thread out of the Tapestry




236             With a Tangled Skein

before he does, or reroute it. Then the notorious 'UN

incident' will never happen!"

"It will never happen," Chronos agreed.
"And we will be spared the embarrassment of a major
tangle," Niobe finished. "Obviously this is what Satan
set up for us novices to struggle with. Experienced As-
pects could handle it, but he doesn't think we can."

"A fair assessment," Chronos agreed. "Satan is de-
vious in the extreme; one must always be alert for his

finesses."

"We'll go home and see what we can do."
"Remember," Chronos said. "If you need the assist-
ance of other Incarnations, simply ask. Any of us will be
glad to do what we can, especially knowing that you are

presently inexperienced."

"We shall," she agreed and rode her thread away.
At the Abode they held a council of war. "That tangle
is impenetrable," Niobe said. "A veritable Gordian Knot.
But we know that the cause is simple: someone has to
plant that bomb and get away so as not to be contaminated
when it goes off. The thread of life of that mortal has to
be in our Tapestry, here; all we have to do is locate it and

remove it."
The others gazed at the Tapestry through her eyes.

"There are so many threads, so intricately meshed!"
Clotho said. "We could search for months and never find

the right one!"

"Needle in a haystack," Atropos agreed. "Woman,

you poked me into a bigger picklement than I knew when

you signed me up for Fate! I love it!"

"Too bad we don't have a computer," Clotho said.
"There's the Purgatory Computer," Niobe said. "It

should store everything."

"Well, get moving, gal!" Atropos said. "I hope you

know how to work it, because I sure don't!"

Piers Anthony                237

Niobe got moving. She entered the Purgatory front of-
fice and asked for time with the Computer. Computers
had not been widely used during her term as Clotho, but
Purgatory was evidently keeping up with the times. She
had not had a lot of experience, but understood the gen-
eral principle.

Fortunately, this one was user-friendly. GREETINGS,
PATE, its screen flashed when she turned it on. HOW MAY

I INFORM YOU?

She started to punch the keys, awkwardly. SIMPLY
SPEAK TO ME, the screen advised.

Oh. "I need to figure out a tangle," Niobe said. "I'm
new at this, and—"

IS THERE A KEY THREAD?

"Yes. But I need to locate it—and there are millions
to choose from."

CONDUCT A GLOBAL SEARCH. WHAT ARE YOUR DEFINING
CRITERIA?

"Well, it's some person who will visit the United Na-
tions complex in New York, on or before a particular
date."

PROVIDE THE DATE.

Niobe provided it.
The screen became a blur of lines, then cleared. THREE

THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED, FIFTY-SIX THREADS REMAIN.

Well, that was progress. "Can we get it down to a
smaller number—such as half a dozen?"

PROVIDE FURTHER DEFINITION.

Niobe pondered. The other Aspects helped. Just how
big is that contraption—a psychic stink bomb? Atropos
thought.

"The person will have to carry in a psychic stink bomb
potent enough to foul the entire complex," Niobe said.
"If you happen to know how big such a package would
be—"




238             With a tangled Skein

The screen flickered. IfNiobe hadn't known better, she
would have suspected that the machine was laughing. A
PSYCHIC STINK BOMB? The flickering became more pro-
nounced.

"Yes. Someone is going to leave it to detonate in the
UN complex, and America will be expelled from the UN
and the headquarters will move to Moscow."

TO MOSCOW? Now jags of yellow showed at the edges
of the screen, and wiggly music sounded in the back-
ground.

"Now don't shake off your stand," Niobe cautioned

it, annoyed. "All I need to know is—"

With a seeming effort, the computer got itself under
control. ONE THOUSAND, EIGHT HUNDRED, FOURTEEN

THREADS REMAIN.

Still too many. Maybe motive, Clotho suggested. Does
it know who might want to humiliate the UN?

"Can you eliminate the threads of those who might
have no reason to dislike the UN?"

The screen flickered again, and the words STINK BOMB
showed fleetingly, as if an illicit thought were passing
through the machine's random access memory. Then it
settled down again. SEVEN HUNDRED, EIGHTY-THREE

THREADS REMAIN.

Still way too high! Get practical, woman, Atropos
thought. Ask how many have access to such a bomb. They
can't be a dime a dozen.

"Eliminate those who have no reasonable access to
such a bomb," Niobe said.

FOUR THREADS REMAIN.

Jackpot! Atropos thought. One day to a thread! Never
thought all my time running down vandals would pay off

like this!

Evidently grandmothers did learn useful skills in the
ghetto! Atropos had been the one to recognize opportu-
nity as a defining characteristic.

Piers Anthony                239

"Please identify those four threads," Niobe said, re-
lieved.

Four names appeared on the screen. Niobe made a note
of them. "Thank you. Computer," she said.

YOU ARE WELCOME, FATE, the screen said. Then, just
before it switched off, the words STINK BOMB flickered
once more. The machine seemed unable to clear that con-
cept from its banks. The devices of Purgatory seemed to
have more personality than those of the mortal realm.

You've got to admit that ol' Satan has a certain sense
of humor, Atropos thought.

"Yes, I'm sure he's laughing as he humiliates us,"
Niobe agreed shortly. Mirth was indeed a characteristic
of the Father of Lies.

Back at the Abode, they reviewed the four threads.
"We may do better if we approach our own kind," Clotho
suggested. "To ascertain whether they are guilty or in-
nocent."

"We don't want to snip any innocent threads," Atropos
agreed.

Niobe sighed. "True. We don't want to make a mistake.
Very well, I will verify one of the white ones today." She
looked at the two white threads. One was for an old man,
the other for a middle-aged woman who—

"Great balls of fire!" Atropos exclaimed. "She's a Sa-
tanist!"

There was a prime suspect, certainly. "I don't want to
go charging into a Satanist shrine!" Niobe said.

"Let's leave that one till last," Clotho suggested.

Niobe was glad to agree. She knew of the Satanists by
reputation, but even as an immortal she did not want to
get involved with them.

The other white thread was ordinary. The old man was
a retired carpet salesman named Henry Clogg. That was
about as much as she could get in detail. Otherwise she
could have solved the riddle of the stink bomber without




With a Tangled Skein

240

leaving the Abode. That, of course, was what Satan was
counting on: Fate's present inability to read the threads
aptly. This much of Satan's strategy was working.

She rode a thread down to the old man's home. It was
midmorning here, and he was out working on his little

garden.                                                 ;

Niobe approached. "Hello, I'm looking for Mr.

Clogg."

"You got him, cutie," the man replied cheerfully.

Niobe found herself blushing. It had been years since
anyone had called her that. She wished she hadn't let
herself run down so much in the last few years; she was
a good thirty pounds overweight and sagged in places that
hadn't existed in her youth. Now, as an Incarnation, she
was fixed in this form; dieting would not improve her fig-
ure. Of course she could change her appearance by means
of magic or physics, as Lisa had done, but she preferred
to live with herself with neither spell nor girdle. However
she might conceal it, the flab was still there. Clotho had
an easier time of it; all she needed was minimal magic to
shift hair color and length, skin shade, and slant of eyes;

she would be an attractive young woman regardless.

She focused on her mission: to discover whether this
man was likely to be the bomber. "Mr. Clogg, 1—"

"Call me Henry, cutie. Just plain old Henry. I'm not   ^
anyone special, you know."                            |

Little did he know! She realized that he must call every   |
woman cutie; it had no significance. It embarrassed her   |
almost as much to blush for nothing as to blush for cause.
"Urn, Henry, 1—I understand you are planning to visit
the United Nations complex soon."

He plunged his trowel into the earth so that the handle
was left pointing up so that it wouldn't get lost, and
climbed to his feet, brushing himself off. "Oh, you heard
about that! Yeah, my son's treating me to a two-day tour,
and I guess that's on the list. Me, I don't know much

Piers Anthony                 241

about it, and don't much care. But he figures the old man's
got to do some things before he kicks Off, so that's it.
Don't want no ignorant louts in Hell, I guess."

"Oh, you're not going to die soon. Henry!"

The man grinned. "/ know that and you know that, but
my son don't know that. I wish he'd save his money; going
to need it soon enough when I get surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Got this here tumor on my butt," he confided. Like
some old people, he was not at all reticent to discuss in-
timate details of physiology with strangers. He seemed
not to question her presence at all. "It's a nuisance, but
it's benign. Just a pain in the rump." He laughed. "All
those years I talked about that sort of thing, and now I've
really got it! Good, deep cushion takes care of it, but my
son, he worries, says I got to have it out, and that means
surgery and the lab and all, which is a real pain in the
assets, just to prove what I already know. My son needs
that money for his family; I don't want him throwing it
away to doctors for what I don't need anyway." He
squinted at her. "Do I know you?"

"No," Niobe said. "I—"

"Got an accent, don't you! You're Irish! You ever been
by to kiss the Blarney Stone? Have a seat; you don't have
any boil on your bottom, do you?"

"Uh, no," Niobe said, taking the deck chair he offered.
Henry, true to his word, had a chair with a fluffy cushion
on it. He eased himself onto it, wincing. Evidently the
tumor was more painful than he cared to admit.

"Well, what can I do for you, cutie?" he asked.

"It's about the United Nations," she said cautiously.
"There's a rumor that there's going to be trouble,
and—"

"I told you, I don't care about the UN. Just a bunch
of lefties soaking up our tax dollars, if you ask me. We'd




242             With a Tangled Skein

be better off out of it, and tell them to get off our land
and go to Russia or somewhere."

He's a candidate, all right! Atropos thought.

"But the United Nations is perhaps the major force for
peace in the world," Niobe protested. "It represents a
forum for dialogue between most of the nations, so that
they can talk problems out instead of going to war. It
would be disaster if that forum were eliminated."

Henry shrugged. "As far as I can see, they mostly talk
about how terrible America is. While they take our
money."

He's got a point, Atropos thought.

"That's a necessary freedom of speech," Niobe said.
"Words will not hurt this country, but bombs will. It is

far better to—"

He nodded. "That's right, isn't it! You know about
bombs, over there! I can tell you, I wouldn't live in Ireland
today if you paid me to!"

"Well, it's really not like that," Niobe said defensively.
"We don't see the violence, we only read about it in the
newspapers. The same as you read about crime in the big
cities. The countryside is as peaceful and pretty as any
in the world."

He nodded again. "You care about your land. I like
that. But you know, if they have bombs going off over
there, how come they aren't talking in the UN? 1 mean
the IRS and—"

"The IRA," Niobe said.

"What's the difference? Over here they call it the IRS,
and it does to your wallet what those bombers over there
do to your buildings. I wish they'd all get lost!"

She saw her opportunity. "You don't like bombers?"

"I don't like bombers," he agreed emphatically. "Ex-
cept for maybe the UN building. Maybe that could use a

bomb!"
Aha! Atropos thought.

Piers Anthony                243

"You can't mean that. Henry!" Niobe protested. "If
the UN were bombed, it could trigger another world
war!"

Henry considered. "Could be. And we can't afford an-
other war, that's for sure. Couldn't afford the last one,
when it comes to that. You know why inflation's so bad?
Because we're still trying to pay off the last war! But still,
it's tempting. If we could have maybe a false alarm, just
to make the UN move out—"

"Like a stink bomb?" Niobe asked.

He laughed so hard he winced from the motion of his
posterior. "Sure! That'd be great! Make that bad smell
literal!"

Niobe experienced mixed emotions. On the one hand
she was relieved to have confirmation of his guilt, for it
solved her problem of research. On the other, she hated
to do what she knew she would have to do: have Atropos
cut his thread short. Now that she had talked with Henry
Clogg, she liked him; he was at least an honest man. It
would be a shame to terminate his life so abruptly.

It is not certain, Clotho warned. Many people will not
do what they say.

Niobe grasped at that straw. "Henry, if someone were
to come and give you a stink bomb that you could sneak
into the UN complex when you go there, so that after you
leave it would mess up everything and get the United
States of America expelled from—"

"Hey, wait a minute!" he said. "Why would anyone
do that? A bomb that strong would cost a lot of money!"

"Yes. But let's say Satan hoped to promote discord in
the world, so he brought you a—"

Henry scowled. "Satan? Listen, cutie, I'm a God-fear-
ing man, no matter what I say about going to Hell! I
wouldn't touch the Devil with a ten-foot spell!"

"Well, he wouldn't give you his identity, of course. He
might come in the form of a businessman, offering to pay




With a Tangled Skein

244

you enough money to cover your surgery and not be a
burden to your son, if you will just take a package to the
UN complex, hide it from the guards, and leave it there
where it won't be noticed, in a closet or somewhere."

He stared ahead, pondering. "Satan, eh? If he wants
to be rid of the UN, I'm not sure / do!"

"Well, as I said, he wouldn't say he was—"

"What do I want, taking money from strangers?" he
demanded righteously. "Lug a big suitcase around on the
tour? I don't need any part of that!"

"You mean you wouldn't stink-bomb the UN if you
had the chance?"

"Not now that I've thought about it! When you really
get down to it, stink bombs are kid stuff, not that funny.
And I sure wouldn't do it for tainted money! If the Devil
wants it done, let him get someone else to do his dirty
work! Me, I want to go to Heaven when I kick off, even
if I won't find most of my friends there."

Niobe felt mixed relief and regret again, this time re-
versed. Henry Clogg was not the one after all, and she
was glad she had not decided to cut the thread of an in-
nocent man. But it meant they would have to interview
the others, and that the job had not yet been done.

"Say—you want some sherry?" Henry asked.

"Well, no, I—"

"I don't get much company these days," he said. "It'll
be good to share it. My wife, bless her soul, she liked it.
It's been three years now—" His face turned sad.

"I'll have some sherry," Niobe agreed.

He eased himself to his feet and went indoors to fetch
the bottle and glasses. He's a good ol' geezer, Atropos
thought approvingly. Reminds me some of my old man,
before he died. except mine liked moonshine,

"I normally don't drink—" Niobe murmured.

Sherry isn't drinking, woman! Atropos thought firmly.
It's socializing.

Piers Anthony                245

I don't think the other interviews will be this easy,
Clotho thought.

Niobe just nodded.

Henry returned with the sherry. Niobe sipped the
golden wine, satisfied for the moment to relax. It was nice
being company, however extemporaneously. This was
the way she should have been with Cedric, instead of
drinking too much. Alcohol was an evil only when
abused—as with so many pleasures.

"My son's already bought me a ticket for the carpet to
New York," Henry remarked. "That gripes me some.
See, I was a carpet salesman, when I worked. We had
some pretty fancy models, too. You know how those au-
tomobile companies always say a carpet's no good in the
rain? Don't you believe it! We have models with canopies;

no way you'd get wet on one of those. Could even close
it in tight and pressurize the cabin for high flying. And
magic doesn't pollute the air the way gasoline does."

She listened, and nodded agreement. She was sorry
when the sherry was finished, and she had to go.

"Come again sometime!" Henry told her cheerfully.

"I will," she promised. She intended to do that, when
she had time free.

They returned to the Abode and considered. "One
down, three to go," Atropos said. "Who do we tackle
next?"

"Well, we have a young black woman, an Oriental mar-
tial artist, and the Satanist."

"Let's take care of the easy one first," Atropos said.
"That's mine—the black girl."

"But let's rest first," Clotho said. "We want to be fresh
so we don't make mistakes."

The others agreed. Also, there were some routine
threads to spin, place, and cut; there was no point in let-
ting the job get behind.

They worked on the threads; then all three slept.

*  *  *




246             With a Tangled Skein

Next morning. New York area time, Atropos assumed
the body and made her first solo trip along the thread
down to the realm of the mortals. The girl was at home,
flirting with two boys. She was about fifteen, the boys

older.

Atropos burst in upon them like a scourge from Pur-
gatory. "What's these boys doing here, girl?" she de-
manded, glaring about. The girl looked stricken, and the
boys abashed. "You're not 'sposed to have company at
home alone, you know that! If your grandmaw knew—"

"Grandma's dead," the girl said defensively.

"She'd roll over twice in her grave!" Atropos contin-
ued without pause. "And if your maw knew—"

The girl gave a little squeal of terror.

"She'd have your li'l black hide hung out on the line
to cool!" Atropos said, fixing her with a deadly stare.

"Ain't that right, girl!"

The girl nodded, unwillingly. Atropos whirled on the
boys. "Now scat!" She took a menacing step toward
them. The two banged into each other in their haste to
exit. "And if I see you two out here again, I'll take the
cane to you myself!" she called after their fleeing forms.

How did you know they weren't supposed to be here?
Niobe thought. We didn't read that in the thread!

"I know boys," Atropos muttered. "And I know girls.
Moment I saw their faces, I knew what they were up to."
She smiled privately. "Same thing / was up to, at that
age. Made me a grandma sooner than I needed."

She turned back to the girl, who was trying to recover
her poise. "Who are you?" the girl demanded. "You ain't
my ma! You can't tell me what to do!"

"I'm a friend of your grandmaw, girl," Atropos said.
"She can't rest easy till she knows you're going straight,
so I'm checking you now. I can tell you, I don't much
like what I'm seeing! You going hog-wild here—why
aren't you in school?"

Piers Anthony                 247

"I'm in second shift!" the girl protested. "It don't start
for two hours."

Atropos rolled her eyes skyward. "Lord, I don't know
if I can do the job in two hours." Then she fixed on the
girl again. "You're in big trouble, child!"

"Listen, old woman, you got no business coming in
here like you owned the place! I can do anything I want.
Leave me alone!"

Atnapos sighed. "I see we're going to have to do it the
hard way. I'm going to have to enchant you."
"You don't have no magic!" the girl said. "You

can't—"

Atropos caught her by the arm and flung a thread up-
ward with her free hand. She was getting the hang of
thread manipulation very quickly. "I don't like backtalk,
girl!" She slid up the thread, carrying the girl with her.

The girl screamed as they passed through the wall and
sailed into the sky. "Let me go! Let me go!"

Atropos glanced down. The rooftops were already re-
ceding below. "You sure, girl? If I let you go now, you'll
drop like a stone."

The girl considered that and was quiet. Atropos slid on
up to the cloudbank that defined Purgatory, then paused.
"Now I want you to come clean with me, girl. If you lie
to me, I'll drop you right out of this cloud!"
The girl was daunted. "What are you?" she demanded.
"Just someone interested in what's right. Now talk, or
I'll turn into a big spider and eat you."
Still the girl resisted. "You can't!"
Atropos assumed the arachnid form, man-sized.
The girl screamed and tried to scramble through the
cloud substance. Atropos changed back, "Change your
mind, girl?"

"I din't mean nothing wrong!" the girl babbled. "I din't
even know what it was! This guy tells me here, just sniff
this, it'll make you feel good, so I sniffed it, and in a little




248

Piers Anthony                249

With a Tangled Skein

bit I felt like I was floating right off the floor!" She looked
down nervously. "Only not like this!"

"Don't sniff anything like that again!" Atropos told her
sternly. "That stuff 11 be the death of you!"

"I won't!" the girl promised. The vision of the huge
spider had finally convinced her that Atropos meant busi-
ness.

"How are you doing in school?"

"Well, you know how it is—"

"Sure I know, girl! You've got better things to do than
study, right? Figure you'll just slide through, then make
it in the big world on sex appeal? Girl, you'll lock yourself
in the ghetto all your life, same as your maw, same as
your grandmaw! Same as me! You want to be dependent
on a man for everything you need? It'll cost you, girl! A
man always takes his payment in kind. You want to make
it on your own, then you can look about and see what
you want from a man. Then you can put your own price
on it, and that's not money. What're you doing in

school?"

"Not enough," the girl admitted.

"They take you on any field trips?"

The girl brightened. "Sure—there's this New York
trip coming up. We're going there in a bus, see the
sights—"

"Something I've got to tell you about that, girl. This
man may come, maybe offer you money or something to
sniff, just to take something to the UN building. Know

what you tell him?"

Wordlessly, the girl shook her head.

"You tell him to go to Hell!" Atropos cried. "You
don't take a thing to New York! You just go and leam all
you can, so you can write up a good paper on it when
you get home."

"That's all? Just tell him—?"

"That's all. That, and do your homework. You
haven't—?"

"Not yet," the girl agreed faintly.

"Well, we've still got an hour. I'll help you this time,
but after this you do it on your own, get your grades up,
you hear? No more lip to your teachers! So your grand-
maw won't roll over."

Again the girl shook her head, offering no resistance.

Atropos took her back down the thread and into the
house. They got out the homework and discussed it. Atro-
pos was not conversant with the technical material, but
Niobe and Clotho thought the answers at her, so she could
tutor the girl competently. It was a fine collaborative ef-
fort. By the time the girl left for school, they were satisfied
that not only had they eliminated her as a potential carrier
for the stink bomb, they had set her on a much better
course of life than she would have followed otherwise.
"The world needs more aggressive grandmothers," Atro-
pos remarked as they returned to the Abode. The other
two could only agree.







-12

BLOOD

As they considered the next case, they had misgivings.
The thread of the Oriental man showed him to be age
thirty, and a significant force within his culture. They
could not simply cut his thread; that would lead to serious
complications in the Tapestry, not as bad as those stem-
ming from the stink bomb, but still well worth avoiding.
They would have to talk him out of it—and Niobe was
learning to read the threads well enough, now, to know
that this would not be easy.

For one thing, there was a kink in the thread that in-
dicated something of extreme significance had touched it.
That was surely Satan, making his offer. If the man had
accepted, how could they stop him without cutting his

thread?

Clotho assumed the body. "I will try," she said simply.
She pointed the distaff, extended the thread, and slid
down it to the man's location. Again, it was morning, in
the state of New Jersey, and he was at his place of busi-
ness. This was a dojo, or martial arts establishment.

250

Piers Anthony                251

We should have guessed, Niobe thought. His name is
Samurai.

"Which means Warrior," Clotho murmured. "A pre-
tentious title!"

She opened the door and entered. There was a desk
inside with a girl in a gi, or martial arts uniform. "You
wish to join for the course?" she inquired politely.

"No," Clotho said. "I wish to speak to Samurai."

The girl smiled. "The Master does not sign up students.
But in class he will give you the same attention he does
all students, and if you have talent you may be able to
enroll in an advanced class and receive special instruc-
tion." She eyed Clotho appraisingly. "Of course that is
more expensive and requires special dedication."

"I don't wish to be a student," Clotho insisted. "I have
more personal business with the man."

The girl studied her again. Suddenly Niobe was aware
of the appearance of their youngest Aspect. She was well
dressed—clothing in the Abode was of the highest qual-
ity, fashioned of genuine silk, and fitted with magical per-
fection—and was an extremely well-formed woman to
begin with. She was a person to be noticed more than
passingly. "I will inquire," the girl said and touched a
button.

In a moment she received an answer. She glanced up.
"Take the hall to the left, through the curtain. Oh—and
remove your shoes before you enter the office. He's very
fussy about that."

"Thank you." Clotho walked down the hall, then
paused to remove her dainty shoes before pushing through
the curtain of thin bamboo.

The office was like a Japanese garden, with decorative
plants and Oriental statuary all around, and a broad mat
covering the floor. At the far side, seated on a slightly
elevated dais, was a handsome man in a resplendent gi,
almost a robe.




252             With a Tangled Skein

Clotho stood bemused at the entrance. "Oh, it's beau-
tiful!" she breathed. "I have never been to Japan,

but—"

"Come forward," the man said. "Do not be afraid of

the tatami."

She stepped with her stocking feet onto the mat, which

was soft but firm. "Samurai, I want to talk to you

about—"

"Wait," he said peremptorily, and she paused in place.

"Turn about, woman."

Clotho hesitated, then turned around.

The man got up, seeming to flow effortlessly to his feet.
He strode to a curtained closet in one wall, moving like
a lithe panther. He brought out a folded kimono. "Don

this."

"What?"
"I want you properly garbed," he said. "Go to the

changing chamber there." He gestured at a door. "Put

this on. Then we shall talk."
"Samurai, I don't know what you think I'm here

for—"

"Not for classes," he said. "Not for business. So you

mean to be a geisha."

"A geisha!" she exclaimed indignantly.

What's a geisha? Atropos asked.

A Japanese entertainment-girl, high-class, Niobe re-
plied.

Oh, so that's what they call them, over there! We call

them whores.
It's not the same—Niobe started, but then external

events interrupted them.

"You had another intention?" Samurai was saying.
Clotho switched to Japanese, spewing out a minor tor-
rent of words. Neither Niobe nor Atropos understood that
language, but they got the gist from her mind; she was
calling him, in eloquent idiom, a male sexist pig.

253

Piers Anthony

Oopsy! Niobe thought.

That girl's got a temper! Atropos thought, half admir-
ingly.

Samurai's face turned grim. He took a step toward
Clotho. She spun about and ran for the curtained door.
She plunged through, paused to pick up her shoes, and
froze. A man was charging down the hall toward her.

She turned again and plunged back through the curtain.
Samurai was there. She flung her shoes at him. He caught
one and dodged the other; he had marvelous reflexes. She
dodged to the side and ran across the room.

Samurai followed. Clotho reached out, grabbed a pot-
ted cactus, whirled, and hurled it at his head. This time
she scored. The clay pot shattered between his eyes, the
dirt spreading across his face.

/ wish she hadn't done that! Niobe thought.

She's one hair-trigger gal! Atropos responded. Maybe
we'd better just thread on out of here.

We can't; she's got the body.

You mean we can't take over if we need to?

Not until she lets us—and she's not paying attention
to us at the moment.

Atropos mentally shook her head. Been forty years
since the last time I got raped. Going to be about forty
seconds till the next time!

A mortal can't rape an Incarnation! Niobe protested.

You sure about that?

Niobe considered. No. I know no mortal can hurt us,
but I'm not sure if rape counts as hurting. It may be just—
just an interaction, no blood shed.

No blood for me, no blood for you—but what about
her?

Again Niobe considered. She's as innocent as I was
when I married, the first time. Still—

Well, if it happens, let's see if we can change to me in
the middle. That'll sober him.




With a Tangled Skein

254

Niobe thought of that, and of the likely reaction of the
man. She started to laugh, though she didn't want to; it
really wasn't at all funny.

Clotho, meanwhile, was running down another pas-
sage. She plunged through the bamboo curtain at the far
end and burst into the main work chamber. About twenty
students in white gi's and white belts and yellow belts
were practicing throws, supervised by a man in a brown
belt. They paused at the sight of her, forClotho's summer
dress was a complete contrast to their uniforms. She was
in somewhat frilly blue, with a pink sash and a pink rose
on the front, and her hair was bound in a western ponytail
by a pink ribbon. She was the very picture of lovely young

innocence.

Then Samurai burst out after her, the very picture of
masculine outrage. Earth stained his pretty robe and
smudged his face, and blood dripped from his nose. The
students gave way as he strode forward and caught Clotho
by the arm. "Woman, you have no—"

Clotho froze for an instant, then tried to tear herself
away, but his grip was like iron. She spewed more Japa-
nese at him.

Hoof Atropos thought, mentally pursing her lips. No
girl that age should know concepts like that!

Niobe had to agree. Liberated women evidently learned
things younger than did the conventional woman of prior
generations, whatever the language.

Samurai's rage turned to something like awe, then to
disgust. He snapped something back in Japanese. It
seemed to translate to something like Atropos' concept

of the geisha girl.

Clotho swung her hand at his head. He caught it and
drew her in to him. He kissed her. She struggled, but
could not escape. Slowly she relaxed.

That man sure can kiss! Atropos thought.

Piers Anthony                255

The taming of the shrew, Niobe agreed.

Then Clotho remembered herself. She bit Samurai on
the lip. Then, at last, she remembered her powers. She
flung out a thread and slid along it.

The man's arms were abruptly empty, for Fate was in-
substantial when sliding. Astonished, he looked about.

There was Clotho, ten feet away. Samurai started to-
ward her—and she slid through him to the other side. The
watching students gaped. When he turned and started for
her again, she slid to him, ducked down, and materialized
at his legs, causing him to stumble over her. Then she
slid another foot, passed through him, materialized again,
and kicked him in the rear.

Samurai took a forward rolling breakfall and came
smoothly back to his feet. "Magic!" he cried. "My
sword!"

The brown-belt hurried out, to return in a moment with
a sheathed katana. Samurai took it and drew the gleaming
blade. "I know how to deal with a witch!"
Get out of here, girl! Atropos thought at Clotho.
This time the girl heard. She sailed up a thread, out of
the building.

Then, in air, she paused. "But this isn't accomplishing
my mission!" she exclaimed.

"Welcome to reality, girl!" Atropos muttered, using
the mouth now that they were alone. "If that man wasn't
set to do Satan's business before, he sure is now!"

"But what can I do? I've cost him face!"

"What?"

"Face. I've embarrassed him in public, caused him to
lose status."

"You mean he won't be reasonable now?" Atropos
inquired dryly.

"He's not a bad man, just arrogant! I shouldn't have
humiliated him!"




256 With a Tangled Skein

"Didn't he call you a whore?" Atropos asked, and
Niobe realized that the wise old woman was leading the
foolish young one to a reconsideration.

"He thought I was a geisha. That's—I'm sure he didn't
intend it as an insult. It is an honored profession."

"Entertainer," Niobe put in. "Companion."

"Well, then, girl, go back and apologize!" Atropos
snapped, sounding much the way she had when address-
ing the black teenager.

"It's not that simple," Clotho said, torn. "I'm a lib-
erated woman. I don't hold with—with—"

"You'd rather tell him to go to Hell?" Atropos de-
manded.

"No! When it's a matter efface—I didn't mean to do

that!"

"Didn't mean to jump to a conclusion and bawl him
out in gutter-Japanese?" Atropos asked.

"I—the old ways—all my life I've opposed—"
"Girl, you think your new ways look any better?"
"No," Clotho whispered. "I—overreacted."
"Well, we'd better go back and try to explain," Niobe

said, "or we'll have to cut his thread."
"No!" Clotho cried in anguish.
"She's not that liberated," Atropos said.
"Well, he is quite a man," Niobe said.
"Quite a man," Clotho echoed ruefully.
"Look, girl, you go on back there," Atropos directed

Clotho. "But this time listen to us. We'll help you, same's

you helped me with that homework. Ain't none of us

knows it all, if you want it in my dialect. We'll get that

man re-faced, somehow."
Clotho laughed, somewhat hysterically. "It won't

work! It doesn't work that way!"
"Let's try it anyway," Atropos said. "He's a man, and

you're one good-looking young woman. He'll listen.

What've we got to lose?"

Piers Anthony                257

Clotho shrugged fatalistically, then slid back down the
thread.

The class was already back in session, but the brown-
belt cried out the moment Clotho materialized. She
walked by him and into the hall to the office.

Samurai was there, sponging off his face. He froze as
he saw Clotho in the mirror.

Apologize, Atropos ordered.

"I—I came to apologize," Clotho said.

Samurai turned. "Only blood will make this right," he
said grimly.

"I—I can't give you that."

"Who are you?"

Clotho hesitated. / don't think it would be smart to tell
him our nature, Niobe thought. It would seem like a
threat.

"I—I am a supernatural creature," Clotho said. "That
is why I could not—"

"A witch!" he exclaimed.
"No. A woman. But not—like others."
Almost, he smiled. "Not like others," he agreed.
"Samurai, how can I make it right?" Clotho asked. "I
did not mean to—you made me angry—"
"Because I thought you a geisha?"

"This is America! Women are independent, not the
playthings of men!"

He nodded. "I mistook you for Japanese."
That stung. "I am Japanese—but liberated. I—I left

my family because I—would not follow the medieval
ways."

"Those ways are good ways!" he said.

"Will you accept my apology?"

"No. Only blood will scour that humiliation clean."

She spread her hands pleadingly. "Samurai, I am im-
mortal. I cannot give you blood. But if we cannot work
this out, I will have to take yours."




258             With a Tangled Skein

He touched his nose. "You have already done that."

"All yours," she said.

"Then take it!" he exclaimed. "Bring your champion
to meet my katana\ Then will the debt be settled."
Accept! Niobe thought.

"But—"

"Today," he said. "Here in my dojo. Before my stu-
dents, where the insult occurred."

Accept! Niobe repeatedly urgently.

"All right," Clotho said faintly. "This—this after-
noon."

Samura seemed surprised. "You accept?"

Now tell him our business, Niobe thought.

"Yes. I will—bring my champion here. To meet you.
Now may I tell you why I came here?"

Samurai inclined his head. "You do intrigue me,

woman."

"Someone will come to offer you something, for a ser-
vice—"

"He already has."

Clotho paused. We're closer to the deadline, Niobe

thought.

"You must not do it!" Clotho said.

"Why not?"
"It is Satan making the offer. He means to bomb the

United Nations—"

"What do I care about the United Nations?"

"This—if this happens, there will be discord among the
nations, perhaps war—"

"What's wrong with war?"

Baffled, Clotho stared at him.

He's a martial artist, Niobe thought. A warrior. He

likes combat.

Ask him if he wants his soul to go to Hell, Atropos

suggested.

Piers Anthony                259

"If you do this, if you serve Satan, your soul will be
his."

"How can you know this?" Samurai demanded.
"I—know."
"Why should I believe you?"

Better tell him, after all, Atropos thought, and Niobe
agreed.

"Because I am Fate," Clotho said.
"Now you are insulting my intelligence!"
"What proof do you require?"
"No proof, woman! I will not be mocked!"
Ask him what Satan offered, Niobe thought.
"What did Satan offer you, to deliver that package?"
"You cannot imagine the value of—" He broke off. "It
wasn't Satan."

"One of his agents. It doesn't matter who came to you;

it is Satan's offer."

Samurai considered. "He offered the secret of the fin-
ger death."

"The what?"

"I have searched for it for years. A blow so light it may
be struck with a single finger that causes death within the
hour. It causes the autonomic system to malfunction pro-
gressively until the body cannot cope."

"You want to kill someone with one finger?"


"No. Merely to have the ability to do it."

"And for this you agreed to bomb the UN?"

"No. Just to carry a package there. And I haven't
agreed; I will decide tomorrow."

"You must turn it down!"

"That is not for you to say. Who is your champion?"

Mars, Niobe thought. He will help if we ask him.

"Mars."

"Who?"

"The Incarnation of War."




260             With a Tangled Skein

"Still you mock me!" he exclaimed. "There are no
such things as Incarnations of Fate and War! I will not
tolerate mockery after injury!"

"But he will come here!" Clothe said.
"I will allow no stranger here today!"
We'll bring him anyway, Niobe thought. Samurai thinks
he is being mocked, but he will believe when he sees Mars!

"We will be here," Clotho said. Then she extended a
thread and slid away, barefooted.

Back in the Abode, they reviewed what had happened.
They agreed that Samurai had not intended to insult
Clotho by his reference to geisha; he had honestly mis-
taken her purpose in approaching him. Probably he en-
countered a number of young women who wished to have
a personal or sexual relationship with a master martial
artist. So Clotho's angry reaction had been unwarranted.
They also agreed that Samurai was basically a decent man
whose thread should not be prematurely cut, and that his
loss efface had to be compensated for. But not by blood!

Clotho promised to consult with the other Aspects be-
fore she exploded like that again. She had been ready to
commit suicide after being cast out other family, and that
militancy of reaction remained. She tended to go too far.
"After all," she conceded, "some male sexist pigs may
be decent sorts, when allowance is made."

And here was a delicate aspect, "If you could get Sa-
murai to turn Satan down, by being what Samurai took
you for," Niobe asked, "would you do it?"

Clotho suffered a siege of sheer rage. Then she calmed,
realizing that she was about to react exactly as she had
promised not to. "I don't know," she whispered.

As it had been with Chronos, Niobe thought. When she
herself had been Clotho. The role of Fate required its
sacrifices, not so much of conscience as of image. The
current Clotho thought of herself as liberated, but she was
bound.

Pier's Anthony

261

"Now we must recruit Mars," Niobe said. "I know
him of old; he will help. But I do not know this particular
office-holder, and it is better that he not know my past;

that is one secret we must keep from all until we deal with
Satan. So Clotho should approach him her way, and put
the matter into his hands."

Clotho sighed. "This office and Aspect have many bur-
dens!"

Niobe laughed. "What else is new? Would you trade
it?"

"No."

Atropos smiled. "I think we're getting it together."
Clotho rode the thread to Mars. He was near the Iran-
Iraq border, supervising a locally savage skirmish.
"These folk of Babylon and Persia are really dedicated
to my purpose," he remarked with satisfaction as Clotho
approached. Then he took a second look at her. "Well,
Clotho, you have changed! Did that sweet Hungarian girl
get tired?"

"She fell in love," Clotho said, as if Lisa had died.
Mars laughed. "That's a liability of your type! You're

all right until you get mushy about a man, then you sag

into—"

Clotho's temper flared again. She spoke a few sharp
words in Japanese.

Mars smiled. "And you are the mother of a sickly dog,"
he responded in the same language. Niobe and Atropos
picked up the meaning from Clotho's mind.

Clotho was aghast. "You understood!"

"Sweet stuff. War knows every language of mankind!
If you wish to quarrel, you have come to the right party."

Now she was embarrassed. "I came here to ask your
help."

"And right prettily you asked for it. Flower of the Ori-
ent! What can I do for you?"




262 With a Tangled Skein

Clotho explained how all three Aspects were new in
their roles, so were having trouble handling Satan's mach-
inations. "Now I have insulted this martial artist called
Samurai, and must give him satisfaction before I can per-
suade him to—"

"Samurai! I know of him! He's a fine warrior, though
perhaps not the match of those whose reputation he bor-
rows. A man of the old school, with that old-fashioned
pride. So he took you for a geisha!"

"Yes," Clotho agreed, embarrassed.

"And you kicked him in the butt before his class."

"Yes," she agreed faintly.

"You will have to give him blood."

"No! No killing!"

Mars made a gesture with his sword, and the fighting
in the region ceased. The guns fell silent, and even the
moans of the wounded faded out. "Woman, you have cost
him face. You know what that means?"

"Yes," she said grimly.

"He is inflexible on matters of honor. Few like him
exist today; he is steel in an age of rust and plastic—a
genuine man. I can satisfy him on the martial level, but
only you can abate his inner pain, and until you do, he
will not do as you request. Nor should he. Death before
dishonor, according to the great tradition."

"But we're trying to avoid death, to prevent war—"
She faltered, staring at him.

"And I am War," Mars finished. "Woman, your dainty
foot has a predilection for your mouth. But I understand.
I am an Incarnation, and you are another. I will do what
I can for you today, and some other time you will do what
you can for me."

Clotho sighed. "So all males want only one thing!"

"You will adjust your threads to simplify my situation,
when I get in a bind," Mars clarified. "This is the manner
Incarnations cooperate."

Piers Anthony                 263

"Oh." Clotho was flushing as well as she was able.
"The reason women suppose that men want only one
thing," Mars continued blithely, "is that that is all women
are capable of perceiving in men. Women do not properly
comprehend matters like, for example, honor."
"That's not true!" Clotho exclaimed.
"Ah, so? Then let's discuss honor. You have impaired
Samurai's honor; if you want to deal with him, you must
yield him yours. You are of course a virgin—"
"How can you know that?" she demanded.
"It is one of the things we male sexists relate to," Mars

said. "Now do you understand the blood you must offer
to Samurai?"

Clotho hesitated, appalled.

He's right, Niobe thought.

It's the way men are, Atropos agreed.

"You like him, don't you?" Mars inquired cruelly.

Clotho launched herself at him, clawing at his face.

There goes that temper again, Niobe thought.

Girl's got spunk, Atropos agreed.

Mars caught her effortlessly. "I can see we're going to
get along just fine," he said. "I love to have pretty girls
leap into my arms. Well, I'll be there, and I'll set it up
for you. But at the finish, it must be you and Samurai.
You'll just have to decide how bad you want to square
things. He's one fine man." He set her down and turned
away, and the battle resumed.

Clotho stood, angry tears on her face, unable to counter
Mars' insolence.

Let's get out of here, girl, Atropos thought.
Numbly, Clotho extended a thread and slid back up
toward Purgatory. Niobe sympathized with her. The girl
had fought all her life for independence and equality, and
now she was being thrust into the old sexist role. She was
not the same person Niobe had been in her youth, yet she

264 With a Tangled Skein

was close enough so that Niobe knew better than to in-
terfere.

They had lunch and adjusted a few threads, preoccu-
pied. Then Clotho donned slacks, low-heeled shoes, and
a businesslike shirt, and rode a thread back down to the
dojo.

Mars appeared as she landed before it. He was garbed
in a white gi. Niobe had never been certain how Mars
traveled, but it seemed to be related to his sword. Each
Incarnation had a symbol of office that was imbued with
much of the magic, and the red sword was obviously
Mars' symbol.

"Follow me," Mars said, handing her his sword.

Clotho looked at it. The thing was unsheathed—a mas-
sive instrument, with a handle almost too big for her small
hand to hold, and a gleaming double-edged blade that
glowed red from some deep layer. The whole thing had
a magical aura of menace; it made her nervous. She held
it awkwardly by two hands, the blade pointing straight
down.

Even Niobe was astonished. What's he up to? He never
sets aside his red sword!

We'll find out soon enough, Atropos thought.

The girl at the desk recognized Clotho. "Please leave,"
she said. "You are not welcome here."

Mars leaned over the desk. "I am her champion. Signal
your hirelings."

Two men appeared at the inner doorway. Both were in
gis and wore black belts. "The lady has asked you to
leave, mister," one said, stepping forward.

/ think we're going to see some man-style foolishness,
Atropos thought with a certain relish. When they don't
have sex on their minds, they do like to fight.

"I have an appointment," Mars said. He stepped into
the man, caught his outstretched arm, spun about, and
sent him rolling across the floor.

Piers Anthony                265

The other man turned—and Mars' leg shot out and
swept the other man's foot from under him, so that he
landed on the floor with a resounding slap.

"Now go in and announce me," Mars said. "I expect
a full turnout, and the courtesy of the dojo."
Without further word, the two men hurried away.
"But you could have hurt them!" Clotho protested.
Mars walked back to Clotho and proffered his arm.
"Not with a simple hand throw and a foot-sweep; they
know how to take falls. I merely showed them a hint of
my competence."

She held his sword out to him, but he demurred. "I
shall not be using that here, but cannot trust it to the hand
of a mortal. Hold it until we are done."

Clotho managed to hold the dread sword by one hand,
and took his arm with the other. She walked with him
through the bamboo curtain and down the hall toward the

main chamber of the dojo. "Are you planning to fight all
of them?"

"Certainly," Mars replied.
"But—"

"I will run the line. Then it will be your turn."
"But—"

"Do not be concerned, cutes. It will be all right."

/ hope so, Clotho thought nervously.

He knows what he's doing, Niobe thought reassuringly.
The three of us may not know what he's doing, but he
knows.

They reached the second curtain. "Take off your
shoes," Mars told her. He was already barefoot.
She took them off. They stepped through.
About forty students were lined along the far wall,
standing barefooted on the edge of the big mat. They
seemed to be arranged roughly in order of rank, with the
white-belts at one end and the black-belts at the other.
There were, she noted, several women among them.




266             With a Tangled Skein

In the center of the mat stood Samurai. He turned to

face them.

Mars stretched out his right arm. A red cloth appeared
in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he wound this belt about
his middle and tied it in place with the odd knot that mar-
tial artists used. There was a murmur of amazement from
the line of students. It was as if they had never seen a

red belt before.

Is something significant happening? Niobe thought.

Mars stepped up to the mat, and halted, and bent for-
ward at the waist. He's bowing to the mat! Atropos
thought, finding it funny.

But Clotho had heard of this. "It's the ritual," she mur-
mured. "Always bow when joining or leaving the tatami,
the mat, for it breaks your fall and spares your bones.
Always step on it barefooted."

Now Mars stepped onto the mat. "You assume the belt
of a Master Dan," Samurai said, as if in challenge.

"You are observant," Mars replied.

Samurai turned and walked to the black end of the line
of students. He dropped into a cross-legged seated po-
sition.

Mars faced the class, and bowed to the line. The line

bowed back.

Then Mars strode forward and took hold of the student
at the white end of the line. This was a young woman, so
small and light that her bare feet left the mat when he
brought her forward. He can't attack her! Niobe thought

with horror.
Yet no one else protested, or even seemed dismayed.

They merely watched.

Mars brought her to the center of the mat and held her
by the right lapel and left sleeve other gi. "Try a throw,"

he told her.

The girl turned and hauled on his jacket. She got no-
where. Then Mars stepped back, drawing her along with

Piers Anthony                267

him so that she had to step quickly forward to avoid losing
her balance. At the moment her right foot touched the
mat, his left foot swept against it. Her foot went up and
she fell backward. She landed on the mat, her left arm
outstretched, slapping the mat resoundingly, her right arm
captive to his grip.

"De-ashi harai," Mars said. "The Advanced-Foot
Sweep. Remember it.'' Then he let her go, and she scram-
bled up, bowed hastily, and returned to the line.

Mars nodded to the next student, a boy in white belt.
The boy came out, took hold, and tried a throw of his
own. It also got nowhere.

Mars drew him forward, as before, but this time set his
left foot against the boy's kneecap and hauled him into a
tumble on the mat. "Hiza-guruma," Mars said. "The
Knee-Wheel. Practice your falls, son, or you'll get hurt."

"Yessir!" the boy exclaimed, scrambling up, bowing,
and running back to his place in the line.

Mars nodded to the third student, another woman in a
white belt. Again he gave her the chance to try to throw
him, and she failed; then he threw her spinning to the mat
with a hand-and-foot motion that seemed to be in between
that of the prior two throws. "Sasae-tsurikomi-ashi," he
said. "The Propping-Drawing-Ankle Throw."

There was a murmur along the line. "He's doing the
First Course of Instruction!" someone said behind
Clotho. She turned to look. A brown-belt had come in
behind her, off the mat. It was the instructor of the morn-
ing beginners' class; evidently he had returned too late to
join this one, so was watching from the side.

"Is that significant?" Clotho asked.

Now he recognized her. "You're the—"

"The same," she agreed. "I brought my champion to
meet Samurai."

"In a red belt!" he murmured, amazed. "That's ninth
or tenth Dan!"

With a Tangled Skein                                                                         269

268

Piers Anthony

"Is that good?"

"Oh—you don't know judo?"

"Nothing," she confessed. "I just came to talk to Sa-
murai, and then things went wrong."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Just so," he said after
a moment. "Very well, I'll be glad to explain. The master
grades of judo are the Dan, as opposed to the student
grades, the kyu. The Dan are black belt. But the very
highest grades may wear the red belt. Normally such
grades are only achieved as honors for service to the art,
by masters who no longer compete. A competitor with a
red belt should be the finest judoka in the world."

"Oh, that explains why the class was so surprised."

"It certainly does. As far as I know, there is no living,
competing red belt today. So this man is bound to be an

impostor."

"He is Mars, the Incarnation of War."

"Oh? Then maybe he—" The brown-belt shrugged. He
returned to her prior question. "There's nothing wrong
with the First Course," he explained. "They're all good
throws. But once people catch on to the order, they'll
know exactly which throw he's going to do next. That
makes it much harder. It doesn't matter for the white-
belts, but he'd have trouble throwing me with a throw I
expected, and it would probably be impossible with a

black-belt."

Mars threw the next student over his right hip. "There's
the fourth—Uki-goshi, the Floating Hip Throw," the
brown-belt said. "I've never seen it done better. But I
wonder where he could have gotten his training?"

Mars threw the next backward. "0-soto-gari," the
brown-belt murmured. "He certainly knows the basics."

The next student fell. "And 0-goshi," the brown-belt

said.
"Didn't he just do that one?"

"No, that was Uki-goshi, a different throw. It looks
similar and the footwork is similar, but the feel is quite
different. Uke takes a much harder fall."

"But I thought Uki was the throw, not the faller."

The brown-belt smiled. "You really don't know, do
you? The one who does the throwing is always called Tori,
the taker, and the one who gets thrown is Uke, the re-
ceiver. Anyway, the Uki-goshi is done stiff-kneed, while
0-goshi flexes the knees, and—oh, there's 0-uchi-gari,
the Major Inner Reaping! Beautiful!"

Clotho—and Niobe—were having trouble distinguish-
ing the throws. They were ready to take the brown-belt's
word that they were being properly done. Clotho took
advantage of his presence to ask another question. "What
is this—this running the line?"

"Well, a challenger shows his superiority by defeating
a number of others in rapid order," the brown-belt said.
"For example, a black-belt should be able to run a line
of five brown-belts and throw them all, because his skill
is greater. When the line is mixed, they do the lowest
grades first, the Kyus, and work up to the Dans. Of
course, by the time someone has thrown twenty or thirty
people, he's apt to be getting tired, so it gets harder both
ways. No one has ever run our full line victoriously; if
your friend makes it, he will have proved his rank. Some
of ours are Sandans, and one's a Yodan, and of course
Samurai is Rokudan, the sixth level, and the champion of
the eastern states. He'll be world champion one day, if
he decides to go for it."

"He might not go for it?"

"Well, he's getting old for competition, and judo is only
part of his interest. He's a master in karate, too, and ai-
kido, and his specialty is the sword; no one can touch him
there. He's been searching for this mythical finger-strike,
too— Say! Look at that Tsuri-komi-goshi! I've never seen
a prettier throw! Did you see how he got full extension?




270

Piers Anthony                271

With a Tangled Skein

I've never been able to do that on an Uke my own

weight!"

The throw had looked just like all the others to Clotho
and the other Aspects, but evidently there was a differ-
ence.

"But now he's into the yellow-belts, and when he hits
the green-belts he'll have to work a little for it. Oh, nice
Okuri-ashi-harai! That's not as easy as it looks."

Clotho was willing to take his word for it.

"God, I wish I was in that line!" the brown-belt said
after the next throw. "It's a privilege to be thrown by a
master like that! Is he really the Incarnation of War?"

"Yes, he—"
"Oh, there's the Uchi-mata.' Samurai himself couldn't

have done it better!"

They watched while Mars moved into the green-belts.
They were trying to throw him and failing as dismally as
the white-belts had, and had no better success in resisting

the return throws.

"That's amazing!" the brown-belt commented. "I've
never seen someone give them a chance like that; usually
they put them away as fast as they can. He's got a lot of

confidence."

"He should," Clotho said, though she was amazed her-
self.

Then she saw Mars drop down. Someone had thrown
him! But immediately the brown-belt opponent fell too.
Both of them were lying on the mat.

" Yoko-otoshi! The Side Drop!" the brown-belt ex-
claimed. "Beautiful!"

"You mean it's supposed to look like that?" Clotho

asked.

"Of course. It's a sacrifice throw."

"Oh."

They watched several more standing throws. Then
Mars went down again. He had his foot in the other's

belly, and lifted him over so that he did a roll and landed
on his back. "Tomoe-nage, the Stomach Throw," the
brown-belt said.

The throws continued as Mars progressed three-quart-
ers of the way down the line. There seemed to be no end
to them. But obviously the class was highly impressed.

"Soto-makikomi," the brown-belt remarked as both
men went down again. "I hate to take falls on that one!
Of course it's a power-throw; there's not much stop-
ping it once it starts. If he can do the next one, the Uki-
otoshi—"

It seemed to Niobe that the brown-belt who was Uke
at the moment simply threw himself on the mat, but the
one beside her whistled softly. "Perfect!"

A black-belt came out of the line. Mars waited while
the man tried a foot-sweep without success, then said,
"Try another." There was a chuckle along the line.

"What's so funny?" Clotho asked.

"The situation. He's up to the thirty-seventh throw in
the Basic Forty. That's Ushiro-goshi, the Rear Loin. It's
a counterthrow following an attempted hip-throw. Clyde
didn't try a hip-throw."

Clyde tried a sacrifice throw, without effect; it was as
if Mars were an immovable wall. There was another chuc-
kle.

Then, moving like lightning, Clyde tried a hip-throw—
and Mars picked him up and threw him to the mat. Clyde
had gambled and lost. He got up, bowed, and smiled; he
didn't mind losing to an artist of that skill. "And he did
it left-side," the brown-belt murmured in awe. "Clyde
tried to fool him, left-side, and he was ready."

"Left-side is different?"

"And how! I really sweat on them!"

The last man in the line approached and took hold, but
declined to try a throw. "Randori," he said.

"What does that mean?" Clotho asked.




With a Tangled Skein

272

"That's our Yodan,"' the brown-belt said. "He's a top
competitor; he doesn't like to do stationary throws. He
prefers to counter, or to seize his opportunity. He knows
your man will try the Yoko-gake, the Side Body Drop; he
wants to make him do it in a moving situation."
"Interesting," Clotho said, unenlightened.
The two men moved about the mat, almost as if dancing
together. Suddenly the black-belt screamed piercingly,
his foot moving like lightning. But Mars' foot moved too,
just as fast—and they both fell to the mat.

The brown-belt shook his head. "Beautiful! He did it!"
"But how do you know who threw whom? And why
the scream?"

The brown-belt smiled. "The scream was a kiai yell,
to facilitate the throw. Didn't work, this time. And some-
times it can be hard to tell, on a throw. I saw a match
once where the award was given to the wrong judoka,
before the judges corrected it. But this one was a perfect
Yoko-gake, no question."

Indeed, the class seemed to know it. Mars returned to
the center of the mat, and exchanged bows with the class.
It seemed he had successfully run the line.
"And he's not even tired!" the brown-belt murmured.
Then Mars walked to the edge of the mat, stepped off,
turned about, and bowed to it. "All right, girl," he said
gruffly. "He has to meet you now."
"He what?"

"As your champion F conquered his class. I did not
challenge Samurai himself. It is you who must meet him."
He took her by the elbow, urging her forward. "Honor

the tatami."
Bemused, Clotho bowed and stepped onto the mat.

"But I've still got your sword!"
"Precisely. It's an outrage. Get out there."
Like a zombie, Clotho walked across the mat. The class

watched, unmoving.

Piers Anthony                273

Is he crazy? Atropos thought. This girt doesn't know
anything about swords, and she doesn't want to shed
blood.

It's probably an insult to the dojo to carry a weapon
onto the mat, too, Niobe thought. But Mars must have a
reason.

Samurai bounded to his feet. In a moment his own
sword was in his hand. "For this you must die!" he cried,
striding forward.

Are you sure we're immortal? Atropos thought ner-
vously.

Well. . . Niobe thought, abruptly uncertain. When she
had been Clotho, she had never faced a test like this.

But abruptly the red sword lifted in Clotho's hand. It
was a heavy monster, but now it was featherlight. It as-
sumed a guard position.

"Get out of here!" Samurai cried, making a threatening
gesture.

The red sword moved to intercept his weapon. Metal
clanged on metal.

The enchanted sword has made us expert, Niobe
thought, amazed.

Goaded beyond reason by that gesture of defiance, Sa-
murai attacked in earnest. He's as hot-tempered as she
is! Atropos thought.

Two of a kind, Niobe agreed.

The red sword moved rapidly to counter the strike
against it. Samurai struck again, and again the red sword
blocked. He could not get through that guard.

"But this is not what I want!" Clotho whispered. "This
will never bring him to reason!"

Indeed, the longer it continued, the more plain it was
becoming that Samurai, for all his dazzling skill, could
not penetrate the guard of Mars' sword. Samurai would
very shortly look like a colossal fool.




With a Tangled Skein                                                                         275

274

Piers Anthony

You've got two choices, girl, Atropos thought. Either
attack, which means you'll probably kill him at one
stroke, or—

"No!" Clotho cried. She flung away the red sword and
sank to her knees before Samurai. "Take my blood!"

If he strikes, Niobe thought, alarmed, either we'll be
dead, or he'll be ultimately humiliated.

Samurai paused, as surprised as anyone. "You yield?"

"Everything!" Clotho cried, the tears streaming down

her face.

Samurai paused. His fighting rage drained out of him
almost visibly. Indeed, Clotho was a piteous figure of a

woman.

He held his sword to the side. A student hastily came
to take it away. "Then I am satisfied," Samurai said,
extending his hand.

Clotho took it in both her own and kissed it.

The harder they fall. . . Atropos throught wryly.

"That isn't necessary," Samurai said, embarrassed.
"Do not humiliate yourself more than is required." He
drew her back to her feet, then turned and nodded to the
class. Immediately they filed out of the room, each bow-
ing as he or she stepped off the mat.

Clotho found a hanky and dabbed at her face. "I'm
sorry I—"

"Accepted," Samurai said gently.

"I wanted to be liberated, but—"

"Liberation has its appeal, when understood," he said.
"This is, after all, America. I would not have you other
than you are. Will you join me for dinner this evening?"

She smiled. "I will."

They walked to the edge of the mat, bowed as they
stepped off, and smiled at each other.

Samurai glanced at the brown-belt, who remained in
the room, standing beside Mars. "Convey his sword to

the Incarnation of War," Samurai said. "It is a remark-
able weapon."

The brown-belt bowed himself onto the mat and hurried
to pick up the fallen sword. But he was unable to; the
thing seemed anchored in place. He strained to lift it, and
could not.

"Permit me," Mars murmured. He raised his right
hand—and the red sword floated up and across the mat,
dipped momentarily at its edge as if bowing, and moved
to his hand. Mars gravely sheathed it.

"And a remarkable man," Samurai said, exchanging
bows with Mars. Then Mars turned and walked out of the
dojo.

Samurai turned to Clotho. "I regret that I mistook you.
Yet is it acceptable for Fate to—"

Clotho touched his lips with a finger. "I am just a
woman—now."

He nodded. "Tonight, then."

"Tonight."

Clotho walked out of the dojo. Outside, she extended
a thread and ascended.

"But we never got his commitment on the bomb,"
Atropos remembered.

"We shall have it—tonight," Niobe replied. "And, un-
less I mistake Mars, he will give Samurai the secret of
the finger-strike. As a token of esteem, not as a bribe."

"I've got a lot to learn," Clotho said.

And it was so—on all counts.







-13-

COUNTERPLOY

"We needed help on the last one," Niobe said. "Surely

we'll need it on this one too!"

"Who can help us with a Satanist?" Atropos asked.
"My guess would be Gaea. She's generally considered

to be the strongest of the Earthly Incarnations."
"Nature? I thought Time was."
"Chronos has the most potent single instrument, the

Hourglass. But Gaea—" Niobe shrugged. "Let's ask her,

anyway."
Niobe took the body and slid the thread across to

Gaea's vegetable mansion. They landed at the door.

Sometimes it was difficult to reach the Green Mother, but

that depended on the situation. Niobe remembered her

journey with Pacian; Ge had known what she was doing

that time!

That's one fancy treehouse! Atropos thought.
The leafy door opened, and Gaea stood there.
Niobe froze. It was the same Green Mother she had

known a quarter-century ago!

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Piers Anthony                277

"Why, it's Fate!" Gaea exclaimed. Then she squinted.
"But a new Lachesis!"

Gaea didn't recognize her! Of course Niobe knew she
had changed considerably in the intervening period of
mortality, and not for the better; why should anyone rec-
ognize in this dowdy woman the beauty that once had
been? "And a new Clotho," she said. "And Atropos,
too." She changed briefly to the other forms.
Gaea shook her head. "All three at once? Unusual!"
Quickly Niobe explained the circumstances. "Now we
have one more mortal thread to modify," she concluded.
"Because of our inexperience—"

"You seek help," Gaea said. "Very sensible of you.
Come inside a moment while I change."

Inside, Niobe watched while Gaea changed. She did not
do it by removing her leafy green dress; instead she stood
still, and the dress turned yellow with some red; then the
leaves fell off, revealing brown bark beneath. Her hair
turned white. She had progressed seasonally from sum-
mer through fall to winter, complete with snow.

She moved—and the brown corrugations shaped them-
selves into the creases and pockets of a long jacket. The

snow became a white hat; her hair was not, after all, that
far changed.

Gaea brought out a small pair of spectacles, mounted
on a rod at one side. "You will want these, Lachesis."

"A lorgnette? Those haven't been used for a genera-
tion!" Niobe protested. "Anyway, I don't need glasses!"

"Humor me, Lachesis," Gaea said gently.

Niobe shrugged and accepted them. "Then you will
help?"

"Of course, dear. We matrons must support each other.
We can't depend on foundation garments."

Niobe smiled dutifully. Gaea needed no support from
clothing; she could assume any form she chose, young or
old, beautiful or hideous, animal, vegetable or mineral.




278

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With a Tangled Skein

Seldom did she display her power in an obvious manner,
but it was as deep and versatile as that of any Incarnation.
Many mortals thought they could balk her in the short
term, but in the long term she always had her way.

"I am ready," Gaea said. "Take me there, Lachesis."

Niobe took her hand, extended a thread, and slid them
both along it. They arrived at an industrialized section of
Connecticut, near a large mall. They entered and walked
to a small booth set between an ice cream parlor and a
mini-dozen movie theater.

Above the booth was a banner saying TO HELL WITH YOU!
Inside it was a bored-looking woman of about Niobe's
own physical age. "That's the one," Niobe murmured.
"Elsa Mira, Satanist recruiter."

"Well, we shall allow her to recruit us," Gaea agreed.
"Call me Ge; I'll call you Lack." She smiled faintly, as
if the sun were masked by haze, and suddenly Niobe sus-
pected that Gaea did indeed recognize her. But the Green
Mother could keep a secret as well as any creature of the
world.

They approached the booth. "We really aren't inter-
ested in going to Hell," Niobe said. "But in fairness we
thought we'd look at your literature."

"Why, certainly," the woman said, coming alive.
"Hell has had a very bad press, but we are working to
alleviate that." She brought out a colorful brochure.

Niobe looked at the cover. Two cute baby devils were
on it: the Hellfire trademarks. Dee and Dee. One was
male, the other female. As she looked, the male Dee lifted
one little red hand and solemnly beckoned. She was star-
tled, though she knew she shouldn't have been; naturally
the minions of Hell had magic to splurge.

"Perhaps you can read the print more clearly with your
glasses. Lack," Gaea murmured.

"Oh, thank you, Ge," Niobe said. "I keep forgetting."
She raised the lorgnette and peered through the lenses.

She stiffened. Instead of the cute picture, she saw a
lens. She was being recorded on video!

She moved the lorgnette aside. The little devil was
beckoning her again.

Now she realized why Gaea had asked her to use the
glasses. They were enchanted to penetrate illusion! Al-
ready she knew that the Satanists were not merely show-
ing their literature, they were getting a direct line on any-
one who inquired. They were a good deal more
professional than they cared to seem. That lens could be
making a record of the complete encounter, and storing
her picture in a computer file, complete with the retinal
prints. Hell intended to have her number, all the way!

Fortunately, she had never had her retinal prints taken.
She had existed, as a mortal, in the country, where such
things were not common. Hell would not be able to trace
down her true identity by this device.

Gaea opened the brochure. Niobe glanced through the
glasses again, and saw that the pages were mere frames;

the sinister lens remained. But without the glasses, she
saw the inner material: scenes of happy, healthy people
swimming, playing tennis, skiing, and watching the sun-
set. GOTO HELL, the print proclaimed, AND LIVE YOUR AF-
TERLIFE TO THE FULLEST!

"Is there skiing in Hell?" Niobe asked doubtfully. "I
thought it was hot."

"Indeed there is skiing!" the recruiter said encourag-
ingly. "Hell is large; it has climates exactly as the mortal
realm does. Some regions are in perpetual snow."

Actually, Niobe had known that, because of her prior
experience as an Incarnation. She also knew that poor
sinful souls were frozen as solid as spirits could be, in
that snow, and that the only skiers were demons who




280 With a Tangled Skein

delighted in skidding over perpetually horrified frozen
faces. As with many of Hell's claims, the snow was a half-
truth: it existed, but was not used as represented. The
whole of Hell's recruitment campaign was spurious, and
only sadly deluded people could fall for it. Unfortunately,
it was evident that many did.

But she was not here to show off her information about
Hell. She was here to talk Mira out of delivering the bomb
to the UN complex, thus eliminating the last of the po-
tential couriers. She had to act like an ignorant skeptic
until she had a better notion how to achieve her design.

"I don't know," she said. "Skiing, swimming—I
thought Hell was a place of punishment."

"Oh, that's not so!" Mira exclaimed. "Hell is a place
of rehabilitation! The evil-soiled souls are reprocessed to
be good again. There are many incentives for a positive
attitude."

And many tortures for the damned, Atropos thought
sourly.

"But if people aren't good in life, why should they be
good in the Afterlife?" Niobe asked. She knew the an-
swer, but had to play the part.

"Many people don't really think about it," Mira said.
"They just go their way until it's too late. Those are the
ones we are catering to—the ordinary, mixed people who
are too busy to be absolutely good all the time. I mean,
it's a lot of work to be good all the time, and frankly pretty
dull, and probably unnecessary, too. We feel that most
people would really be better off worrying less about the
Afterlife and just getting their mortal lives in shape. Then,
in Hell, they can sort it all out at leisure."

Leisure? Eternity! Atropos snorted mentally. What a
crock!

"But shouldn't they be good in life?" Niobe asked.

Piers Anthony                281

"Well, yes, of course. But it can be very difficult. Take
the man whose wife is ignoring him and won't let him
touch her. But she won't give him a divorce, either. Now
if he finds an attractive young woman who likes him, is
it really wrong for him to have an affair? His soul may
suffer an accumulation of evil, but is it wrong? We Sa-
tanists think we should do what is natural and atone
later."

Niobe hadn't heard this one before. "Are you mar-
ried?" she asked.

Mira laughed. "Me? Of course not! Not anymore! I
wouldn't put up with that sort of—that is, all the ridic-
ulous things men demand. But the principle remains—"

"Pleasure first, mortality last," Niobe finished.

"Anyway," Mira said quickly. "We want you to see
for yourself what kind of place Hell is. Why don't you
come to our demonstration complex?"

"Your what?"

"We have set up a working mini-model of Hell, so that
folk like you can tour it or sample it and see for yourselves
what it offers. We Satanists want to spread the truth about
Hell."

"Well," Niobe said, glancing at Gaea. "1 suppose we
might just look—to be fair."

Mira jumped up. "Right this way! I'll guide you on the
tour myself!"

This was exactly what they wanted: a long enough as-
sociation with the woman to talk her out of what she was
otherwise apt to do.

/ bet they get bonuses/or each recruit they sign, Atro-
pos thought cynically.

Such as a trip to the United Nations building? Clotho
thought. She had been fairly quiet, recovering from her
experience of the prior evening; she was in the first flush
of something like love, and the warmth of it tended to

252 With a Tangled Skein

spill over and buoy the other two Aspects. But she had
not forgotten their mission.

"Keep your glasses handy, dear," Gaea murmured like
a fussy old lady as they followed Mira through the door
in back of the booth.

They found themselves in an elevator. There was a
wrench. Then the door slid open, and they stepped out
into an amusement park. Obviously magic had been used
to transport them to the model Hell; there was no telling
where on Earth it had been constructed.

Niobe stared. Directly ahead was a towering Ferns
wheel, grandly rotating. To one side was a bump-car en-
closure, with children squealing happily as the little ve-
hicles crashed harmlessly into each other. Elsewhere
were miniature choo-choo trains, zoom-rides, and toy air-
planes whirling about a pole. "This is Hell?" Niobe
asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, the top level," Mira said. "Very mild enter-
tainments, for those who are just waiting for friends, or
for the children of those on tour. The ones who really
don't have much sin to indulge."

"What's it like for those who do have significant sin
on their souls?" Gaea asked.

"I'll show you," Mira said eagerly, leading the way to
stairs descending below the pavement. These led to a
large hall, well-lighted, filled with tables. People were
clustered around the tables, intent on what was there.

They approached the nearest. On it was a giant roulette
wheel. "Oh—gambling," Niobe said disapprovingly.

"You don't understand," Mira said. "Watch for a mo-
ment."

They watched. The wheels turned; the ball rolled and
landed in a numbered pocket. A man made an exclamation
of joy. "I won! I won!"

Piers Anthony                283

There was a smattering of applause from the other gam-
blers. The man collected his winnings and bet them on
the next spin. And won again.

"What?" Niobe asked. "Twice in succession? The
odds against that—"

"People can be very fortunate here," Mira said. "They
usually do win."

Gaea nudged her. Niobe lifted the lorgnette and peered
at the scene.

The roulette table was genuine—but little else was.
Most of the players were bored park employees in grubby
uniforms, not the well-dressed visitors they had appeared
to be. There was a control panel at the croupier's place.
When the spin commenced, the croupier's fingers touched
buttons. This time the gambler bet on number 19, and that
was the number the croupier punched. Sure enough, the
ball rolled into that slot. The game was rigged.

Now Niobe looked at the chips the gambler had piled
before him. They were genuine. Where, then, was the
catch? Surely the Satanists were not really going to let a
mark walk out wealthy!

Well, she could inquire, without giving anything away.
"How can you stay in business, if you let people win too
much money?"

"Oh, the chips don't stand for money," Mira said as
they moved on to another table. "They stand for points.
One thousand points entitles the player to enter the next
level, where the real action is."

"But it seems guaranteed he'll make it."

"No, it's not guaranteed. Only those people we feel are
suitable prospects are admitted."

"Then you admit it's fixed!"

Mira turned a surprised gaze on her. "My dear, what
do you expect of Hell? Of course it's fixed!"

"Ask a silly question," Gaea murmured.




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With a Tangled Skein 285

Piers Anthony

"But you're giving us a tour, and we're not gambling,"
Niobe persisted.

"Precisely. If you don't gamble, you can't win. That's
the fundamental principle. You are merely looking—but
I'm sure that after you've seen what we have to offer,
you'll be eager to participate."
"But isn't there an admittance price?"
"I am glad you asked that question," Mira said. "Now
we are very candid about this. Everything is quite clear.
To participate in our entertainments you must sign a stan-
dard contract—"
"In blood?"

"It's only a pinprick. You'll hardly feel it."
"A contract saying what?"

"Well, everyone knows what Hell requires. It isn't as
if we're concealing anything."
"You're after my soul!"

"Merely a portion of it, since this is only a model of
Hell. Technically, all we require is a nominal attribution
of evil. Only one percent, actually. If you are seventy
percent good, our contract would cause you to be sixty-
nine percent good. That's hardly enough to cost you any-
thing in the Afterlife, or to change your designation. Con-
sidering what we offer, it's a bargain."

They were at the next table. This one was for blackjack.
Again, the mark was winning; again, the enchanted lenses
showed that the game was rigged. Hell wanted the marks

to win.

All of the tables were like that. The methods of gam-
bling differed, but the system was the same.
"Well, I never did like to gamble," Niobe said.
"But all of life is a gamble," Mira said enthusiastically.
"Still, there are other routes to Hell. Let me show you
the next level." She led the way to another set of stairs.
Niobe paused. "I see the others use the elevator."
"Well, yes, but they have to sign for it."

"Sign for it?"

"Another contract," Gaea said.

"Merely an amendment," Mira put in quickly.

"Another one percent of their souls?" Niobe asked. "1
thought that was a general admittance fee. What's the
point in gambling for points, if you still have to pay to
reach the next stage?"

"Well, the general admittance fee gets a person into the
park, and then he plays to determine his eligibility to ad-
vance to other levels, but that's a matter of qualification,
not payment. If there weren't qualification, some unsuit-
able people would get into inappropriate levels, and if
there weren't payment, we would not, as you pointed out
a moment ago, be able to stay in business very long. It's
a dual system, perfectly straightforward. Naturally the
deeper levels have to be financed, too."

"Just how many levels are there?"

"Well, I really don't know the exact number. But no
one goes to them all.''

Because, Niobe realized, at one percent per level, that
person would lose more than half his soul before he com-
pleted the experience, tipping him into Hell for real.

What a system! Atropos thought.

What a Hellish system, indeed! Only a fool would fall
into that trap—but there were plenty of fools in the pro-
cess.

The next level seemed to be a monstrous warehouse
for money. Tables were piled with currency of many na-
tions, with ingots of gold and silver and platinum, and
with bins of precious stones. Wealth galore!

Drawn as by a magnet, Niobe went to a vat of sparkling
rubies. "May I?" she asked.

"By all means examine the merchandise," Mira said
generously. "Of course you can't keep any of it, as a
tourist, but if you decide to join as a participant-




286

With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 287

For one or two percent of the goodness in her soul!
Niobe grimaced. Still, the gems were lovely!

She picked up a ruby. It was a faceted stone, a deep
and glorious red, just about the most beautiful thing she
had seen in her life. She turned it between her fingers,
half-entranced by its luster. She began to understand the
nature of the temptation. Such a fine gem, for so little

soul!

"Perhaps if you examined it more closely," Gaea re-
marked.

Oh. Niobe lifted the lorgnette and looked again.
The ruby was nothing more than a cherry pit.
Niobe made her face a mask, lest she give herself away.
All the rubies were cherrystones! The diamonds of the
next table were rough lumps of quartz.

Morbidly curious, she verified one of the stacks of gold
coins. It was made of round slices of carrot.

Now Clotho had to laugh. Carrots—instead of carats!
That Satan had a devilish sense of humor!
"Devilish," Niobe agreed.
"What's that?" Mira asked.

"Devilishly tempting," Niobe said. She moved on to a
table of green bills.
They were leaves of lettuce.

Lettuce! Atropos thought, mentally doubling over with
mirth. Literal lettuce! That Satan's a card!

"Yes, anyone would be tempted by that," Mira said,
mistaking the nature ofNiobe's smile. "It was this room
that convinced me to join. When I saw all the jewelry—"
She gestured to a table strung with elaborate and pre-
cious necklaces.

"But you're not a player, are you?" Niobe asked.
"No, I'm Staff. But I started as a player. Then, when
I wanted too much—" She bit her lip. "That is—"

So she had been seduced into giving up too much of
her goodness! The operation of the system was becoming
clearer. Just as a drug-user became an addict, and the
addict had to become a dealer to support his habit, so
those who flirted with the trinkets of Hell got drawn ever
more deeply in. It was, as Mira said, all perfectly open—
except that the actual goods were fakes. Anyone who be-
lieved the Father of Lies deserved what he got!

That brought her up short. If the marks deserved to go
to Hell for their greed—wasn't Satan actually performing
a service to the Cosmos in ridding the world of them?

But she knew the answer. Satan did not rid the world
of them; he used his converts to facilitate his further dirty
work. All the shills at the gaming tables upstairs—all ov-
erextended gamblers who now had to work for the house.
How much joy did they have here, today?

And this is only a prettified model of Hell, Atropos
thought. Think what the real thing must be like!

It was indeed a sobering thought.

"I—know that jewelry will not cure what's wrong with
me," Niobe said, letting her tummy sag. "I have eaten
too much, for too many years."

"Then you will love the feasting level!" Mira ex-
claimed. "Right this way!"

The next level down was indeed a temptation to a
woman who liked to eat. It was an enormous self-service
restaurant. The tables were piled with pastries and cakes
and fancy desserts. Many women were here, and not a
few men and children. All were seated at tables, stuffing
themselves with their favorite repasts.

Niobe paused near a fat man who was s cramming cake
into his face. "But this is horribly fattening!" she pro-
tested.

"No it isn't" Mira said, pleased. "Our food is abso-
lutely nonfattening and nonfilling. The taste and texture




288

Piers Anthony                289

With a Tangled Skein

are there, but all the calories are empty—I mean there
are no calories. You can eat all you want and never be
satiated."

Now that's a kind of Hell in itself, if the fools only
realized, Atropos thought.

Endless stuffing without consequence. Niobe could ap-
preciate the temptation, but knew that a person did not
have to flirt with Hell for it; regular food companies were
advertising ONE CALORIE PER BOTTLE, making a seeming
virtue of both gluttony and vacuous food—while else-
where in the world, people were starving. A little self-
discipline would be better.

Then she lifted the lorgnette. And made a stifled squeak
of revulsion.

It wasn't cake the man was eating. It was moldy gar-
bage—literally. Most of it managed to shunt itself down
his face and front instead of going into his mouth, which
explained why he wasn't getting full, but still it was an
appalling mess.

Mira caught her reaction. "What's the matter?"
Niobe pondered momentarily, then handed the glasses
to her.

The woman looked through them—and gagged.
"You didn't know?" Niobe asked.
"I—this can't be—it's horrible!" Mira exclaimed. She
walked to the next table, where a child was swilling ice
cream sodas, and looked through the glasses. Her face
turned greenish.

Gaea took the lorgnette from her hand before her slack-
ening grip let the glasses drop to the floor. She returned
the magical instrument to Niobe.

Niobe looked at the boy's drink. It was a swirling con-
coction of sewage. As with the man, most of the stuff
dribbled down the lad's chin instead of being swallowed,
but some did get in. Probably just enough to feed him.

"It's a lie!" Mira gasped. "Magic lenses that dis-
tort—"

"No lie," Gaea said. "I am able to see the truth without
glasses. The food is garbage. The jewelry on the other
floor was junk."

"But I've got a pass to eat all I want—it's one of the
benefits of being Staff—" Mira turned and vomited on
the floor beside the boy. It hardly mattered, for the area
was already littered with garbage.

Niobe wrenched the lorgnette away from her eyes. She
saw Mira standing by the table, eyes downcast as if glanc-
ing approvingly at the boy. There was no sign of vomit.
Still, she did not look well.

After a moment the woman recovered herself some-
what. "Where did you get these glasses?"

Again, Niobe considered rapidly. "From—Nature."

"The—the Incarnation of Nature?"

"Yes. She thought I would need them, here."

"I—may I borrow them a moment more?"

Niobe gave her the glasses. "When you're satisfied, I
would like to talk to you."

Mira hurried to another stairway. "There's one level
I've never indulged myself in, but I just want to see—"

They followed her down the stairs, almost running.
Niobe was surprised to learn that the woman really had
not known about the deceit, but realized it made sense.
Satan could accomplish much more evil, much more ef-
ficiently, if his own helpers were deluded. How many
would consider an all-you-can-eat pass to be an induce-
ment, if they knew the food was garbage?

That Satan, he's one sharp liar, Atropos agreed.

The new level appeared to be an elaborate brothel. Ex-
traordinarily voluptuous young women in scanty clothing
danced slowly on a stage at one side, their breasts and
hips moving suggestively. This did not do anything special
for Niobe, other than cause her a gentle wash of jealousy




290 With a Tangled Skein

and regret for her own beauty lost, but she saw the effect
it had on two men just emerging from the elevator. Both
charged forward, their mouths literally drooling.

What pigs men are! Clotho thought. Then she recon-
sidered. Except for Samurai . . .

Mira was peering through the magic lenses. "No," she
said unbelievingly. "They wouldn't!"

One man dashed up to the stage. "Hey, honey, you for
sale?" he demanded, groping for her. The woman gazed
down at him, a languorous smile crossing her bright lips.
Then she jumped down to the floor, her anatomy bobbing
in several places as she landed. She took the man's hand
and led him to a curtained alcove. Evidently she was not
for sale; she was free.

Now Niobe could hear urgent grunting from other al-
coves. It seemed there were a number of clients busy.

Mira shook her head. "They are—they really are!" she
exclaimed. Then she started laughing. "And to think my
ex-husband, the pig, sold his soul for a permanent pass
to this level!" Her laughter became so violent that Gaea
had to take the lorgnette from her again.

Niobe, perplexed, took the glasses. She could under-
stand how plain or even homely women could be re-
cruited, just as Mira had been, to be enhanced by illusion
to serve the passions of potential recruits—but what was
so funny about that? It was, at best, sad.

She lifted the lorgnette. And gasped.

There were no young women dancing on the stage. It
was a corral of pigs. Genuine swine, rooting about in the
muck.

And Mira's ex-husband had a permanent pass.

Who says there's no justice in Hell? Atropos thought.
/ know some men I'd send here!

Mira sobered enough to recover her bearings. "You're
no ordinary prospects!" she said. accusingly. "You knew
what this was like—better than I did. Who are you?"

Piers Anthony                291

It was time for truth. They sat down on one of the few
clean places on the fence of the sty, and talked. "I am
Fate," Niobe said. "I came here to talk to you, and to
persuade you—"

"Fate! An Incarnation!"

"And this is Gaea, who lent me the lorgnette."

"Nature! No wonder she doesn't need glasses to see
the truth!"

"We want to persuade you not to do an errand for
Satan."

Mira laughed again, this time mirthlessly. "If Satan
wants an errand, I'll do the errand. My soul is already
lost!"

"It's not lost," Gaea said.

"Don't you understand? I became Staff because I had
no soul left to give! They were going to cut me off the
food—"

She put her hand to her mouth, realizing. "Oh!"
Gaea gazed intently at her. "Your soul has been cor-
rupted, Elsa Mira, but not that far; there is twenty-four

percent good remaining."

"No! There is none! I used it all up, and—you don't
know how addictive unmitigated pleasure is! I just
couldn't stop! I—"

"I do know," Gaea said. "It is my business to know."
Mira stared at her. "Are you really Nature?"
"I really am. And my companion really is Fate. We can
redirect your thread, if you will cooperate to this extent."

"I don't believe it! I kept count of every percentage
point!"

Gaea frowned. "You doubt the power of Nature at your
peril, woman." She made a gesture—and abruptly the
room darkened. Wind swirled. Rain came down, first
lightly, then in a pelting torrent. The pigs squealed, en-
joying it. In a moment the three of them were soaked.




292 With a Tangled Skein

Gaea gestured again. The chamber shook. Now the pigs
squealed in fright.

"An earthquake!" Mira screamed. "Let me out of
here!"

Gaea held up her hand. The quaking stopped and the
rain vanished. Sunlight streamed warmly down.

"But we're underground!" Mira protested. "The sun
can't shine here!"

"Your fear is gone." Gaea told her. "You are happy."

Mira smiled. "I'm happy!" she agreed.

"Angry," Gaea said.

Sudden rage twisted the woman's face. "When I think
what Satan told me—"

"Calm."

And the woman was calm. "I believe you now. Nature.
I am amazed at your power, right here in an annex of
Hell! Do I really have a quarter of my goodness left?"

"You really do. You have seen how Satan deceives
both the clients and the staff members here. Why
shouldn't he also deceive you about the percentage of evil
charged to your soul? This is much more efficient for him;

he caused you to become a creature of his directives when
you did not need to be. You can still go to Heaven, Elsa
Mira."

"No," the woman said sadly. "I'm still seventy-six
percent evil, and I have no way to recover my goodness.
I'm still addicted to foolish pleasure."

Again Gaea gestured. "Not any more."

Mira touched her stomach. "The hunger is gone! I'm
not famished!"

"You will still have to earn your way by proper living
and good deeds," Niobe told her. Niobe herself was im-
pressed by the demonstration of Nature's power she had
just witnessed; Gaea was indeed the strongest of the
Earthly Incarnations. "But that is the only way any per-

Piers Anthony                293

son gets to Heaven. God does not grant free passes. You
do have time, if you start now."

"But I'm a Satanist! I signed in blood! Many times! I
don't belong to any decent church."

"The contract is meaningless," Gaea said. "It is only
a device to convince you that you are committed." She
glanced up as another man came for another pig. The pig
snorted and led him to an alcove. "It is your deeds that
define you, and your thoughts, and your intentions, noth-
ing else."

It was like dawn breaking. "You mean—?"
"Give your heart to God," Niobe said. "Your soul will
follow."

"Oh, I will, I will! I don't want to go to Hell! It's much
worse there than it is here! Only I never dared admit the
truth—"

They got up and walked toward the stairs. "Satan will
ask you to take a package to—"

"Oh, the psychic stink bomb to the United Nations,"
Mira agreed. "Tomorrow. I already have the bomb in my
cell. I agreed to do that days ago."

"You must not do it!" Niobe said.

"Of course I won't do it, now!" Mira agreed. "I know
it's an evil deed!"

They reached the stairs. "I will show you how to cor-
rect your course with minimum complication," Gaea said.
"First we must establish you away from this complex—"
They moved up the stairs.

Niobe lingered for a moment more. Now that the job
was done, she found herself morbidly intrigued by the
variety of illusion. It wasn't merely deception, it was utter
degradation. Any man who later found out what he had
done here would be too embarrassed to file a complaint.
Thus Satan's corrupting operation continued. Truly, the
ways of Evil were intricate!




294             With a Tangled Skein

She turned again to mount the stairs. Satan stood there.
"So the prying Incarnation is here," he said, sneering
smoke from his nostrils. "Corrupting My employees."

"You told me I had zero goodness left!" Mira cried
accusingly from above.

"Don't believe everything the Father of Lies tells you,
you credulous slut," Satan said.

"I resign from this institution! I'll do your bidding no

more!"

"It is academic. You are fired. You never were much

use anyway."

"Oh!" Mira exclaimed. She wheeled about and pro-
ceeded on up the stairs with Gaea.

Satan contemplated Niobe. His eyes were like small
red fires and his horns steamed. "So now you have nul-
lified the last of the four, you meddling frump," he said.
"You think you have won."

"Evil is never truly defeated," Niobe said grimly.

"This time you haven't even started!" he said, his body
smoking. Niobe raised the lorgnette, but Satan was un-
changed. He was appearing in his true form. "You
haven't saved your precious United Nations."

"Out with it, you old rascal," Niobe said. "You set

this up."

"I set up four threads for Fate to unravel," Satan said.
"Now you have used up your time on them, and cannot
stop the delivery of the bomb tomorrow."
"But who's going to carry it?" Niobe asked.
"I have a hundred other carriers. Did you think only

four could do it?"

"But the Purgatory Computer—"

"Listed hundreds for you."

"It listed only four!"

"What you perceived was only four, old canine," Satan
said. He gestured, and the image of a computer screen

Piers Anthony                295

appeared in the air beside him. On it were the four names.
"You supposed that was the real presentation."

Niobe struck her forehead with the heel of her hand.
"Illusion! In Purgatory!" Of course it was in Satan's
power to distort the spoken and printed material the com-
puter worked with; an illusion was a form of lie, and the
lie was his specialty.

Gaea would have known, Atropos thought. But she
wasn't there.

Satan's illusions are everywhere, Clotho agreed.
"The penalty of being a novice," Niobe muttered.
"Had you realized how many there were," Satan said,
"you would have known that individual effort would
never work. You would have found a more general way,
such as alerting the UN security police, who would have
set up psychic sensors to prevent any such thing from
getting through."

"I feel very stupid," Niobe said ruefully.
"You're not stupid, merely inexperienced," Satan
said. "The stupidity was in your predecessor trio, who
allowed a change of all Three Aspects in the same week.
I had really expected better from them."
The pig! Clotho thought vehemently. He set it up!
Niobe sighed. "It's not too late. We can still alert the
UN."

"Maybe," Satan said. "It's a chance. But why take it?
I can offer you a better deal."
"You're not to be trusted!" Niobe said.
"Don't depend on trust," Satan said. "Depend on com-
mon sense. If I bomb the UN, there will be a very pretty
tangle of Fate's threads, leading to much disruption in the
world. But no one can know exactly where that disruption
will lead. Sometimes what seems good turns out evil in
the long run, like the Catholic Inquisition or the Nazi SS
cadre. Sometimes what seems evil turns out good, like
the Black Plague."




296 With a Tangled Skein

"The Black Plague!" Niobe exclaimed. "What good
did that do?"

"It alleviated the European population pressure, de-
cimated the labor force, and so paved the way for the end
of the feudal system," Satan said. "You can't keep work-
ers in peonage when there are so few that their value is
great."

Niobe suspected that Gaea's predecessors had had their
own reasons for spawning the Black Plague. But it was
an interesting notion. "What's your point?"

"The point is that this whole UN business is a gamble,"
Satan said. "It might cost Me more than it is worth. Only
a fool gambles when he doesn't have to."

"Many people are gambling on your gaming floor!"

"I rest My case. You do not see Me at the tables."

"What's your pitch, Satan?" she asked gruffly.

"You want to avoid a big stink. I want merely a small,
harmless shift in one of Fate's threads. It seems to Me
that we might reasonably deal."

"I won't deal with Evil!" Niobe cried.

"Suit yourself," Satan said. "Be sure to hold your nose
as you pass the UN complex tomorrow—not that it will
do much good."

He had her there. "What deal are you proffering?"

"I will cancel the stink in exchange for a simple, shift
in employment in one person. No harm done to her, no
evil on her soul, just an inconsequential change."

"If it's inconsequential, why do you want it?" Niobe
demanded.

"Inconsequential to you; important to Me. This woman
is to go into politics soon. I would prefer to have one of
My own in the office she seeks. Most politicians are cor-
rupt anyway, so it hardly matters to you. I promised this
minion—well, never mind. The point is, it's something
I'm willing to trade for. Are you interested?"

"I don't trust this," Niobe said.

Piers Anthony                 297

Still, let's see how it looks, Atropos thought. We don't
want to hit the UN tangle if we can avoid it.
"Who is this person?"

"A young woman, hardly more than a girl, of no con-
sequence, really."

"So you say. Name the woman."

"Oh, she's named Moon, or some such," Satan said
carelessly. "It hardly matters."

"How do you expect me to adjust her thread if you
don't tell me exactly who she is?" Niobe demanded,
aware that she was sliding toward agreement.

He's up to something, Atropos thought. / wish Gaea
had stayed; she's one savvy lady!

Satan paused, touching his beard as he concentrated.
"She's actually the child of a former Incarnation, so-
maybe she had delusions of grandeur. Name's—let me
see—Kaftan."

Niobe stiffened. It was Luna he was trying to elimi-
nate—the one the prophecy said was destined to be the
savior of man! Now it was clear that this whole UN tangle
was merely a false issue, intended to make his supposedly
offhand compromise seem worthwhile. In fact, the man-
ner he had arranged to have all three Aspects of Fate
change together now made sense. All three of the prior
Aspects would have known about Luna, so they had had
to be eliminated. Satan was playing a very long-range
game!

But she would play along, just to get a better picture
of his intent before she balked it. The three prior Aspects
had chosen her to return because they had known Satan
was plotting something devious; they had chosen better
than they knew! But she wanted to be certain she knew
the whole plot.

"There must be several women with that surname,"
Niobe said, feigning perplexity. "What's her lineage?"




298           With a Tabled Skein

"Oh, not much. One of My minions spotted her some
time back. Two girls who look like twins, but a generation
apart. I want the one who's descended from the former
Incarnation. The one with the darker hair."

Again Niobe stiffened. Had Satan made a mistake? Her
granddaughter Luna was destined to save man; Niobe's
daughter Orb was destined to become an Incarnation, if
the prophecy was correct. Of course Satan was a busy
entity; he probably hadn't paid much attention to Niobe's
mortal affairs. Obviously he did not recognize her now.
For the first time she blessed the loss of her youthful
beauty! Perhaps the demon who had sneaked into the Hall
of the Mountain King and activated the thief defense had
confused the two girls—easy enough to do!—and re- ;

ported Luna as the buckwheat-honey girl, and Satan had
never thought to verify the identification. Luna was in
fact the clover-honey girl, slightly lighter in hair hue.
"You find this unreasonable?" Satan asked, noting her

silence.
Niobe sighed. "Gaea told me not to trust you. You're

up to something."

"My dear associate, there is no call to trust Me! You
can handle it yourself! Simply give Me your word that if
no bomb goes off at the UN, you will modify the girl's
thread to shunt her away from politics."

Niobe tried to decide whether Satan was confused, or
had some double devious plot in mind. "No harm will
come to the girl?"

"I promise never to harm the girl whose thread you
change," Satan said magnanimously.

"But your promise is worthless!"

"That is true. I am the Father of Lies," he agreed with
pride. "But My word is sacred when properly given."

"How is it properly given?"

"In blood, of course."

"You have blood?"

Piers Anthony                 299

He laughed. "Of course I have blood! I'm an Incar-
nation, like you!"

Niobe remembered. In her prior Incarnation she had
learned things about the other Incarnations, and one of
them was this: that Satan's blood did bind him, and that
the word of one Incarnation to another was inviolate. In
this particular case, she could trust even the Father of
Lies.

"Then we shall swear on blood," she decided.

Are you crazy, woman? Atropos demanded, like a con-
science. That's your flesh and blood you're sacrificing in
that girl!

And the salvation of man, Clotho added. The two of
them had picked up the information from Niobe's strong
conscious thoughts.

"Excellent," Satan said. He held up his hand, and
Niobe drew a needle from a reserve in her clothing and
pricked his thumb so that a drop of blood welled out. Then
she did the same for her own hand. The blood of Incar-
nations could not be shed by anyone, mortal or immortal,
without consent, except perhaps in the case ofThanatos'
change of office. Satan had agreed to have his blood shed,
and so had she—for this occasion only.

"An oath between Incarnations," Niobe said. "Sealed
in blood. You will spare the UN and respect the life of
that woman, and I will adjust the thread of the life of the
darker-haired descendent of Niobe Kaftan so that she
never enters politics."

"An oath, agreed," Satan said. They shook their blood-
ied hands.

"I hope it's worth it," Niobe muttered, worrying what
mischief Satan might try to do to Orb, despite his oath.
There were ways to make a person miserable without
doing actual harm. Yet the language was broad and the
term "respect" covered a lot—especially considering the
relevance of the prophecy. This oath was merely a step




300 With a Tangled Skein

in the implementation of that prophecy. She was not com-
pletely easy about it, but thought she had done right in a
difficult situation.

"It is for Me," Satan said. "Considering that the matter
is academic anyway."

"Academic?"

"Chronos, curse his backward hide, acted on his own,
and warned the UN security police about the bomb. They
are installing psychic shields already."

"You knew that?" she demanded, outraged. "You
cheated!"

"Hardly. I agreed to spare the UN, and Niobe's non-
political offspring. They will be spared." Then Satan did
a double-take. "How did you know that name 'Niobe'?
I never uttered it."

"Satan, it is my business to know. The threads—"

But he was already making the connection. "You—I
thought you looked faintly familiar! You are Niobe—once
Clotho!"

Niobe shrugged. "Now I am Lachesis. But I will see
that my mortal daughter Orb never enters politics. An
oath is an oath."

"Orb? I meant Luna!"

"Oh, is the matter academic?" she asked sweetly. "1
swore to keep my darker-haired descendent free of pol-
itics."

Satan considered. "You came back—to deceive Me!"

"Close enough." Niobe shrugged. "Had you specified
that it was Luna whom you—"

She expected an explosion, but Satan only nodded.
"Sometimes the Father of Deceit is hoist with his own
petard. I congratulate you, Niobe, on an excellent coun-
terploy."

"That is a compliment indeed, coming from you."

Piers Anthony                 301

"But now I know you, and I shall not be deceived again.
There are other ways." He vanished.

Niobe was not reassured. That had been too easy. Yet
how else could she have played it? She extended a thread
and slid toward home.







14

BRIBE

Back in the Abode, they rested, then returned to the rou-
tine. They had indeed foiled Satan, for the UN was not
bombed. Perhaps, as Satan had claimed, the matter was
academic—but only because Chronos had been alerted
by their reaction and joined in himself. Since he lived
backward, his subsequent action would have occurred be-
fore their conversation, but—well, that problem had been
dealt with. Niobe's daughter and granddaughter would
continue their lives unobstructed; the existing course of

their threads was unchanged.

What a stroke of luck it had been that Niobe had re-
turned as Lachesis to deal with this particular matter! No
one else would have known about the two fair moons, and
been able to divert Satan's thrust into a harmless channel.

Yet was it coincidence—or was there a deeper current
of Fate that transcended the efforts even of the Incar-
nations? If so, what was the origin of that current?

"God," Atropos said.

302

Piers Anthony                303

There it was. God honored the Covenant by not inter-
fering in the affairs of mortals, while Satan chronically
cheated. Evidently Satan had not signed that one in blood.
But if God guided the larger pattern, all of Satan's mach-
inations would became—academic.

Was her return merely part of God's will—or was it
true coincidence?

"We'll never know, for sure," Clotho said.

With that, Niobe had to be satisfied.

Niobe now worked with Chronos more than she had as
Clotho. True, she had had a long-term backward affair
with the earlier Chronos, but that had been on a different
level. She suspected, by the way this Chronos glanced at
this Clotho, that there would be something of the sort
again, but not for some time, and perhaps not with this
particular Clotho. The youngest Aspect of Fate seemed
to be a magnet for male attentions, whoever and when-
ever. But the main business was between Chronos and
Lachesis. Only he could locate the specific chronology
for the complex interactions of the threads. His staff and
Fate's staff coordinated the great majority of events com-
petently enough, but there was a constant development
of situations that required the attention of the Incarna-
tions themselves.

It was during one such session that Chronos mentioned
another thing that alerted her. "Periodically Satan has
opportunity to free a few demons from Hell," he re-
marked. "I don't know what governs this, and it happens
infrequently, but when a demon is freed, there is always
mischief in the mortal realm."

"Even the spirit of a demon is bad," Niobe agreed.

"Ah, then you know the nature of the problem! I re-
member when I had to run the world backward to elimi-
nate—but of course that hasn't happened yet, for you.
But it seems that such an occasion is about to happen
again—has already happened, in your frame. I suspect it




304 With a Tangled Skein

behooves us to verify exactly what mischief is being done,
this time."

"Can't you tell, from your past?"

"That's the odd thing. There doesn't seem to be any
effect. Yet Satan never lets such an opportunity pass un-
fulfilled."

"No mischief?" she asked. "That is suspicious! What
mischief could Satan do that you would not be aware of?"

"Something of limited scope," he said. "Or something
subtle."

"If it's too limited or subtle to affect the balance of
good and evil in the world, it's too limited to be worth
his while," Niobe said. "I'm sure he wouldn't waste a
valuable demon on anything genuinely minor." She re-
membered the various demonic attacks on her own fam-
ily. "There has to be something."

"Perhaps something that manifests after my term
began," Chronos said. "That way I would not know of
it. Satan is adept at sleepers."

"Yes! Luna is supposed to be the salvation of man some
time in the future, perhaps twenty years hence. Satan has
enormous cunning and patience; he can afford to wait, to
nullify your perception. There must be something the
demon does now that will show up then."

"He has done that sort of thing," Chronos agreed.
"Never that long-term, in my experience, but of course
I foiled the shorter-term efforts. With difficulty, I confess.
It was quite wearing; if it hadn't been for your support
and Clotho's—I mean this one's successor—I might have
given up."

Niobe chose to ignore the remark about Clotho's suc-
cessor, and hoped Clotho had not picked it up; none of
them wanted to know the times of their departures from
office, voluntary as they might be. "That must be it. What
could a demon do today, that wouldn't take effect for
twenty years? A time bomb?"

Piers Anthony                305

"Such devices are notoriously unreliable. More likely
it would be some kind of change in personnel somewhere,
so that someone would not be available to do something
to oppose Satan in that time."

"We have pretty well safeguarded Luna," Niobe said.
"So I don't think the demon can touch her. She's the only
truly critical person I know of."

"At one point, Satan sent a demon to nullify the
accidental poisoning of the senator she replaced, so
that—"

"Wait, wait, Chronos! You're talking of the future! I
wish you wouldn't do that. Just speak in generalities, if
you please."

"Sorry. My point is that if Satan can affect people Luna
interacts with, he can affect her indirectly. If she is to be
pivotal in a political sense, the change of other personnel
might transfer the pivot to another person."

"Now I understand. You say she's to become a sen-
ator?"

"Yes, if you don't mind that information. A good one."

"So the Senate is the likely arena for—whatever it is?"

"I would say so."

"Then I'd-better check potential changes in the makeup
of the Senate. I'm learning how to read the threads better,
so I should be able to do this more efficiently than I did
for the stink-bomb carriers. Did I thank you for your effort
there?"

"Stink bomb? Oh, there was something in an alternate
reality. The UN?"

"That's right—if I thanked you last month, you
wouldn't know it now!"

"I'm sure you did what was proper—and I will too."
"Well, thank you anyway—for that and this."
She left the mansion and, as usual, took time out before
returning to her Abode, so as not to meet her self of the
immediate past; that was always unsettling. She had done




With a Tangled Skein

306

it on occasion by prearrangement during the time of the
child-Chronos, and that had been interesting, but she was
too busy for that sort of thing now. She slid her thread
down to pay a brief call on Luna, just to advise her of
the current situation. She hadn't seen the young woman
since assuming the Aspect of Lachesis, so it really was

time.

She landed at the door of what turned out to be a rather
elegant fenced estate guarded by two fierce griffins. When
they menaced her, she slid through them on a thread,
showing them what they were dealing with.

The door opened, and there stood Luna. "My dear!"
Niobe exclaimed. "What have you done with your hair?"

"Grandma!" Luna exclaimed. "Come in!"

They had a nice visit, in the course of which Niobe
learned that Luna had used a spell when she moved to
America to darken her hair to chestnut brown. "My father
insisted,"" she said. "I really don't know why."

Niobe remembered Satan's confusion, supposing Luna
was the one with the darker hair. Satan had seen her more
recently than Niobe had! "I believe I understand why,"
she murmured. Her son theMagician had really been on

the job!

In due course she kissed her granddaughter adieu and
slid home. She had serious business to attend to.

She checked the skein, searching out the threads of
current senators. Of course there would be many changes
in twenty years, so nothing much should show. But—

She was disappointed. She started with the youngest,
who would be most likely to remain for another twenty
years or more, therefore the most likely targets for Satan's
effort. After all, what use to corrupt a senator who would
not be there for the payoff? But one after the other, the
threads were normal. None of them had been touched by
the distinctive stigmatum of Satan's influence.

Piers Anthony                 307

"Well, it was worth checking," she said. "It was just
a wild guess anyway."

"Why not check the old ones?" Atropos asked.
"They'd be replaced anyway, by then."
"Check them anyway. I've got a hunch."
Niobe shrugged and checked the thread of the oldest
senator. She stared. There was the kink of Satan!

She checked another old one. There was another stig-
matum. Satan had definitely influenced these men!

"But it doesn't make sense!" Niobe protested. "One
of these men is seventy-six years old now, and in failing
health; there's no way he's going to make it another
twenty years!"

"Unless he gets a youth potion," Atropos replied.

"A youth potion!" Suddenly it made sense! Trust an
old woman to think of that! An old, corrupt man would
gladly give his soul for that, figuring he was going to Hell
anyway. Satan, in effect, could be offering these men
twenty more years of life, in exchange for their support
at the critical moment. Since they would otherwise be
replaced by younger and perhaps more God-fearing men,
it was to Satan's interest to do this.

Luna was being bypassed. That could not be allowed.

She checked more threads. The four oldest senators
were kinked; the fifth and sixth weren't. "The demon
hasn't finished making the bribes!" she said. "We're not
too late to cut short its activity!"

"I don't know about tangling with a demon," Clotho
said. "Samurai's teaching me self-defense, but he says it
won't work against magic, and a demon can't be killed
by mortal means."

"Of course it can!" Atropos said. "Just sprinkle some
holy water on it."

Niobe agreed. "And of course we are invulnerable to
injury, as an Incarnation. Neither mortal nor demon can
shed our blood unless we concur."




With a Tangled Skein

308

They fetched a vial of holy water, then slid down to the
senator's residence. As seemed to be customary, the sen-
ator had feathered his own nest considerably; it was an
elegant estate, with a broad expanse of green lawn, sculp-
tured bushes, and assorted outbuildings surrounding the
central mansion.

There was no physical barrier to admission, but a yel-
low line had been painted around the senator's property.
Magic, Atropos thought darkly.

Niobe walked on along the walk, knowing that no magic
could harm an Incarnation. This was one of the greatest
advantages of her prior experience: she could proceed
with confidence because she knew her powers. Had there
been three new Aspects of Fate, Satan would surely have
convinced them that they were physically and magically
vulnerable, and gained considerable advantage. Thanatos
had mentioned being worked over that way by the Father
of Lies, until at last he had realized the truth. Niobe re-
membered how close Satan had come to convincing her
to resign her office, the first time in the Void. There were
so many forms a lie could take, and Satan practiced them

all!

As she crossed the yellow line, there was an alarm. A
cloud of birds took off from the roof of the house and
came toward her. They seemed to recognize her as an
intruder, for they didn't hesitate; they folded their wings
and dived like little hunting-hawks.

Ooo! Clotho thought, mentally ducking. But Niobe
merely flung out a loop of thread, and another intersecting
it at right angles, defining a sphere about her body. The
birds darted into this sphere and abruptly slowed. They
lost strength, being unable to penetrate to her body, no
matter how hard they flew.

Like the tatami! Clotho thought. She had been picking
up martial-arts terms during her association with Samurai.
The mat is soft, but it breaks the fall without injury.

Piers Anthony                309

"Exactly," Niobe murmured. "There is nothing more
subtle but certain than the web of Fate. No mortal crea-
ture can avoid it or nullify it." She walked on, and after
a while the birds gave up and returned to their roosts on
the roof.

Nice estate, Atropos thought. / wouldn't mind working
in a place like this.

You're no servant! Clotho thought angrily. You're a
free woman!

Of course I am, girl—in my mind, Atropos agreed. But
in the real world, I always did have to earn my living and
I never was ashamed of that.

Niobe smiled ruefully. She had been neither liberated
nor servant, but had partaken somewhat of both. Unlike
Clotho, she had married the man her father chose for her;

unlike Atropos, she had never had to go to work for an-
other person. Yet had she rebelled a little more, initially,
she might readily have gone Clotho's route—and then
would have had to follow Atropos' route. It was still bas-
ically a man's world.

But we still spin the threads of life! Clotho put in.

And we still cut them! Atropos added.

"Well, we are Woman," Niobe said, smiling. "We pos-
sess the sort of power no man can deny."

As she approached the house, there was a scream from
a tree. It was partly like that of a great bird, partly like
that of a shrewish woman, and wholly horrible. Then a
great, dark shape rose from the tree, flapping ponderous
wings.

That's a damned harpy! Atropos thought.
"Oops," Niobe murmured. "The magic threads won't

stop that; it's immortal."

Maybe I can use self-defense, Clotho thought.
"No good. You could strike it or throw it aside, but its

filth would still get on you. It can't actually hurt us, even




320 With a Tangled Skein

if we do nothing, but it could make us sickeningly un-
clean."

The ugly creature lumbered toward them through the
air. It had the face and dugs of an old woman, and the
body of a vulture. The close-set, wrinkle-shrouded eyes
peered out at Niobe. For a moment the harpy hovered,
surprised, a perfumed stench washing down from the
wingbeats.

"What are you doing here, Lachesis?" it demanded.
The teeth were long and yellow. "This is none of your
affair, you meddlesome ilk!"

"It is my affair, you putrid hen!" Niobe retorted. "Now
give way, or I'll lasso you with a thread." It was a bluff,
but she hoped the harpy wouldn't know that.

"No thread of yours will hold me, spider-face!" the
harpy screeched. "Turn aside, or I'll poop on you!"

It was no empty threat! But Niobe knew she had to
reach the senator before the demon from Hell did. She
couldn't afford delay.

Give me the body! Atropos thought. / know how to han-
dle that sort!

Niobe turned it over. Atropos took form. She strode
from the walk, across the lawn to a nearby garden shed.

"Oh, so it's Atropos now!" the harpy screeched, fol-
lowing. "Whatcha think you're doing, you old black
slave?"

"I'm going to clear out some trash," Atropos said. She
reached the shed and took hold of a weathered broom
inside it.

"Go sweep it out, like the stupid stoop-labor hag you
are!" the harpy screeched, its stringy hair flinging out as
it whirled to fly above Atropos' head. "Here, I'll make
you feel right at home by emptying the pot on you!"

"The white folks used to set the dogs on us when we
came to clean their houses," Atropos said, hefting the

Piers Anthony                311

broom. In her competent hands the broom moved almost
like a weapon. "Know what we did then?"

"You got chewed up?" the harpy asked with a raucous
cackle, following it with the kind of racial epithet no one
but a harpy would use.

"We let those bitches have it in the tail!" Atropos said.
She swung the broom in a mighty and accurate arc. The
bristles caught the harpy in the tail just as it was letting
go its poop, and knocked it spinning.

The creature landed claws-up on the ground, screeching
piercingly. Atropos, undaunted, strode toward it, broom
aloft. The harpy scrambled to its feet and pumped its
wings furiously, launching clumsily into the air. It fled,
wanting no more of this.

Atropos returned the broom to the shed. "A woman
does leam a thing or two in the course of a working life,"
she muttered with satisfaction.

She certainly did! Niobe resumed the body and pro-
ceeded the rest of the way to the house.

As she came to the door, it burst open and the demon
itself charged out. It was about seven feet tall, had a hairy
body, a long and tufted tail, horns, and a prominent mas-
culine appendage. It pounced on Niobe, wrapping its long
arms about her and opening its mouth so wide that the
remaining features were squeezed back into oblivion. The
huge pointed teeth descended toward her face.

"Oh, come off it!" Niobe snapped, disgusted. "You
can't bite me!"

Indeed, the demon's teeth came down to touch her fore-
head, and stopped. Her flesh was invulnerable.

The demon growled and squeezed her, trying to crush
in her ribcage, but the compression had no effect. She
was proof against that, too.

Then the demon thought of something else. It brought
up its clawed hind feet and raked along the front of her
body. Her clothing ripped asunder, but her flesh was un-

312

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With a Tangled Skein

scathed. "You can't even scratch me, you fool. I am proof
from physical injury by any creature your infernal master
can send."                                           .

The demon brought its foot up again, ripping her cloth-
ing the rest of the way. Now it hung on her by the sleeves,
leaving her front exposed. The demon did not release her,
but loosened its grip enough to enable it to glance down
at her body. It snorted steam.

Then she realized what it was up to. It intended to rape
her!

The thing could probably do it. She was secure from
physical injury, but not from emotional injury. As ex-
perience had long ago shown her, she could participate
in sexual congress; it represented no physical abuse of
her body. The demon was stronger than she was; it could
hold her for this act.

Now she struggled, but her arms remained captive at
her sides. She tried to run, but the demon lifted her off
the ground. Its member was growing; in a moment it
would do what it intended. At the least, she would be
utterly humiliated.

Maybe I can fight it! Clotho thought.

How? Atropos responded. It's immune to our attack,
too; we can't even bite it.

At least let me try!

Niobe, as desperate as any of them, gave her the body.
The demon paused, startled at this change, but did not
let her go. Then, perceiving that the captive had grown
more attractive, it renewed its effort. Clotho twisted
desperately, managing to swing her body away a little.
Then she brought up her right knee in a savage strike at
the demon's groin. She scored—but the creature did not
even gasp. It was, as Niobe had warned, invulnerable.

My turn! Atropos thought.

Clotho turned the body over to her. Again the demon
paused, noting the change, but again it resumed its design

after a moment. It changed its grip, to force the body
closer, and used its nether claws to grasp the legs and
wedge them apart.

"Damn!" Atropos swore. "I thought I could slide away
on the thread—but I can't fling out any strand while my
arms are pinned!"

The demon grinned. It had known this.

Suddenly Niobe knew what was required. We're all
fools! she thought. Give me back the body!

Atropos gave it to her. Niobe assumed control just as
the demon's hot flesh nudged hers.

She shifted to spider form. Suddenly she had eight limbs
and was much smaller. Fate could be any size arachnid
she wished. She slipped out of the surprised demon's
grasp and dropped to the ground.

The demon tried to stomp her. Niobe simply stood there
and let the clawed foot come down on her body. When
the foot rose again, she remained unhurt. The spider was
as impervious as any of the human forms.

She reverted to her natural form. The demon grabbed
for her again, but this time she had the vial of holy water
out. As the demon's arms clasped her, she put the vial to
her own lips and sipped the fluid. "Kiss me, demon," she
murmured, putting her face forward.

The demon's head jerked back as it smelled the water,
but she pursued it. Her arms now clasped its body, pre-
venting its escape exactly as it had prevented hers before.
She jammed her mouth against its mouth and spat out the
water.

Kiss of death! Clotho thought.

It was indeed. The demon's flesh melted where the
water touched. The lips dissolved and dribbled down the
chin, which was rapidly eroded by that fluid. The flesh
of the cheeks and tongue puddled, leaving the teeth bare,
like those of Thanatos. Then the gums faded away, and
the jaw fragmented, and one by one the teeth fell out. The




314 With a Tangled Skein

destruction proceeded up the face, eating away the nose
and then the eyeballs. Now the thing's brain came into
view, smoking at the outer surface as the effect touched
it. The whole brain blackened, then went up in smoke.

Now THAT is the way to deal with a rapist! Atropos
thought.

After that, the rest of the body went more quickly, dis-
solving into vapor from top to bottom, like a gross cigar
burning. At last all that remained was the noxious cloud
of smoke.

But as the smoke dissipated, something moved. The
demon's right foot remained; it hadn't dissolved, and had
been hidden by the swirling vapors. Her kiss of death had
reached its limit.

Niobe reached for her vial again. What harm can one
foot do? Clotho thought.

"Any part of a demon is bad news," Niobe said tersely.
She put some holy water on her fingers and reached for
the foot.

The thing scrambled across the step, using its claws to
hitch itself forward. It was trying to escape. Niobe sprin-
kled it by snapping her wet fingers outward, and puffs of
smoke erupted where the drops struck. The foot fell off
the edge of the step, into the grass. She pursued it, sprin-
kling more water, but the fragment disappeared.

"I hope I got it all," she muttered.

Can't be more than a toe left, Atropos thought.

"Demons aren't like mortal folk," Niobe said darkly.
"Pieces of them can survive."

Can one toe hurt us? Atropos thought. How?

Niobe shrugged. "I don't know. But I hope that thing
is all gone, now."

Well, let's see what's inside, Clotho thought. Like Atro-
pos, she did not take the toe of one demon seriously, and
Niobe had to admit she was probably a bit paranoid about
demons. One had killed Cedric, another had killed

Piers Anthony

315

Blanche, another had tried to eliminate Luna and Orb,
and now one had tried to rape her. She had reason—but
what, indeed, could one demon toe do?

Niobe pinned her torn dress together as well as she
could, and strengthened it with strategically placed
strands of thread. Then she walked on into the senator's
house.

A young man stood in the hall. His clothing hung on
him, enormously baggy. He seemed oblivious to his sur-
roundings. He was staring at himself in the full-length hall
mirror.

She was too late!

She sighed. "Senator?"

He answered without looking at her. "Yes, of course
I'll have to resign my office. There would be talk, gossip,
perhaps an investigation. I couldn't afford that! I might
even have difficulty proving my identity. After all, I've
just lost forty years!"

"You're—not staying on?" This surprised her.
"Of course not. It just isn't feasible. I'll have to make
a new life. But it's worth it! Forty more years, starting
with everything I already know!"
"But don't you owe Satan?"
"He asked no price. It's a gift, no strings."
"But the burden of evil on your soul—"
"No evil attaches to the acceptance of a gift freely prof-
fered, when I provide no political favor in return. And I
won't; I'm dropping out of politics."

This amazed her. If the senators weren't staying in of-
fice, how could they do Satan's bidding, twenty years
hence? It didn't make sense!

At least she had destroyed the demon. There would be
no more bribes of restored youth. She extended a thread
and slid up it to Purgatory.

They discussed it at the Abode as they rechecked the
threads. As they fathomed the changing pattern, the sit-

316 With a Tangled Skein

uation came clear. The senators had been bribed indi-
rectly—by being freely given what they most desired. In
order to enjoy it, they had to vacate their offices. That
meant there would be appointees to complete the terms—
and Satan surely controlled those appointments. The new
senators would all be young and competent and would
give no sign of their true loyalty—until that day, some
twenty or so years hence, when Satan required it, to ne-
gate Luna's position and give the final victory to Satan.
A long-term plan, a real sleeper—but it seemed it was
already in place. In a vote as close as that one was des-
tined to be, four changed votes would be more than
enough. Five, counting the senator who had just been
eliminated here.

The new threads were not yet in place, however, for
the appointees had not yet been appointed; that process
would take a few days. But, search the Tapestry as she
might, Niobe could find no way to nullify it. Satan had
made his play, and could readily defend it against any
effort she might take. The five old senators had already
been bribed to vacate and could not be unbribed; youth
was already theirs.

"There has to be a way!" Niobe exclaimed. "We can't   j
just give up the world to Satan, even if it is twenty years   '
away."                                              •

She checked quickly with the other Incarnations, but
none of them had an answer. At last she went to the per-
son most concerned: her granddaughter Luna.

Luna took it in stride. She was a truly beautiful woman
now, despite the distortion of her hair color. "My father
told me that something like this might come up," she said.
"He left a message for that occasion."

"My son anticipated this?" Niobe demanded, sur-
prised.

"He was a most accomplished Magician," Luna re-
minded her. "Perhaps the best of his generation—and he

Piers Anthony                317

spent the last thirty years of his life researching this very
problem. He used to apologize to me for his neglect—but
he really didn't neglect me. We were very close."

As Niobe and her son had not been. But that was an-
cient history. "What is the message?"

Luna fetched a small blue topaz, a pretty but not truly
precious stone. She set in on a small shelf before a white
screen and turned on a special light. The stone fluoresced,
sending a pattern of blue shadows across the screen.

"It's a magic stress on the molecules of the topaz,"
Luna explained. "I just need to get it in focus and find
the right angle; most of the facets are nonsense, but the
right one will display the message. The Magician set it up
that way so that no one would accidentally read the mes-
sage before it was time. Premature divulgence would alert
Satan, you see." She turned the stone, and the pattern
on the screen changed.

She turned it again, and suddenly several lines of fuzzy
print appeared on the screen. "Ah—there it is! Now for
the focus." She moved the light, and gradually the print
clarified; in a moment it would become legible. Then
something rolled across the shelf and collided with the
topaz. The stone slid out of position, and the image was
lost.

"The demon's toe!" Niobe exclaimed. She brought out
the vial and dumped the remaining holy water on it. The
thing vanished in a puff of smoke.

Luna recovered the stone. "Good thing the creature
didn't hurt it," she said. She set it in place, and refocused
the beam of light.

Only blank blue showed on the screen. Surprised, Luna
turned it to a new facet, but no pattern showed. "It's been
erased!" she exclaimed in dismay. "The magic is gone!"

"The demon did it!" Niobe cried. "Its mere evil touch
canceled the good magic!"

318

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With a Tangled Skein

And we wondered what one toe could do! Atropos
thought, chagrined.

Niobe exchanged a stricken glance with her grand-
daughter. Now they had lost the vital message!

"Is there any backup stone?" Niobe asked after a mo-
ment.

"No. None for this occasion. The Magician didn't want
it to be obvious—"

"That's what I thought," Niobe said heavily. "Satan
must have known or suspected about the stone and given
his demon a secondary instruction to erase it when it had
the chance. Now it has done so."

"Now it has done so," Luna agreed.

"So now only the Magician knows the message."

"And he is dead."

Niobe embraced the young woman, and they both cried
the tears of hopelessness.

Then Niobe straightened, lifting her chin. "But I am
an Incarnation! I can go to my son in Purgatory and ask
him directly!"

"Yes!' Luna cried, her gray eyes lighting. "My father
did not know you would become Fate again! He focused
on me."

They embraced and cried again, this time with renewed
hope. Then Niobe rode a thread back to Purgatory to seek
her son.

But when she checked the computer for the specific
location of his soul, she received another shock.

MAGICIAN KAFTAN'S SOUL IS NO LONGER IN PURGATORY,

the screen said.

"You mean his penance is finished? He has gone on to
Heaven already?"

NO. AN ERROR IN HIS CLASSIFICATION WAS DISCOVERED. HIS
DAUGHTER HAD BORROWED SOME OF HIS BURDEN OF EVIL. SHE
IS DESTINED FOR HEAVEN, BUT HIS TRUE BALANCE WAS NEG-
ATIVE.

Why would Luna have done a thing like that? Niofc
wondered. But she had a more immediate problem. "Nej
ative? Then—"

YOUR SON IS NOW IN HELL.

Niobe stared at the screen in horror. She was sure th
was the real information, as she had taken steps to se
that none of Satan's illusions interfered this time.

The only person who knew how to nullify Satan's vi<
tory—was in Satan's power.




Piers Anthony                321




15-

MAZE SQUARED

Back at the Abode, they hashed it over. "We know there
is a solution," Niobe said. "We just don't know what it
is."

"And chances are, we won't find it on our own," Atro-
pos said. "Maybe, if we were all experienced, we'd know
it, but by the time we get experienced enough to know,
it'll be too late."

"We're still in Satan's trap," Clotho agreed.

"Not entirely," Niobe said. "If all three of us were
new, that might be true; but I did have thirty-eight prior
years of experience. I know Satan's power is not com-
plete. There has to be something he's hiding from us."

"The solution!" Clotho exclaimed wryly.

"Too bad we can't go to Hell and ask the Magician
what his message was," Atropos said.

Niobe pounced on that. "Maybe we can! Incarnations
have special powers!"

They checked with Thanatos, who confirmed it. "I
have been there," he said. "But only in spirit. The phys-
ical body has to be left behind. All the things there are
spirits, but they seem solid, as they do in Purgatory. But
Satan wouldn't let you visit anyone there."

"But then how did you go there?"

"I was invited on a tour."

Oh. She knew about that sort of thing. Still—

"Can he stop a mother from visiting her son?" she
asked.

All three of them paused at that. Who would know?
Clotho thought.

"Gaea," Niobe said. "The Green Mother understands
everything about human nature and then some."

They went to Gaea. "Satan cannot stop you, in this
instance," she said. "But he will not help you. This rep-
resents a conflict between Incarnations, and your chance
of success would be half."

"But I can do it?" Niobe asked.

"You can cut off your foot, too, but you might not want
to." Gaea smiled coldly.

"If I do this—if I go to Hell—I stand to win the sal-
vation of man—or at least enable my granddaughter to.
What do I stand to lose?"

"Your soul," Gaea said grimly.

"But I'm an Incarnation! Satan can't touch my soul!"

Gaea shook her head. "You must put your soul on the
line to gain entry to Hell. If you win your objective, you
keep your soul. But if you fail, your soul is forfeit. Hell
is not child's play, Lachesis!"

Niobe sighed. "It certainly isn't!"

Well, that lets that out, Atropos thought. A good soul
locked in Hell—

"How do I set it up?" Niobe asked.

Don't do it, Lachesis! Clotho thought.

What shall it profit a woman to win the whole world,
if she lose her own soul? Atropos thought.




322 With a Tangled Skein

"That's figurative; this is literal," Niobe said. "The
whole world is on the line, this time."

"You must choose a referee," Gaea said. "To ensure
fairness in the proceedings. Otherwise Satan will cheat."

Niobe considered. "How about Mars? He knows how
to supervise war—and this is really a battle in the war
between Good and Evil."

Gaea nodded. "Excellent choice. Go to him and ask."

"Thank you, Ge."

"Every Incarnation must sooner or later confront
Satan," Gaea said. "You did it long ago, in the Void.
Now you are doing it again—but the locale is not neutral
and the stakes are higher. We shall be watching—but
none of us will be able to assist you, once you enter Hell."

"I know." This was, among other things, confirmation
that Gaea had recognized her, the day of the excursion
into the model Hell, and had kept her secret.

"You will leave your body and your two other Aspects
behind. If you fail, they will have to choose your replace-
ment—with no soul to exchange. That body will die."

A heavy penalty indeed! Yet, added to the loss of the
world, did it matter? She had to make the effort!

"Farewell," Gaea said. "You are a fine woman, Lach-
esis."

Niobe slid her thread to Mars' castle. This time he was
at home. Quickly she explained the situation. "You have
courage," Mars said gruffly. "I trust you know that Hell
is no picnic."

"I know, but I must go. Will you serve?"

"I will serve. But I can guarantee only that the terms
are honored. I cannot help you or advise you in any way.
Once you enter Hell, you are on your own."

"But—I have no idea what to expect there!"

"As referee, it is my job to help arrange what to ex-
pect," Mars said. He raised his red sword, and it flashed.
"Satan!"

Piers Anthony

323

Satan appeared. "What the Hell do you want. Mars?
A war?"

"Both," Mars agreed, unperturbed. "Lachesis wishes
to visit her son, the Magician Kaftan. You may not deny
her that."

Satan turned on Niobe. "So you learned of that, you
meddling female! But it will cost you your soul."

"The one offer you cannot turn down," Niobe agreed.

"No," Mars said. "She is not buying the visit with her
soul. She is putting up her soul as the stake for the game.
That is a different matter."

"A different matter," Satan agreed reluctantly. "A
technicality."

Already the referee was functioning. That was some
technicality!

"We must select the format," Mars said.

"Aerial combat while mounted on firedrakes," Satan
said.

"Competitive tapestry weaving," Niobe retorted.

Atropos laughed in her mind.

"Perhaps a compromise," Mars said, smiling grimly.
"An event that combines elements of both monsters and
threads, illusion and reality. A demon-infested maze."

Satan considered. "Could be. Those are fun."

Niobe also considered. A maze was a bit like a tapestry,
with passages instead of threads. Demons were mon-
sters—but should not be able to hurt her. If, as it seemed,
she had to navigate some sort of challenge course in Hell
to reach her son, this might be the best type for her. But—
"Threads? Illusion?"

"An illusion-maze is less challenging, physically,"
Mars said. "But more challenging, intellectually."

Niobe knew herself to be no genius, but she did have
a flair with the weaving of intricate threads. "That sounds
good," she agreed tentatively.

"No way," Satan said.

324 With a Tangled Skein

"Superimposed on a physical maze," Mars said. "Shall
we say, one hundred illusions of your choice—and one
hundred reality-threads for her? With some of the prop-
erties of her normal threads, so she can travel expedi-
tiously—"

"Limited," Satan said. "I don't want her traveling all
over Hell."

"Limited," Mars agreed. "The maze so constituted
that the best course can be traversed by fewer than fifty
threads, the worst by more than one hundred fifty threads,
but centered on one hundred?"

"A fifty-fifty chance," Satan agreed. "But / set up the
maze, and choose all the configurations."

"And I verify the balance and call the fouls," Mars
said. "I will inspect the maze before she enters, and there
will be no changes after she enters."

"Done," Satan said.

They looked at Niobe. She wasn't sure she trusted what
those two males might agree was fair. But she knew Mars
would not betray her, and it seemed to be the best com-
promise she could get. "Very well."

They cleared the remaining details. Then Niobe sat
back in a chair, waited a moment, and stood—and left
her body behind. She was in spirit form!

She turned and reached out to touch her physical hand.
As she did so, she felt the other two Aspects. Give 'em
Hell, girl! Atropos thought. Find your son! Clotho
thought. Both sent the emotion of support and best
wishes.

/ shall! she replied.

She turned again. Satan stood directly before her, while
Mars watched from the side. "Come to Me, fool!" Satan
said, and laughed.

She stepped into him—and discovered he was a kind
of door. She passed through it and found herself in Hell.

Piers Anthony                325

Hell was a crystalline place. Bright hexagonal facets
surrounded her, red and green and blue—all colors, each
facet her own height. She stood on another, the same size.

She turned to look back the way she had come. There
was only another facet there, highly polished, so that she
saw her own reflection clearly.

She looked exactly as she had in life, in her physical
body: a nondescript, middle-aged woman whose once-
flowing buckwheat-honey hair was now cut to a less-flat-
tering length, and the honey seemed soiled. Her dress was
a drab gray, and not well-fitted. That last wasn't really
carelessness; if the dress fitted better, it would show up
the inadequacies other present figure all too clearly. Ah,
for the flesh of youth! She could understand how the old
senators had found the lure of renewed youth to be ir-
resistible.

The irony was, she had kept her youthful appearance
for an extra thirty-eight years, and then given it up. And
would do so again, for Pacian. And would have given
everything up, for Cedric. She had understood Clotho ex-
actly, when the girl had yielded "everything!" to Sa-
murai. When a woman loved a man—

But now she had to find her son. She checked her left
hand: it clasped a handful of measured threads. She was
not Lachesis any more; she could not travel to the ends
of the world. She was merely Niobe, and every thread
she used would be one thread lost. She had to use them
well; though the worst-case route through the maze would
require over 150 threads, she had only 100. Her mission
and her soul would be forfeit if she used them all without
finding her son.

Well, this was a puzzle, certainly. She reached out to
rap a knuckle on a blue facet. The sound rang, setting up
a sympathetic tintinnabulation throughout the region. It
was a rather pretty sound, but it didn't get her through
the maze.




326

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With a Tangled Skein

She saw that one hexagon was not a facet, but an open
space. She stepped through it, onto the golden floor tile
there—

Her foot passed right through the floor. There was noth-
ing there. With a scream she fell down past several hex-
agonal levels, until she fetched up against another golden
tile. She was unhurt—but in a hole, literally.

There was a puff of vapor at her hand. She looked—
and saw the remains of one of her threads curling as it
dissolved into smoke. That fall had not hurt her physi-
cally, for a spirit could not be injured that way, but it had
cost her a thread. That was one of the details of this game.
Now she had ninety-nine threads left, and she had ex-
posed the first illusion.

She tapped the surfaces about her. All were solid. She
was in a nether chamber with no ready exit. The slick
facets offered no purchase for her fingers; she could not
climb out.

She sighed. She tucked her threads carefully into a
pocket, saving out one. She flung that upward.

Now she sailed up, following the thread's course, much
as she did as an Aspect of Fate. In a moment she was
back at her original level, facing the golden floor panel.
An illusion—but she had expended two of her precious
threads in making the discovery and recovery. Two for
one; Satan had gained one on her.

She looked at the golden tile. It still looked real. She
would not be fooled again by it, of course, so in that sense
it had been expended—but how much better it would have
been to identify it without falling through it! Then she
would have been one ahead, having expended no threads
to identify one of the hundred illusions.

She felt at the edge of the illusion. She found a small
ledge; part of the golden tile was real. She could walk on
that to get through. There had to be a way through the

maze; that was part of the deal. She had only to move
carefully, to avoid falling for any more tricks.

But she could not get through without using close to
fifty of her threads. That meant that she couldn't simply
close her eyes and feel her way the full length of it. There
would be illusions she had to penetrate before trusting her
body to them, and climbs she had to make regardless of
illusion. She could not hoard her threads; she would not
get through that way.

She completed her circuit of the golden illusion and
entered a new chamber. This one had a solid floor—but
no other exit. She looked up and saw a high green ledge,
out of reach. Evidently that was the route. Not an illusion,
just one of the thread-requiring avenues.

She brought out another thread and flung it at the ledge.
In a moment she slid up it, landing neatly on the green.
Good enough.

Except that it turned out to be a dead end.

She sighed again. She had been suckered into using an-
other thread, unnecessarily.

She squatted, touching the edge of the ledge. It was
glassy smooth. She stood and scraped the sole of one shoe
across it. Then she tested it with her finger again.

Yes—there was faint scratching. The material was not
super-hard. It could be abraded.

She scuffed it some more, then lay down. She nudged
her legs over the edge, sidewise. She spread her fingers
against the roughened surface. The slope beyond the edge
was not vertical; there were no perfect right angles in this
place, just the obtuse angles of the hexagons. Her body
was sliding down at about a forty-five-degree angle—she
wasn't sure what it was for a hexagon, but that was what
it felt like. Maybe fifty degrees. Her fingers had some
purchase on the roughened level face.

When enough of her body was on the sloping face, it
swung down. Her fingers were unable to hold; she slid




328 With a Tangled Skein

off the surface and dropped to the floor beneath. But it
was not as long a fall as the one she had suffered before,
and she was better prepared for it. She landed neatly on
her feet.

She watched the threads in her pocket, but there was
no puff of smoke-vapor. She had made it down without
sacrificing another thread! She had not "killed" herself
this time.

But it was a minor victory, for she had now expended
three threads and discovered only one illusion. She would
have to do better than that.

She checked the golden floor panel again. The ledge
continued around the other side—and there was another
open panel. Had she skirted it the other way, she would
have found it, and saved herself the dead end.

Well, the bad break had taught her a lesson or two; not
to assume a given route was the only one, and not to
expend a thread on a route just because the route was
there.

She got into the new chamber. This one had two other
exits; which should she take? Both went far enough so
that she could not tell which was a dead end.

She shrugged and took the one to the left. It looped
around to the right, over and under crystalline formations
of differing sizes—it seemed there was nothing sacred—
sacred, here in Hell?—about the full-size ones. In due
course it debouched back into the chamber she had left.

She went around again, verifying every surface. No
way out. She had walked into another dead end, in effect.

She went back to the golden tile, and the rest of the
way around it. Now she was back to her starting point,
three threads gone—and she had made no progress
through the maze!

Then she had a bright thought. She returned to the
golden tile, got down on her belly, and put her right arm
through it. She felt for the surfaces below.

Piers Anthony                329

All in reach were solid. She got up, walked to the far
side, and lay down again. She reached—and discovered
that there was an open panel directly beneath her.

She braced her feet as well as she could against the
edge-surfaces and hunched her body forward over the
golden panel until she could put her head through the il-
lusion. She peered under.

Sure enough: there was an opening. There was her true
exit! The illusion covered a dead-end hole—and the way
through. She had fallen right by it, and passed it again on
the way back up. Satan was certainly a cunning devil!

She crawled around, letting her body down. Here she
was able to get a better grip on the edge of the panel—
but she didn't trust it. She was no muscular man, she was
a weak-fleshed woman.

She sighed a third time. Then she brought out another
thread and flung it toward the hole.

Her body followed. Now she was perched at the edge
of a hexagonal tunnel. It sloped sharply down—and she
could not hold her position. She felt herself sliding. She
tried to spread her legs and brace her feet against the
sides, but this was ineffective. She was bound for the end
of this tunnel—wherever it might lead—unless she ex-
pended yet another thread. She decided to risk the slide.

She slid into a new aspect of the maze. She landed in
a chamber with transparent walls, and behind those walls
were demons in horrendous shapes. There were five exits
from the chamber—but each was guarded by a monster.
How could she get through?

Obviously at least one of the monsters was illusion, so
she could pass through it without getting "killed." Be-
cause there had to be a route through, and she couldn't
pass a real monster.

She approached the tiger-headed man at the nearest exit
and flung a thread at him. He disappeared. Victory—she
had found the route on the first try!

330 With a Tangled Skein

She walked into the passage. It turned at right angles,
then turned again, in the manner of the kind of maze that
was printed on paper. She moved along it cautiously, so
as not to fall through an illusion-section of floor, but the
floor was opaque and solid.

She came to a division. Which should she take, the left
or the right? It didn't seem to matter, as neither would
cost her a thread. She took the left.

That led to a small chamber containing a man-headed
tiger—the reverse of the prior monster. She tossed a
thread at it.

The thread shriveled and puffed into vapor—but the
monster remained. This one was real!

"Come here, morsel!" the tigerman cried. "You look
good enough to chomp!"

She backed away and retreated to the other part of'the
fork. That one led her to a man-headed wolf. It paced
restlessly, watching her.

She flung a thread—and the monster evaporated with
the thread. Another illusion. The way was clear.

But she paused. She had just expended two threads to
uncover one illusion. At that rate, she would use up all
her threads before the illusions gave out. Satan was win-
ning!

But she knew that if she walked blithely into a monster
and it was real, it would chomp her. That should not hurt
her physically, as she was here only in spirit, but by the
laws of the maze it would cost her double: two threads.
Being "killed" by a monster was like taking a fall, then
having to thread out of the hole. So it paid her to verify
a monster before stepping within its range.

Or did it? If she had an even chance that a given monster
was real, then she could assume that half of them would
tag her. Double the threads—and she lost the same num-
ber as if she had checked all the monsters. No loss—but
no gain. She might as well use the threads.

Piers Anthony                331

This bothered her. There seemed to be no way other
than sheer chance to beat Satan, and the chances were
against her. She had—she checked the count—used up
four threads and exposed one illusion in the crystal sec-
tion of the maze; she had used three more threads and
exposed two more illusions here. That was a cumulative
score of seven threads and three illusions. Yet her
chances of getting through the maze were supposed to be
even. She was definitely falling behind.

Well, she had been checking every monster. The prob-
lem was that there could be ten times as many real ones
as illusory ones. She could use up all her threads without
getting anywhere, that way! There had to be a better
way—but what was it?

She set her jaw. Obviously, checking every monster
was a losing strategy. So she would check none of them.
Had she followed that course so far, she would have been
chomped by the tigerman, and lost two threads—but that
was less than the three she had used checking every mons-
ter.

She proceeded on down the passage. She came to a
huge human head from which five human legs sprouted.
No torso. A monster indeed! She walked right into it.

The thing rolled at her, each foot touching the floor in
turn—and kicking her when it arrived. "Ooo!" she
howled as she got kicked in the knee. Then the next foot
caught her in the face. Her nose exploded in pain, and
she fell down. Then the monster was all over, tromping
her to death.

It wasn't death, of course. But it felt like it. In due
course, satisfied, the foot-face withdrew, and she dragged
herself back to her feet. The pain abated, and she dis-
covered that neither her nose nor her limbs were broken.
She was uninjured, physically. The blows had hurt ter-
ribly, but caused no lasting damage. She had been wrong
about the discomfort of getting chomped!

332             With a Tangled Skein

Piers Anthony

333

Two more threads were gone. Score: nine to three, in
favor of Satan.

And she couldn't pass this alcove. In fact, this whole
passage had been a mistake. It was a dead end, blocked
by monsters.

So much for her new strategy. She could have saved
herself one thread and some pain by testing the monster
for illusion.

She made her way back to the original chamber of this
section. There were the four other exits with their guard-
ians.

She eyed the monsters. One was a bird with the head
of a fox; another was a woman-headed snake; another was
a man's head with two muscular arms growing where the
ears should be; the last was a pig-headed dog. This was
Hell, all right! The demons hewed to no normal Earthly
shapes.

Four chances. She could either use four more of her
precious threads to verify them, or chance walking
through them—with the odds even that it would cost her
four threads anyway to find the true passage. If it was the
true passage; the first had not been.

This just wouldn't do! She needed a strategy of ap-
proach, not only to make her way through, but to do it
economically enough to get ahead on threads. She needed
to expunge two illusions for every thread, instead of the
other way around. Blundering through by blind chance
simply wasn't going to accomplish that.

Well, she did have time. There was no time limit on the
maze; she was to continue until she either won through
to her son or lost her soul. If she hesitated forever, she
would never escape Hell—or save Luna's position. Her
timing was her own.

There had to be some key she had overlooked. How
she wished she had Cedric's ready intelligence, or her
son's! Obviously sheer chance was not going to get her

through; only an appropriate strategy would do that. But
what strategy?

She played her mind over it, knowing there had to be
something. Satan might have deceived her about the odds,
but Mars would not have. She had at least an even
chance—if she could only figure it out.

Slowly it came to her. She had to ration her threads—
but Satan had to do the same for his illusions. Each was
limited to one hundred. If she didn't want to throw away
threads, he didn't want to throw away illusions. Each of
them had to calculate a strategy to make the assets count
most. But while she could change a nonproductive course,
Satan could not; he had set up the maze at the outset, and
could not change it. It stood to reason that wherever Satan
didn't need an illusion, he wouldn't use it. He had to use
some in key places, because otherwise she would be able
to thread the maze simply by avoiding visible monsters.
An illusion-monster could seem to block off the one route
through, shunting her into real monsters and trouble.

Here were five exits. It would make no sense to have
several illusions down one passage—if the start of it was
blocked by a real monster. She couldn't pass the monster,
so would never have a chance to be fooled by the illusions.
The illusions had to come early—or along the real path.

All five of the monsters at this junction had to be il-
lusions. That was the only pattern that made sense. No
wonder she had verified the first illusion she had chal-
lenged, here! She could have saved the thread.

Furthermore, since Satan's illusions were limited, there
were only so many he could spare for any one segment
of the maze. She had discovered only one in the crystal
section, strategically situated; that might be all there was
there. Perhaps nine of ten monsters would be real, be-
cause here in Hell monsters were relatively cheap. In the
mortal world, illusions were cheaper than demons, but
here in Hell it was the other way around. So the chances




334

Piers Anthony                335

With a Tangled Skein

were that after the beginning of any passage, most of the
monsters would be real. If a passage divided into ten al-
ternate routes, nine of them would be blocked by real
monsters, with only the one that actually led somewhere
having an illusion. That would give her nine chances to
lose threads, regardless whether she gambled or tested.
That was why she had been falling behind; she had not
perceived the strategy of Satan.

That being the case, what she needed to do was figure
out the pattern of the overall maze, and select the route
that was most likely to have illusions. The wrong routes
would be blocked mostly by real monsters.

But how could she analyze the maze when she couldn't
see it as a whole? The walls might be of glass, but that
gave her no notion of the overall layout. She could see
many monsters, but could not make out the convoluted
channels of the maze.                                 t

She looked up, and saw that one tower rose above the
rest. Most of the maze seemed to be open, and the tops
of the walls, in addition to being too high for her to reach,
looked knife-sharp; she could not climb them. The tower
sported a short diving board. Into what was she expected
to dive, from there? The illusion of a lake? She knew she
couldn't risk that; it would cost her at least two threads.

But the tower was high. From it, she might be able to
see the layout of the puzzle as a whole. If so, that would
be a useful spot to reach, even if it was not the correct
route.

She selected the passage she deemed most likely to lead
to the tower and walked through the monster that guarded
it, the woman-headed snake. The monster hissed at her,
but could not touch her; it was, as she had surmised, il-
lusion. She had saved herself a thread; in fact, she had
saved four, for all these monsters had to be illusion. Just
by pausing for thought, she had brought the running score
up to nine to seven, for once she had identified an illusion

she didn't have to waste a thread on it. These illusions
were fixed in place; they could not follow her about. She
could check off any she was sure of, and the more she
could discover by deduction, the better off she was.
She found herself shivering with release of tension; by
bracing the monster "blind" she had not only saved her
threads but also had confirmed her analysis. Had she been
wrong . . .

Now there was a snake-headed woman, the inverse of
the prior monster, blocking the passage. Since there was
no alternate route, she knew this was illusion. Satan
wanted her to be able to navigate this route, after wasting
a thread, perhaps hoping she would indeed dive off the
tower. She braced herself again and marched through the
monster: illusion number eight.

She came to a coiled staircase. That fitted in with the
serpentine theme. She had to admit that Satan had a cer-
tain artistic sense. But of course all art could be consid-
ered a form of lie, because it differed from reality; that
was certainly in the bailiwick of the Father of Lies.

She mounted the stair, testing each step for illusion so
as not to fall through; that required no threads. Soon she
emerged at the top of the tower. It was enclosed by glass
that distorted the view of the surroundings; she had to go
out onto the diving board to see clearly.

She went out—and was attacked by a siege of aero-
phobia. The board was about fifteen feet above the top
of the walls of the maze, and twenty-five feet above the
ground. It gave slightly under her weight and she shiv-
ered. She had never been a confident diver and was less
so now. She remembered that she had been bolder when
crossing the seeming chasm in the Hall of the Mountain
King, so maybe her courage had eroded with age. She got
down on her hands and knees and crawled to the end and
peered over.




336 With a Tangled Skein

There was a clearing below. Five giant cushions sat in
it, each one so fluffy that it was obvious that she could
jump down on it, even from this height, and not get hurt.
But some might be illusion, so she couldn't risk it without
using at least one thread.

Also, she realized, it could be a trap; she might locate
a good cushion, land safely on it, and go on—only to
discover this was a dead-end path. Then how could she
return to the starting point? She could see that there was
no access to the base of the tower from that yard. The
jump was one-way.

She could use a thread to rise back to the diving board,
of course—but that would put her further behind. Every
thread she used that didn't dispel an illusion was a loss
for her.

However, she had not come to jump, only to look. She
had expended no threads on this path, so was gaining.
She decided to assume that two of the five cushions were
illusions, the two closest; if she had used her threads to
verify her landing, it would have cost her several more
to explore this dead end. She was learning to figure the
odds.

Now she concentrated on the rest of the maze. It was
not as large as it had seemed from below; the convolutions
made the distance seem greater. She traced the path of
the first passage she had tried, to make sure she knew
what she was doing; then she traced the route to the
tower. Good enough; she was able to see them clearly
from here.

She traced the other three routes very carefully. All of
them had several splits, but most of the splits dead-ended
immediately after passing monsters. Obviously they were
intended to seem to go on, so she would challenge the
monster—and waste either one or two threads. One route
looped back into the other, so that she might win through
it—and find herself back at the starting point, perhaps

Piers Anthony                337

several threads poorer. But one route wound its tortuous
way all around the maze, with three separate splits and
rejoinings, and finally exited to a hole in an opaque wall.
That was evidently the one. There were a total of thirteen
monsters along it. She concluded that all but three were
illusions, the three being used to block one arm of each
split. There was no way to tell which of each pair of mon-
sters was real—but it didn't matter. The ratio now favored
her. She needed to test only in the splits, using three
threads, and she would pass ten illusions. Assuming she
had correctly analyzed the two cushion illusions, that
would put her running score at twelve to twenty. Twelve
threads for twenty illusions—and perhaps other illusions
bypassed in the other passages. That was the kind of ratio
she liked!

She memorized the route, then backed off the board.
She got to her feet in the tower and descended, pleased
with herself. If she had calculated correctly, she was now
winning the game.

The passage she wanted was guarded by the head with
the muscular arms. Was that symbolic? A muscular head,
meaning good thinking. Symbols were a form of art, and
Satan had an insidious sense of humor; it was possible.

She walked through the illusion and into the passage.
The next monster was a cat with chicken's legs; she
walked through it too. She reached the first split, took
the left fork, and threw a thread at the hawk-headed dog
that guarded it. The creature screeched and charged her;

it was real. She retreated, took the other fork, and
marched through the headless man whose face was on his
belly.

On the next split she caught the illusion the first time.
It really didn't matter; one thread got her through re-
gardless, now that she knew how to play it. She completed
the course without difficulty and came at last to the

338 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 339

opaque wall. She had done it! Her mind had enabled her
to prevail.

She walked through the doorway in the wall. In a mo-
ment she came to a blank barrier—but it was an illusion.
She stepped through it—

First one foot, then the other landed on something that
rose up to fasten about her ankle. Startled, she looked
down and discovered she was on skis. They started to
move. She had skied as a child, so knew how to keep her
balance and guide herself down a snowy slope—but that
had been seventy-five years ago. The last thing she had
expected to encounter in Hell was skiing! Still, she had
known it was possible.

She was picking up speed. She saw two ski poles stand-
ing upright on either side of the track. She reached out
and grabbed them. Evidently Mars had ensured fair play
for this aspect of the challenge; she had the necessary
equipment.

She shot out of the chamber. She was on a high moun-
tain, on a steep slope, accelerating. Below her were di-
verging tracks in the snow, marked by thin columns of
fire. One track led to a towering ski jump, another to a
broad and ice-covered lake.

She skewed into the third track, which seemed to be a
slalom: a twisting path between the firepoles. She was no
slalom expert, but this seemed a better bet than the others.

She passed the first pole and made a wide turn around
it, almost losing her balance. She was way out of form
and she lacked the lithe muscles of youth. Who ever heard
of a middle-aged woman doing the slalom?

She overcorrected and brushed by the second pole,
touching it. There was a sizzle as it burned her elbow;

her clothing caught fire, and the pain was sharp. She
brought her other hand about to slap out the flame—and
the ski pole whirled around, upsetting her balance, and
she spun out of control on the skis. She went right through

a firepole; this time her face smarted from the burn, and
her hair caught fire.

She flung aside the ski poles and dived into the snow,
trying to douse her blazing head. The skis twisted side-
wise, and her dive became a preposterous belly flop. The
snow was hard, almost like ice dusted by a powdery layer.
Now she was sliding on her stomach down the slope, com-
pletely out of control. One leg was twisted; she felt the
pain shooting along it.

Then she was rolling, her skis tearing free along with
one shoe, leaving the foot bare. The slope steepened, then
became a dropoff. She fell—

Into the lake. The ice cracked, and she plunged under
it, immersed in the shockingly cold water. She tried to
swim up to the surface, but she had drifted under the
unbroken section of the ice and banged her head on it
from below. She inhaled to scream—and sucked in water.

Her consciousness was fading, but she focused on one
thing; the threads. She clutched out a thread and flung it
as well as she could.

Suddenly she was moving upward. She passed through
the ice without breaking it and landed on her feet on the
surface. She had managed to avoid drowning, thanks to
the magic.

She looked about her. The ice supported her weight,
in this region. To the side was a single ski that had fol-
lowed her down; the other seemed to be lost in the snow
of the slope. One ski pole floated in the open water where
she had broken through. Her bare foot was freezing. She
was here in spirit only, but only her intellect knew the
difference; she felt every bit of it. Now she had the proof
that those who suffered in Hell really did suffer!

She looked at her collection of threads. It had shrunk
significantly. She had destroyed herself several times
over, in the course of that spill! She was well behind on
the running score now.




With a Tangled Skein

340

She limped across the ice, coughing out what remained
of the water she had tried to breathe. She picked up the
lone ski and found it was the wrong one; it was for the
left foot, while her right foot needed the shoe. Of course
her right foot was the wrenched one, so skiing on it might
be awkward anyway. But she used the ski as a clumsy
pole to brace against, and started dragging herself up the
nearest slope that could be navigated. She would have to
go the long way around, to get above the dropoff and find
the other ski with her shoe, and it wasn't going to be
pleasant, but she had no choice.

She slogged up. Her bare foot hurt in the snow, but
soon it became numb—which was no good sign. She tried
to hurry, but her left leg also had been wrenched, it was
now apparent, and haste was impossible. To make things
worse, a wind was coming up, cutting cruelly through her
inadequate clothing.

She was never going to make it this way! She sighed,
and fumbled out another thread. She flung it up at the top
of the dropoff, and followed it up. She had just saved
herself perhaps half an hour of slogging—but lost yet an-
other thread.

A white figure loomed before her. It was a snowman!
"Damn it!" she swore. She swung the ski at the mons-
ter.

It passed right through without resistance. Niobe spun
around and fell to the ground, a victim of her own inertia,
An illusion!

She picked herself up and plowed on until she came to
the slide-marks of her own descent. These she followed
up until she spied the other ski, with her shoe attached.
She hurried toward it—and dropped into an illusion-cov-
ered hole.

It was only an ice-pocket, but it cost her two threads.
She got out and proceeded on to the ski, where she de-

Piers Anthony                341

tached her shoe, dumped out the snow, and put it on. The
stocking was gone. It hardly mattered; her whole leg now
felt like a dead stick.

Where to, now? She had to find her way out of this
frozen mess!

She decided that the slalom remained her best chance.
She tracked over to it and tramped down its slope. She
no longer had any trouble keeping the course; what were
impossibly tight turns at speed on skis were quite simple
on foot. If she had been smart, she would have gotten off
the skis at the outset and walked down. She was not on
show for skiing here; she just wanted to cover the course.
The whole ski-setup was probably a diversion; she had
allowed Satan to dictate the mode of play, and naturally
this had led to disaster.

She paused to warm herself at a firepole, but it was an
illusion. How fiendishly clever: the early poles were real,
so that they had burned her, while some key later ones
were illusion; probably she could have skied down the
course successfully if she had known which firepoles to
ignore. This one blocked the direct course, so that the
skier had to make a wide and dangerous turn to avoid it.

She went to the next pole, which was real, and came
close to it. But it wasn't effective as a heater; the fire was
too hot up close, and inadequate at a distance. She needed
a warm ambience, not a sharply defined line-source. She
dragged herself on along the track.

There was a termination station at the foot of the moun-
tain. A ski lift was there, but it didn't go up the slope she
had descended. Evidently it led to the next aspect of the
maze.

She was too cold and tired to debate the merits prop-
erly. She climbed into the seat. It was comfortable; it was
a blessing to get off her feet. She buckled the safety har-
ness. Imagine that: a concern for safety in Hell!




342 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 343

The thing began to move. It hoisted itself into the air,
hanging below its line, and proceeded slowly across the

terrain.

Now she counted her remaining threads. There were
just twenty. Sixty-eight threads she had lost in that fiasco!
That seemed an impossible number—but Mars would not
have let her be cheated. Probably some had fallen out of
her pocket during her slide down the mountain, and some
had been washed away by the water. How would she ever
catch up now?

But she reminded herself that she didn't have to catch
up; she just had to make it through the maze. If she used
her mind henceforth, she could still do it. She had to be-
lieve that.

How much more of the maze remained? She didn't
know. But whatever it was, she would negotiate it.

She reached down to chafe her cold leg. Some sensation
was returning. That was good and bad; good because it
indicated recovery, bad because it hurt. But that would
pass; she had been tromped to death, as it were, by the
headfoot monster, but had recovered immediately. It
seemed it took longer to recover from sixty-eight threads
worth of mischief than from two threads worth. But she
would recover.

The lift entered a tunnel. Light flared—and she saw she
was in a kind of factory. The chairs of the lift moved
among robots that used tools to adjust things. Obviously
if she were in the correct spot, she would get adjusted—
and that would not be at all comfortable. She had to find
a clear route through.

The line overhead divided. She shifted her weight to
the right, and the seat took the right line. She could con-
trol her travel, to some extent.

What she evidently could not do was pause in her
progress. The seat kept moving forward at its measured
pace. That provided her inadequate time to decide. The

thing would not go backward, which meant she was com-
mitted to whatever decision she made. She could not
change her mind and withdraw. She might already have
made the wrong choice!

A robot loomed ahead. It had a roughly humanoid head-
box and a pair of articulated metal arms. One terminated
in a giant pincers, the other in a sharp knife. Evidently
the robot was intended to hold and slice, trimming off
excess material from the subject. If she was the subject,
she could lose some flesh. Unless the robot was illusion.

She flung a thread at it. The thread struck the robot and
vaporized. The robot remained. So much for that faint
hope.

Niobe hastily unbuckled her belt and jumped out of the
chair. She fell to the floor of the foot-pedestal of the robot.
Vapor wafted up; that fall had cost her another thread.
This was an ongoing disaster! She was sure she couldn't
proceed through the maze unless she rode the lift—and
this was the wrong line.

But she didn't want to depend on chance at all. She
had to figure out the pattern, as she had in the maze-and-
monster section. Then she could get through with minimal
losses.

She stood and looked at the towering robot. How could
she analyze this pattern? She couldn't even see it from
below—and she perceived no way to get above it. Not
for a weak middle-aged woman.

She had to use her mind, because her body was inad-
equate. She sat at the base of the robot and pondered,
while the seats of the lift trundled on over her head. As-
sume that she had to ride the lift to get through and that
her options were limited once she was on her way. She
could not fathom the overall pattern, so would have to
guess. Could she win through? She had lost what little
faith she had in luck, here in Hell.




344             With a Tangled Skein

What about guile? Satan was the master of guile; could
he fall victim to his own technique? He had done so in

the Luna-Orb matter, yet—

Then she had it. If this failed—well, she probably would
have lost anyway. If this succeeded, she might win

through.

She tossed a thread toward the robot's shoulder, and

in a moment she was there, clinging to her precarious
perch. She took hold of the robot's head and yanked. The
covering came off; it was a cup-shaped cap with apertures
for the eye lenses. Underneath were the gears used to
rotate the head on the neck. She didn't bother with them;

all she needed was the helmet. And maybe an arm.

She set the helmet-cap on her own head. It reeked of
oil and fit quite loosely, but she was able to see out of
the lens apertures. She grabbed for an arm.

The robot felt the contact, or perhaps the pressure on
the extremity. The gears spun in the head, and the lenses
swiveled to cover the arm. Then the hinge-elbow flexed,

and the arm folded back on itself.

She grabbed it and pulled. It froze in place, and did not

move. All of her strength could not budge it.

So much for that. She would have to settle for the hel-
met. She hoped it would suffice.

She watched the seats of the lift as they passed. When
a suitable one approached, she threw a thread at it and
followed the thread onto the seat. Quickly she settled her-
self and fastened the belt.

The robot reached for her. "Uh-uh!" she exclaimed, I

facing it with her eye-slits. Her voice reverberated in her
helmet. "I'm a testing robot. Clank-clank!"

The robot hesitated, its head-gears spinning as its gaze
followed the motion of her seat, almost as if the gears
were brains in operation. By the time the machine made
up its mind, she was beyond it.

Piers Anthony                345

The line diverged again. She picked her course, and
moved on to the next robot. "Clank! Clank!" she cried
again in the helmet. Again the robot hesitated, its program
not quite covering this, and again she got through. It was
working!

Unfortunately for her, this line was not the correct one;

it dead-ended. It terminated in a station that went no-
where. The seats turned over, folded up, and followed in
a line leading back to the other side of the factory; no way
to ride farther. But nearby a line seemed to be going some-
where. She used a thread to reach it—and passed through
it, crashing on the floor. It was an illusion!

She had to use yet another thread to reach another line.
This one was real—but it too dead-ended.

She kept trying. At- last she made it to a line that went
somewhere. A robot reached for her; she warned it off—
and it kept coming. It had not been deceived by the hel-
met, and she had no time to scramble free! She screamed
as the pincers took hold of her—and passed through her
body harmlessly. It was another illusion!

That meant she was back on track. She rode this line
to the true terminus: a walk that led out of the factory.
She removed her helmet and surveyed her situation. Her
frozen leg had thawed and was serviceable, but she had
only five threads left. She didn't know how far she still
had to go, or how many illusions remained. But she was
sure that, one way or another, she was near the end.







-16-

ANSWERS

Outside the factory was another hall. She walked cau-
tiously along it, alert for tricks. There seemed to be none.
Soon she came to an intersection with a hall at right an-
gles. In the center, mounted on a base, was a fancy
plaque. She approached this and looked at it. It said: WEL-
COME TO THE FINAL SERIES OF CHALLENGES. THREADS RE-
MAINING: 5. ILLUSIONS REMAINING: 10.

She considered this. Was it genuine, or a trick by Satan?
Certainly it had her threads correctly listed; if the illusions
were also correct, then she was much closer than she had
supposed. She could still win this contest!

But it could be a plant, intended to deceive her. Should
she use a thread on it to verify its accuracy? No, that
would be foolish. If it was a lie, it should be a complete
lie—and obviously it wasn't. Better just to assume it was
correct and make sure she wasted no more threads. She
would count off the remaining illusions, because, once
that total reached zero, she would know she had won. But
she would not trust it too far, because, if the plaque were

346

Piers Anthony                347

a lie, it could cause her to think she had eliminated the
last illusion when she had not—and that last illusion could
wipe her out. But probably Mars would not have allowed
Satan to volunteer false information, because there
should, after all, be a distinction between illusion and out-
right lying.

She pondered, then turned right—and discovered a
dead end. She felt along the walls, floor and ceiling, but
all were solid. No exit here.

She tried the left hall, but this, too, was a dead end. So
she went straight ahead—and found a third dead end.
None of the passages went anywhere.

She stood by the plaque and pondered. Could the mes-
sage be a fake, not in its accounting of threads and illu-
sions, but in its implication that the route was here when
it was not? So that she would waste her few remaining
threads looking for what did not exist? What a fiendish
trap!

She walked around the plaque—and saw that there
were words printed on its back. DO YOU YIELD?

Satan's humor, all right! "No, I don't!" she exclaimed.

That plaque could be here to make her think it was a
lie, so that she would write off this annex—when it was
the correct route. She had to make absolutely sure it was
not, before she gave up on it.

She explored the halls again. It occurred to her that an
illusion did not have to be merely sight; it could be sound
or touch too. Some of the illusion-monsters had roared.
There might be an exit she couldn't find because her hands
missed it as readily as her eye did. In that case she would
have to use a thread—which would leave it at four
threads, nine illusions. She couldn't afford to trade off
one for one. Not now.

She discovered a slanting connecting passage between
the straight-ahead hall and the left hall, making the overall
configuration of passages resemble the closed figure 4.




348 With a Tangled Skein

Why should that extra passage exist, when it was easy
enough to go from one hall to another via the center?
About all it did was make it possible to walk down every
hall without having to double back.

Something nagged at her. Some figures had to be
"solved" by tracing them without doubling back. There
were some traffic patterns in large cities like that, where
three right turns substituted for one illegal left turn. Could
this be one such?

She returned to her starting point, at the base of the 4,
then resolutely marched forward. She proceeded past the
plaque to the apex, then turned sharp left. She followed
the slant down, then turned sharply left again. She walked
past the plaque, into the end of the 4—and now the pas-
sage opened out into a cave. She had penetrated the il-
lusion, without using a thread. Two left turns had unrav-
eled what one right turn could not.

Now she saw a straight path leading like a pier into a
deep black pool. The path widened, forming a kind of
island in the center of the pool—and on that island a
dragon. The path continued on beyond the dragon, to ter-
minate in a blank wall.

Obviously she had to pass the dragon to get through.
But through to what? There was no exit there!

Ah, but there had to be! Satan had nine illusions left;

he must have covered the exit through the wall with il-
lusion, and set a genuine dragon to guard it. Most of the
prior illusions had been of monsters, guarding real pas-
sages; this one was the other way around. She could prob-
ably penetrate the illusion, once she got by the dragon;

she didn't need to use any thread here.

But how could she get by the dragon?

Well, the dragon could be illusion too. But if she walked
into it, and it was real, she would lose two precious

Piers Anthony                349

threads and still not be past. That was hardly worth the
risk. It would be better to verify it with one thread—

No, she had a better notion. She approached as close
as she dared and threw the helmet at it. The metal
bounced off the dragon's scaled side and rolled into the
water with a splash. The dragon snorted fire. It was cer-
tainly real.

She looked to the sides. There was a ledge just above
water-level beyond the dragon; it curved around to either
side, approaching the path on which she stood within eight
feet before terminating.

She sighed. A man might have leaped across; she had
no such hope. She had to find another way.

She saw that there were vines hanging from the ceiling,
but they looked insubstantial. She took hold of one and
jerked; it broke near the top and came tumbling down.
There were some that looked strong enough to bear her
weight, but they were dangling tantalizingly out of reach.

There seemed to be no other avenue, unless she went
back to the figure-4 annex, which she would only do as

a last, last resort. There had to be a way; she just had to
find it.

She found it. She yanked down another weak vine,
bunched it and tied it in a rough knot. Then she tied that
knot to another hanging vine. Then she swung the knot
across to one of the more substantial vines. After several
tries she was able to entangle that larger vine and draw
it over to her, using the weak vine. Now she had hold of
the one she wanted.

She hauled at it with increasing vigor. It held; it was
firmly anchored and it was strong enough to take her
weight.

She held on tightly, drew back, then ran to the edge of
the water. She leaped at the margin, clung for dear life,




350

Piers Anthony                351

With a Tangled Skein

and swung across to the other path. Something flashed
below her in the water as she passed, like a huge shark.
She landed heavily but adequately, and the vine swung
back behind. It might have been pitiful as a gymnastic
feat, but she was across. She was glad she had not tried
to swim.

She made her way along the narrow path, her right hand
brushing along the wall. The dragon watched her, but
could not reach her.

Where the straight path intersected the current one, she
found the exit; it was indeed illusion-covered. She stepped
through cautiously, alert for a pitfall, but there was none.
She was through—and she still had five threads, with
eight illusions remaining, if the plaque was to be believed.
She remained behind, but her ingenuity had enabled her
to gain.

She came into a broad cavern with a wide river running
through, reminiscent of one she had encountered in the
Hall of the Mountain King. Perhaps Satan had borrowed
the concept. If so, she knew how to cross.

But it was not the same. There was no mesh fence in
this river, and no sign advertising it as Lethe. Of course
it could still be Lethe, as that was one of the rivers of
Hell, so she would treat it with caution. There were fish
in it; when she dipped her finger in, three horrendously-
toothed little monsters converged. One leaped as she drew
her hand quickly away; the fish's teeth clacked in midair
where her hand had been, before it splashed back down.
There would be no swimming in this river!

There was a wide path along the bank, originating at
the point she entered this section. She walked slowly
along it. Obviously her challenge was to cross the river,
but there were no more hanging vines; and in any event
the river was about fifty feet wide. Well, she would see,

She heard something. She stopped, listening nervously.
It was the even footfalls of a striding man. She shrank
into an alcove to the side, not wanting to encounter the
sort of man she would in Hell.

The man came into view. He was tall and blond, mus-
cular and handsome in a boyish way.

All Niobe's reserve crumbled. "Cedric!" she cried.

Cedric turned to face her. "Niobe!" he exclaimed,
spreading his arms.

Then several things caught up with her. "But you're
dead!" she said, stopping before she reached him.

"Of course I am. But my love for you remains."

"But what are you doing in Hell? You were a good man
in life—a wonderful man!"

He shrugged. "A glitch in the system, maybe. But if
you're here, that's where I want to be. With the most
beautiful woman of her generation."

"But I'm not beautiful anymore! I've gone to seed."

He shrugged again. "It doesn't matter. My love is eter-
nal."

"You're an illusion, aren't you!" she said indignantly.
"A demon in disguise! I can use a thread on you and
expose you for what you are!" She was angry now that
Satan should use this particular device to trick her. To
taunt her with her long lost love!

Cedric just stood there, not answering. He looked just
exactly the way she remembered him, and her love fought
in her breast to emerge and take over. There was nothing
in life as sweet as first love! That made her angrier yet.
"Get out of here!" she screamed. "I'll not waste a thread
on you! You're just a—a mockery!" Now the tears were
flowing. She had been caught entirely off-guard by this
specter, and her emotion had to be expressed somehow.
"You have no right to—to—"




352 With a Tangled Skein

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Cedric said. "But of
course your love for me was never as true as mine for
you."

There was just enough truth in that to sting. She rushed
at him and struck him with her fist, scoring on the nose.

Blood streamed down his face, but he made no motion
to strike back. "I'll always love you, Niobe," he said
quietly.

Her rage was so great that she was ready to kill. Her
fingers curled into claws. She started for his eyes—

And caught herself. Hate was Satan's way. She was
falling into Satan's trap! If she allowed hate and rage to
dominate her, she would remain in Hell forever.

This was a demon in disguise, for it was solid under the
illusion. Surely the demon could wipe her out with a single
blow! But it had not done so. Instead it was taunting her
into rage, baiting the love she could not afford to express.
She could have used one thread on it, to expose it—or it
could have killed her, costing her two threads. The rules
of the maze did not allow monsters to chase her down;

they could only hurt her if she made contact on her own
initiative. She had made contact—but the thing was trying
to destroy her rationality, not her body. To ruin her ob-
jectivity about her mission here, so that she would act
foolishly and waste her remaining threads. That was the
trap she could not afford—the one that would cost her
all.

She calmed herself. "I'm sorry, Cedric. I shouldn't
have struck you. Of course your love is true." She
brought out a hanky and dabbed at his face.

Now he became uncomfortable. "Please don't bother,"
he said. "I'll be all right."

"Oh, but I must help you," she said warmly. "It's so
important to love you back as strongly as you love me."

He jerked away. "I really must be going."
"Must you—so soon, Cedric?" she asked sadly.

Piers Anthony                 353

He hurried away without further word.

She knew why. Demons were creatures of violence and
hate, and could hardly tolerate gentleness and love, what-
ever they might say. This demon had been besting her—
until she became positive. Then it could not handle the
situation. Love defeated hate—with a little management.

She walked on—and encountered another man.
"Pace!"

"Niobe!" he replied.

But it had to be another demon, for Pacian, like Cedric,
had been a genuinely good man, not destined for Hell.

She headed for it. "Darling, it's so good to see you
again!" she exclaimed.

It hesitated. "Uh, yes, of course. And I know you
aren't really to blame for my being here."

So that was its ploy! Force her into an angry denial of
that outrageous implication. "Oh, but I am," she replied.
"I know you wouldn't be here now, if it weren't for me."

Again it hesitated. This wasn't following the script!
Then it tried again, gamely enough. "Well, actually, you
know it's not exactly me here—"

"Let me give you a big fat kiss, dear," she said, ap-
proaching.

It lost its composure and fled. Niobe smiled. She was
learning how to handle demons.

But she wondered whether she had been correct in as-
suming that her anger was worth more to Satan than her
life. She was so low on threads that the two threads a
killing would have cost her represented forty percent of
her total. Either of those demons could have dropped her
total to three threads, putting her critically behind in the
terminal stage of the maze. Was her anger really worth
more than that?

She stopped where she was, certain that she was on
her way to an important realization. Satan was evil, but
hardly stupid. Anything he did made sense. So why would

354 With a Tangled Skein

he instruct his demons not to attack her, if their taunting ,
was not effective? There had to be some way he expected '
to gain from this.

Well, suppose there was a way she could get into more
than two threads worth of trouble, if not diverted from it
by the demons? She had recognized the wrong courses in
prior segments of the maze because they were impassable.
Now she was encountering demons who could have
stopped her, but did not. Did that mean she was heading
into more than two threads worth of mischief? That she
was in fact on the wrong route?

If ,so, she should reverse course and get out of here.
But that would mean encountering the two demons she
had passed—and they surely would not let her travel that
way. She could get killed twice, costing her four threads.
These were more sophisticated than the prior monsters;

they hadn't had to kill her as long as she was going in the
direction Satan desired. And if she managed to get back
past them—where would she find the correct route? She
had no idea.

She concluded that she simply had to gamble on this
being the right course. It was after all possible that the
demons were merely trying to make her think she was
going wrong. Wouldn't that be an irony: for her to turn
away from the correct route, simply because the demons
let her pass!

Meanwhile, she had an advantage: she knew that Satan
was not about to force her to lose two threads. He wanted
her to lose at least three. That must be the minimum num-
ber she needed for victory. He was willing to throw away
illusions; they didn't matter. It was the threads that
counted.

Yet all this had been set up before she entered the maze.
How could Satan have known how many threads she
would have left?

Piers Anthony                355

She resumed her walking, ill at ease. And—another
person approached.

It was Blanche, Pacian's first wife who had been killed
by the demon at the wedding. Again, there was no way
Blanche could have gone to Hell; she had always been a
good woman. This was another demon—or demoness—
clothed by illusion. She could be handled as the others
had been.

"Blanche!" Niobe cried, approaching her with open
arms. "I'm so glad to see you!"

Blanche did not blanch. She came right up and em-
braced Niobe. She felt completely human and real.
"Thank you so much for taking care of my husband!"

This was a new approach! Apparently the creatures of
Hell were not always repelled by affection. Maybe de-
monesses were more gentle, as they were commonly used
to seduce men to evil—literally. If they were driven away
by love, they would not be able to perform. How, then,
could she get rid of this one? "You don't resent that I
married him after you died?"

"Oh, no, dear!" Blanche exclaimed. "He was such a
good man, he deserved the best—and you were the best.
He always loved you, of course, because of your beauty;

it was only right that he have opportunity to enjoy it be-
fore it faded."

The demoness was beginning to get into it! The stilet-
toes of women were more subtle than those of men, but
no less sharp. "I'm so glad you understand," Niobe said
with as much warmth as she could manage. "The proph-
ecy said he would possess the most beautiful woman of
her generation, and obviously you weren't it."

"All too true!" Blanche agreed without rancor. "I feel
privileged to have shared what part of his love I could,
while I could, and to have had a lovely child by him."

"Yes, my son the Magician married her," Niobe
agreed. She seemed to be unable to rattle this demoness,




356

Piers Anthony                357

With a Tangled Skein

and she was not enjoying the effort. This woman was too
much like the real Blanche, always good and giving. "I'm
on my way to see him now."

"Yes, I know. I'll be glad to help you find him."

What? For a moment Niobe reeled with doubt. Could
this be the real Blanche? She could verify it with a
thread . . .

No! That might be part of the trap. Use a thread on this
demoness, verify what she was, and then be killed by her:

three threads gone, and Satan's victory. Qr try to retreat
from her, and have to run the gauntlet of two male demons
behind. A losing strategy, surely.

Blanche had to be in Heaven. This had to be an illusion/
demoness, playing her part the way only a female could.
The males had failed, but the females were more adept.

Well, if she couldn't get rid of this one, she would have
to play along. "Why, thank you, Blanche! But this is, after
all. Hell. Will Satan permit it?"

"We aren't completely evil, even in Hell," Blanche
reminded her. "We're just more evil than good. What
good I possess is tied up with Pacian and my daughter
and your son. I will help you reach him—but I am not
allowed to tell you anything. You understand."

"I understand." But she did not understand. This was
exactly the way the real Blanche would have acted—but
what demoness would help an intruder defeat her master?
There had to be a limit to the playing of a part—didn't
there?

Disquieted, Niobe continued her walk, and Blanche
paced her. If this was another one of Satan's traps, it was
too sophisticated for her to fathom at the moment.

Unless, she realized abruptly, Satan wanted her to
reach her son. Or to encourage her to believe she could
reach him. Naturally he would provide her all needed as-
sistance—to go the wrong way.

Well, she was stuck for it. The game was getting more
devious, as Satan proceeded from straight maze-chal-
lenges to psychological ones, but it wasn't over until it
was over. The outcome hadn't been decided yet, for she
still had five threads.

Another person showed. The next demon—and she
hadn't yet gotten rid of the last one!

It was Blenda, the Magician's wife, mother of Luna.
This was getting eerie indeed!

"Mother!" Blenda cried.

"My baby!" Blanche cried.

The two swept together and hugged each other, shed-
ding tears. Niobe watched, bemused. They had to be two
demonesses—yet they acted real in all ways. Blenda was
not the perfect beauty she had been in youth, but the
somewhat wasted woman who had died of leukemia at
age forty-seven, leaving the Magician a widower. His
magic had extended her life, but had not been able to cure
her. So she, too, had entered the Afterlife—but not Hell.
She had at one point been a virtual twin of Niobe's, and
Niobe had known her well—a woman with very little evil.

Then Blenda turned to her. "I'm so glad to see you so
well, Niobe!"

So well? Hardly! But compared to Blenda, she was
healthy. Niobe didn't even try to unmask her; she hugged
Blenda and exchanged pleasantries.

"So now you're coming to talk with my husband,"
Blenda said.

"My son," Niobe agreed. "He has the answer I need."

"I will help you find him," Blenda said. "I haven't seen
him since I died."

Surely not! Blenda was in Heaven, the Magician in
Hell. But Niobe had to play along. "Why not? He's been
here for two years."

Her mouth quirked. "We don't get visiting privileges.
That's part of our punishment."




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With a Tangled Skein

Niobe had to admit that made sense. So now she had
two demonesses ready to help her find her son. Curiouser

yet!

Niobe set off again, paced by a woman on either side.
She had five threads, and only four unidentified illusions
remained.

"How are the girls?" Blenda asked.

"Orb's on tour," Niobe answered shortly. "Luna's
getting into politics."

"Oh, yes—to foil Satan!" Blenda agreed. "But you
need the Magician's advice."

Another form appeared. In fact it was three forms: out-
right demons. Evidently Satan was not about to expend
three of his four remaining illusions on these; he had to
send them in undisguised. They spied the women and hur-
ried toward them.

"Watch out for them!" Blanche cried. "I know their
kind! If they get us outnumbered, they'll rape us or eat
us!"

"Or both," Blenda amended.

"Or both," Blanche agreed. "We must stay together;

then they won't try it. They're cowardly; they must have
numerical advantage, or they won't act."

Niobe did not comment. As far as she was concerned,
she was now in the company of five demons. How was
she going to get out of this? Why hadn't Satan simply sent
ten demons?

The demons came close. They had horns and tails and
hooves and obvious masculine appendages, in the manner
of their kind. They eyed the women. "You need com-
pany?" one asked.

"Oh, go away, you foul fiend!" Blenda exclaimed.
The demon considered, evidently trying to figure out
how to separate the three women so that they would be-
come vulnerable. "Maybe we help," he said. "You want
cross river?"

" Yes," Niobe said. It was, after all, the truth; she could
see that the path on this side came to an end a short dis-
tance ahead.

"We help. We got boat."

"Why should you help us cross?" Niobe demanded.
With overt demons, at least she didn't have to pretend.

The demon looked at her. It licked its lips. It shifted
its posterior. It didn't answer.

It hardly needed to. The demons would help one woman
cross, so that the three would be separated. Then the three
demons would converge on the one or two women, and
do their dirty work.

Would one demon actually rape or eat a demoness?
Apparently so, by the rules that evidently governed this
strange portion of-the maze. Perhaps it was just Niobe
who would be attacked, once she was separated from her
"friends."

Well, the answer was simple. They would all cross to-
gether. If the women intended to desert her, they would
have done so already. It seemed that they would stand
by her—for now.

"Show us your boat," Niobe said.

The demons showed the boat. It was a small canoe, just
big enough for two. It was obvious that it would sink if
any more got on it.

Niobe looked at Blanche and Blenda. They spread their
hands. It was clear that it was not possible for the three
of them to cross together.

But if they did not, one or two of them would be left
to the appetites of the demons. Niobe might cross alone,
but she realized that she could not in conscience leave
the other two women to that fate, even if they were de-
monesses beneath. They had not betrayed her, so far; she
was unwilling to be the one to initiate that sort of thing.
This might be Hell, but she carried her standards with
her.




360 With a Tangled Skein

Perhaps that was the real nature of this test: to ascertain
whether she would desert her conscience when it seemed
convenient to do so. An ethical standard that bowed to
convenience was not worth much.

She considered crossing with one demon, so as to keep
it even on both sides of the river. But then that demon
could cross back after Niobe went on, making it three to
two. Or it could return to fetch across another demon,
both of which could pursue Niobe.

She had to arrange to get all three women across—
without ever letting any of them be outnumbered, on
either side of the river. That was the only proper course.

She pondered. She remembered something that might
help: a series of intellectual riddles she and Cedric had
struggled with during their first summer. He had been
uncannily bright, and she knew in distant retrospect that
the foundation of her love for him had been laid when the
power of his mind began to show in such games. He had
seemed like little more than a boy, then—but what a bon-
nie boy!

She felt the tears starting and shook herself out of the
reverie. She was, after all, in Hell.

One of those riddles had been the story of a river cross-
ing: three civilized hunters, with three untrustworthy na-
tives. They had had to cross the river, using a two-man
boat, without ever letting the natives outnumber the hunt-
ers. Exactly the problem she faced here! So she knew
there was an answer—

But she didn't remember it.

The others stood there, looking at her—the two women
and the three demons. Yes, this was definitely a test, an
aspect of the maze. She had been able to unravel the con-
fusions of passages and illusions, and to survive the rigors
of the snowy slope, and to get by the robot factory, but
now the maze was focusing increasingly on her weakness:

Piers Anthony                361

intellect. She had never claimed to have more than or-
dinary intelligence, though she had been attracted to
smart men.

If she could solve this riddle, she could proceed; if not,
she would shortly commence her Afterlife in Hell with a
truly Hellish experience.

Did Satan know of her prior exposure to this puzzle?
Did it suit his humor to dangle the prize this close, to see
whether she could come through? What an exquisite tor-
ture it would be, to know she had had victory within her
reach and had been unable to grasp it! He had even sent
a demon in the guise of Cedric, to remind her!

"Damn you, Satan!" she swore under her breath. She
thought she heard a responding chuckle, though perhaps
that was merely a ripple in the river.

She concentrated. How had that long-ago puzzle gone?
Two women could cross first—no, that would leave the
third with all three demons. Well, one woman and one
demon could cross, keeping it even. Then—oops! Who
would bring the boat back? The woman would have to.
Then there would be three women and two demons on
the near bank, and a lone demon on the far bank. Then
one woman and one demon could cross—and when they
got to the far bank, there would be two demons to one
woman there. No good.

Well, suppose two demons crossed first? One would
bring the boat back. Then two women—no, that left two
demons and one woman on the near shore.

No matter how she tried it, at some point she encoun-
tered an imbalance. It seemed impossible to cross suc-
cessfully—yet she knew there was an answer! Cedric had
worked it out.

There was a key—a special way of looking at it. Some-
thing that the ordinary person, like her, did not think of.
What was it?




362 With a Tangled Skein

She pictured Cedric's boyish face, the tousled hair tum-
bling over his forehead. He had shown her the key, such
a simple, obvious thing, and she had laughed ruefully.

Cedric! she thought, her ancient love for him suffusing
her. / need you!

And then she thought: return. Perhaps she had heard
Cedric say it, her love bringing back the dear memory of
his voice.

The key was in the boat's return trip. Something sur-
prising, nonsensical—until understood. The return or-
Then she had it. Thanks to Cedric, Luna's grandfather,
she knew how to cross the river and save Luna. Satan
had gotten too cute, taunting her; she had gotten away
with the bait.

"Two of you take this boat across," she directed the
demons.

They didn't argue. They got into the canoe and dipped
their hand-paws in to paddle, not bothering with the pad-
dles that lay in the bottom of the craft. The carnivorous
fish swarmed, biting at the hands. When a fish took hold,
a demon simply drew his hand out of the water along with
the attached fish, brought it to his mouth, and chomped
the fish. In a moment the eater became the eaten, and the
paddling resumed.

Soon they were across. "Now one of you get out; the
other bring it back," Niobe called. The demons shrugged;

one got out and stood on the bank, while the other dog-
paddled the canoe back by sitting in the front and pulling
it along. It wasn't a smooth trip, but in due course the
demon got there.

"Two more of you cross," Niobe said.

Two crossed. When they arrived, all three demons were
on the far bank, while all three women remained on the
near one.

"Now one of you bring it back," Niobe called.

Piers Anthony                 363

"But if one of us crosses next—" Blanche said wor-
riedly.

"Don't worry," Niobe said.

The demon arrived back. The two on the far shore
licked their gross chops, anticipating something pleasant
on the next crossing.

"Now two of us will cross," Niobe said. "Come on,
Blanche."

"But I—" Blenda protested.

"You will have the company of one demon," Niobe
said. "No problem."

She and Blanche took up the paddles and started off.
The fish swarmed in again, but found nothing tender to
chomp. The journey was somewhat erratic, as neither
woman was experienced, and at times Niobe feared they
would tip the craft over in their effort to keep it on course,
but they did eventually make it across. The fish clacked
their teeth angrily.

Now there were two women and two demons on this
bank, one of each on the other. Who was going back: a
woman or a demon?

"One of each," Niobe said. "I'll go—and you." She
picked a demon.

The demon shrugged and joined her in the boat. It didn't
know what she was up to, but was sure that sooner or
later it would find the women outnumbered.

It was eerie, riding with the demon. She knew it could
overturn the canoe at any point, dumping her in the water
and costing her a life. But she also knew the demon
wouldn't do it. It would attack only when it had the advan-
tage of numbers. She was finessing Satan, offering him the
chance to penalize her two threads when he wanted three.

They reached the bank. Now there were four on this
side, two on the other, still evenly divided.

"Two women," Niobe said.

364 With a Tangled Skein

Blenda joined her in the canoe, and they crossed, leav-
ing the two demons behind. When they arrived, there
were three women to one demon. "Now you can ferry
your friends across," Niobe said. "We'll be moving on.
Thank you for your help." She led the way on down the
path, leaving the demon to scratch his horny head in per-
plexity. How had the three morsels managed to escape?
"That was very clever of you." Blanche said.

"It was just a fond memory," Niobe said enigmatically.
She knew it had been a close call. though—and four il-
lusions remained, with the challenges getting harder.

The path diverged from the river. It led to a large hall,
a virtual cathedral.

A man sat on a throne on a dais in the center. He stood
as the women entered. "So you have come!" he ex-
claimed, rising.

It was the Magician!

Blenda was the first to approach him. "My husband!"
"My wife!" he agreed. They embraced and kissed.
Now Niobe approached him. But she remembered
those four remaining illusions. It was possible that she
had bypassed them when she crossed the river, or that
the count given on the plaque in the 4-hall had overstated
the number, but she doubted it. It was more likely that
she would have to fathom every last one of those illusions
before she won through. She couldn't trust this.

But suppose it was her son, ready with the answer she
needed—and she passed him by? That was as good a way
to lose as any! Wouldn't Satan laugh if he offered her the
solution on a platter—and she rejected it, for that reason.
Exquisite irony.

Well, one day Satan was going to try so hard for that
irony that he would lose more than an encounter.

She brought out a thread and flung it at the Magician.
If this was no illusion—

Piers Anthony                365

The thread touched—and the Magician became a
demon with three faces and six arms. Its head seemed to
be mounted on ball-bearings, for it rotated without limit
to aim one face at her, then another, and then the third.
One face was young, one middle-aged, and one old, but
each seemed uglier than the other two.

"So!" the middle face hissed. "You doubt me, bag!"
the old one grated. "I will perforate you!" the young one
cried. The demon stepped toward her.

Blanche and Blenda screamed. Niobe expected them
to run away, as their challenge was done, but instead they
closed in before her. "You shall not have her!" Blenda
cried.

"This is my concern, not yours!" Niobe said.
"Don't—"

The three-faced demon grabbed Blenda, using four of
its arms to catch hold of her two arms and two legs. It
picked her up and spun its head to view her triply. "You
aren't worth bothering with, you prune!" it said, and
hurled her beyond the throne.

Now Niobe saw a gulf there. The throne was not in the
center of the chamber; it had only seemed to be, from a
distance. It was perched on the edge of a void. Blenda
screamed as she fell into this hole and disappeared.

Again the demon advanced on Niobe. This time
Blanche interposed herself. "You can cross, Niobe!" she
cried. "The landing is hidden by illusion—"

The demon caught her, wrapping two hands about her
throat to cut off her words. With three more hands it
ripped off her clothes. It growled with disgust. "Damned
flesh is no good; I want the real thing. To Hell with you!"
And it threw her also into the gulf.

Niobe was shocked on several levels. These were de-
mons—sacrificing themselves to protect her. They were
giving her information that she needed to defeat their mas-
ter. That made little sense, unless—




366 With a Tangled Skein

Unless Blanche and Blenda were what they had seemed
to be. In which case—

No! There was no way those two could really be in Hell.
But they weren't necessarily demons. They could be other
souls, ordered to impersonate the women Niobe had
known—or maybe even caused to believe that they were
those women. Thus they could have acted in good faith,
despite being false—and had paid a terrible price for it.

Terrible price! No—they were damned souls anyway.
The fall into the pit could not hurt them; it merely took
them out of this context. Niobe was alone again. Still, she
regretted their passing, and was sorry she had not been
able to do anything for them.

Meanwhile, the three-faced demon was coming at her
again—and this time there was no one to intercede. She
had used a thread exposing it; if it killed her now, that
would make three threads lost, and put her below the
critical threshold as she understood it. She had to es-
cape—but the void was too broad for her to slide across
on a limited thread.

If she retreated, she would be trapped between this
demon and the three at the river. She had to go forward.

There was a landing, hidden by illusion—if Blanche had
been telling the truth. If that damned soul had been a true
emulation of the blessed one, she would have told the
truth. Blanche had been one of the finest people Niobe
had known, though she had known her mainly by obser-
vation. Satan had made a mistake, using damned souls to
emulate blessed ones; naturally they had longed to be
their roles, as an actor might wish to be the hero he por-
trayed, and they had played them too well. It had been
their closest approach to the illusion of Heaven, of escape
from Hell.

Niobe ran for the void. She threw a thread ahead of
her.

Piers Anthony                367

There, just a yard away from the edge, was a platform.
It had been concealed by the illusion of the void.

She leaped across. The three-faced demon, following
her, tried to stop, skidded on the smooth floor, and fell
into the crevice between the edge and the platform.
Screaming from all three faces, it descended.

She was across, and she had three threads left, while
Satan had only two illusions. It was coming down to the
wire, and for the first time she had a genuine hope of
winning.

She set herself and walked on, hardly exhilarated, still
regretting the fate of the two damned souls who had
helped her cross.

She came to another large chamber. Here there were
a dozen demons of the kind she had encountered at the
river, all looking alike. They stood beside a huge set of
balancing scales.

What was she to make of this? The demons made no
hostile gesture; they seemed merely to be waiting. This
must be the final challenge—but how could she solve it,
when she couldn't even tell its nature?

Then something occurred to her. Pacian, her second
husband, had had a mind very like Cedric's. Magic music
and intellectual brilti&wx—^\vj had \wsfi cousms, so h
was not surprising that they shared traits. She had played
games of riddles with Pace, too, and he had bested her
readily. Now she remembered the first, at the sea of grass
as they tried to approach Gaea's residence. Twelve cpins,
a set of scales. Eleven coins specified to be genuine, one
counterfeit—but the counterfeit looked exactly like the
others. Only its slight difference in weight distinguished
it. The problem had been to discover which one was the
counterfeit, and whether it was heavy or light.

Easy enough; it was necessary only to weigh all the
coins in pairs. If two balanced, both were genuine; if the
scales did not balance, then one coin was the counterfeit.




368 WUh a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 369

Then each of these could be balanced against one of the
others, and the counterfeit would be exposed.

Except that only three weighings were permitted. It was
necessary to weigh them in groups—and no combination
of group weighings seemed certain to isolate the lone
counterfeit, let alone identify the nature of its difference.

Here were twelve identical demons—and she had just
three threads left. Could that be it?

Satan had two illusions remaining, it seemed. Two de-
mons could be made to resemble her son, concealing
him—but that had not been done. None of these demons
had been masked.

Then she caught on. "One of you is my son!"

All of them nodded affirmatively.

"Which one?"

All nodded negatively, refusing to tell.

Why didn't the Magician simply step forward so she
could verify him with a thread?

She considered and realized that, just as her threads
were not merely illusion-disposers but also life-restorers
and flying devices, so Satan's illusions were not confined
to the senses. Satan could have used one illusion to
change the Magician's appearance to that of a demon—
and the other to prevent him from identifying himself.

More than that, she realized. Satan could have bound
the Magician so that once she identified him, he would
not tell the truth. Then she would have a lie for an answer,
and when she applied it, Satan would win.

Well, then, she would reverse whatever he told her,
and have the truth.

But suppose it wasn't a lie? Then she would forfeit the
game despite having the truth—another delicious irony.

She had to know whether the Magician had been en-
chanted to tell the truth or to lie. A thread would do it-
but would she have a thread left, once she found him?

Her son was the counterfeit coin, in this Hellish in-
version—and what he told her could be either true or
false. He could be honest, and be slightly lighter than the
demons, or dishonest, and be slightly heavier, for dis-
honesty was a sin and sin weighed down the soul. She
had to know which.

She had three threads—and now she knew that each
one entitled her to one weighing. She had to locate her
son among the identical demons, and determine his rela-
tive weight.

It seemed impossible—yet Pacian had done it, and
shown her how. But that had been a quarter-century ago,
and she had forgotten the solution.

This was a tougher one than the river-crossing; she
knew that. She had barely solved the other; how could
she ever fathom this one? Her advantage in threads had
been nullified by her lesser intellect and fading memory.
Now she wished she had been the smartest woman of her
generation, instead of the prettiest!

A fireball manifested. It expanded and became the form
of Satan himself. "So it has come to this at last, sad sack!"
he exclaimed.

She had been less annoyed during that confrontation in
the Void, when he had called her "cutie" and other such
mock endearments. But she held her peace. "I can win,
Satan."

"Can you, old hen? Let's see you try!" He gestured,
causing a throne of fire to appear. He ensconced himself
in it and settled down to watch.

"Why not invite the whole world to watch?" Niobe
asked, irritated.

Satan shrugged. "The world? I think not. But selected
parties, perhaps." He clapped his hands, and a wall of
the chamber vaporized. Beyond it was a segment of an
amphitheater. Seated there were all manner of demons
and lost souls, including the two who resembled Cedric




370

Piers Anthony                371

With a Tangled Skein

and Pacian, and the two who resembled Blanche and
Blenda. There were also the five major Incarnations.

Five? Oh, yes—she was not at the moment Fate; she
was just the soul ofNiobe, perched on the verge of dam-
nation—or salvation. Clotho and Atropos had the body,
and they shifted back and forth as the mood took them.

"Now perform your miracle of failure, 0 dismal dog!"
Satan said sardonically. "Your friends will see your hu-
miliation!"

Still she resisted the baiting. If she allowed herself to
get rattled or angry, she would certainly lose. She con-
centrated on the immediate problem. Twelve coins, three
weighings—how could it be done?

She considered balancing six against six. One group
would certainly rise—but would that mean that a light
counterfeit was among them, or that a heavy counterfeit
was among the others? If only she knew the weight first!
Then she could take the lighter six, if that happened to
be it, split them into two groups of three, and weigh two
of the three from the lighter group. If one was light, that
was it; if they balanced, then the odd one out was it. It
would work as well if the counterfeit was heavier. Such
a simple process!

But without the knowledge of the relative weight, it
became a complex process, a single weighing determining
nothing. She would need a second thread to weigh the
halves of one of the original sides; if they balanced, then
the counterfeit was in the other group, and she would
know its weight. From that point two more weighings
would do it—four in all. No good.

But as she struggled with it, she began to remember.
That odd-man-out system could be used throughout!
Weigh four against four, with four out. If the eight bal-
anced, the counterfeit was in the four remaining. Then

weigh two against two—no, that wasn't it. Weigh all four
against one of the other groups, now known to consist of
good coins (demons); that would tell whether the coun-
terfeit was heavy or light. Then—no, one weighing wasn't
enough to finish it.

Still, she was sure she was on the right track. Weigh
just three coins from the subject group against three good
ones; if they balanced, it was the odd one out, and the
last weighing would determine its relative weight. If the
two sets did not balance, then it would be known that,
say, the counterfeit was light. Then a simple weighing
would identify it.

But suppose the first weighing of fours did not balance?
Then she had the counterfeit somewhere amidst eight
coins—too many" for two weighings.

She went over and over it while the audience waited
silently. By chance she might win, if the counterfeit fell
in the right group. But she was sure that chance would
not favor her—not here in Hell. She had to exclude
chance and guarantee it in three weighings, regardless.

She was getting a concentration headache. No matter
what strategy she tried, she could not be sure of the an-
swer in just three weighings. What was she to do?

The tears started. It didn't help that Satan spotted them
and smirked. He knew he was winning—and the audience
knew it too. Her final humiliation was upon her.

Oh, Pace! she thought. How did you do it?

Then, as ifitwere the answer to her prayer, the solution
came. Pace—or something—had responded. Her mem-
ory clarified, and she knew the key. "Exchange!" she
exclaimed.

She stepped before the scales. "You four—get on this
side," she ordered the nearest demons. They obeyed,
(romping to the large plate. "And you four—to this side."
The next four obeyed.




372 With a Tangled Skein 373

Piers Anthony

When the eight stood on the two plates of the scales,
Niobe released the fastenings and let the plates find their
levels. They were not in balance. Slowly the left plate
descended. There was a trifle more evil there. This was
the hardest case to fathom, of course.

Now came the key step. She gestured to the innermost
demon on the left, and to the one on the right. "You and
you—switch places."

The two demons shrugged at this nonsense and ex-
changed places. There was a murmur in the audience.
Satan scowled.

"You there," she said, pointing to those remaining on
the right side. "Get off." They got off.

"You three," she said, indicating three of those in the
unweighed group. "Get on." And the three marched on.

Niobe saw the Incarnations shaking their heads. They
thought she had lost her common sense. Blanche and
Blenda were bowing their heads with regret. Nobody be-
lieved in her—but she knew what she was doing. She
hoped.

The scales, when the weighing proceeded, remained un-
balanced, the left side still down. That told her much of
what she needed to know. Had they become balanced,
she would have known that the counterfeit was among
the three she had removed, and light, because she had
taken them from the light plate. Had they become un-
balanced the other way, she would have known it was one
of the two that had exchanged places; then she could have
weighed the light one against a good one and defined it,
for if it remained light, it was a light counterfeit, and if it
balanced, then the other one would have been the heavy
counterfeit. As it was, she knew that the counterfeit was
one of the three she had neither moved nor switched, and
it was heavy.

"You and you," she said, pointing to two of those
three. "Weigh against each other." This was her third
and final thread.

The two did. They balanced.

Niobe turned to the odd one out. "Hello, Magician!"

The Incarnations, surprised, applauded. Blanche and
Blenda looked up in glad surmise. Satan's scowl deep-
ened.

But Niobe knew it wasn't over yet. She could ask her
son for the answer—but what he would tell her would be
a lie. She had used up all her threads getting to this point;

she could not make him tell the truth.

She could get the truth by elimination. Only the truth
was perfectly consistent; sooner or later, a pattern of lies
would trip itself up.

"You have one question," Satan said.

"One question!" she exploded. "That isn't part of the
bargain!"

"One soul is on the line; one question to be answered."

That had not been her understanding, but she realized
that she hadn't made it tight. Mars, too, had overlooked
this. The Father of Lies had found a loophole. She was
stuck with Satan's interpretation.

One question! Had she been assured of a true answer,
she could have asked, "How can I foil Satan's plot against
Luna?" But his lie could be anything else—making that
question an exercise in futility. She had to find the ques-
tion whose lie would be instructive. That was more of a
challenge than she had cared for!

Could she phrase a suitable yes-no question so that the
lie would give her a direct answer? Only if she pretty well
knew the answer already—and she did not.

Had Satan won after all? Not entirely, for she had got-
ten through to the Magician and identified him. She had
threaded the maze. But until she got the answer she had




374 With a Tangled Skein

come for and got out of Hell, her soul was not safe. Nei-
ther was mankind.

Her gaze passed over the audience again. There were  |
the demons, licking their chops in anticipation of victory.
There were some of the damned souls, looking soulful.
There was Mars, his face set carefully neutral. He had
made sure Satan didn't cheat, but he could not help her
now.

The Incarnations—the personifications of the major
factors governing the destiny of man. Thanatos, who had
assumed the office and refused to take Luna's soul, be-
cause he loved her. A selfish reason, perhaps—but it had
caused him to face down Satan directly, thereby pre-
serving Luna for her eventual role in the salvation of man.
One may marry Death . . .

Chronos, who had similarly fought Satan, in what was
the future for the rest of them. She was glad, now, that
she had comforted Chronos' successors in her past; they
were all worthy holders of the office, even the child, and
had/would do their part in securing the salvation of man.

Gaea, who had helped significantly. Niobe's daughter
Orb seemed destined to assume that office, if the proph-
ecy carried through. Surely she, too, would have to over-
come Satan's evil designs, for the Prince of Evil always
pounced on the newest and least experienced Incarna-
tions. And one may marry Evil . . .

Surely not! That was unthinkable! Yet—she had in a
sense given Orb to Satan. It had only been a commitment
to keep her out of politics, capitalizing on Satan's error
of identification, but any commitment to Satan was
treacherous. What had she let her child in for? But Orb
was a sensible and talented young woman, if a bit short
on temper, and she well knew the treacheries of the one
who had struck directly at her in the Hall of the Mountain
King. Orb would never trust Evil!

Piers Anthony                375

Yet that prophecy kept coming true, stage by stage, in
its own devious manner. Niobe hoped she was misinter-
preting its import, here.

Thanatos had balked Satan's power by using an aspect
of his own power over death. Chronos would do it by
manipulating time. Each Incarnation fought Satan in his/
her own fashion. Now she, as Fate, had to prevent Satan
from distorting her threads of life. Some aspect of her
power should do it.

She felt a flash of realization. Her power—because it
was for her that the Magician had left his message. That
limited the range of options considerably! The solution to
her problem should not lie in Thanatos' province, or
Chronos', or any of the other Incarnations. It had to lie
with Fate. In some special power that she, as Fate, could
invoke.

But what power? She still couldn't ask what it was!
Yet if it was a power of Fate, it had to be a power of
an Aspect of Fate. There were three Aspects; in thirty-
eight years she had pretty well learned the powers of
Clotho, and none of them related to this situation. Her
successor. Lisa, had discovered or developed a power she
hadn't know about, the ability to change her appearance
from one pretty young form to another, so perhaps there
were others. But Clotho spun the threads; she did not
manipulate them after they were in place. So it really
wasn't likely to be Clotho.

Niobe had not been Lachesis long enough to fathom all
her powers, but she had made progress. There could be
some major power she had not yet discovered, but she
doubted it.

That left Atropos. She knew very little ofAtropos' pow-
ers. The job seemed simple enough, however—merely to
cut the measured threads. Not really enough to warrant
a full separate Aspect, when she thought about it. Could
there be something they had not realized?




376 With a Tangled Skein

This had become a three-coin problem! One coin she
could set aside: Clotho. That left two to weigh. If she
knew which one had the necessary power, she could focus
exclusively on that, and have a much better chance to
discover it. This wasn't the direct answer she had sought,
but it would give her a better fighting chance.

"Magician, here is my question," she said. "Is it Atro-
pos who has the power to defeat Satan's present
scheme?"

"No," the demon-figure said.

There was a sigh of disappointment from the damned
souls, and a chortle of glee from the demons. They
thought she had failed; they didn't realize that the answer
was a lie, or that she knew it was a lie. The Magician had
just confirmed her guess, giving her the key to victory.

Satan rose from his throne of fire. "So you have failed,
and you are Mine, you wretched woman!"

"Get away from me, you foul fiend!" Niobe snapped.
"My threads are done, but so are your illusions. I
threaded the maze."

"But you lost your answer," Satan said, walking to-
ward her. Now flames appeared in a circle, enclosing the
two of them and the twelve demon-forms.

"I got my answer!" she cried. "I knew from my weigh-
ings that you had enchanted my son to lie. Atropos is the
one!"

"Ridiculous!" Satan said. The ring of fire closed in,
burning the demons, who disappeared one by one in puffs
of flame as they were ignited. "Everyone knows you
lost." He reached for her, and now his hands were flaming
too. "I have desired your soul for sixty years, and now
it is Mine!"

"No!" Niobe cried. "I cry foul! I have the answer!"

Mars stood. "Satan, you presume," he said. His hand
descended to touch the hilt of his great red sword.

Piers Anthony                 377

Satan scowled, but he paused, and the ring of fire
paused too. Four demons remained standing, including
the one who was the Magician. "Your turn will come,
Warmonger!" he muttered. Then, to the audience: "Then
let the threadbare one present her answer, if she's got it.
Here and now!"

"Agreed," Mars said. He remained standing, hand still
resting at the sword.

So Mars had now acted directly to enforce the rules of
the maze. She had been wise to choose him as referee.

Satan's head swiveled on around in a full circle and
returned to cover Niobe. Now the flames danced within
them. "Present your answer, saggy! I call your bluff!"

But Niobe had not worked it out yet; she knew only
that she had the key to it. "In due course, stinkhorn."

"Now—or forfeit!" Satan said.

"There is no time limit, remember?" she insisted. "The
maze is finished only when I have the answer—or do not
have it. I can take twenty years, if I want to. Isn't that
right, Mars?"

Mars smiled grimly. "That is right, Lachesis. Time is
not specified. I lacked authority to agree to Here and
Now, so I withdraw it."

"A blessed loophole!" Satan muttered. "Well, then,
I'll wait—till Hell freezes over." He gestured, and the
circle of flames resumed its contraction. "Which will not
be soon."

Niobe knew that those flames could not hurt her—not
as long as the game was unfinished. But probably they
could make her quite uncomfortable. Satan was applying
a hotfoot to distract her.

She concentrated as well as she could. So it was Atro-
pos who had the power. Therefore it related to the cutting
of threads. But Atropos could not cut a thread until it had
been measured, and measuring was Lachesis' province. '
If the pawns of Satan on Earth could be eliminated by the




375 With a Tangled Skein

action of Lachesis, why had the Magician's answer ex-
cluded her? He should have said "yes," so as to direct
her toward Atropos, since he had to lie. So this should
not involve measuring.

What would happen if Atropos cut an unmeasured
thread? Well, if she cut the front end, it was disaster; they
had discovered that the hard way. But it was too late to
cut the front ends of Satan's agents in the Senate. They
were already well established in the Tapestry. The other
ends—if they had already been measured, cut to length
and woven in, it should not be possible to cut them. Yet
they could be cut, obviously. Atropos would never do it,
because of the harm it would do to the Tapestry, but—

She was on to something here. When Lachesis mea-
sured a thread, she determined its potential. But not all
threads lived up to their potential. Some broke early and
were lost. The mortals thought of that as suicide—a self-
arranged cutting. Normally the mortal instinct of self-
preservation prevented that, but when that instinct broke
down—

And there it was. Niobe faced Satan. "When Atropos
cuts a thread out of turn, after it has been measured and
woven into the Tapestry, that thread will end despite the
destiny Lachesis has measured for it. An unfated end is
a suicide. What Atropos does, in effect, is terminate that
person's impulse to exist—eliminating the instinct of self-
preservation. Without that instinct, the average person
will soon get tired of the routine frustrations of life, and
decide to try the Afterlife instead. Especially if he believes
he is going to Heaven—or has a promise of preferred
treatment in Hell."

"I don't treat suicides any better than the others!"
Satan exclaimed, his flames brightening indignantly.

"But you have promised preferred treatment to those
who do your bidding on Earth," Niobe said. "Such as
the ones slated to replace the senators who have returned

Piers Anthony                 379

to enjoy their newfound youth. Well, those folk may come
to you sooner than you anticipate."

"I'll assign them double torture if they do!" Satan
raged. "I need them on Earth!"

"For twenty years or so," Niobe agreed. "But when
Atropos cuts their threads early, so that they lose their
indomitable desire to live, they won't care to waste all
that time waiting for their reward."

"There is no reward!" Satan was almost engulfed in
flames now.

"In which case, why should they agree to your bid-
ding?" she asked sweetly. "You will have a lot of trouble
garnering the votes you want if those folk realize that your
promises are meaningless."

"You're bluffing!" Satan cried. "You wouldn't abro-
gate your own threads!"

"To save mankind?" she asked. "Perhaps I would
not—but I suspect practical old Atropos would."
"You bet I would!" Atropos cried from the audience.
"And without those corrupted votes, twenty years
hence, the final decision will be left to the powers that
will be—and the swing vote will remain with my grand-
daughter Luna!"

Satan didn't answer. He stood there, glowering, as the
circle of fire closed in on them both. It ignited the last
demon—the one who was the Magician. As the demon-
semblance went up in smoke, her son stood there in his
natural form. A slow, grim smile was spreading across his
face.

Then the flame engulfed her, blotting out the rest of
Hell. But Niobe felt no heat.

In a moment the air cleared. Hell was gone, and with
it the audience. She stood in Mars' castle, where she had
started this strange challenge. She was back in her phys-
ical body, her soul safe as an Aspect of Fate. Mars was




380 With a Tangled Skein

standing before her, his smile very like that of the Ma-
gician.

You did it! Clotho cried in thought, kissing her inter-
nally.

Good job, woman! Atropos thought next.
Niobe laughed with relief and delight. "Upon my soul!"
she exclaimed. She knew she had a long and satisfying
role ahead of her as Lachesis.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the first Incarnations novel, featuring Thanatos, I ex-
plored the subject of Death in a manner not commonly
seen in fiction. That novel seems to be doing reasonably
well, commercially and critically, and my fans have re-
acted favorably. But I noted in the "Author's Note" for
that book that Death seemed to be lobbing shells at me
while I worked on the novel. This was disquieting. Next
year I wrote the sequel, featuring Chronos, and explored
aspects of Time that other writers may have overlooked.
I was then besieged by problems of time, and really had
to struggle to complete the novel on schedule. I don't
believe in the Supernatural—I regard it as fantasy—but
I dreaded what I would encounter when I wrote the next,
on the subject of Fate.

Well, now it is done, and this is my report on the manner
Fate has affected me. I am broadening the scope here, for
as I trust this novel shows, Fate is not a matter of a few
months or particular episodes; it is an ongoing tapestry
of interacting life, fashioned from the tangled skein ofreal-

381




382 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 383

ity. So herewith my usual warning: the entertainment por-
tion of this book is over, and this Note is of a more in-
trospective nature. If you are not interested in the musings
of anonymous writers, don't bother to read further; the
novel can stand perfectly well without this.

How did I come to write Skein? Well, of course I went
the usual route, presenting a summary of the notion to
the editor, who put out a contract on it, and in the winter
of 1983-84 I settled down to write the first drafts of the
third Bio novel for Avon and the third Incarnations novel
for Del Rey. You will remember my system: I so arrange
my year so as not to have to type in my unheated study
in winter, preferring to sit by the warm woodstove and
pencil the first drafts of two novels, then type them in
spring. This really is no answer, though, because the ques-
tion is too limited. How did I, an established science fic-
tion writer since 1963, come to be writing fantasy? How
did I come to be a writer at all?

Let me start at the beginning, because the true course
that took me to Niobe was more devious and difficult than
most folks would care to realize. If parts of this narration
seem uncomfortably personal—well, this is my nature.

There is an element in my fiction that appeals to certain
readers who claim they don't find it in most other fiction,
and much as I might be tempted to call it Competence or
Quality or Genius, I really can't. There are other writers
with these traits who are less successful than I am. I re-
gard myself as a good writer, not a great one, and my  j
current success has as much to do with the efforts of the
publisher and its sales force as it does with my skill as an  ,
author. This isn't modesty on my part, false or otherwise;  |
it's observation based on my desire to know the truth,  !
whatever its nature may be.

I have what some others would call an obsession with   |
truth, which manifests in a lively curiosity about practi-  j
cally everything that exists or fails to exist, a very strong

desire for integrity—and contempt for its absence—and
an omery attitude about ascertaining the facts and making
them known. This attitude has gotten me in a lot of trouble
in the past, but is paying off now, because I am working
my way closer to comprehension of the nature of ultimate
reality, and it helps. Of course I have a way to go yet,
before that comprehension is complete; let's give it a mil-
lennium or two and see where I stand.

Anyway, I suspect that special element in my fiction is
the personal touch. I am not content to follow the standard
rules of plotting, characterization, and style, though these
are good rules; I want my fiction also to live. When I
succeed, it does live for me, and I hope for my readers,
too. I do feel what my characters feel and I can cry, lit-
erally, when they hurt. I can suffer pangs of parturition
when I finish with a novel; of course the words remain,
but I am no longer in it; it has ceased to be an ongoing
aspect of my life and has become part of the record of
my achievement. Its thread has been cut, and I must pro-
ceed to the spinning and measuring of the next one. But
while I'm in, I am involved.

Sometimes I dream about my characters. I love Niobe,
I love Cedric, I love Luna and Orb; they live in my fancy
much as living people do. Is it foolish to care for nonex-
istent folk? Then leave me to my foolishness! There is
too much insensitivity and isolation in this world; there
should be no shame in caring, even if only for constructs
of the imagination. Indeed, in certain respects, I prefer
imagination to reality and shall explain why. But this en-
tails some baring of the nerves and is uncomfortable for
some folk, including some writers. I happen to be more
introspective and expressive than most, so I do get per-
sonal in these Notes. Bear with me

I was born in Oxford, England, where both my parents
had their degrees. Ours was a Quaker family, and my
father worked with the British Friends Service Committee




384 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 385

in Spain, supervising their relief program there during the
Spanish Civil War. As I understand it, this was largely
concerned with the feeding of hungry children, who had
the worst of it during the ravages of combat. Generals like
to speak of conquering territory and reducing the enemy's
combative ability, but this is rough on the children whose
territory it is; their houses are destroyed arid their families
killed and their food disappears. That is the real meaning
of war, after the generals have played their games and
moved on to new challenges. I will have a good deal more
to say on the subject of the suffering of innocents in war
in the next novel in this series. Wielding a Red Sword;

too often it is the blood of children that accounts for the
color.

This war in Spain went from 1936 to 1939 and presaged
World War II; the Nazi regime used it as a kind of testing
ground for new weapons, then turned that experience into
something that caused the rest of the world to take note.
Many people were affected by the war in Spain, including
such literary figures as Ernest Hemingway and George
Orwell, and science fiction writer Ted Cogswell . . . and
me.

My father was arrested by the victorious Franco gov-
ernment; he disappeared, in the manner that has more
recently been popularized in Latin America, but was for-
tunate enough to manage to smuggle out a note. It reached
my mother, and, armed with that proof, she was able to
get the authorities to admit that my father was in custody;

they had, of course, denied it. Truth is the first casualty
in war and in its aftermath. They agreed to release him
conditionally: that he depart the country. That way the
dictatorship did not have to admit to making a mistake—
dictatorships just don't make mistakes—and got to take
over the stores of food intended for children. I doubt that
much of it reached those children thereafter. Thus it was
that we came to America. It is entirely possible that had

this false arrest and eviction not occurred, I would be
living today in Spain, perhaps trying to write fantasy in
Spanish.

I was not aware of such details at the time, but I felt
their impact. I was not in Spain during the actual war; I
remained in England with my sister, cared for by "Nana,"
a British girl hired for the purpose, as has been the custom
there for perhaps a longer time than America has been
colonized. Thus it is not surprising that some of my ear-
liest and fondest memories are of Nana, whose actual
name I never knew. Even my memory may be skewed;

it was probably "Nanny." Then the time came for my
sister and me to go to Spain. 1 learned to my chagrin that
Nana, who I thought was my mother or equivalent, was
not going. We were to be in the charge of two other peo-
ple, who were in fact my parents. They had spared me
the possible anguish of separation from them, before, by
distancing themselves; they overlooked the discomfort of
this separation.

1 don't want to make more of this than it was, but my
awareness of that separation has remained with me
throughout my life. The echo of it is apparent in the sep-
aration of Niobe from her son; the things of my life do
make their way into my fiction, though not in ways that
any critic comprehends. I suspect the same is true for
other writers.

In Spain I adapted gradually to the culture and the lan-
guage; at age five I was beginning to speak Spanish. My
sister had a pretty, lacy Spanish dress. I would wake in
the mornings and see the moving shadows of palm fronds
cast against my wall; I viewed this as an adventure, trying
to guess which frond would dive farthest in the wind. 1
saw my first movie there. The Three Little Pigs. My mem-
ories of Spain are more populous and clear than those of
England, though not as fond. But then, abruptly, we left.
Oh, it was an adventure; we traveled to Portugal, to Lis-




386             With a Tangled Skein

Piers Anthony

387

bon—I remember the hotel room there—to board the ship
Excalibur. No, as far as I know, that name has no con-
nection to my later taste in fantasy, but perhaps it was a
signal. As it happened, the Duke of Windsor—the former
King Edward VIII of England—was taking that same ship
to the New World to be Governor of the Bahamas; I re-
member seeing his car hoisted out of the hold at Bermuda.
The Nazis had hatched a plot to kidnap or convert them
to their cause, but that had been botched and he crossed
the Atlantic unmolested.

Again, my memories of the time are more personal than
historic; I was seasick, vomiting over the rail into the
ocean—the Atlantic remains polluted to this day—and I
had my sixth birthday at sea on August 6, 1940. The chef
lacked sugar, because of the War, and so I was presented
with a cake made of sawdust, nicely covered with icing
and candles. It was a surprise when we cut that open! I
was somewhat put out at the time. Today, ironically,
when I can afford a genuine cake, I can't have it, because
of my mild diabetes. I think my daughters are jealous;

they've had many real cakes, but never a sawdust cake.
For a present I received a harmonica, which I played
ceaselessly thereafter; I trust the Duke appreciated the
music. I have always liked harmonica music since then;

it, too, appears in my fiction, most notably in the Adept
series.

But this was my second uprooting, though not my last,
as my family slowly fragmented and my parents even-
tually divorced. Gardeners will tell you that root-pruning
doesn't hurt; I hesitate to agree. I did not understand the
problem, though in retrospect I do. I had no continuing
security of situation; both the people and the places clos-
est to me kept changing. By day I got along, but darkness
brought nightmare. I would lie awake at night, staring at
the wan lamp that was my only security from nocturnal
monsters.

If I were to personify my closest acquaintance of these
years, it would be Fear; I have known it longer and better
than anyone else would believe. I began to wet my bed
at night, and this persisted, despite the efforts of others
to shame, cure, or punish me, until I was ten years old;

living folk simply lacked the leverage my nightmares had.
I remember being in boarding school in first grade, when
one of the bigger boys took off the sheet to expose me in
my soaking nakedness. It didn't matter; what does one
humiliation matter, when one is already in Hell?

My family moved again, and again, and I attended five
different schools in the course of my three years in first
grade. I learned how to fight, because I had to; I just
couldn't learn how to read and I wasn't strong in math,
either. That may explain why I was later to be a math
instructor in the U.S. Army and an English teacher and
professional writer in civilian life. In the throes of this
childhood I developed nervous twitches of head and
hands, and I counted things compulsively. I suspect early
tests showed me to be of subnormal intellect. My physical
growth slowed, then stopped; I became the smallest in
my class, male or female. I suffered daily stomachaches,
and every few months there would be a real gut-tearer
that would incapacitate me all day. Not until I had a kid-
ney stone at the age of forty-seven did I experience worse
abdominal pain.

The only thing worse than being with other people, who
picked on me physically and emotionally, was being
alone. I would imagine that it was all one interminable
bad dream and that eventually I would wake up and be
back in England, the land of happiness. But it never hap-
pened, and in time I accepted the fact that I was in Amer-
ica to stay. There is a direct adaptation of this in my three-
volume novel Tarot: a day in the life of an eight-year-old
boy. It is literal. I retain an interest in Hell, as is evident
in this novel. Skein. When I was wet and shivering in my




388 With a Tangled Skein

bed in New England, my feet so cold they felt hot, I de-
cided that if Hell was hot, I had noTear of going there,

There is no need to detail all of it, though there is a
great deal more. I have, I trust, presented enough to show
that my early life was not perfect, and that the realm of
imagination seemed to have more to offer me than did
reality. In this, I believe, was the root of my later passion
for writing. How much better to organize my worlds of
imagination so as to make them meet my needs more com-
pletely! To come to terms with the monsters that first
pursued me and discover the joys that lay beyond. A pop-
ular song played on the radio while I worked on this novel,
one line going, "My dream is real; reality is wrong." Oh,
yes\

I finally discovered reading, progressing in a bound
from exclusion to complete inclusion in the world of print.
Suddenly I was in The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles
Reade, a novel of the Middle Ages written in 1869, about
three hundred thousand words long. It took me months
to get through it, but I read every word faithfully, and I
lived in that world, and was desolate when it ended. Later
I got into reading fantasy and science fiction, and there
were worlds galore for me to romp in. I read slowly but
deeply—to this day I am a slow reader—and tuned out
all the world around me in favor of the universe perceived
through the window of the printed page, sometimes to the
annoyance of others who thought I was being perverse.
But I needed that other universe; in a certain respect I
owe my sanity to it, for it helped me to survive the rigors
of the real world. I had no solid emotional place to stand
in reality; the fantastic genre provided me with my an-
chorage. And so it was perhaps inevitable that I become
a creature of that genre, as I am today. Piers Anthony is
my strength; it is a pseudonym, but more of my reality is
associated with it now than with my mundane identity. I

Piers Anthony                389

was always a nonentity in Mundania, and remain so, but
in fantasy I am a figure of consequence.

Perhaps ironically, my mundane existence has im-
proved steadily since my teenage years and is a good one
today by any standard. I have been married more than a
quarter-century, have two bright and healthy daughters,
and a pleasant lifestyle. Of course, much of this is runoff
from my success in fantasy, for it is mundane money I
receive for my fantastic efforts. But even the course of
an improving life does not necessarily flow smoothly. I
have shown the foundation of my need to write; of course
it also helps to have some reasonable intelligence and
creativity and perseverance and luck, and these have
helped me. But I feel in one major respect I came at my
career via the monkey's paw.

"The Monkey's Paw" is a famous story by W. W. Ja-
cobs in which a couple is granted three wishes on a mon-
key's paw, but each wish is granted in a manner that
makes it horrible. They wish for money—and their son
is killed, so that the benefit comes to them. They wish
him alive again, and the corpse reanimates and ap-
proaches. At last they wish him dead again, and are left
with nothing.

Well, the mundane world gave me a wife, but I wanted
more; I wanted to be a successful writer. It was an un-
realistic ambition; only one in a hundred who make the
effort ever breaks into professional print. But for eight
years I kept trying. Our first child miscarried at four
months add was stillborn; that was not only a personal
loss, it eliminated my exemption from the military draft,
so that, before my first year of marriage was done, I was
in the U.S. Army. Our second baby was stillborn at five
months, at the time when I declined to sign up for the
U.S. Savings Bond program (as I recall, they then paid
2.5 percent interest) and was therefore removed as in-
structor and set to weed-pulling and similar duties, as well




390

Piers Anthony                391

With a Tangled Skein

as being denied promotion beyond PFC. It was also the
time when I was naturalized as an American citizen; in
the final courtroom ceremony there were forty-nine Army
wives and me. That event made the local TV news in
Oklahoma; you don't see too many PPCs in uniform get-
ting naturalized. I also had my first science fiction story
accepted, by a magazine edited by Damon Knight—which
folded before payment or publication, washing me out.

Back in civilian life, our third baby was born prema-
turely at six months, lived one hour, and died the day I
lost my good job at an electronics company and had a
doctor advise me that the mysterious fatigue I suffered
was all in my head. One day in May 1962, and much of
my mundane world was lost, again. It looked as if we
would never be able to have a child of our own, my ability
to earn a living was shot, and I was in serious doubt about
my health, for I knew that my physical condition was not
imaginary. It actually was ten years before it was diag-
nosed as diabetes; in the interim I was ridered on insur-
ance for all mental diseases. No joke—and it wasn't funny
at the time. One company tried to jack up my premium
to almost double in addition to the rider; now I once sold
insurance, so I know that was blatantly unethical, if not
illegal.

So we lost three babies, and each loss was associated
with dramatic and generally negative changes in our mar-
ried life. But after that Day in May we gradually reor-
ganized. My wife went to work, so as to earn our living
while I made a more serious effort to become a writer—
by putting my full time into it, instead of writing on the
side. In that year I succeeded; I sold my first two stories.
I was on my way at last—but I never would have had the
chance, had any of those first three babies lived. There
was the monkey's paw. My wife had to be free to work,
and our expenses had to be low; a child would have nul-
lified that. I would never have sacrificed my babies, had

I known, had I had any way to save them—yet their loss
enabled me to achieve my ambition. Thus it was that I
became a writer, by the devious and often unkind mach-
ination of Fate. Motive had at last been joined by op-
portunity. That sort of thing, too, is reflected in this novel.

So I had become a writer. Even then, the devious route
had problems and surprises. I couldn't earn a living on
stories; the word-rates were too low and editors too fickle.
So I moved into novels, and it was a struggle, because
short fiction was my natural length. It wasn't until I sold
my fifth novel, Macroscope—actually the ninth I had
written, and it had been rejected by five publishers, for
book editors are fickle too—that I felt comfortable in that
length. Then I liked it well, and I gave up on stories; today
I have had more novels published than stories, which is
unusual for a story writer.

But by then I had trouble in Parnassus: a publisher was
taking in money for subsidiary rights but neither reporting
them on the statements nor paying me my share. I pro-
tested in a private letter—and got summarily blacklisted.
I protested privately to a writers' organization—which
tunneled my letter on to the publisher and advised me that
I had acted rashly and might be guilty of libel.

There were other complications, but the upshot was
that I got a lawyer, got most of my money, lost several
publishers because of blacklisting, and departed in deep
disgust from that writers' organization, which was evi-
dently operating under false pretenses. I damn well did
have the right of the case and detest such dishonesty.
After that, times were lean for me, as a writer; my success
fell behind that of others who had come into the picture
when I did, and I piled up a total of eight unpublished
novels even as my name was deleted from contention for
awards. Parnassus is no kinder than the U.S. Army to
those who stand on their rights, and Satan smiles.




392

Piers Anthony                393

With a Tangled Skein

But I had not lost all my publishers. I survived, though
my income from writing was not great. My wife continued
to work. Another writer showed me how to sell novels
from summaries, rather than writing them complete; that
meant that instead of selling part of what I wrote, I wrote
only what sold. That one change in marketing caused my
income to triple. Meanwhile editors were shifting about,
publishers were buying each other out, and most of those
who blacklisted me went elsewhere. Markets reopened.
I can't say this was because the establishment had any
change of heart; Parnassus, like dictators, doesn't admit
error. Mainly it was that I never gave up and I now had
an agent to help fight the war. It's harder for a publisher
to blacklist an agent, because he represents a number of
writers, some of whom are important enough to have
clout. My leverage had improved.

Two of the editors I had worked with on stories moved
into books: Lester and Judy-Lynn del Rey. They re-
mained interested in my work. But there was a problem;

I was writing my science fiction for Avon, who had always
treated me well, and Avon had the option. That is, in the
vernacular, they had first dibs on my next novel in the
genre. So—I expanded into a "new" genre, one I had had
little success with before: fantasy. It was a purely tactical
move, to take advantage of a new market. Avon was gen-
erous enough to agree to this, with the understanding that
if Del Rey (technically that imprint didn't exist then, but
let's not quibble) did not like my fantasy, Avon would
have the next crack at it. But Lester did like it, and thus
I came to write A Spell for Chameleon. It wasn't perfect,
either in summary or in manuscript, but I had the fortune
to encounter in Lester an editor who knew what he was
doing. That, unfortunately, is rare in Parnassus. I revised
the novel per his advice, and it was published.

I had the additional fortune to encounter in Judy-Lynn
an executive who knew what she was doing; that, too, is

rare, but it manifests in the type of presentation, pro-
motion, and sales push novels get, and this can make an
enormous difference. Spell took off like magic. It won the
August Derleth Fantasy Award in England, where they
evidently hadn't gotten word about my bad reputation. A
leading American genre newspaper got sudden amnesia
and failed to list the August Derleth awards that year, and
of course Spell took no American awards. But it became
one of my most commercial novels, and the Xanth series
it commenced has about as many fans as any.

In this manner I discovered that I liked fantasy. Oh, I
had always liked it as a reader; it just hadn't scored for
me before as a writer. Now I found that it was easy and
fun to write, and the readers liked it too. There was then
developing a high tide in fantasy, fostered in significant
part by Del Rey, and I just happened to get into it in time
to surf my way to the top—through no initial effort of
strategy or timing of my own. Chance put me into it—or,
if you prefer. Fate. Once I was in, of course, I was quick
enough to capitalize on my situation. Thus by this devious
and seemingly coincidental route my serious career in fan-
tasy proceeded. My income tripled again . . . and again.
I now have a better career in fantasy than I had dreamed
of as a writer; reality has surpassed imagination. One se-
ries led to another. And that, roughly, is how I came to
write this present novel. Skein. It is not the path I would
have chosen, but it got me here. For those who tell me
they would like to be just like me and write fantasy the
way I do, I pose this question: do you really? Then go
fetch your monkey's paw.

Reality has a way of weaving itself into my fiction,
whether I will or no. I had many notes for minor examples
of this for this novel, but I fear they would become tedious
in detail, so I'll go into detail on only one. There are sev-
eral major themes that recur in my novels that critics seem
to be unable to perceive, such as the value of integrity or




394

Piers Anthony                395

With a Tangled Skein

my effort to merge the city (science fiction) with the coun-
try (fantasy). These themes have complex personal bases
that I may unravel at another time; there is a good deal
more on my mind than simple entertainment, though I do
feel that clarity and entertainment are paramount in fic-
tion. I normally write on more than one level. The top
level is like the conscious mind, concerned with imme-
diacies; the reader can buzz through and enjoy it without
stretching his mind. The nether level gets into symbolism
and feeling and meaning and theme; it puts on record my
world view, for those who care to examine it. As far as
I know, no critic has ever perceived this level in my fic-
tion, but many of my readers seem to grasp it, and, of
course, it is for them I write.

One of my major themes relates to music. I believe that
man is most fundamentally distinguished from animal by
his art, and an aspect of that art is music. I believe in the
power of music, as I believe in the power of the word.
At critical junctures in my novels you will find music,
right back to the first one I had published, Chthon, which
shows a quest for a broken song and the effort to make
it whole again; and Macroscope, where music is the key
to the mystery of the universe; and right on into my fan-
tasy series, this one included. The heart of my feeling is
in song. I try to name the particular song I have in mind,
because I want the reader to hear the music too, and share
my experience. You saw it in Pale Horse in the hymn
scene, and the hint of it in Hourglass as Orlene commits
suicide by her piano. (Did you note Orlene's honey-hair,
the same as Niobe's? Do you really suppose that's co-
incidence?) You will see it in Red Sword, when a stutterer
leams to sing, and emphatically in Green Mother, when
Gaea sings with Satan—and falls in love.

And of course you see it here. The song that starts Skein
is not identified in the text. It is The Bonnie Boy, and the
recording I have of it is sung by the Irish lass Mary 0'-

Hara. It tells the story as I have it in the first three chap-
ters, the romance of a young woman and a bonnie boy,
and its tragic end. Of course I have embellished it some-
what—but if you like my story, perhaps you will also like
the song. I don't know whether that record can still be
purchased. It is Songs of Erin, on the London label; I
bought it in New York in 1959.

The Shepherd's Song, in various guises and titles, has
its own story: "Come live with me and be my love ..."
In the course of Izaak Walton's The Complete Angler
(sometimes rendered "Compleat"), which dates from
1653, there are two songs presented, and these are the
two used here. Actually, the first one originated with
Christopher Marlowe in the sixteenth century. As poems
they may not seem like much, but with the music it is
another matter. Seldom, I suspect, has a love song had a
more enduring appeal—or a snappier rejoinder.

There is a more recent story on another song. The Wet-
lands Waltz. I have an interest in nature, especially the
wilderness environment, as also shows throughout my
work, and in this case it overlapped my interest in music.
A couple of years ago one of my daughter Penny's forest-
camp counselors stopped by to say hello and meet Pen-
ny's horse. Blue, who also appears in various guises in
my fantasy. The counselor's name was Jill Jarboe. This
winter she sent Penny a cassette tape: Songs from the
Water World.

It seems that Jill Jarboe had formed a group with four
of the boys in the summer camp, called it The Ecotones,
and produced this collection of ecologically oriented
songs. It's an integrated group; Jill Jarboe is white, while
Mike Carey, Mike Kinsey, Shaun Martinez, and Andrew
Rock are black. (I support integration, as may also be
evident in this novel.) This group is not a high-powered,
big-promotion thing; it's just an attempt, I think, to pop-
ularize the worthy cause of ecological awareness. Penny




396 With a tangled Skein Piers Anthony 397

more or less put the earphones on my head one morning
as I was eating breakfast and reading the newspaper, and
turned on the cassette recorder, and there it was. I was
impressed; they were nice songs, not your Top-Forty-
type popular stuff, but pleasant and quite to the point for
those who value Nature as I do.

So I used one of those songs here in Skein, with per-
mission, and anyone who is interested in obtaining the
original cassette should write to Jill Jarboe at the address
listed in the credit behind the title page of this novel. My
reference to The Wetlands Waltz is actually anachronistic,
as the song did not exist in 1915 where this novel places
it—but of course Chronos could have heard it and carried
it back. This is, after all, fantasy; we are not much con-
cerned with anachronism.

Meanwhile, as I worked on the several stages of my
writing. Fate stirred her fickle finger in the ongoing minor
maelstrom of my daily existence in sundry ways. Life
does, after all, go on, and mine is packed with tokens of
my interests and orneriness. I bought another Songs from
the Water World cassette and sent it to an environmental
organization of which I am a life-member, suggesting that
they might review it in their national publication for other
members who liked a positive approach to ecological
awareness. They never responded. I might as well have
dropped the cassette into the Void. Then they sent me
three separate form-solicitations for contributions. But I
had seen how they answered their mail, and the Golden
Rule came to my mind, and I did not respond.

I bought some of those sonic bug-repelling devices you
see advertised all over, as I don't like hurting bugs if they
aren't actually biting me, but don't like roaches in my food
or fleas on my dogs—then had a months-long hassle to
get a refund, finally involving a visit to a lawyer and a
stiff note to the balky local Better Business council, be-
cause the devices simply didn't work as represented. I

queried the "Troubleshooter" column of the newspaper:

is there any objective evidence that any of these sonic
devices work? So far, none has turned up.

Our Basenji dog, who we adopted eleven years ago after
he was run over and the owner never came to claim him
or pay the vet's bill for rebuilding the bone of his leg with
wire, died of complications of age in the quarter-hour that
I received the hardbacked poster for Dragon on a Ped-
estal used at the American Booksellers' Association con-
vention in Dallas: an unfortunate juxtaposition. Now that
poster graces the wall near the dread spot. That was not
my favorite dog, but death disturbs me with an intensity
that others do not seem to understand. I know that some-
day I will have to deal with the death of someone a lot
more important to me than that dog, and I don't know
how I'm going to make it.

I went out on my usual three-mile run, and returned to
a different address; the Post Orifice had swallowed our
science-fictiony "Star Route" and disgorged "Pineleaf
Lane"—fortunately we had gotten to name our own
street—sending us into a tailspin of address-change no-
tifications, because our daily mail can amount to as much
as ten pounds at a time, We received the notice in March
1984, advising us to notify all correspondents by the end
of December 1983. The P.O. expects a lot of an anach-
ronistic fantasy writer.

I got into second-draft typing of Skein and hit a record
rate for me—65,000 words in five days, despite a cold
snap into the thirties that forced me to bundle up as if in
the arctic, and a jamming tab on my manual typewriter.
Seems there are only about two writers in the genre who
still use a manual machine, and I'm one of them—I think
Harlan Ellison is the other—but they don't make manual
Olympias anymore, and this one is ten years and ten mil-
lion words old, so I may yet have to vault to the computer
word-processing age, getting custom equipment so I can




398             With a Tangled Skein

Piers Anthony

399

retain my special keyboard. You know, word-processing
is hailed as a great boon to writers, but I do more actual
writing in pencil and on the manual typewriter than any-
one I know who is in word-processing; technology does
not substitute for imagination and a Dvorak keyboard.

Anyway, after those five days I had to take three days
off to catch up on forty more letters. Happened again next
month in the final five days typing of the submission draft;

in one day forty-seven items of mail arrived, ranging from
packages of books to fan letters, including one from a
hopeful writer asking whether I would read his 800-page
novel and give advice how to get it published, one from
a publisher asking for a favorable comment on its enclosed
advance proof of a novel, and one from another publisher
who sent complimentary copies of a novel I read and
blurbed in December. It's a funny thing, seeing my name
printed on the cover of someone else's novel; too bad they
didn't bother to make the corrections of errors I called
out.

I may have noted before the irony that when I had time
to read everything in the genre, I lacked the money to buy
the stuff; now that I can afford it, I lack the time even to
keep up with what I am sent free. I suppose that's parallel to
the cake problem I face as a diabetic. And a note from an
eight-year-old girl: my youngest fan so far, the same age as
Xanth. I answered that one immediately; after all, I was
once that age myself. The other twenty-nine fan letters
from that day I'll tackle right after I finish typing this Note
and my summaries of the final two novels in this series.

I pinched the nerve in my back three times in succes-
sion, trying too hard on my exercises, and had to call a
ten-day halt while the sciatica abated; now I am easing
up on those exercises, and that's a significant private turn-
ing point. Every year at my birthday I note the levels I
do, and at my forty-ninth birthday I broke all my birthday
records, but at my fiftieth I'll break none. I'm two-thirds

of the way through my life, and the tide has turned during
this novel.

You know. Skein just might turn out to be my fiftieth
book to see print. The writing of it was punctuated several
times by calls from my agent, setting up the sale of eight
of my back books in a package; those fans who bug me
about where to find my out-of-print material may soon
have an answer.

During that sciatica—that's a shooting pain in the leg
where there is no injury; the pinch is actually in the spine,
but the body thinks it's in the leg—I glanced at the pub-
lished comment I had made a year before on Gordon Dick-
son's Dorsai series (actually it's the Childe Cycle, but I
don't know any better), and saw my reference to "Ei-
leen?" therein. Suddenly I had a pain in my mind to match
that in my leg, for several days. In Dickson's novel Sol-
dier, Ask Not we see the death of an innocent young man,
drafted to fight a war he does not understand on a far
planet. He revives from his lethal injury long enough to
speak the name of his wife, Eileen, as if trusting her to
come and make the hurt go away. That tore me up; I have
a deep feeling for those who are taken far from what they
have known and loved, and who plaintively wish for re-
turn that is impossible.

But on: we bought a videotape recorder, a great boon
to my daughters, who have more time for TV than I do.
Now they watch the weirdest stuff, some of it unsuitable
for the fathers ofteenaged girls. Sigh. We also got a cord-
less remote phone extension, so that I no longer have to
dash from the study to the house just in time to catch the
dial tone after the last ring; that does simplify my life. My
daughter Penny finally got her driver's license; whew!
One down, one to go. My other daughter Cheryl took
second place in a verbal presentation of her paper on the
conservation of soil and water. That was a fitting topic,
during this novel; I had taken time to help drill her on it,




400 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 401

and suspect she really took first place but that the judges
were closet sexists. Of course I may not be completely
objective.

1 saw a bright triangle of stars in the morning sky, so
I ferreted it out in the star books and discovered it was
the constellation Libra—the scales. Yes, I was writing
the coin-weighing scene along about then. Libra is Pen-
ny's sign, because she reads a lot—you know, the Li-
brary. I finally got a line on a mysterious, lovely melody
I'd heard in fragments for years; I think it is titled Twin
Sons of Different Mothers. Reminds me of this novel
again, with virtually twin girls, daughters of different
mothers. I quest for melodies as I do for story notions; I
am haunted by those that flash a few tantalizing notes and
disappear, leaving me longing.

I also continued my quest for the Perfect Ping-Pong
Paddle—and believe I have found it. It's made of graph-
ite, very light and fast, and the backside has a "long pips"
surface that sends the opponent's spin right back at him,
messing him up instead of me. Lovely! I used it to defend
the honor of Fantasy at my first SF convention, NECRON
OMI-CON, in Tampa, in Oct-ogre 1983, the month that three
of my novels were published. Of course I took my daugh-
ters with me; they loved it, and now they're con-crazy.
One of my correspondents attended, and when she intro-
duced herself I didn't make the connection. I wish I were
better at spot memory of names!

Phone call from Bowker, publisher of Fiction 1876-
1983, in response to my curt note about the way they listed
some of my novels under Anthony and some under Piers,
omitted my first New York Times bestseller Ogre, Ogre,
and listed my mundane name nine times in succession. I
had suggested that they hire a proofreader, since this vol-
ume costs $100 and is supposed to be comprehensive.
They were apologetic, but noncommittal about the proof-
reader. Call from a Colorado fan who wished to visit me;

he would be traveling with a school group of about twenty
people and needed advice where they could stay cheaply.
My wife phoned about and finally arranged free camping
for them at a local park, and we went out to talk to the
park people and clarify that we had the camping permit
for them . . . and then the group changed its mind and
went elsewhere. But the fan did come to visit me, and I
chatted with him for a couple of hours. He wrote later
that it was the high point of his life. He was generous;

I'm a pretty ordinary character in person, really not worth
that sort of effort.

My wife spied a sale on some nice enclosed book-
shelves; now we are in the process of dismantling my
rickety prior shelving and setting up the beautiful new
ones. At last my file copies of my own books are getting
proper treatment! I keep one file copy of every edition of
every book I have published, hardcover, paperback, Brit-
ish, German, French, Japanese and so on; at present that
makes about 150 volumes, and it's growing.

In the spring came the mundane political primaries, and
I had to watch the best man in the field, former Governor
Reuben Askew of Florida, bite the dust in New Hamp-
shire. Once again the political process wends its inevitable
way to mediocrity. And I heard about a recent survey;

96 percent of Americans believe in God, 90 percent of
those also believe in Heaven and Hell (it's hypocritical
to believe in one without the other); only 4 percent expect
to go to Hell. Oh, yeah? Well, I have news for some-
one. . . .

Thus my mundane life, proceeding in its petty pace
from day to day. You can see that when the fantastic is
removed from my life, not much of interest remains. If
you fell asleep during the last paragraph, I understand.
Now it is time to separate from this novel, too, and I do
it with a certain muddled mixture of emotions. In one
sense I am satisfied, for I believe Skein to be a decent




402 With a Tangled Skein Piers Anthony 403

novel. I feel nostalgia for the experience of it that is now
passing behind me. I am concerned as I anticipate its com-
ing course through the gauntlet of the publication process
and the cynosure of the great readership beyond. I feel
advance resentment for the scoffing some reviewers will
do about its merits and demerits and the inevitable sneer
at this Note. A recent survey shows that the more ignorant
a reviewer is, the more critical he is; any professional
writer could have told you that twenty years ago. In fact
Alexander Pope told us two and a half centuries ago:

Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill

But he had the answer:

Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely, who have written well.

I am also apprehensive about the flood of mail this Note
may generate when the novel sees paperback publication.
Oh, yes, I get mail on my Notes; sometimes the reader
doesn't bother with the novel at all, just the Note. I had
one letter from a person who fished my novel out of a
trashcan, read only the Note, wrote me a fan letter, and
(I suspect) threw the book back in the can. But he really
liked the Note. Well, 1 daresay he got his money's worth.

I do try to keep up with my mail, but after doing 702
letters last year—yes, I remain a compulsive counter—I
see the handwriting in the figurative bruises my head
makes against the wall, and suspect that my performance
in this respect will turn the tide and begin to ebb, as with
my exercises. They aren't all simple notes, either; I have
to try to make meaningful responses to those who wish
to become instant successful writers—if I had known how
to do that, I could have saved myself eight years!—or
who ply me with complex lists of questions for their re-
search papers, or try to convert me to Jesus (I came to
know Jesus when I put him in Tarot as a character, but
I don't think that's what they mean), or who are contem-
plating suicide. This is no joke; there are some very real
problems out there, and I do not feel competent to address
them—yet I have to try, because these folk really do want
my input, such as it is. I remind myself that it is much
better to be relating to my readers than to be emotionally
alone.

If Fate is the plot of life, then feeling must be its content.
To be known, to be needed, to be loved—this may be the
true problem of our society. We see people turning to
alcohol, to mind- and mood-affecting drugs, to gambling,
to casual sex both hetero and homo, to violence, to cults,
to self-destructive behavior, when these may be but poor
sublimations for the recognition, interaction, security and
love they truly crave. Isn't it an awful irony that some of
us must even turn to fantasy to glean some semblance of
the companionship we are denied in mundane existence,
and we cannot even cry "Eileen"! We suffer all manner
of compulsive behavior, in futile reaction to fundamental
inadequacies of emotion we do not comprehend.

As I worked on Skein, a woman was gang-raped on a
barroom pool table; when the rapists were tried and con-
victed, women of that community demonstrated in favor
of the rapists. Loveless sex pervades the media. Pre-
school children are sexually molested by the staff of the
nursery—and this is said to be only a hint of the abuse
and incest that is not rare but is typical today. Satan's
mischief, surely.

Yet there is also joy in the world. Some find their solace
in religion, in the belief that God loves them. Some find
it in close family ties. I myself have gained some share
of the Heaven of a close family life, after emerging from
the Hell of the denial of it, but I remain scarred. I don't
like to travel, for as a child I found that my travels had




404 With a Tangled Skein

no returning. I don't like to leave my family, because I
remember how fragile family existence can be. Some re-
gard me as overprotective as a father, but I resolved at
the outset that my children would never be exposed to
what I was and, after losing three, I know that no life is
guaranteed.

I turn down most invitations to be Guest of Honor at
conventions, not from any dislike of people or any fear
of public appearances—stage fright, like writer's block,
I conquered long ago, and I am quite at ease among fans—
but simply because there is nowhere I'd rather be than
home. I trust that after reading this Note, those who have
been disappointed by my relative isolation from the public
will understand that there is nothing frivolous in this. It
is one of the ways I have come to terms with the problem
of my own existence. I hope that what I write helps others
come to terms with theirs.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Piers Anthony was born in August 1934, in England, spent
a year in Spain, and came to America at age six. He was
naturalized American while serving in the U.S. Army in
1958. He lives with his wife Carol and their daughters
Penny and Cheryl in Florida. His first story was published
in 1963, and his first novel, Chthon, in 1967. Through 1984
he has had forty-eight books published, with translations
in eight languages. His first Xanth novel, A Spell for Cha-
meleon, won the August Derleth Fantasy Award as the
best novel for 1977. The fifth novel in that series placed
on The New York Times bestseller list, and his five fol-
lowing fantasies did likewise. He is currently writing three
novels a year, and answering several hundred fan letters
a year. His house is hidden deep in the forest, almost
impossible to find, and he does his typing in a horse pas-
ture.