Cat in Glass by Nancy Etchemendy Page A

windless sky, and eagerness surged through her as she realized that before this day was over she might well be holding a lily in her own hands. She scrambled into her boots, picked up her weapons, and started down the road.
    Before noon, the road had become a narrow path among tall, leafy trees. Jacinth sat down to rest a moment. She wondered whether to follow the road until it disappeared entirely or strike out on her own. The thought of leaving the traveled way frightened her, for she had never been in a real forest before. Strange, bright flowers pushed up through the carpet of fallen leaves and needles; shining beetles crept over the rocks. She did not know what animals might lurk among the trees.
    Suddenly, as if fierce bears and wild pigs had leapt from her mind into the woods, she heard the sharp snap of a dry twig.
    She jumped up, drawing her dirk, and found herself staring into the grimy face of a lily hunter. His fair hair stood up in dusty spikes, and the lines of dirt around his mouth flowed into an arrogant grin.
    “You slept too late, one-eye,” he said, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “My friends and I will take all the lilies, and well be on our way back to Aranho before you even know where to look. Then maybe you’ll understand your place in the world.”
    Jacinth’s heart sank like a rock tossed carelessly into an icy stream. The long winters of lonely weaving washed over her, and she thought of the unfinished tapestry, of returning to Joth empty-handed and broken beyond saving.
    The young hunter must have seen the terror in her face, for he leaned back and roared with ugly laughter. “That’s what you get!” he shouted jubilantly. “That’s what you get for trampling the old laws!”
    She stared at the dirk in her hands, its cool blade gleaming in the sunlight.
The old laws
! a voice inside her screamed.
The laws that say there is no place for a one-eyed weaver or a cobbler with one leg
! In her fury she grasped the blade and crushed it until she felt the metal bite through her palm. Blood ran in scarlet rivulets down her wrist.
    Through a haze of pain and passion, Jacinth watched the young hunter turn and swagger off down the path, his shoulders still jumping with laughter.
    “I make my own roads!” she cried. “I make my own roads!”
    But if he heard her at all, he gave no sign of it.
    She sat down on a flat stone and bound her hand as well as she could with a strip she tore from the hem of her shirt. After a time, the anger and trembling left her. A cold, desperate courage replaced it. Let the menfolk of Aranho seek lilies where they always had! The woods were thick and huge and full of places where no human being had ever walked before. She would find her own lilies, or she would die in the attempt. She stood up, straightened her back, and plunged into the forest.
    She followed the contours of the land ever upward, leaving a trail for herself by cutting notches into the tree trunks at regular intervals. The farther she went into the woods, the larger the trees became, and the thicker the undergrowth. Spiral ferns snatched at her arms and legs, and bloated insects stung her face. She tripped over roots and waded through thick, slimy mud. She tried not to notice the eerie cries and thrashings of the unknown creatures around her, tried to ignore the swollen fungi that sprang up in rank profusion on the damp forest floor.
    Late in the afternoon, when dusk had already descended around her, she came to a place where the land sloped down in all directions. She stood at the base of an ancient maple tree and turned slowly. She had arrived at the crest of a hill. Yet the trees were so tall and closely spaced that she could see nothing, so she laid down her bow and set about climbing the maple.
    Its trunk was almost as big around as her father’s largest millstone, and the branches hung far above her head. But the maple had stood in the forest for many long years, andits bark was thick and full of