Spike set down the mortar and pestle he was using and stood up to stretch his aching muscles. He had been grinding minerals and herbs all morning and his back was protesting most vociferously.

When Spike apprenticed at the weavers’ guild, he had had little idea about the trade other than what he’d seen in the workshop. As it turned out, weaving was a very strenuous and time-consuming task. Spike was in the workshop before the sun rose every morning and didn’t get back to his quarters until well after sunset. After the second time he fell asleep carding wool, allowances were made for the differences between human and dalhari sleeping habits.

Spike checked to make sure nothing in the dye mixing room needed his attention, and then left for the common room. It was past time for lunch and he was starving. When he got there, the cook presented him with his meal. Spike never had to worry that he would go without. As he only human in the weavers’ guild, he was also the only omnivore. The presence of meat on his plate kept everyone else away.

“Ah, Spike emerges from the depths,” Yahjain said, taking a seat next to Spike. The master weaver grinned at the ravenous human, who smiled around a mouthful of yimkia. “How goes your ‘mad’ experiment?” Yahjain had picked up several of Spike’s favorite phrases and used them frequently.

Spike sighed. “Better, but not there quite yet. It’s still too damned blue. I need a more vibrant red.”

Yahjain nodded sagely. “What about urush?”

“I tried that. It’s too brown,” Spike replied.

“How long did you let it sit in the fire?”

Spike slapped his forehead. “I didn’t. I used it raw.” Urush was a common, crumbly mineral with many uses in dalhari trades. The normally reddish brown color could be changed to a beautiful red if it was heated in a fire.

“I’d try that before you ‘reinvent the wheel.’” Laughing at himself, Yahjain left Spike to his meal. Spike abandoned it for his workroom. Roasting the urush wouldn’t take too long. If it worked, and he hoped it did, he might get one of the coveted spots in Paven’s dyeshop.

Spike had gone through the standard rotation of jobs at the guild—carding, spinning, weaving—even raising and shearing prhang. His least favorite had been gathering and processing plant fibers. His most favorite, by far, was dyemaking. It was the job that attracted the fewest apprentices, but Spike fell in love the first time he stepped foot in a dyeshop.

So now Spike was trying to prove his potential to Paven, the guild’s best dyemaker. Paven, a dalhari more than 1,200 years older than Spike, was known for being silent when most talked—and a difficult mentor. When Spike had expressed an interest in learning the craft, she had simply told him to surprise her.

That had sent Spike into a panic. How did you surprise someone who’d probably seen every color under the sun? Spike had drawn on his extensive memories of his own world. While dalhari appreciated color, there were some vivid shades that they either hadn’t seen or had never mastered.

Once back in his workroom, he threw several chunks of urush into the fire. They crackled merrily and gave off a distinct earthy aroma. While it was cooking, Spike mixed up a generous batch of mordant. If the urush worked, he’d use the dye today.

Spike had chosen a natural, linen-like fiber for his project. It was a serious risk; most of the blue dyes he had access to fixed far better to wool than linen, and his dye did contain a significant amount of blue.

The linen fiber had already been spun into yarn and awaited only dying before it was woven. Spike had done the spinning, and would do the weaving as well.

Smelling the change in the urush’s perfume that indicated it was ready; he grabbed up a pair of tongs and pulled it out of the fire. Careful not to touch the hot surface, he used a metal rasp to remove the charred exterior. He grinned at what he found.

The brown undertones were gone from the mineral. In its place was a pure, deep red—just what he wanted. He cleaned off the other pieces of urush, and then dumped them all into a large mortar. He attacked the urush with a heavy pestle, pulverizing it.

The hard part came next. Mixing in some of the urush into his unfinished dye, he began second-guessing himself. Too much? Not enough? Finally he gave up. If it failed, he could always start over.

Spike mixed the dye into the large vat of water he had heating by the fire. After ensuring that the dye was completely dissolved and the water hot enough, he gathered up his skeins of yarn.

Several hours later, Spike put away the stirring paddle and banked the fire. It was time to rinse the yarn before letting it dry.

The results looked promising, but it was difficult to tell when the yarn was wet. He resisted the urge to just curl up next to the fire and wait for it to dry. He needed to go home and bathe. He was covered in dye.

Vaishi waved gaily at him as he trudged through the marketplace. Spike didn’t know where Vaishi got the energy to be so happy all the time. Wending his way toward his quarters, Spike decided to stop by the store room for something to eat. He didn’t feel like sitting down with others tonight, so he’d get a snack.

Back in his quarters, Spike stripped off his many-hued work clothes and drew a bath. It was the heat of summer right now, so a cool bath wasn’t too bad. In the winter, though, he’d wait until the water was warmer. Relishing the feel of cleanliness, Spike scooped up a generous measure of the special soap that dyemakers used to remove their product from their skins. He was careful to avoid his face, which still bore the mark that Del had put there.

It wouldn’t have taken but a couple of swipes of his hand to obliterate the mark. It was very much permanent—unless touched by this type of soap. Then, it just went away. Spike was rather attached to the best reminder he had of the dalhari that had brought him here. He thought of her every time he looked in a mirror. To preserve his sanity, though, he avoided mirrors.

When Spike examined his yarn the next morning, he was more than pleased. The color was just what he had wanted—a deep, bloody red with purple undertones. It was almost garish in its intensity. He loved it.

Getting the loom set up was a chore, but one Spike did happily. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could impress Paven and continue his education. He just hoped she liked it. Otherwise he’d be stuck spinning wool for a very long time.

Spike had hoped to finish a length of cloth before showing his work to Paven, but that was not to be. He had barely a meter of material completed on the narrow loom when Paven, Yahjain, and two other master weavers entered his workshop. They wasted no time.

“I heard your test was finished, Spike,” Yahjain said, smiling. He was probably the one who entered the workroom late last night to check on it.

“The dying’s done, but the weaving is not.” Spike gestured toward the small loom. Paven stepped toward it, peering down at the fabric.

“Cervadien bark, urush, radiele leaves, quen, and marn mordant. Risky.” She moved over to the still full but now cold dye vat, taking a deep breath. “Why did you use marn and not ekled?”

Spike frowned. “I wanted to dye linen, and radiele won’t fix to linen with ekled unless it’s been fermented first—but fermented radiele was too orange for my purposes.”

“Ah.” Paven stood in the middle of the room, staring at the fabric on the loom. “There is an order of wintering wool in the main dyehouse. One part fermented radiele, three parts kjand, two parts raw urush, one-quarter part nyag, with ekled mordant.” The dyemaster walked out without another word.

Spike looked over at Yahjren. “Congratulations, Spike. Paven hasn’t taken on an apprentice in more than a century.”

Well.

•••

“Explain it to me again, Fain. I don’t understand the difference between these two tenses.” Spike pointed to the textbook they were studying.

“They’re both future tenses. This one focuses on the material future—what will happen to things and places. The other one describes the future of intangible things, like thoughts, memories, and political situations,” Fain explained for the tenth or so time.

Spike shook his head. “Political situations? But…”

Fain laughed. “I know, I know. They’re not that difficult to use, though. In addition, it gets easier the more you use them. Trust me.”

Spike nodded his agreement. After six months of language lessons, he was doing quite well. The only parts of dalhari he was struggling with were some of the more obscure verb tenses. It was really the same as learning some demonic languages. Each species shaped its language to reflect its perceptions of the world. Dalhari were no different, he figured.

“Are you joining Vaishi and me for dinner?” Fain asked. Spike had made close friends with the pair, and they had started a tradition of sharing dinner once or twice a week, alternating between their quarters. Spike used the opportunity to learn how to cook—something that was far more difficult than learning to make dye.

“Yeah, I’ll be there—unless Paven invents some new torture before then.” His mentor was a genius—and a taskmaster. He knew he needed to learn all the facets of dyemaking, but it seemed as though she was determined that he learn all the unpleasant ones first. Collecting raw materials was the first of those lessons.

The first time he mistook ghrarae leaves for radiele leaves, she just shook her head and let him make his mistakes. He really wished she’d have told him that gharae had that effect on dye—it congealed the liquid completely. He’d scrubbed dye vats for weeks. He had to give her credit, though. Spike was learning everything she knew.

After Fain had taken his leave, Spike settled back into some pillows to read. He’d gained enough proficiency in the language to read all but the most complicated books he’d found. Although reluctant about it, the elders had allowed him to acquire the books from Del’s quarters. It wasn’t as though she was using them—she was nowhere to be found.

So now Spike was working his way through an impressive personal collection of dalhari religious materials. They were giving him extensive insights into the people he had chosen to live with. Like many cultures in his world, the dalhari shaped, and were shaped, by their religion to a great extent.

Dalhari were extremely religious as a whole, although they had no real gods. Their religion was based on a deeply held reverence for nature and existence. Dalhari did not make a clear distinction between the self and the environment. That is, while the dalhari saw the individual as a unique being, it was not separate from the rest of existence. Out of this belief came a joy for being alive and an almost all-consuming sense of responsibility.

The books of celebration and lamentation that had so intrigued Spike were focused on the joy and, conversely, the sorrows, that dalhari experienced as a part of living. They had been a challenge to read because of that different conceptualization of the self and other. Dalhari found ecstasy in waking, sleeping, working—pretty much every part of life. Each experience was sacred—no matter how many times it was repeated. Every sunrise held equal importance; each meal was the first and the last. These joyful experiences were also the source of great pain, however. The joy they felt from them served to remind them that they weren’t completely unified with their surroundings. They experienced the world—when they wanted to just be part of it. It reminded Spike of several human religions.

It was the sense of responsibility that Spike was studying now. The texts on that subject were mostly stories—parables and fables. On the one hand, it was fascinating to see how this aspect of the religion worked to keep the dalhari from advancing technologically. They were very much aware of their impact on their surroundings. He had been surprised to learn how many potential advances had been abandoned. Several millennia past, the dalhari had been on the brink of a true industrial revolution. However, the potential for destruction was too high, and the species chose to continue as they were.

On the other hand, the subject brought him great sadness. Most of the reasons why Del left him were in these books. Dalhari highly valued the individual building their own self. Not that they didn’t encourage certain influences, like these many religious texts. But they strongly warned against dalhari depending too much upon another for their identity. To the dalhari, Spike was a child—at best, an adolescent, despite his age. He could see their viewpoint—he was having to go through the same things a dalhari child would go through, simply as an adult.

None of that made him feel better about Del leaving. He wished someone had given him a voice when the elders were deciding that he needed to find himself without Del. Not that it would have mattered. From what he’d read, Del would probably have left, even if the elders hadn’t asked her to.

Tonight’s book focused on the responsibility all dalhari had towards children. Dalhari didn’t reproduce very quickly. Spike had been surprised at the lack of young dalhari in the city, until he was told by Fain that most dalhari didn’t reproduce until they were at least 250, and centuries might separate siblings. In addition, a large number of dalhari never had children at all. It was no wonder, then, that children were so protected. They weren’t spoiled, though. That type of behavior had no place in the culture. It was too destructive.

Another facet of dalhari religion that Spike was drawn to was the lack of ceremony and formality. For all the extensive writings, their religion was deeply personal. There were a fairly large number of priests—but they were concentrated in the university or in retreats far from the cities. These priests were concerned with study. There weren’t many religious buildings—no churches or temples. The library of religious and spiritual texts was the closest thing he could find and it was like any other library, aside from its focus on one subject. He supposed that the intensely personal relationship their religion encouraged was why Del had been so reluctant to discuss religion. It would be too much like baring one’s soul to a stranger.

Hours passed while Spike studied his book. It wasn’t until he noticed the complete lack of light coming through the windows that he realized how late it was. Carefully placing the ancient book on its shelf, he finished a few minor tasks and went to bed. Tomorrow promised to be a long, tiring day.

•••

When Spike got to work the next morning, Paven was waiting for him. He fully expected to be told to go collect some noxious plant, or dig for some fungus or root, so he was surprised when she gave him a different assignment.

“The Aiskian house guard is ordering materials for new uniforms. Take them samples of some dyes. Offer to make whatever they want.” Paven walked out, leaving Spike with his mouth hanging open. He was being allowed to conduct business?

Spike hurried about, collecting fabric swatches and samples of unwoven yarns. There was far more than he could carry, so he requested an ifnan and wagon from the guild. Then he had to request a guide, or at least some directions. He’d never been to the Aiskian house before, although he’d passed portions of it several times. The location of the main entrance eluded him.

Once at the Aiskian house, he was quickly ushered in to a large common room. He had some apprehensions about this house, since it was the home of Del’s rather psychotic ex-fiancé. Everyone he’d met so far had been very nice, however. He noticed, though, that Aiskian dalhari were a bit stockier than the Disiaron. He chalked it up to the house differences Del had mentioned.

A warrior of some high rank greeted him warmly. “Ah, weaver! We are pleased you could assist us.” The warrior peered with some interest at his mark, and then seemed to remember his manners. “I see you’ve brought what we asked for.”

Spike nodded nervously. He’d not had any training in this area. “Well, it really depends on what you want.”

The warrior nodded. “We’ve already chosen the materials. All you need to do is sell us a dye.” Spike smiled faintly. He was getting a suspicious feeling that this could take all day.

Five hours and four large mugs of some sort of alcoholic drink later, a deal was made. He’d gone through every sample he had—three times! He would never have guessed that dalhari warriors could be so picky about the color of their clothes. Finally he discarded the idea of pleasing the warriors with an established dye and began taking notes from their discussions. He had already started thinking up ways to get the exact shade of yellow they wanted. Spike shuddered. That color would look good on some dalhari, but on others, it would be nauseating. Paven was going to kill him, though. The fabric was a prhang wool-ifnan hair blend, which would be a challenge to dye this color.

The master dyemaker was waiting when a tipsy Spike returned. “You got it?” She asked, smirking at his inebriated state.

“Yeah. Y’coulda warned me about Aiskian guards, you know. Finicky as hell and heavy drinkers to boot.” He pitched his notes on the table in front of her, and then sat down heavily, hoping to calm his spinning head.

She looked at the notes. “I should make you do this on your own.” Yup, she was not happy. Oh well.

“It’s what they wanted, Paven. I tried to talk them out of it. But no, they had to have that particular house color,” Spike replied, resting his head on the table. “At least everyone will be able to see them coming.”

Paven snorted. “Indeed.” She poured a mug of water from a nearby pitcher and handed it to her apprentice.

Spike drank deeply, not noticing that Paven was preparing to leave. As she stood next to the door, she called back out to him. “You did well, Spike.”

“I did?” He asked before he could stop himself.

She smiled. “The first time I sold to the Aiskian guard, I passed out.”