He finally tore his eyes away from the cloak to look at Paven. She quirked an eyebrow. “You earned it, Spike.”

He nodded slowly. “I know, I was there. It’s just different…”

The mauve dalhari grinned knowingly. “Seeing it?” Spike nodded again.

“As I said, you earned it. In record time, I might add.” His former mentor clapped him on the back before leaving him to his thoughts. The cloak had been her gift to him upon the completion of his apprenticeship. The insignia denoting his accomplishments would be repeated on all his vests and cloaks. Between the mark on his face and those on his clothing, any dalhari he met would know exactly who he was—without him ever opening his mouth.

He couldn’t believe he’d been an apprentice for four years. It certainly hadn’t felt like that long. To him, it was last week that he’d stood in that workroom, carding wool while Yahjain smiled down at him; only yesterday that he’d stood in defense of Fain and Vaishi’s bonding.

His former language tutor said once that the reason Spike had been brought over to their world was to show the dalhari, and other species, what acceptance and adaptation was about. Spike had accepted the changes within himself—not just regaining his humanity, but learning all that he needed to know to truly become part of this world. In turn, the dalhari had accepted a human into their world—not unheard of, but not an every day occurrence either. They had also accepted his crossing of clan boundaries, becoming the first Saydhe apprentice to the weavers’ guild in more than five hundred years. From that point, it wasn’t difficult for them to accept that he had finished his apprenticeship in about half the normal length of time. Paven had simply said that Spike was a truly gifted student.

Spike wondered what kind of reaction he’d get from Fain and Vaishi when they saw him in his new cloak. Oh, they knew he was a master now, but knowing and seeing were different, as Paven had pointed out. They’d been at his mastery presentation, and had celebrated with him when he passed with flying colors—so to speak. When he’d told the dalhari that particular saying, they’d just looked at him rather dumbly. Flying colors, indeed.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out what they thought, however. The bonded pair showed up at his workshop, bearing his favorite fruits. They ogled his new cloak appreciatively, taking great delight in his blushing and stammering.

“I don’t know why you’re so embarrassed by it, Spike. You earned it,” Fain said, leaning against a table.

Spike sighed. He’d tried to explain this before—several times, in fact. “I just…I don’t feel like I have. Four years ago I had no idea about anything, and now I’m here.”

Vaishi nodded. “Precisely, Spike. You did in four years what most dalhari do in a century. Language, culture, apprenticeship…religion.” The last had been added as an afterthought. Spike had been studying religion more and more—he’d been drawn to it from the moment he could read about it.

Fain dragged them out of the workshop and back to the house before they really got into it. Spike didn’t protest too hard; he’d just spent four years working harder than he ever had before, and he thought he’d more than earned a reprieve.

•••

Spike had barely gotten comfortable with his new responsibilities as a master dyemaker when he was called into a meeting with Yahjain, Paven, and Murge. The three elder masters were standing together in the main hall, talking amongst themselves. When they noticed his arrival, Yahjain waved him over.

“Join us, Spike.” He obeyed, greeting each of them informally. The first time he had paid Paven any formal respects after the completion of his apprenticeship, she had knocked him on the head. He didn’t want to make the same mistake again.

The look on Paven’s face had him a little worried. She looked a bit too happy for his tastes. “Spike,” Paven began, her smile never wavering. “You enjoy your work.” It was not a question. He nodded anyway.

Murge picked up the conversation. “You have few responsibilities here. Does this bother you?”

Spike considered the question carefully. Something was going on here, so his answers were very important. “I’m not sure, Murge. I still feel like an apprentice.”

This answer seemed to please Yahjain immensely. “You shouldn’t have to feel that way. There are enough dyemasters in La’iv—too many, in fact.” Spike looked up in surprise. Too many?

“However, there are far too few in other places,” Paven remarked, shaking her head.

Yahjain took pity on Spike. “There is a guild hall in Brahgcka—not a large one, but enough to suit the needs of the area,” Yahjain began. “Unfortunately the clans in the area do not produce weavers, or dyemakers.”

“There is a great need for a master in the hold—someone to lead. There is a good master weaver, as well as several other workers, but none of them can manage the guild,” Murge said.

“But you can,” Paven finished.

Spike looked at them in utter horror. They wanted him to run a guild hall? He didn’t understand it at all. There were two masters in front of him old enough to lead a large guild hall on their own, still subordinate to Yahjain. Yet they wanted to send him, the guild’s pet human, to run an entire guild hall on his own?

His thoughts must have registered on his face, because Paven grinned widely. “We wouldn’t offer this to you if we didn’t think you could do it.”

“Just consider it, Spike. It may be exactly what you need.” Yahjain clasped his hand warmly, and then left him to his thoughts. The other masters soon followed suit.

Did he want this? His instinctive response was no. He liked—no, loved La’iv. His clan and house had respectable presences in the city, and he had friends to share the time with. He didn’t even know where Brahgcka was.

Then he considered the other side of the issue. He was being given a rare opportunity to prove himself—to lead a guild hall on his own, to show that he understood more than just creating dyes. Paven had made sure that he knew the finer points of guild management, from the care and quality of the raw material to the best ways to work with the laborers. He might never get this kind of chance again.

What Spike really wanted to do was talk to Fain and Vaishi—not to ask them if he should do it or not, because they wouldn’t tell him that. He wanted to know where Brahgcka was, what it was like, and if he’d ever see them again.

“Brahgcka?” Fain asked, his eyebrows nearly meeting his hairline. “Why would you want to know about Brahgcka?”

“Humor me, Fain,” Spike replied. He didn’t want to break the news quite yet.

Vaishi stepped in. “There’s not much to say about that hold. It is to the north, in Paiur.”

“Hmm.” Spike considered this information. That meant that Brahgcka was a fair distance away, in another region entirely. He would be leaving more than the freehold. “What house is up there?”

“Aiskian for the most part, at least around Brahgcka. Haociie is the clan,” Fain added. “Why, are you thinking of leaving La’iv for a colder region?”

Spike shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe. The guild offered me a position up there.”

Vaishi practically jumped out of his skin. “What kind of position?”

“Guild master,” Spike mumbled.

“What!?!” Fain shouted. Vaishi joined him in staring at Spike.

“They think I can do it.”

The two dalhari nodded their agreement. “Of course you can, Spike. They wouldn’t have offered it otherwise,” Fain said approvingly.

“But…”

Vaishi smiled. “I’m sure we’ll come up to see you. I’ve never been to Paiur.”

That was what Spike wanted to hear, and he knew that Vaishi knew it. Maybe he’d accept the position after all.

•••

Brahgcka was cold. That was the first thing Spike noticed about it. The trek to his new home took two weeks of hard travel, and he watched spring drift away as though it had never been. It was like time moved backwards. Buds disappeared, the grass turned brown again, and the wind howled eerily.

Spike stared down at the hold itself. It was nowhere near the size of La’iv, and it paled in comparison to that freehold in all respects. Most dalhari holds were constructed of the local stone, and La’iv had been blessed with a great quantity of beautiful materials. Brahgcka, on the other hand, was made up almost entirely of a dull, steel gray granite-like rock. The carvings and style were similar to La’iv, and the hold wasn’t ugly by any means, but it certainly fit the harsh weather.

He found the guild easily enough and made sure to thank his traveling companions before departing. They were a small group of Aiskian who were returning to their home after training with the guard in La’iv. He had had quite the time with them on the trip. Apparently, the fun-loving nature of the Aiskian guards was passed on from generation to generation.

The guild hall was a fraction of the size of the one in La’iv, and considerably plainer. He’d expected just that—the community’s demands on the guild were much lighter here. Although the outside wasn’t particularly impressive, the interior was warm and generally well-kept.

As soon as he entered the main hall, a tall, pale yellow dalhari rushed up to meet him. “Master Spike?”

“Ah, yes. Just Spike, though,” he replied, smiling. The dalhari nodded nervously, trying to take his cloak.

“Icki, the weaver, is out on errands, but he’ll be back very soon, I’m sure. Can I show you your guild hall?” Icki? Spike barely contained his laughter. He knew he’d never be able to face the master weaver with a straight face.

The yellow dalhari introduced herself as Habek and began showing him around. He noted the conditions of the dyeshop, appalled at the mess and neglect. According to Habek, Icki mixed all their dyes in there. Spike wasn’t sure how he managed to do that, what with all the clutter. Before they moved on, Spike asked Habek to have someone clean up the rooms. It was a disgrace.

The rest of the hall, however, was acceptable. He greeted several workers, and made note of the names of those that weren’t present so he could find them later. Some of the younger laborers reacted a bit strongly to the presence of a Saydhe in their midst, but his calm, even demeanor and sense of humor soon won them over. When he made it obvious he didn’t give a damn about old clan rivalries, he made several quick friends.

Eventually Habek left him alone in his office, where he began to take stock of the guild’s status. Icki had done a marginal job of record keeping, so Spike had plenty of work to do. First, though, he wanted to find out what his accommodations were. That would require Icki, however.

The door to his office swung open as a bright, lime green dalhari marched in. Somehow, Spike just knew this was Icki. “You!”

Spike stood slowly, taking stock of the blindingly colored dalhari. He’d never seen quite that shade before, although he had to admit the snow white hair complemented him nicely. “Spike.”

“Spike? What kind of name is Spike?” Icki took several steps forward, squinting at Spike.

“Mine. You’re Icki?” Spike asked. The dalhari nodded. “Good. We have much to talk about, such as the condition of the dyeshop,” Icki flushed at the mention of that particular wreck. “However, at the moment I would like to know what sorts of accommodations you’ve procured for me.”

Icki grunted and gestured toward the door. It took them several minutes to find Habek, and several more for her to locate his cloak. Icki would have liked to have just gone, but Spike wasn’t setting foot outside without some sort of covering. It was hellishly cold out there.

The rooms Icki led him to were plain but acceptable. The master weaver had procured him quarters with the Mirh clan. The weavers were the only representatives of the Disiaron in Brahgcka, so it was a close-knit group. The building they were in was actually shared with the Yuinin, a clan of the Zaidelain house, who were also underrepresented in Brahgcka. Icki assured him that the Yuinin were a pleasant folk, if a bit mischievous.

His work to right the guild went much more smoothly than he’d anticipated. After a token struggle, Icki had amiably accepted Spike’s leadership. Determined to prove right Paven, Yahjain and Murge, Spike took extra care in all of his efforts.

Spike was pleased to find that spring did in fact visit the hold, even if it was delayed by several weeks. The land seemed to make up for the extended winter by bursting into life overnight. Flowers appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a pleasing contrast to the dull gray of the hold’s architecture. Once the weather was warm enough, Spike took to walking almost everywhere, leaving Angel for the stable workers to play with.

There were no other species besides dalhari in Brahgcka. Spike was surprised to find out that not only was he the only human in the hold, but also the only nondalhari. Once again he was glad to have been accepted into the house. It certainly made things easier.

•••

“Spike?” Habek hovered in the doorway, hands clasped anxiously. She was by far the most nervous, neurotic dalhari he’d ever encountered.

“Hmm?” Spike was distracted, focusing all his attention on his work. There were many dyes that the guild typically kept stocked at all times—blacks, browns and the like. Unfortunately Icki’s dyemaking nonabilities had left the storerooms nearly empty. Spike had spent the last five months replenishing them.

“Um…there’s someone here to see you.” Habek stepped back and ushered in his visitor. After a few minutes, Spike looked up, noticing that Habek was gone and a lavender dalhari stood in her place. The dalhari did not look pleased at all.

“May I help you?” Spike asked. The dalhari glared for a bit, not answering. Spike took the opportunity to evaluate his guest. Like most dalhari, this one did not have his mark present—there was no reason to right now. However, the clothing he wore and the marks on his cloak were quite telling. The dalhari was a warrior of the Haociie clan of the Aiskian house.

“You’re Disiaron.” Apparently his visitor was a man of few words.

Spike nodded. “Do you have business with the guild?”

“You’re Saydhe.” Again, Spike nodded.

“Indeed I am. May I assist you? Do you need to negotiate a contract?” This dalhari was beginning to annoy him. The warrior stepped forward then, sending Spike a step backwards.

“You’ve got a mark.”

“Yes, I do.” Spike’s skin accepted pigment a little too well, but he was always unwilling to remove the mark. Therefore, it was still visible, more than a year after the last time he’d applied it. “Look, I don’t intend to be inhospitable, but the guild is quite busy. If you—“

Spike stopped talking when the dalhari turned and walked away. “Crazy bugger,” he swore under his breath.

Habek reappeared as Spike was preparing to bank the fire for the night. “If I may ask, what did the elder want with you?”

“Elder?” Spike asked as he put away his tools.

She nodded quickly. “He’s an elder—one of the most powerful in the hold. Usually he sends someone else to do business, though. I’ve never seen him here.”

“Well, with any luck he won’t be back. He’s missing something up here,” Spike tapped his head. “Cause all he did was stare at me and tell me what I already knew.”

Habek looked confused. “What do you mean?”

Spike frowned. “He just pointed out that I’m Saydhe and Disiaron. Then he left.”

“Oh. Maybe he forgot what he came for, or was just surprised to see someone from your clan here,” Habek reasoned, shrugging.

“Yeah, probably. Go home, get some sleep. Tomorrow we’re going out to check the flocks, you and I,” Spike said as Habek turned to leave. He followed her out, stopping by his offices.

As he was making his way out of the guild hall, he overheard Icki and Habek talking as they gathered their cloaks. “It was very strange, Icki. He just showed up here and kind of stared at Spike, jabbering on about his clan and house. Then he left.”

Icki hmmed. “Odd, to be sure. Still, it is Gaihi. He’s never been completely together, you know.”

The two weavers left the hall then, unaware that Spike was rooted to the spot. Gaihi?