The Four Profound Weaves Read online

  Praise for The Four Profound Weaves

  “The Four Profound Weaves is a balm and a call to arms. R. B. Lemberg reassures us that there’s still time to find yourself, no matter how old you are; and they stir our revolutionary urges to defeat murderous dictators . . . Thoughtful and deeply moving, The Four Profound Weaves is the anti-authoritarian, queer-mystical fairy tale we need right now.”

  —Annalee Newitz, author of The Future of Another Timeline

  [Starred]“DEBUT. Nebula-nominated Lemberg’s first novella, set in their deeply queer “Birdverse” universe, presents a beautiful, heartfelt story of change, family, identity, and courage. Centering two older transgender protagonists in the midst of emotional and physical journeys highlights the deep, meaningful prose that Lemberg always brings to their stories.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  [Starred]Lemberg writes deeply considered, evocative portraits of their characters, handling sexuality and gender especially well. This diverse, folkloric fantasy world is a delight to visit.

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  [Starred]“R. B. Lemberg spins a world of singing gods, desert nomads, and magic humming in the wind in The Four Pro- found Weaves . . . Impressive world building renders the shifting hues of the desert sands and the cold stone of The Collector’s palace in tight prose.

  —Foreword, starred review

  “Thought-challenging points-of-view weave together stark violence, intricate powers, and the musings of long and complicated lives. The Four Profound Weaves contains imagery that glows on the page.”

  —Patricia A. McKillip, author of the Riddle-Master Trilogy

  “R. B. Lemberg writes with a luminous pen, spraying light all around their words and ideas. They create a universe where carpets and cloaks bear history and the future . . . A complex and mystical journey toward friendship, family, and love.”

  —Jewelle Gomez, author of The Gilda Stories

  “R. B. Lemberg’s The Four Profound Weaves takes the reader on a deeply resonant journey of transformation and strength. Lemberg’s lyrical skill, combined with unforgettable characters and the magic of the Birdverse makes a stunning fabric over which this story plays beautifully.”

  —Fran Wilde, author of The Bone Universe series and The Gemworld series

  “Go read this story, tell it to your friends, and help us get to that future that we so desperately need.”

  —L. A. Lanquist, Trans Narrative

  “This story, very poetically, holds a mirror to society. It discusses the nuances of the trans experience and made me assess things I hadn’t previously known or understood. It has had a profound impact on me.”

  —A Bookish Reader

  “In reading this story about recognition and transformation, I felt recognized and transformed. It’s fantastic alchemy on Lemberg’s part, and their love and labor shines off the page.”

  —Nino Cipri, author of Homesick

  “Let this be your introduction to R. B.’s world of song carpets, deepnames, and deserts full of roving lovers.”

  —Isaac R. Fellman, author of The Breath of the Sun

  “I am staggered by the richness and intricacy of R. B. Lemberg’s imagination. The Four Profound Weaves is an intense and emotional story of a journey of change, growth, and courage.”

  —Kate Elliott, author of Court of Fives

  “The Four Profound Weaves is a jewel-bright tile in [Lemberg’s] ongoing mosaic.”

  —C. S. E. Cooney, author of Bone Swans, Stories

  “If the plot is the warp of a story, then the weft of this novella is Lemberg’s exquisitely crafted, luminescent prose.”

  —Maria Haskins, author of Odin’s Eye

  “Lemberg weaves a gripping tale of community, identity, betrayal, and hope. From the sweeping expanse of the desert to the confined splendor of a sinister palace, every page contains wonder.”

  —Julia Rios, Hugo Award-winning editor

  “Lyrical and unflinching.”

  —Rivers Solomon, PEN America

  “Sweet and fierce, devastating and gentle in its truths.”

  —M. Crane Hana, author of The Purist

  “5/5 stars. Lemberg’s prose is gorgeous and lush. I found myself devouring it whole . . . This is a book I did not know I needed.”

  —Book Blogging with a Purpose

  “A brilliantly profound and poignant quest, through haunting desert and intricate city and terrifying dungeon, that’s truly about people and change.”

  —Scott H. Andrews, editor of Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  “The Four Profound Weaves is a tragically beautiful and melancholic tale.”

  —Asiana Circus

  “5/5 stars. The prose is absolutely exquisite . . . It’s probably safe to say this will be one of the highlights of 2020 for me and I most highly recommend it.”

  —To Other Worlds

  THE FOUR PROFOUND WEAVES

  R. B. LEMBERG

  Other Books by R. B. Lemberg

  Poetry

  Marginalia to Stone Bird (2016)

  As Editor:

  An Alphabet of Embers (2016)

  Here, We Cross: a collection of queer and

  genderfluid poetry from Stone Telling 1–7 (2012)

  The Four Profound Weaves

  Copyright © 2020 by R. B. Lemberg

  This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the author and the publisher.

  Cover design by Elizabeth Story

  Initial concepts by Francesca Myman

  Interior design by Elizabeth Story

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  www.tachyonpublications.com

  [email protected]

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman

  Project Editor: Jaymee Goh

  Print ISBN 13: 978-1-61696-334-7

  Digital formats: 978-1-61696-335-4

  First Edition: 2020

  To the writers convened by K., A., K., and M.:

  for love, survival, and support.

  About the Birdverse

  Dear Readers,

  Thank you very much for reading my debut, and welcome to Birdverse!

  I began writing in Birdverse back in 2011, when LGBTQIA+ fiction was thin on the ground, and I published a number of short stories and poems. The Four Profound Weaves is my first full-length printed book set in Birdverse—everything else is short-form and online.

  Birdverse is an LGBTQIA+-focused secondary world with a Bird deity. Few people can see Bird during their lifetime, but everybody sees her when they die: she comes for the souls of the dead in the shape of a bird most dear to each person—a finch, a plover, a mythical harptail, a firebird.

  You don’t have to have any background in Birdverse to read this book.

  My storytelling in Birdverse to date is kind of circular—there is no beginning or end to it. If you are curious about my short fiction set in Birdverse, I recommend these three stories: “The Desert Glassmaker and the Jeweler of Berevyar” in Uncanny Magazine, which is a short epistolary romance between two artists; “Grandmother-nai-Leylit’s Cloth of Winds,” a Nebula Award finalist, in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, the story of the cloth of winds and the precursor to this novella; and “Geometries of Belonging,” also in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, about a depressed queer mind-healer who refuses to “cure” a young autistic patient. These stories can be found by searching their titles online.

  Happy reading!

&
nbsp; R. B. Lemberg

  September 2020

  Uiziya e Lali

  I sat alone in my old goatskin tent. Waiting, like I had for the last forty years, for Aunt Benesret to come back. Waiting to inherit her loom and her craft, the mastery of the Four Profound Weaves. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting like this, and it was dark in the tent; I no longer knew day from night.

  When the faded red woven tapestry at the entrance shifted aside, I drew my breath sharply, waiting for my aunt’s thin, almost skeletal hand—but it was not Benesret. Of course not. Instead, one of my grand-nieces stepped in, plump and full of life, bedecked in embroideries and circlets hammered with snakes. Her eyes shone like stars in the gloom.

  “Aunt Uiziya, don’t sit here alone. Aunt Uiziya, you should come to the trading tent. Aunt Uiziya, bring some of these weaves—” The girl’s bejeweled hand motioned at the weavings that hung, heavy and lifeless, around my tent. “You might sell something, and if not, just show your craft, yes?” And just like a flutter of wind, she was gone.

  I kept sitting. But something had changed, as if some sliver of song entered my dead domain and withdrew. I had woven so much in those decades of waiting for my aunt to come back, but I wouldn’t show them. None of them sang and yearned like hers did, none of them called the goddess Bird down from the merciless heat of the sky. My weaves hung lifeless, like bodies. Who would want them? Did I want them? I had not thought about that, just sat among them, the guardian of all the unwanted, forgotten things. I turned sixty-three this year; I would sit like this, until I sat among bones. My aunt could weave even from bones, but she never finished teaching me. The flap of my tent had not been fully closed, and now the riot of light and of sounds trickled in, only half-real to my senses after a day spent in gloom. It was the commotion of trading—the rustling of cloth, the heavy sound of carpets unrolled for display, the bleating of goats. So much excitement in the encampment—the traders must be foreign. Show my craft? What craft? My life had stopped, like a wind trapped in a fist.

  I’ll make a weaver out of you yet, my aunt Benesret had said to me. I’ll teach you—I’ll teach you, just wait. I’ll teach you the Four Profound Weaves so that you will inherit my loom.

  Where was she, then? Where was she? The guardian snakes that circumnavigated the encampment all knew her, and I doubted she would be allowed to enter, but she could have tried, at least. She could have sent me a letter. She could have sent an assassin, one of those she worked with, to kill the snakes and find me and bring me to her.

  The girl should have left me alone, but now I was angry and hot and I wanted . . . I wanted something that wasn’t this endless wait. Show my craft, like it once was, all the promise of the desert and its secret weaves, endless future that never came to be.

  I was too large and too old for rash movements, but I dragged myself up, stiff in my joints from being still for so long. Hesitantly, I unlatched a large chest of leather in which I kept especially precious things. My late husband’s wedding shirt, embroidered by my own hands before they wrinkled. A small ball of spidersilk spun by my daughter when she was a little girl. A note from the nameless man before he became nameless, given to me forty years ago. Beneath the precious debris of my life, a rustle of sand.

  At last I pulled the thin, rolled-up carpet, hidden away these forty years. Shook it out. It was as long as I was tall, and slightly shorter in width. Sand grains made its threads, yellow and dun and shadow-warmth; thread-bones peeked out of their hiding places in the weave. If I called on my magical deepnames, I could make the carpet of sand float and fly, all the way up to the guardian poles of the tent.

  Show your craft. You might even sell it.

  “I have a carpet for sale,” I said to no one in particular. “A carpet woven from sand, the second of the Four Profound Weaves that Aunt Benesret taught me before she was exiled.” This carpet, that I had never shown anyone else but her. I would sell it, give it away, even—and then my yearning and my waiting would be done. And I would be done.

  the nameless man

  Everybody seemed to have gone to the trading tents, and so I made my way there as well. I was hoping to see my grandchildren, always too busy those days to spend time with me. It was true that I did not want to be trading, but if someone was trading, Aviya for sure would be there.

  The trading tents were open to the air, supported with carved poles to which the lightweight cloths of the roof attached festive woven ribbons. People milled under these awnings, mostly women—Surun’ weavers of all ages, each with a carpet or carpets for sale; and a few of their beloved snakes. The crowd parted as I entered, and in that moment my fears came true.

  Three men stood in the middle of the trading tent. They had the gold rods of trade, and gold coins sewn onto the trim of their red felt hats. The men’s eyes shone; their dark beards were groomed and oiled, and adorned with the tiniest bells that shook and jingled as they bent over the wares. I sensed powerful magic from all three of them. Their magic—multiple short deepnames—shone in their minds, each deepname like a flaring, spiky star. I was powerful myself, but the strangers’ power was that of capturing, of imprisonment, of destruction, held tightly at bay. The vision made me recoil. These men—and it was always men—belonged to the Ruler of Iyar. The Collector.

  I had been living here for three months with my grandchildren, among our friends the snake-Surun’. Almost three months after my transformation, my ceremony of change. I thought I had finally broken free from Iyar. But now Iyar came here.

  My Surun’ friends did not seem to feel any danger. They brought forth carpet after carpet, traditional indigo weaves embroidered with lions, with snakes, with birds, and more modern designs of dyed madder and bold geometric shapes. The Iyari traders examined the offerings one by one yet chose nothing, their faces still with masked disgust.

  I wanted to shout at my friends to stop this trade. I wanted to run away, to escape unseen. I wanted to fight, to strike at these men, to demand recompense for all the wrongs the Collector inflicted upon me and mine forty years ago.

  But then I saw my granddaughter.

  Aviya-nai-Bashri was dressed in her trading best—a matching shirt and voluminous pants of green and pink cloth that contrasted so beautifully with her smooth brown skin. Her fish earrings, fashioned of hammered silver, chimed in tune with her words. Her Surun’ friends, all girls of nineteen and twenty, milled around, giggling with excitement.

  “We offer a carpet of wind,” Aviya nai-Bashri all but sang, “A cloth woven of purest wind caught wandering over the desert—a treasure like this you will never see . . .”

  The carpet she offered was small and exquisite, made from the tiniest movements of air that come awake, breath after breath, as the dawn tints the desert pink and silver. The threads that made the carpet were delicate flurries of blue not so much woven but whispered into cloth, convinced to come together by the magic of deepnames and laughter.

  I’d never seen this weave, but knew who made it. My youngest grandchild. Something like tears welled in my eyes, but I would not allow myself that emotion. I looked around instead, and yes, I saw Kimi, a child of twelve, dancing between two guardian snakes. Kimi laughed, and a flurry of pink butterflies shook themselves loose from the carpet of wind. They sparkled in the air for a moment, then winked out of sight, delicate like my grandchild’s magic.

  I remembered Uiziya’s words, spoken to me before my ceremony. The first of the Four Profound Weaves is woven from wind. It signifies change.

  One of the emissaries leaned forward over Kimi’s carpet. He pressed a finger to the carpet, and a butterfly rose from it, its wings so delicate I could barely discern the movement of pink against the Iyari man’s palm. “What price for this?”

  Why did Aviya deal with these men? What was the need, the necessity? We were well supplied from our previous trades, we were doing well and could refuse any trade, especially such a troubling one—what was she doing?

  I spoke in my native Khana
. “This carpet is not for sale.”

  “Yes, it is,” Aviya said stubbornly.

  I grabbed her by the arm, dragged her out from under the awning, carpet and all. She glared at me, defiant, and I did my best to ignore it. “What are you doing?”

  “Trading. I’m trading, grandfather, that thing I trained for all my life. You trained me. Before you went through your change.”

  I grimaced. “This is for the Collector. We did not leave Iyar to trade with him, we left Iyar to never see him again—”

  “This is Kimi’s first carpet they wove completely alone,” Aviya said. “Their first trade. Don’t spoil it, grandfather. Please.”

  “First trade?” I shouldn’t have gotten so angry, so bitter. “The Collector imprisoned your grandmother. Killed her. You want Kimi’s first trade to be to this man?”

  She propped her fists at her waist and glared at me, half-angry, half-exasperated. “And yours wasn’t? Your first trade, your second, your third? The weave of song, the greatest carpet ever woven—you sold it to the Collector!”

  “Yes, but there was a reason . . .”

  “We are traders, grandfather. Khana women trade. Shouldn’t you go sit with the men?”

  It would have been better if she’d slapped me.

  I turned away. She ran after me, perhaps not wanting to wound me after the spear of her words had already made its way through my chest. “I am sorry, grandfather. I did not mean . . .”

  I waited, for a brief moment, for her to say what she meant, but she looked confused—not because she couldn’t find a way to speak her mind, I thought, but because my existence, the change, had confused her—had confused and hurt every Khana person who loved me, or so I thought to myself. I had thought about it for forty years before I finally changed my body. I thought how my people judged me, how my lovers Bashri had judged me, how my grandchildren judged me, except perhaps Kimi, who did not know how to judge. Forty years. Even in a woman’s body I wanted so desperately to be a man, I was a man—and now, a month after my change, in a man’s body at last, I did not know how to stop flinching from their judgment. At best, their confusion. Aviya loved me, I knew, but her tongue kept slipping.