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Weaver.”
    Alden took a half-step back as if he had been punched, his face flushing. “No, sir! I mean yes, sir! I mean…” He cleared his throat, his shoulders slumping for a moment. “Yes, Guild Master, the Guild comes first always.”
    “Remember that,” Rhoads snapped. “Master Tristan, excuse me, I have a meeting with the Worlds Council and Navy.”
    “Good luck, sir,” Alden said.
    “You’ll need it,” Tristan added under his breath.
     
     
     
    The massive building that housed the Weaving area was at the far side of the compound from the port. The Guild had discovered that any energy affected the way the willowisps bound themselves together, and the energy output of shuttles seemed to affect them more than anything. The fact that they survived at all at normal Earth gravity was a part of the spell the dragons had given them. For particles that existed in interstellar space, Earth-norm was a crushing weight.
    Tristan walked through the front of the building towards his office there. It was quiet, the pristine walls glistened softly in the gentle lighting. It seemed a whole world away from the rest of Earth . He laughed, in a way it was, it was different from any place else, anywhere. It was the only Weaving area in the galaxy. Early on, they had discovered that the balance of Weaver to willowisps seemed only to function on Earth —even if the Weaver had been raised entirely off world— which was generally the norm. Most humans had fled their decimated planet and lived on the hundreds of stations that dotted the solar system and reached attentively beyond.
    There was a large medical area at the front of the building, specially shielded from magic and other energies. Weavers were vulnerabl e after creating a set of sails— usually they just needed a day or two of isolation, but the larger the sails, the more immense the risk. There was already a med team on the alert and a shielded room in the most protected area ready for Tristan. He had no illusions about it, this Weaving was serious—if it didn’t kill him, he would be lucky.
    “Sir!” Alden’s voice brought his attention to the doors of his office.
    “You are here bright and early, Alden,” Tristan said.
    “I am excited to see the beginning of the sails for my ship,” Alden said slyly.
    Tristan fixed the man with a cold look and opened the door to h is office, well aware that the W arrior had broken protocol and just followed him in. The subtle reminder that Alden would be flying the ship was a calculated insult. Many of the Warrior wing of the Guild felt that they should outrank the other members of the Guild. The Weavers’ Guild and the dragons did not agree, believing that the creators of the sails should be in charge. It had been decided when the Guild was first formed that the Guild Master would be a human with no ability with magic at all. Brian Rhoads, the Guild Master , knew the basics behind all the spells, understood the magic at the most basic levels, was a brilliant particle physicist but—as he was fond of saying—“couldn’t bend a spoon without a set of pliers if I tried”—and so was completely removed from all the emotional aspects of the magic.
    Making a point of ignoring the man in his office, Tristan sat down at his desk and opened his computer, taking his time before looking up at Alden, who was still standing at Parade Rest in front of his desk. “You seem overly anxious about these sails.”
    “ Winged Victory is the most important ship to ever sail, of course I am concerned! I am the one representing the Guild.”
    “Representing them with sails I have created and attuned for you,” Tristan chided, none-too-gently.
    “Of course, sir!”
    Tristan kept himself from sighing or rolling his eyes. He was used to Alden, however: they were almost the same age and had started in the Guild together. Alden had wanted to be a Sail Weaver—everyone who entered the Guild did—but lacked the skill. He was fortunate