Free Sorcerer's Son by Phyllis Eisenstein

not just in the webs. Castle Spinweb needed a guest. She stretched both hands out, and all around her, concentric rings of spider silk began to glow softly, their patterns blurring to grayness, to windows upon other climes. And all about Delivev the Weaver, people played out some moments of their lives, never knowing that she was picking and choosing among them.
    The process took considerable thought and was diverting enough in itself that she hardly noticed how much time passed while she sought an appropriate selection. She weighed men against women, old against young, rich against poor. She rejected this one for being too ugly, this one for talking too much, this one because too many small children required her presence, this one because he had just married a passionate young wife. In the end, her choice narrowed to three footloose younger sons and a handful of troubadours; no one else was free to go wherever he wished without being missed by someone, and Delivev had no desire to cause another person the pain of loss that she herself knew so well, even if it was only for a short time. Of the younger sons, one was a fool, one had disgusting table manners, and one resembled Cray too closely for Delivev’s peace of mind. The troubadours seemed equally witty, talented, and charming; it was their business to be so. Delivev chose the nearest one.
    He was a man of middling years, tall and lean, his face craggy and weather-beaten by much outdoor living. His voice was low and full, his fingers nimble upon the strings of his lute, and he wore gold rings and bracelets when he stayed in places where they would not likely be stolen, gifts of wealthy patrons. At the moment Delivev selected him, he was reclining beside a garden pond, watching a king’s young daughters play hide-and-seek. Occasionally, he tore crumbs from a loaf of stale bread and tossed them into the pond, and watched the fish glide to the surface to nibble.
    The garden was full of spiders. A person who was not looking for them would scarcely see them, except perhaps for the black speck in the large web where two walls met. Delivev saw the garden from there, but there were other webs, small ones, scattered among the flowers, in the trees, and webless spiders as well, though Delivev had far less control over them. She prodded a small brown spider, and it came out of its hiding place between two stones and began to spin on a bush beside the pond. The troubadour’s eyes had swept past that very bush a hundred times, but never before had he seen a message there, crude letters of spider silk, and the spider still spinning on the last of them:

TAKE THE NORTH ROAD
    He stared long at those words, so long that Delivev began to wonder if he knew how to read, despite the movement of his eyes.
    A second spider joined the first and added its share while he watched:

GO TONIGHT
    He jumped to his feet, staring down at the two spiders. Then he called out hoarsely the names of all the king’s daughters, and he called again and again until, reluctantly, they gave over their game and joined him at the bush. By that time, though, the spiders had been joined by others of their kind that pulled the strands of web loose and pushed them together into a formless tangle. The king’s daughters were annoyed that their game had been interrupted by a few spiders, and they did not forgive the troubadour for the rest of the afternoon.
    Delivev watched through the evening as the troubadour sang for the king and his court, and she thought he sang more poorly than usual, as if he were preoccupied. The king sensed something amiss, too, and asked if the troubadour were feeling ill, but the man denied it. He sang another song and then he sat by the fire with his lute, quite near the spiderweb at the corner of the mantelpiece; he sat hunched over, his eyes on the floor, or on some inner scene. At last, quite late, when the king was about to retire to his chambers, the troubadour approached him and sank to one