Brightly Woven
Page 3

The stranger wasn’t dressed in a Saldorran uniform as I would have expected a scout to be, but in simple clothes. He looked to be about my age, maybe a few years older. I watched the rain drip down the length of his long nose and collect in his dark, uncombed hair. There was a small cut on his face where the sharp edge of my basket had caught his skin, but it was nothing compared to the bruise on his other cheek.
I let myself admit that he had a roguish charm about him. Some hint of softness in his eyes, at least. No, he wasn’t a soldier, but he was still a stranger, a vagabond, maybe. Even if I hadn’t seen his face, his worn boots and torn cloak would have told his story. The pressure of his hand on my arm became nearly unbearable, yet it wasn’t until I let out a gasp of pain that he released me.
“Are you from the village?” His words came out in an urgent rush. “From Cliffton?”
I nodded. “Why are the soldiers here? Do you have any idea why—?”
“Can you take me to the elder?”
“My father?” At that, I did take a step back.
“Is he in the village now?” I wasn’t sure how to respond, and he must have been able to tell. He took my arm again, this time far more gently. “You can trust me—I’m here to help you. Is your father in the village, or has he left for the capital?”
The sound of horses and men below drifted in and out of my ears. I searched for a reason to distrust him, but instead I saw the desperation in his face, the real concern.
He had a kind face, even with the dirt, even with his wounds.
“Yes,” I said finally. “He is. I can take you to him.”
He took my other arm, pulling me toward him so quickly the basket slipped from my hands. It was the last sound that reached my ears, for in the next moment even the rain disappeared. The man brought his black cloak up around us, pulling me close to him. The world spun away under our feet. I felt my stomach lurch and an explosion of pain behind my eyes, and just as quickly, darkness fell over us.
I woke, not in the yellow mud of the mountains, but in the dark chill of my room, under a pile of blankets. Somehow, the afternoon had fallen into night without my knowing it. If the slow growl of thunder and the steady pattering of rain hadn’t been there to greet me as I opened my eyes, the entire day might have been a dream.
How had I gotten down from the pass? I had slipped and knocked my head against the rocks before, but never so badly as to lose all recollection of it. And the stranger, what about him?
“Sydelle, are you awake?” Mother whispered. I turned my head and allowed the dizziness to wash over me. The usual rasp in her voice was gone.
“What’s happened?” I asked, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. She held a candle up to her face, its flickering light catching the strands of her pale hair. I saw that my loom had been disassembled and moved from the main room of the house into my cramped room.
“That man I met in the mountains—is he here?”
There was sadness in her eyes where I had expected to find anger. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or frightened by it.
“I’m sorry about the roots,” I said quickly. “When the rain clears, I’ll find more.”
She brought the candle closer to my face, and for the first time, the warmth it provided was a relief. My hair and dress were still damp, and the rain had cooled the air enough for me to shiver beneath the blankets.
“I’ll go tell your father you’re awake,” she said. “He’s with our guest.”
My mother left without another word, leaving me alone, my questions still unanswered. I sat up slowly, wishing she had left the candle with me. All I could make out in the darkness was my loom and the shape of my father’s leather bag next to it on the floor. It looked full. What had the man asked—if my father had left for the capital yet?
“…would you…Sydelle…it’s…”
The words came in soft fragments. I strained my ears past the slow drumming of rain to the conversation on the other side of the wall. Layers of mud and plaster muffled the voices, but the stranger’s rich voice was clear, almost as if he was in my room.
“…from the capital?” asked my father.
“No, but I have spent a great amount of time there,” the stranger replied after a long pause.
“Just how old are you, Mr….?”
“North,” the man said, neatly sidestepping my father’s question. “Wayland North, if you’d prefer.”
“What are you doing around our parts?” Mr. Porter, Henry’s father, asked. I hadn’t realized he was there. “It’s unusual to find a wizard so far west, given that we’re so close to Saldorra and they don’t take kindly to your…kind.”
A wizard, I thought numbly. The word rolled around inside of me. That man had been a wizard, one of Astraea’s disciples…and I had been so disrespectful. Had he brought the rain?
“After the king was murdered, some of the details didn’t align for me,” said the wizard. “I needed proof, so I traveled west.”
I pressed my ear up against the wall.
“We were told the poison came from Auster. Are you saying that it came from Saldorra?” my father asked. His voice was too calm—I almost couldn’t hear it above the pounding in my ears. Poison? Henry and I had guessed an illness, an accident perhaps…but murder…?
Wayland North let out a sharp laugh. “I have it on good authority that the wizards haven’t the slightest idea where the poison came from. They only know it was put in his nightly glass of wine.”