Brightly Woven
Page 50

“Seems like our boy doesn’t want to be friends,” the father said. He placed a hand on my head, pulling it back to get a better look at my face. “Didn’t take you fer a fighter. So what’s hiding in that bag?”
I watched the sons out of the corner of my eye as they tossed the books and yarn out of my bag. North’s notebook was thrown down carelessly into the dirt, spilling out letters and loose papers. Their hands stilled only when they touched the cool glass of my bottles.
“Drafts?” one asked. “All you gonna give us is drafts?”
“Not just any draft,” I said, my mind working fast. “Special drafts—a delivery for the Wizard Guard.”
The father’s hand relaxed slightly on my hat. If he had pulled it any harder, my hair would have come tumbling out.
“Special draft?”
“I’m a wizard’s assistant,” I said. “He was hired to create a strengthening potion for the wizards to use in the war.”
“Do you take us fer fools?” a son spat. “Only four bottles fer hundreds of wizards?”
“It’s so potent you need only a drop or two,” I said. “I’m not supposed to even say what I was carrying, it’s so powerful!”
A grin flitted across the father’s face, and I knew I had him.
“It’ll make you unstoppable—invincible—strong enough to lift a horse,” I continued. I wasn’t scared any longer, but it was easy to feign the same panic I had felt only moments before. “Please—oh, please, don’t take it! I’ll never be able to show my face at home again! My wizard will beat me black and blue if I don’t get the draft to the capital!”
“We’ll be taking what we want!” the father said, jerking my arm. “Those wizards won’t be keeping it for themselves this time. With something like this we could take all the wagons and gold pieces we want.”
“And we’re gunna want a lot,” one of the sons added. “Imagine what would happen if we each took a bottle.”
“No!” I yelled. “Don’t! Please, please!”
I almost laughed when they toasted each other in triumph, tilting the bottles back at the same moment.
“This tastes like—” the younger son mumbled. I held my breath as his knees buckled beneath him and he tumbled to the ground. The other two men collapsed into heavy sleep a moment later, their bodies disappearing into the tall grass. With the amount they drank, they would be dead to the world for at least a day.
I searched through their things, hoping to find something that would be of use. They had bent forks, several knives, an apple core, but only one musty and stained blanket among them. I wasn’t about to take anything that smelled of urine and ale.
“Idiots,” I mumbled, gathering up everything they had tossed from my bag. I flipped North’s notebook open to the front, tucking the loose sheets of paper back inside. He had written his name on the first sheet—the writing was practically illegible and looked as though a child had scribbled out the letters. He probably was a child, I realized as I scanned the first few pages. They were filled with notes on spells and simple elixirs—I laughed at Pascal’s angry face, sketched between blocks of messy scrawl and numerous lists of ingredients.
The next few pages were void of even a stray mark of ink. When his writing appeared again, it was small and cramped.
The hedge settlements of Mariton and Andover were cleared. The Guard burned all of their huts and books—lit the women’s hair on fire and left them to die. The boy that I spoke to seemed to believe the curse began as a kind of poison and would need the hedge’s blood to make any kind of antidote. He agreed to come with me to see if we can’t find her together. He knows more about them than I do, than even Father did.
The man at my feet stirred slightly, but it was enough to wake me from my trance and make me close the book. I would have to finish reading later—for now, I had to keep walking.
The road was empty for miles ahead, which was fine with me. I didn’t stop until the sky had begun to darken, and I found a small clearing in the grass. The remnants of a fire were encased in a circle of stones, but there was no wood left—no trees or branches or even bushes for miles around me.
I sat down heavily, drawing my knees to my chest. Once I was down for the evening, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back up again. What little bread I had was almost gone after five days of walking. I wasn’t even sure of when I had last stopped. Two days ago? Three?
I unlaced my boots, allowing my sore feet some relief against the frozen ground. I had two painful blisters, but they were nothing compared to the ache in my back. Stretched out on the dirt, wrapped tightly in my thin shawl, I tried to sleep.
But hours later, it was clear there would be no rest for me; not while the cold air was trying to overwhelm my body with a thousand stinging needles. I reached for my necklace, only to remember I had left it with North.
I stood, pacing around the clearing, trying to get my blood rushing through my veins again. My feet were clumsy with fatigue, and rubbing my hands and arms did little more than turn them a brighter shade of pink. I needed fire, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut against the night air.
My loom lay in pieces nearby, bright in the moon’s strong light. I could do it, I thought, but what would that mean for me? For many years, that loom had been my entire world, my constant companion and source of happiness. But now, the loss of the future was more painful than the past. To do it now, to use the loom in such a horrible way, would mean not having the chance to finish North’s cloak, to tie it around his shoulders and see his face.