Brightly Woven(50)

I waited until I heard the door close behind her. My bag and dismantled loom were resting at the foot of North’s bed, but what I needed was in his bag, not mine. I felt around the bottles for the small leather notebook and was just about to tuck it into my own when his quiet voice startled me.

“Syd?” I turned, expecting to be pinned in place by his dark eyes. But they were closed, and he whispered my name again as if in a dream. He couldn’t be awake. I had given him the strongest sleeping draft I had made in Arcadia.

“I’m right here,” I said, touching his arm. His face turned toward the sound of my voice, and it was nearly impossible to swallow the lump in my throat. “I won’t leave.”

I slipped the silver chain from around my neck, missing its comforting weight the moment it was gone. But North needed Astraea’s help far more than I did.

“Protect those who are weak in the world,” I whispered, the familiar prayer meaning so much more now than ever before. “Guide those who think themselves lost, for as long as you are above, all paths will be straight and all hearts will be strengthened….”

I pressed the braided circle into his open palm and closed his blackened fingers around it, then picked up my bag and loom.

The lights in the homes still shone out through their windows, but I slipped through the shadows unnoticed. I thought I heard Aphra’s voice somewhere behind me, but I didn’t turn around. My sights were fixed firmly on Provincia.

The road was dark, but I knew the way.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I walked through the night, resting an hour at a time in the tall grass until I finally reached the base of a mountain. With the air suddenly much colder and the now recognizable scent of snow in the air, I realized what a mistake it had been to leave North’s blanket behind and how hard it was to carry my loom myself.

A hush had fallen over the countryside. I thought of Henry and his father, driving their rickety old cart up the same road I was walking on. I would need to find Owain first, to make sure that he had gotten through to the wizard leaders.

And then, would I find Henry? A week ago, the prospect would have thrilled me no end, but now the thought of seeing him only brought dread. I wasn’t sure what I would say to him, but I certainly couldn’t tell him about coming to Provincia alone. He wouldn’t understand why I had put myself in danger, and if I knew Henry, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight again. It would be back to Cliffton and the old way of life, and I wouldn’t be able to get in a word of protest.

Somehow, it had come down to a choice between the two, and I wasn’t ready to make that decision.

Over the next four days, more men and even a few families began to appear along the road, passing me in long wagon caravans. I tried vainly to keep up with some of the friendly-looking groups, but after nearly four days of walking, my body refused to let me. I had stopped for a moment, just to catch my breath, when someone shouted from behind me.

“Well, whadda we have here? A lad on his own, and with a bag full of food?” an older man asked, his head crowned with gray. Behind him were two stocky boys—his sons, most likely—and behind them was a cart loaded down with bags and weapons. The younger son seemed to be pulling it along single-handedly.

My stomach flipped in panic. I pulled my hat down farther over my head.

“Walk with us fer a bit,” one of the sons said. “I’m thinking we’re gonna be fast ol’ friends.”

The father laughed heartily, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Came up from Mariton fer the war; gotta help build trenches and the like. You gonna go, too?”

I nodded again, wondering how long I could go without having to say a single word.

“Then we’re gonna get there together,” the first son said. “Fast friends, it’s like I was saying.”

We walked in uncomfortable silence, the father never once removing his arm from around my shoulder. He knows, I thought, and the fear shredded my insides. He knows.

But if that was the truth, he didn’t show any other indication of it, and his hands didn’t wander anyplace they didn’t belong. If anything, he was more interested in sneaking glances into my bag, and it was with a horrible start that I realized the numerous bags weighing down their cart had probably not belonged to them.

I focused my eyes firmly on the wild grass along the road. Think, I told myself, think. I could run—I was fast when I needed to be—but the father’s grip on my shoulder was unyielding, and a small knife had appeared in the younger son’s hand. He gave a nod to his brother, who circled back around me. We were slowly moving off the road, onto the grass fields. Another hand touched my bag, began to untie the knots that held it closed—they could have the bag, they just couldn’t have North’s notebook.

I twisted down and out of the father’s grip, but one of the sons still had a tight grip on my bag and wrenched me to my feet. The small knife was back, this time digging into my side.

“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.