Wordweaver

Chapter One

Never make promises. That's what Edlan told me, back on my first day as his apprentice. "Never make promises and never set limits. When someone asks how long a task will take, say it will take as long as it must. That will guarantee two things. First, you will only ever complete a job before you are expected; and second, you will develop a reputation as a wise and mysterious miracle worker. Both are essential if you want to be an healer of any value."

I've tried to take that advice to heart, but it's much easier to appear wise and mysterious when you're one of the village elders. Nobody wants to ask advice of a 19-year-old apprentice. Least of all a 19-year-old female apprentice. Ieldran save us—what would the ancestors think?

Well, maybe the female ancestors would approve. Papa does not. It would be different if I were just an apprentice, I think. He indulged me as a child because of the accident, but as I grew closer to marriageable age, he may have given in to the gossip and ended my apprenticeship early if Edlan was not so deeply imbedded in my secret. Edlan says keeping secrets is like keeping promises: it's better to avoid them altogether.

But he's kept mine for thirteen years, so I suppose there are always exceptions.

Fel stamps his hoof and lips at my braid, annoyed at not having my full attention. I push his huge head away and refocus on his breakfast. "I'm adding some dried apples," I tell him, burying the fruit into his oats. "We don't have many more, so try to savor them."

Fel shakes his shaggy mane and blows an acknowledging breath into my face. "You're welcome," I say, patting his neck. "Now go on. I have to get to work."

He snorts a goodbye as I make my way back to the barn door, listening for sounds outside. Besides Fel's munching in the stall behind me, everything is quiet. Papa and Aze have already taken the sheep to the creek for water, and Mama is in the house getting ready to start the day's baking. I am alone, and it is early. Edlan won't expect me for another half hour.

I have time to practice.

I open my right hand, holding it up so I can see the scars lacing across my palm and down my wrist. My first inclination is always toward fire, but I won't risk that in the barn. Maybe ice? I open my mouth to form the word, the chill of it already spreading across my tongue.

A sharp, intruding knock shatters the moment. The power fades as quickly as I'd summoned it, driven deeper with every rap of knuckles against wood.

Bronhold.

Maybe I can hide in the barn until he leaves—but no, Mama will answer the door if he keeps knocking, and she'll tell him where I am. "So much for a morning to myself," I mutter, tugging open the door. Fel pricks his ears toward my voice, but his breakfast is more important than my misery, and he goes back to eating. "Thanks for the support," I tell him, but he only flicks his tail as if to say, Get on with it.

Bronhold stands at the door to the house, his fist raised to knock again, but he turns when I step out of the barn. "Ynria," he says, a rosy tint of pleasure brightening his voice.

You can tell a lot about a person from the color of their voice. Mama's is the burnished gold of sunrise, the glow of a fire holding back the cold of a winter night. Papa's is the opposite: cool blue to balance Mama's passion, adding depth and stability to her outbursts. And Aze, a combination of the two, is the friendly green of a spring meadow that shoots up overnight when winter finally fades, full of hope and promise.

But Bronhold—dull, relentless, uninspired Bronhold—has a voice the color of mud. "Shall we?" he says, striding through the snow and offering his arm to me.