Wordweaver

Chapter Four

When I return to the Kynstett, I go in through a side entrance to avoid being sent on another errand. The wooden frame shrinks during the winter, preventing the door from latching properly. I have to dig some of the drifted snow out from around the doorjamb before I can coax it open, proving it's had even less use than I'd thought. A swirl of loose snow dusts the floor as I squeeze inside and drag the door closed behind me, pitching the entryway into darkness.

Finally, I am alone.

I rip off my glove and send a pulse of energy to my fingertips, savoring the rising wave of heat and power that swells up my throat. "Fire," I whisper.

The taste of cinnamon crackles over my tongue, and I lick my lips reflexively. Golden light flutters to life in my palm, and a tiny flame sparks up in its wake. It barely warms my skin, fed by the energy I siphon to it. As long as I focus on channeling the power, it can't burn me.

I relish in the silence and my secret little light before making my way through the stone hallway. There shouldn't be anyone else in these halls, but I keep my free hand ready to cup around my fire in case I run into anyone. The fryrs are most likely in their studies, or else convening with Edlan about what we will do with so many men missing. There will have to be a support system set up for the families who will be most affected, and the fryrs love nothing more than to organize and plan.

At last the light from a window appears ahead, and I cut off my connection to the fire and watch it wisp into smoke. By the natural light, I find my way to the storeroom where Fryr Edlan dries his herbs.

The door is unlocked, so I ease it open and step inside the familiar little room. A long wooden table with two chairs stands beneath strings of hanging herbs, each clump labeled in Edlan's scrawling hand. Behind the table, a wall of shelves holds the salves, tinctures, and powders along with the extra tools Edlan keeps in storage. I pick my way through the supplies, filling my bag with vials and jars. I have a few salves at home that I will add as well, along with bandages and a pair of scissors, a sewing kit... what else? I wish I'd been able to write down the list Mjera and I discussed last night—or was it this morning?—but I'll have to make do with what I can remember.

Oak galls. Can't forget the oak galls. I add a jar of the plant growths to my bag and retreat down the hallway to the side door. Carefully, I tuck my bag into the shadows where no one will stumble on it, then hurry back to the main hall to finish the day's chores.

***

As evening descends on my valley, I make my way from the side door of the Kynstett with my bag hanging from one shoulder. I worked longer than necessary tonight, finishing every task Edlan might need over the next week, and hating that I don't have time to do more. Mjera will go to him tomorrow to deliver the letter I've written, thanking him for his guidance and discretion over the years, but it isn't enough. I wish I could give him a real goodbye.

A pit settles in my stomach as I turn my back on the tower. The village streets are empty, and the buildings stand like silent sentries in the lengthening shadows. Most of the villagers are already home, gathering for one last night with their loved ones. I keep my eyes on the ground before my feet and make a list of the things I still need to pack.

Three sets of fresh footprints precede me to my door. Tenant Gryfalkr must have found his way back, then, and Papa and Aze have returned with the sheep. I push open the door, hiding my bulky bag behind my arm. "Aze?" I say, anticipating his presence in the main room. "I need to—"

I freeze mid-step. "Good evening, dearest," says Bronhold, pushing back the chair he'd been sitting on and shooting to his feet. Aze and Tenant Gryfalkr look up as I enter but keep their seats at the table, sitting side by side across from Bronhold. Mama must be in the study, and Papa in the barn or still with the herd, which means it falls on me as the eldest to act as hostess.