Something startled Risla awake. She just didn't know what. So she remained motionless, on her side, one half of her face pressed into the dirt, and waited.
Sleeping quarters for slaves in the compound were nothing more than a series of hastily constructed sheds. Watched closely by guards, who locked the doors at night. As a general rule, they didn't unlock the sheds til dawn. Risla often woke to the sound of someone sprinkling their pee on the dirt floor, and it was unusual to go an entire night without being assaulted by the rank smell of urine.
Tonight, she smelled dirt, and heard only the wind, whistling through the cracks in the shed wall. Dull, grey moonlight washed in through the gaps, faintly illuminating the two dozen other Darovenians lying about the shed, gently palpitating with sleep. Amorphous mounds, like distant hills in the night. So then-
Risla sat up. No, something was definitely there. Something that most would never notice, because they couldn't sense or feel it like she could. Now that she was aware of it, it was impossible to ignore.
It was a strand of the Weave. Hovering. Undulating somewhere nearby.
The sensation of it. It was something she felt rather than saw. Like a vibration in the air. Ripples in water after a stone is dropped in a pond.
In her visions, they looked like streaks of lightning. Or string. Or the disturbed, broken strands of a great spider's web. As thick as Risla's pinky finger. Pulsating. Writhing, migrating, but in a slow and uncaring way, like reeds in the gentle surf of the sea.
This section of Weave loped lazily down near the canyon in an arc, like a thunderbolt that had changed it's mind at the last moment, swerving back up toward the heavens.
Somewhere, this strand would connect back to a larger strand, branch to stem. And that strand would connect to something even larger. So on and so forth, like a massive, interconnected web, until...well, Risla didn't know. It originated somewhere, didn't it? There had to be a source.
With a strand being this close, Risla had a rare opportunity. She could reach out with her mind. She could touch it. She could access the Weave. But did she want to?
Her Weave visions had been part of why she was here in the first place. They were less complete and encompassing compared to the visions she received when making contact with people. But that was part of what made them so exciting. She never knew what she would find. Something worthless. Or perhaps a true treasure. If she focused hard enough.
Her first encounter with the thing had made a charred, searing flash of a memory on her mind. A moment she didn't like revisiting. To remember that time was to experience it all over again. The fear. The disorientation.
The long and short of it was that she had unintentionally tapped into the Weave, not knowing what it was. Not even realizing that she was doing anything at all. That alone should have been traumatic enough. Slipping, unawares, through the cracks of reality, and into a place of visions and the painful blaring of bright lights. But it got worse. Any situation can get worse. It can always get worse. She knew that now, as well.
In the very moment of her first contact with the Weave, she had been shown the murder of Father. A blurry image, with little to indicate who had committed the deed, or the circumstances. But it had been real-feeling enough. Later, she learned that it hadn't actually happened, but that somewhere down the line, it would. Which was worse, in it's own sort of way.
As far as Risla knew, Father was still destined to be killed. And soon. That timeline had yet to be averted.
She'd told him, too. All those years ago. He still didn't seem too concerned about his own fate, as depicted by her vision. Never had. But in general, he'd taken a great interest in Risla's gift of prophecy. Among other things that it seemed she could do. Byproducts of Risla's prolonged exposure to the Weave from that day, Father believed. And maybe he was right. A lot had happened while she'd been caught in the strands. She still didn't understand all of it. Perhaps she never would.
Though Father had always loved her, and cared for her, there was something about the discovery of her gifts that made her...well, invaluable to him. In many ways, she was like his right-hand man. A councilor. A support. A guiding star. He relied on her to point the way across the dark, shrouded landscape of what might be. Dark to most, at least. To normal people. But not to Risla. Not entirely.
It was because of the information Risla had gleaned through the Weave that she was here, now, in Tantern. It was one piece in the larger pattern that was Father's plan for the future. One that he would achieve with Risla's help.
While she was loyal to Father, and believed in his vision for the future, there were times when she missed the way that things had been. When she was just a daughter to him. Being treasured because she was daddy's girl, rather than an asset that Father couldn't afford to lose. There was a difference. Even though, sometimes, it almost felt the same. Almost.
She still yearned for Father's attention and approval. Shameful to admit, but true. But even more than that, she wanted to save the people of Daroven. And she wanted to save her father as well.
She had one other long-term goal as well. Or at least, a wish. If possible, she wanted to keep Wix alive.
She liked Wix. She liked Wix a lot. Even now, even in these circumstances, just thinking about him gave her a weird, pleasant, squirmy feeling in her stomach.
She'd liked him ever since the first time he began to appear in her visions, a couple years ago. She'd sensed, even then, that their fates were tangled together somehow.
And then she'd begun to witness the scarier parts of his potential destiny, as well as the more tragic aspects of his past. But rather than recoiling at him, losing her attraction for him, she could feel herself being drawn yet further into his story. Somewhere along the way, though she would never admit it aloud--and certainly not to Father--she had become emotionally invested in Wix as a person, and in his future. Perhaps there was a way to preserve the brighter parts of his future life, and avoid the darker ones. Even now, in the imminent future, Father's plan posed a risk to Wix' life, and to the lives of those he cared about. But maybe Risla could accomplish the mission without letting things go too far.
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Maybe, if she was extra delicate, she could stop Wix from meeting...her. But that was certainly quite far down the list in terms of importance. She told herself.
What it all came down to was that Risla had much to do. And time plodded ever one. Which meant that she couldn't afford to pass up this opportunity the Weave presented.
She scooted herself across the dirt, putting her back to one wall of the shed. She crossed her legs under herself, resting her hands on her knees. Closed her eyes. And reached out to the Weave.
It hit her head like a crack of lightning. A shock to the nerve centers. And then she was in.
Where was she? Where the lights were. Not in a physical, tangible way. In the mind.
Everything was light. But some places were more light than others. One spot, in particular. Most of the strand was a great, sun-soaked cloud. But then there was something else. A glowing, luminescent nebula.
She went there. She opened her mind to it's secrets.
And was disappointed by what she found.
For one, she could sense that there was something shifting in the Weave. An alteration in the timeline. Which could be good. Or it could be very, very bad. It would depend on the implications. It would depend on whether she still had the ability to react. It would depend on whether the chain reaction of events would have anything to do with Risla or her Father's plans at all. But she knew that whatever it was, it had to do with what the Weave was about to show her. She was about to witness the agents of the changes in the Weave. At the very least, there would be some kind of connection. And maybe she could figure out what that connection was.
A series of shadowy silhouettes began to emerge, backlit by the light. Four people, traveling together.
The vision wasn't as clear as she would have hoped for. But perhaps she could still make something of it.
There looked to be three men and one woman. The woman had a sword. She carried it sheathed, gripped in her right hand hand, leaning against her right shoulder. She moved with swagger, and a subtly detectable degree of poise. Dangerous.
She got similar vibes from the men. One of them wore spectacles and what looked a lot like Calbreian clergy robes. Another walked tall, with medium length hair, and a sword at his side. Another had a dangling earring, and twirled a knife in his hand. At the head of them was a man with a long coat, and a hat that came down over his eyes. Risla couldn't seem to make out anything important about that last one.
The vision shifted. Now she could make out more. Sounds. Colors. Definition.
A train horn whistled painfully, almost jolting Risla out of her vision. But not quite.
She was looking in on a train station platform. Rows of benches. Easiest to make out was a man, likely in his mid-twenties, sitting at one of those benches. He had a dog, next to him on the bench. He was tense. Waiting for something. Probably for the next train.
The vision shifted again. Time began to speed up. Crowds of men and women trawled to and fro across the platform, like frantic schools of fish. Objects in motion, articles of clothing and the things passengers carried, took on the effect of trailing, solid lines of color in the air. The effect was almost dizzying. And then, mercifully, things began to slow down, back to normal speed. Slower, even.
Another shift in perspective, as if Risla was standing inside the middle of the platform, looking toward the side entrance, the opposite end of the building from the tracks. Someone was coming up the steps. A woman. With a brown duster, a brown hat, and brown leather gloves. She was a Deadeye, it seemed--she had a Wulther at either hip. Long, curly, blond hair fell down past her shoulders in front. Her hat was pulled down, just barely covering her eyes. She wore crimson red lipstick. Her mouth was curved in a half-smile. And there was just something about her. Some kind of aura just...coming off her. Was...could she--
A bang.
The vision flashed and dissipated. Risla was sitting with her back to the shed wall. And the wall was shaking a little, because someone was fumbling with the lock from outside.
What?
Risla laid herself flat against the ground and pretended to sleep. She noticed she wasn't the only one faking. Several of the slaves had stopped snoring, though they still had sense to lay perfectly still.
A few more clicks and clunks, and then something snapped. The lock was open.
The door swung wide with a loud creak. A shadow stood in the doorway. Despite the dark, Risla recognized the figure. Tall. Slim. Hunched shoulders, with posture and movements that seemed to curve inward on himself. The messy, ear-length hair. It was the man who had tried to grab her hand at the watering hole.
But what was he doing here?
He ambled toward the center of the shed, scanning each of the slumped, sleeping figures on the ground. Looking for something. Someone.
He came to a stop, bent, grabbed someone by the arm, and pulled, trying to get them to their feet. It was the girl who had been standing in front of Risla that time. The one with the scars on her back. The one who had thanked this man for the water he had provided.
She wasn't quite so subservient, now. She thrashed, tried to pull away. Shrieked. "NO! NO! SOMEONE HELP-"
The man pulled a six-shooter and pressed the barrel into the side of her neck. Because she tensed up at this, startled and terrified, he had an opening to pull her body against his, one of his palms pressed tight over her mouth. He took her with him as he walked backward, shoes scratching the dirt, weaving a path between all the slaves laying quiet and frozen on the ground. None asleep. Only pretending to be.
The scarred girl continued to cry out. Smothered, muffled cries that Risla could swear were supposed to be words, but she couldn't quite make them out.
No one answered the calls for help. No one jumped to their feet to stop the Alveranderan. Least of all Risla. To intervene would mean torture, death, or both. It would mean the potential failure of her mission, and so many far worse things to come. And Father had told her not to take any undue risks. He had been very specific.
But what was she supposed to do? Just lay here and watch this happen?
Logic and her emotions battled against one another. This wasn't the first time this man had done something like this. It was clear he'd done it, and gotten away with it, many times before.
Risla could stop him. She could even kill him. She could save this girl. And die. But if she turned away...if she could just let it go...in the future, she could stop the Alveranderans from ever doing anything like this to her people ever again.
She couldn't do both.
The Alveranderan pulled the scarred girl through the shed door, closing and locking it behind him. And the moment the lock snapped shut, it was as if something heavy had dropped inside Risla's body, weighing at the pit of her stomach.
The Alveranderan worker didn't even bother to take the girl far before doing his business. He slammed her up against the outside of the shed, causing the walls to rattle and shake.
The girl outside whimpered. And struggled. And pled. Even still, amidst all the commotion, none of the slaves dared to budge from where they lay. Not a one.
Risla, lying on her side, began to curl in on herself, knees against her chest. Her clamped eyes did nothing to stem the flow of hot tears streaming sideways across her face. Her teeth were grit. Blood oozed from the indentations where her fingernails pressed hard into her palms. She put every ounce of her will into keeping herself from screaming.