18) Feathers

They all made their way out of the monastery in a daze, Bronwyn and Lisbet leading, then Princess Janette and Sir Poitr and the monks. The front wall of the cloister was rubble, nearby trees crushed by a massive weight falling down upon them. The smoking hulk of a storm dark dragon lay the length of the meadow, lightning still sparking from its claws and wings. A lance was driven deep into its heart, behind the front leg. The monks were dismayed by the destruction, but immediately excited about the dragon, bravely crowding around it, pointing and chattering and exclaiming.

The warhorse stood nearby, tethered only by his good manners. The Mare flirted delicately with him, and his ears pricked forward, interested. Robbie Longfellow ran ahead of them all, chasing chickens back towards their coop and running barking after the terrified cow and her twin calves.

Aodhan stood near the cottage with his hat in his hands. Dale knelt beside Rebeka, eyes red with tears as he held her hand. Bronwyn sank down next to him, stroking the spinner's forehead and checking her mouth and eyes. Her skin had faded further, a sickly bluish green, and her eyes were washed out almost white.

"Can you bring her back?" Janette asked, taking Rebeka's other hand.

The witch hesitated, then looked up at Dale. Hope and despair warred in his expression, in the way he clutched his wife's hand.

"The poison took deeper root in Rebeka than in Janette. The fruit fell from Janette's mouth, while Rebeka swallowed her bite. This curse was more than just the end of life, or the draught would not have changed Janette's death to 'chanted sleep." She drew out flask and pouch. "I read a little about sorcerers who tried to bring the dead back and who brought back monsters instead. She might wake, Dale, but I do not think she would be our Rebeka." Bronwyn closed her eyes, reaching into her pouch. Her fingers touched needle and thick waxy thread, and knew what her magic demanded. Leaving her hand in the bag, she looked back up at Dale.

He cleared his throat, tears wet on his face. "I want her back, I do not know how I can live past losing her. But she was a brave woman, and kind, and I know for certain that she would not want to wake accursed, or become the shell for some evil. Do what you must. We will gather wood for her pyre."

They all went out into the woods except Aodhan and Bronwyn. Lisbet and her father, Janette and Sir Poitr, all of the monks, gathered branches and kindling and larger pieces. Aodhan silently helped Bronwyn straighten Rebeka's body, and he brought stout twine and bright ribbons from his wagon. At Bronwyn's instruction, he tied Rebeka's wrists and ankles together, first with the twine and then covered the ugly hemp with the ribbons. To his credit, he made the ribbons festive and lovely. Bronwyn carefully sewed Rebeka's lips and eyelids closed with the thick waxy thread, whispering protections against evil entering or escaping the vessel. As the witch worked, energies poured off of her like waves of heat from a fire, and her hair fell in masses more white now than black until finally only her brows and lashes stood like soot against her pale skin. Rebeka's limbs twitched slightly, and once she tried to stir and waken, but the weight of spells kept her still.

Finally, the dead woman's skin sparkled with Bronwyn's efforts and protections, and Bronwyn gestured to Aodhan to help her with the shroud. He brought a fine gauze, embroidered with flowers and bees and butterflies, and Bronwyn recognized the fabric as a wedding veil. "I think it will be easier for the girl and her father, remembering her wrapped in beauty," he said simply. Bronwyn looked down at the ugliness of the stitches on her friend's mouth and eyes and reached into the pouch, finding and bringing out two lapis stones to put over the corpse's eyes. Aodhan nodded, and they finished the work.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

At sunset, Rebeka lay on her bier. She was covered with the bridal veil and a blanket of flowers and sweet grasses. Dale brought out a flint to light the torch, but Bronwyn stopped him. She cupped her hand around the tarry rag and a fingerling salamander obligingly climbed onto it, igniting the pitch. Dale held the torch to the wood of the pyre and the elemental lept into the wood and twigs and branches, growing brighter as it danced, consuming flesh and spells and wood alike. Aodhan and Poitr led him to a safe distance and sat with him as the fire burned.

Lisbet watched only a moment or two before taking Bronwyn's hand and pulling her away. Bronwyn followed silently as the girl led her to the cottage. Silently, Lisbet spilled a dozen white feathers onto the table.

"My brothers saw that the hag only looked like our apple dame, that she was wearing a disguise. They chased her off, and some of them threw rocks or sticks at her. I watched, and she... she turned them into swans and they flew off." She stood straight, waiting for Bronwyn's disbelief.

"How did you watch this?" Bronwyn asked.

"It was just something I saw," Lisbet evaded, looking at the floor.

"Did you see it in the fire, or in the well?"

"In the well, when I was drawing water."

"Do you often see things there?"

"No. Only when it's important, like when the cow run off and birthed her calves in the woods, or when Papa hurt his leg when he was bringing home things from market."

"Ah," Bronwyn ran her fingers through the feathers, feeling their pull, but not as her own task. "Did your mother teach you to spin?"

"Yes, and said I have very fine hands for it."

"What would you do to get your brothers back?"

Lisbet's head came up, hope blazing in her far brighter than the funeral pyre outside. "Anything. I would do anything."

"Once you are done, you may be called on to do other things. You will not be able to refuse."

"Then I will do those things, too, but tell me how I may help my brothers."

Bronwyn took the child's hands in her own, feeling the power there, and closed her eyes. "You must make each of them a shirt made from nettles. Gather the plants at midday, and spin them to thread in the dark of night, and weave the cloth during the twilight of dawn and dusk. You have three years to complete the shirts, or the spell will last forever, and the spell must be broken for all of your brothers all at once, and you may not speak of your task to anyone, or the spell will last forever." Bronwyn took out the flask, and poured a few drops of the draught into her hands, bathing Lisbet's hands in the bitter smelling liquid. Together, their fingers and palms shed an eerie blue glow for a moment before the magic soaked into their skin. Lisbet reached out and touched the lip of the flask, bringing a single drop to her own lips and nodding silently. Bronwyn kissed her forehead and whispered a blessing. "If ever you need help, seek out Aodhan Tinker."