Crow dreamt of her grandmother’s mill house. She was alone. It was morning and the fire was lit, she could hear the water wheel’s splash and the grinding of the great millstone. Outside the wind picked up until it was howling. It rattled the windowpanes and shook the trees and grew stronger still. It blew the shingles from the roof until shattered slate rained down outside. It sheared the chimney from its footing, showering the mill in embers.
She was outside now, watching the mill burn until nothing remained save for the stone wheel. She walked across the ashes and knelt down, not fearing the heat and began digging in the scorched earth.
Crow woke to the smell of smoke and sat up with a start. Instead of a burning mill she found herself in forest, she gritted her teeth expecting searing pain. Instead she felt nothing but hunger, though she was wet and cold and tired. Carefully she reached down to her shattered leg and found the trap unsprung. The bone was set and the vicious wound the sharpened iron had left had healed over with fresh white scar tissue, as had the places she’d been mauled by the hounds.
Hounds! A jolt of fear shot through her and stood, no longer worried about what pain it may bring. But there wasn’t a sound in the forest and in the dim light she could see the dogs piled dead around her, deathly rigor contorting their limbs and pulling back their lips, dead eyes and white fangs glistening faintly in starlight. Telltale signs of poisoning. The dose she’d taken would have felled three times as many dogs, had there been so many. Further away she could see a fire and figures huddled round the flames. The hunting party had made camp.
She crept off slowly, careful not to make a sound and stepped from root to gnarled root as to break up her tracks. Time passed and the great starry dome shifted around her. There was some way to tell time by the stars, too, she vaguely recalled. The dream still bothered her, everything looked and felt so real but she’d never actually seen the ruins of the mill as she’d never been back after the fire. She walked further still, no longer feeling tired or cold. She heard the river and everything suddenly seemed so familiar.
By the river the mists of time seemed to recede as though the ebb and flow of her life moved against the current. Memories resurfaced, hazy and warm and bright, missing the dark tones and sharp edges that came once childhood ceased. Her father was stuck there in that place, strong and tall and forever building a fence against summer’s setting sun, as were the countless glass vials in her grandmother’s apothecary. They’d had money then.
She knelt on the muddy shore and stooped to drink, and with the cool sweetness of the water the memories disappeared. She looked at her reflection in the blackness, sunken cheeks and dark rings around her eyes, dried blood at the corners of her mouth. She washed her face, took off her boots and carried on down the river, hoping to lose the hunters this way. The cold water bit into her skin but the feeling was distant, muted.
It was almost daybreak when she saw the remnants of the waterwheel, a few charred poles sticking up from the riverbank. She climbed onto shore and into the clearing, the place was just as in her dreams, but it didn’t make sense. It’d been over ten years since the fire, yet the clearing was not overgrown. The fence still stood as though unmoored from time and piles of ash lay untouched by wind. The smell of burnt wood was overpowering as she paced slowly until the ruins lined up with the scene from her dream. She found the spot and dug, the earth was warm and soft and forgiving. Soon a pile of ash and dirt lay beside her, and the sun was out now in full. Crow’s hands brushed against leather and she dug faster and soon pulled a square parcel from the earth. Bound in thick oilskins and fastened with rawhide straps, it looked no worse than the day it’d been buried. She hugged it close and walked out of the clearing and into the woods, suddenly aware of the ache in her leg and the pain down her sides. Her stomach growled, she felt weak. The fear had left and the hunters and hounds all seemed to belong to a different life entirely, she had the incredible urge to go home. Without much thought she made her way down deer trails that wove in and out of one another. She took the turns on intuition, doubts silenced as each step seemed to bring her into more and more familiar territory. She held the book at her side, though heavy and awkward it made her feel at ease, somehow.
When she got home she found the door open and swinging in the wind. Inside was dark and empty. She called out for her mother and waited for a response before stepping inside. The house was ransacked, anything of any value was gone and the rest was strewn across the floor. The table and bed were at odd angles, the bed roll was gone. Her brother’s shrine was missing, as were the lamp and candles and what few pots they’d had. Crow had no doubts her mother had left the moment she’d caught wind of the commotion. Where she’d gone, she could only suppose.
Crow checked the larder and found nothing but mouse tracks, even the last few crumbs were gone. She propped the door open to let some light into the windowless shack and sat down on the floor with the leatherbound parcel before her.
She undid the straps with some trouble and peeled away the oilskins to reveal a tome bound in lambskin. The shack filled with the smell of worked leather, the scent bringing with it a vivid memory: her grandmother at her workbench preparing ointments and salves, busy grinding pestle against mortar. A book lay open on a rosewood lectern.
Crow folded the oilskins and set them aside, the book itself was held shut with a brass hook through an eyelet, tarnished and stiff with age. She fiddled with this for a moment, the pieces let loose all at once and her hands slipped, her index finger catching on the little hook. She shook it off, it stung but did not bleed. With shaking hands she lifted the cover, eager to see what lay inside. The first page was empty. She flipped further and found much of the same. Her heart sank. Every page was untouched, as though it’d never been filled. The ink must have run off over time. She flipped faster now, looking for anything at all. Having skipped to the end of the book she gathered the pages gently and set them straight so as not to break the book’s spine, but in doing so opened her cut and sent a rivulet of blood onto the paper.
The instant the droplet touched the book the pages exploded in movement. Strange writing the likes of which she’d never seen materialized and filled the paper before settling in neat rows. Sigils and symbols alien to her moved of their own accord between the rows of script. She flipped back to the beginning and found those pages still blank. She held her bleeding cut against the empty paper and was rewarded with maps. It took her a while to decipher the drawings. Before her moved the night sky, a full map of the stars, somehow the enchantment was not constrained by the paper and showed the sky in full depth.
Crow repeated the trick on the next page. Sigils emerged next to drawings of leaves, one of which she recognized immediately.
“The moonpath!” she said under hear breath. As soon as she said it the writing shifted imperceptibly. Its form remained unchanged but somehow she could read the text, though she’d never learned her letters. The book told of poison plants, where to find them and at which shapes of the moon the sigils would come into power. She studied the page for a long time, reading and re-reading aloud though with some trouble, as the understanding of written words bore some enchantment of its own.
The house darkened as the day grew long and soon she was no longer able to make out letters at all.
“I wish I’d some light,” she muttered, dismayed, not yet ready to put the book away.
The page changed before her, new sigils appeared. Though much of it was beyond her understanding, the words beneath two of the symbols she could read plain as day Coldfire: A toothless flame with no heat.
She traced the symbol with her finger, a simple thing of crossed circles and crescents, and no sooner had she joined the last line with the first that the sigil burst into flame. Though it was not large to begin with the fire shrank down until it was no bigger than that of a candle. Carefully she reached out and touched it and found that it felt like nothing at all. She drew the sigil again and again, until all around the house was alight with small flames. In this strange light that cast no shadow she read on further.
The snap of twigs underfoot knocked her out of the trance, the words disappeared from the page and all the fires went out. Quickly she slammed the book shut and latched it before wrapping it in its oilskins and pushing it under the bedframe. She got up and stumbled towards the hearth, her legs were asleep. The poker was missing, along with anything else that could be of use. She turned to run, but someone already stood in the doorway. She sighed when she saw it was Sevryn.
Neither spoke for some time, unable to find the words.
“You’re alive,” Sevryn said, finally, stepping inside and standing beside her. He reached out and touched her hand, carefully, as though his fingers would slip through it. Finding it corporeal he held it tight and looked her in the eyes.
“I’m so sorry I should have never left you alone that night. I should have stayed by your side. By the time I’d left the barn it was too late, I did what I could to help, I swear...”
“So you were the shadow?”
“The shadow?”
“The shadow that pushed Conrad.”
Sevryn nodded. “I ran after you but you disappeared. Then when I heard what happened, I didn’t know what to do. I ended up here, force of habit I suppose. If you’re wondering about your mother, she’s left for the eastern border, if we leave now and ride through the night we can probably meet her at the southbridge inn. My oxcart’s waiting at the bottom of the hill,” he said quickly, tripping over his own words.”
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“How do you know?” Crow asked.
“Everyone knows. She dragged all her things into town in a wheelbarrow, traded it all to the Lord’s moneylender for a handful of silver. Managed to get an old mule, a daypack and some saltfish but not a whole lot more.”
“And they just let her go?”
“She knows how to keep quiet, still has some old friends in town I suppose. And you know how the moneylender is. I reckon she’ll be over the hills by the time word gets around to the Lord.”
Crow poked at the ashes in the hearth, Sevryn was still standing by the door. “She’s always talked about leaving. Starting over. Said the mountain folk weren’t like what we said, barbarians and all that. Simple people, like how people used to be.”
“Tell that to the traders who never make it back,” Sevryn said and Crow nodded grimly.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any firewood?” She looked at him but couldn’t make out the features of his face in the darkness.
“Firewood? You’re not thinking of staying, are you?”
“Where else am I to go? Hunted like game in the woods, or starve in the badlands? I certainly won’t throw my lot in with my mother’s and end up a chieftain’s servant, or worse. No, if my fate is here then this is where I’ll meet it.”
“Planning to martyr yourself? For what? There’s nothing here. You’ll freeze if you don’t starve first. Besides, they’re sure to look for you here especially since they know your mother left alone,” Sevryn said.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got an idea, then?”
“They won’t look for you at my house, will they?”
“What would your parents think?”
“They don’t have to know. You can stay in the shed overnight. I’ve put down fresh hay and there’s blankets and furs.”
“Then what? Stay locked in your shed forever?”
“Then we leave. My father’s tasked me with collecting deadfall tomorrow, they don’t expect to see me back before sundown. By the time they realize anything’s wrong you’ll be over the hills.”
“Sevryn! You’re mad! You can’t do that!”
“I can and I will. This whole thing is my fault. You would’ve never come to the feast unless I’d asked you. I feel like this is the least I could do. Shall we go?”
“Just let me take one thing,” she said, already reaching under the bedframe for the book.
“Your mother missed something, did she?” Sevryn said when he saw the parcel. He held out his hand when she met him at the door and they walked down to the wagon together. She lay down in the back and he threw a canvas tarp overtop before getting up in the front and spurring the ox. Even though it was dark the animal knew the way well. Crow drifted in and out of sleep as the wagon rocked and creaked its way to Sevryn’s house.
Even in the darkness Sevryn could make out the familiar outlines of the mill and his parent’s sturdy stone house. The animal pulled the cart up to the gate and stopped, Sevryn lit some lamps by the barn so that light filled the yard, then he unhitched the ox before leading it back into the barn. He snuffed the lamps before going back to the wagon and leading Crow to the shed. There he lit a smaller lamp, shaded and with smoked glass so that the light only fell in a tight dim beam.
Crow was expecting the worst when he opened the door, but instead of rats and animal stench she was met with the smell of fresh hay and clean blankets. The shed wasn’t large, but there was more than enough room to lay down in.
“This isn’t just to clear your conscience, is it? You’ve paid off any dues in full, I assure you,” Crow said.
“Of course not, I mean this.”
He sat down in the hay and gestured to his side. “Come on, sit down. I’ve got something to show you.” She sat down beside him, he put his arm around her and pulled her in close. “I suppose now is good a time as any. You won’t be going alone, whererever you go I’ll go with you, and I don’t intend to return,” he whispered. “There’s no future for either of us here and I meant to ask you at the feast, I’ve been saving up for a little while now.” With that he reached into his pockets and tossed a satchel onto the hay between them, it was heavy with coins.
“Sevryn!”
“Sh! They’ll hear. I’ve been trying to find the words but I don’t think I’ve got any more time. I love you, Crow. I didn’t just come around from some sense of guilt or reparations, surely you know that?” He slipped the satchel back into his pocket.
Crow went flush, she was smiling though Sevryn couldn’t see it. She leaned in close again, felt his warmth through his clothes and the beating of his heart.
“My parents don’t know. We’ll go start somewhere else. You and me.”
“Who’ll take care of the mill?”
“Jonas and Abel can pull their fair share, finally, I reckon.”
“I can’t stay too long though, I’m sure they’ll think something is up if I linger. We’ll have all the time in the world to talk after tomorrow. I’ll go get you something to eat.”
Right after he said it he turned and pulled her close, grazing the back of her neck with his hand. Their lips touched. Crow put her arms around him, drawing herself in. The moment seemed to last forever, Sevryn was the first to pull away.
“I’ll be right back,” he said before leaving, grasping her hand softly before he left.
Sevryn stopped by the river and spent a long time looking at the waterwheel. His head was swimming, and he couldn’t help but feel he’d made a mistake. But every time he weighed his doubts against his heart the result was the same. The waterwheel splashed in the dark, unbothered by his worries. His father had been a cobbler before they’d built the mill. Little money then, the constant gnawing of hunger in his belly and their mud brick house always cold as a tomb. He wondered if his new life was going to be like that, and wondered why the thought didn’t worry him more.
He left the mill and went home, not bothering to knock before letting himself inside. It was warm and smelled of fresh bread and cured meat. His mother sat at the table mending a sock and his father paced before the fire, his brothers were asleep upstairs. Neither said a word, the worried creases on their faces told him to tread carefully.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.
His mother dropped the needle and thread in her lap. “What’s for dinner? You’ve some nerve walking in here and speaking to us, you should be kneeling at our feet. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to stay out of the birch wood and away from those people. Now you’ve brought the witch here?”
“Brought her here? Whatever are you on about?”
“You take us for a fool! The whole town know’s her mother’s left and it’s plain as day you’ve always fancied the girl. Then you take the ox cart to the birch wood and mill about in the yard afterwards?”
“Lie to my face under my roof and I’ll strike you down,” his father stepped in, “Now tell us, boy, is the witch here or not,” his father said raising his hand.
Sevryn shrank back, cornered, and saw no choice but to resort to the truth. “Yes, she’s here. But she’s leaving tomorrow!”
“Leaving tomorow! She’s leaving now!” his mother yelled.
His father sat by the fire and rubbed his chin.
“Where’s she to go?” Sevryn asked
“I care not as long as it’s far from here! Should the Lord hear of this he’d take the mill and have us all burnt at the stake. And you know how the Lord is, he’ll hear of it sooner or later and he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for the mill!”
“He won’t find out, she’s leaving tomorrow and nobody saw” Sevryn pleaded.
“She’s leaving now!” his mother slammed her fists on the table.
“Now, no need to be so rash dear,” his father said, finally. “Maybe it’s best the girl stay til morning. It’s best the Lord learn of the truth from the horse’s mouth,” he said turning to Sevryn.
“You’ll latch the shed so she can’t get out and at first light I expect you to be at the Lord’s keep. You’ll tell him how you’n Jonas’n Abel have caught the witch. I’m sure there’ll be some kind of reward.”
“Father! They’ll kill her! Let her go, please!”
“Let her go? And burn another town to the ground? I’ve got mind to take you down to the Benedictus and see that you’ve not been witched yourself,” his mother hissed.
“What he’s got is worse than being witched, I think,” his father said with a wry smile. “Boy, if you don’t go then we will. And if saving this family means giving you up to the Lord for him to decide your fate, then so be it. If you want to burn at the stake with that witch then the choice is yours, fully.”
“I see you’ve thought this all through!” Sevryn fumed. Wordlessly he took a bowl from the cupboard, and filled it from the pot on the fire before storming out and letting the door slam shut behind him.
He knocked gently before opening the shed, the small lantern was still lit.
“It’s just me,” Sevryn said passing her the bowl.
She brought it to her mouth delicately, fighting the urge to pull it back in one gulp and instead took long slow sips and basked in its warmth. Crow hoped that he’d sit down beside her again, but something changed about his demenor. She supposed he was nervous about leaving and didn’t pry. He stood waiting nervously, digging the toe of his boot into the ground. When she’d finished he took the empty bowl. “I’m going to lock the latch this time, in case anyone comes looking around.” Crow nodded and lay down and heard Sevryn bolt the door shut.