14.4 The Village Mystics
General Summary
Day 163
It is very early when I wake, sensing Alder more obtrusively than usual for him. Evidence of Hella, as well, is clear in the breakfast laid out on my night table. Alder, however, is here to discuss Hamman. Or rather...Hamman’s remains….since Alder killed him overnight.
It’s not what I’d been planning but I can’t say that I’m disappointed. What’s more is that he couldn’t use poison as he anticipated. Hamman died with a letter opener in his chest, and his own hand around the hilt.
Alder proffers some letters gathered from Hamman’s desk, which he intends to replace after I’ve had a chance to read them. They certainly make me feel better about the whole situation:
- A letter addressed to ‘Teacher Hamman’ which seems to be a second letter of rebuke and censure. It references a previous letter, both caused by Hamman’s former apprentices who made their way to Haven to report his behaviour to the Church there. He is summoned to appear there for judgement though clearly he has ignored that. It also strips him of his title of ‘Elder’, and I take it that means that Elder is higher than Teacher in their Order. This strikes me as backwards, but I see why humans would consider it more honourable to be old than to teach. “The most sacred duty of a priest of the Candlemaker is to shield children from nightmares, not inflict them,”
- A long correspondence over several letters to someone named Remli, referencing the service of a new Beacon. It is Remli who says he is sending a mystic-smith to forge weapons for their holy war. Between the lines, it’s clear that Remli belonged to the Order and that whatever mystic-smith was set to arrive after the Spring thaw will likely not be arriving at all.
Today will be dedicated to preparing for the news of his death to break, then. With any luck it will be clear that Hamman couldn’t bear the thought of losing his position and chose to die instead of facing justice. Nina and Eddar will need to be prepared for the inevitable questions and new responsibilities they hold. Alder made sure that Nina was with friends and witnesses last night as he went about his business.
As the morning progresses I take a second breakfast in the common room, which has filled up with burly men prepared for a day of physical labour. In a moment of quiet I chat with Ellen about Hella and her future. The middle-aged woman is clearly so proud but so worried for her daughter and as we talk I can see why. Hella has been speaking about being adopted, and that can’t be easy for a mother to hear.
So I tell her about my own blood family in my small Frontier town and my family’s orchard. I tell her about elvish chosen families that are different from blood family - about my many chosen brothers and how I still visit and care for my own mother and father. She seems reassured but says that she knows Hella is hiding something still. It’s not my secret to share but I try to reassure her that it’s not dangerous or scary and to trust Hella to share when she’s ready.
And then the conversation turns to Bran and how much happier he seems. She tells me that his parents died about ten years ago of the blue pox, which decimated a fifth of the village. Bran got it too and when he recovered Hamman said that the Candlemaker had wanted him for greater things and later he could learn to use his strength and powers for more. Loren, the village smith, took Bran in and taught him the craft as a way to express his anger. When Thalien stumbled into the village with eyes glowing, Ellen was the one who spoke to him at the inn.
He said he would be here for three and a half days while he talked to someone and then walked straight to the forge and asked for the angry young one. I have to laugh, hearing this. I’m used to Fatespinners but I can see how jarring it would be to meet Thalien for the first time in the midst of following a thread.
Nina smiles when I tell her Thalien was my brother too. She says we’ve both been good for Bran and even though he’ll always be one of the village...he’s not really one of the village anymore. “Still, can’t hide the happy,”
And with that, I depart with Nina to work on her own magic a safe distance from the village.
Her power is strong - warm, golden, and glowing like Knotrael. The sense of security and safety that radiates out of her is so powerful and I can see her stand straighter and taller when I remove the barrier (which is already fading with Hamman’s death). She looks at me with brighter eyes and asks if this is really just her. We pass a few hours investigating and analyzing rocks and stones and she shows a remarkable aptitude for sensing their strengths and weaknesses. For the rest of her initial training I’ll pass her off to Bran...heavy combat is not my strength.
She hugs me fiercely when I tell her that Hamman is dead and I see confusion in her eyes as she asks if it’s bad to be happy when someone is dead. That is a question with many answers but the one she needs to hear is that some people deserve to die and their absence can only be a blessing. When you’ve tried everything else and failed, death is sometimes the only option. I think about the Collective and push it from my mind. That is not a problem for today. Today is for Nina and preparing her for the village’s reaction. Whether she chooses to answer their questions or not is entirely up to her, and I know she can stand strong no matter what she chooses.
As we make our way towards Bran I counsel her to stick with Eddar and to look out for one another. They’re the village mystics now.
We find Bran in the town square helping the other men erect a stage. They’re all shirtless and there’s a small cluster of young women doing needlework and keeping their eyes focused on the show. Bran towels off and joins us, looking a little amused when I tell him what Nina is here for. He reaches down to his pile of clothing and materials and pulls out a small shield and mace which he apparently made several years ago and just had a feeling he’d need to have handy today. Fatespinners.
I leave the two of them to their training and am immediately gathered up by an elderly human woman who introduces herself as Belle. She takes me by the hand and leads me to her knitting circle, saying that she can feel that I have enough talent to learn to knit. I sense no Weaver’s magic in her, which makes her mannerism doubly curious.
The building to which she leads me feels distinctly magical and it becomes clear as I join the circle of rocking chairs and women of all ages that these are not mystics at all but wizards. They are consciously knitting small magic circles into their stitches - gloves to prevent blisters, a rug to prevent injury, all manner of small, practical magics. They warn me very seriously not to tell anyone about the circle and particularly not the menfolk. Belle has cultivated a specific group here, telling everyone else that “not everyone can learn to knit”. It has been this way for decades.
Turning a circle into a knitting pattern is certainly different from drawing it in chalk or blood. Belle showed me the process and I successfully knit a small piece of cloth that is simply always where you need it to be, imbued with minor mastery of motion.
After a few hours I lean in to speak with her softly and ask if they would like to know stronger circles of defense and power in case they ever need them. She smiles and tells me that she’s done with that sort of thing for now, but the knowledge isn’t far.
She and her husband (Brinnon!) came from the other side of the sea where they travelled with their prince’s army. She knit cloaks and taberds of power and warding for the army as they marched. Their war lasted a decade and split a kingdom into four parts as four men battled for leadership of it. A decade must have felt like forever to them, I realize.
I remind her of men she saw in her army, she tells me, men upon whom responsibility lies heavy, and who have battles in their eyes. She tells me that this village would be a good, peaceful place to stay and knit for just a season but she doesn’t seem surprised when I shake my head before she even finishes speaking. She knows what it’s like. So she teaches me a few circles of her own - wards for armours against cutting and burning, embroidered circles for auras of charm and courage. And I leave with far more knowledge than I came.
When I return to the village proper Hamman has been discovered and the village council is debating over how to bury him and whether he deserves a respectful burial given his crimes. Nina has confirmed these crimes and told them that Camellia and I healed the marks he left on her.
I make myself available at a bench in the square and sure enough, one of the elders approaches me, seeking permission to ask Bran’s advice (if Bran is indeed a mystic of an elven persuasion). He introduces himself as Garend (the miller) and he is kind and welcoming. He speaks at length of how the village has not always been properly welcoming to elves and much of that is due to Hamman’s influence. For the second time today I hear someone speak of Bran’s happiness amongst elves.
As evening falls and we reconvene in the inn, Bran tells us that he advised them to burn Hamman’s body at high noon in the tradition of the Candlemaker. The pyre will be outside of the village with no ceremony, as befits his crimes. His soul will be the Candlemaker’s to deal with. This will happen tomorrow so that the day of the Festival will be unmarred.
Camellia, too, has news. She spent much of the day with Eddar speaking of rebirth and the fae. They want me to join them early tomorrow morning for a ceremony the fae carry out when they wake and know who they are. Eddar has a new life they want to begin.
