Eventually, the High Sorcerers learned of me, but by then it was too late. Several of the rasher youths tried to dethrone me from my tower but I had grown too powerful for them. Two lay dead, another fled while acknowledging my strength. The wiser sorcerers granted me clemency; a farce and a pantomime, but welcome all the same. I would not have been able to resist them all had they united against me.
But I was one of them now; a Sorcerer in my own right. I did not need to hide my self away and skulk through the underbrush like a timid vole. Now I was the tiger, claiming the region as my own territory.
I dreamed my ghost regularly, drifting through the streets and forests of my land. I saw the people muttering in hushed tones, disgusted at my rule. Many left my lands, eager to live free from my protection. I do not begrudge them their foolishness; I took from them rarely and their blind hatred of my power harmed only themselves. I did not even punish those who spoke out openly against my claims, as I easily could have.
It might have gone differently. Had I not had Trella’s kind heart and gentle words to keep me from the darkness, I might have gone down the same path as so many others.
Time passed slowly for me. I studied, practiced, plied my trade while scraping together what living I could from the surrounding lands. I often went hungry if I could not find simple work in the nearby towns, and every moment spent away from my practice was a blade that pierced my heart.
As the years passed I created more spells, discovered minor tricks and cantrips that provided me some amount of comfort. I delved into the old artifacts and found a measure of their use. I even managed to provide meager repairs to the tower, enough to keep it from collapsing down on my head. It was something of a home now; not nearly as cozy or friendly as Trella’s, but certainly better than a tent or cave.
Things might have continued in this manner, steadily improving as I toiled towards greater and more exotic astral power, had I not found the gemstone.
In the end, I decided to ask Trella if I could stay for a time, to both peruse her small library and help in any way I could to repay her kindness. She seemed delighted at the suggestion, and so for several months I shared her house, spending my days tending the yard or working in the nearby town, or studying the books in her library. The more I read, the more facinated I became by this strange and wonderful world. She had books on flowers and trees, books about animals and insects, books about stones and how rivers moved and even some on the secret ways of the guilds. Books about making iron or tanning hides. Books about brewing ale or making candles from wax.
I kept up my practice from my own book, late at night after she had gone to bed. I had looked long and hard through her library for books on magic, but only a few volumes provided any minor insight, and they were written by Royal Witchhunter hands.
The most useful book was a diary by the old Royal Witchhunter Primus, Fenlark the Bloody. In it, he went into solacious detail about rituals he had disrupted, profane acts he had prevented, and provided far more information than might have been prudent. His descriptions of magical instrumentation and unholy sigils provided me with keys to unlock hithertoo unknown secrets in my book, and as such my abilities grew in strength.
My name is Mari. I had a family name, many years ago, but once I chose to abandon my family’s path in the world, to strike out on my own and master the mysteries of the unknown, I thought it best to forsake any connection with this past.
Magic is a forbidden thing. The high churches burn witches and warlocks, while the high sorcerers — too powerful to be stopped, even by the armies of the united Kingdoms — are quick to destroy those who appear too eager, ambitious, or dangerous. There is no confusion as to why; Magic is a powerful and dangerous thing. The fae and enchanted creatures of the wild use magic freely, and their corruption causes daily strife. The dark mage-lords of old destroyed kingdoms with their power, and the High Sorcerers are too powerful to hinder.
Wretched thing.
Holly opened her eyes. The bugs were gone, her flesh was whole. The path was nowhere to be seen.
We are not Spiders. We do not Lie.
The mists slowly began to receed, drawing away like reverant priests. Holly stood up, her eyes scarcely believing what they were seeing.
We are Weavers, and we have tested you thrice.
The three figures were there, standing at the other side of a long bridge. The buzzing that had once filled her head now echoed from deep below in the chasm.
One final test awaits you.
At last, Holly couldn’t take it any longer. She collapsed to the ground, rolling onto her back. The world danced around her in a flurry of sights and sounds. She turned away, clutching at her head, struggling to breathe steadily. She could feel herself vibrating as she spat up the contents of her heaving stomach.
Finally, the world began to slow its dance, the music and sweet savory fading into memory. Holly rolled onto her back once more, at once grateful and at the same time struggling to hold on to a bit of the strange and horrifying world she had seen. Strings of atoms wound around each other, webs of cause and effect causing vibrations, waves that carried flotsam and jetsam to far and distant shores.
The needle was made of old dry bone, and the thread was a thin strong silk. The fabric had a pattern already sewn into it with the same white silk, and the paper — the paper was thin dry leather, skin from some animal. Holly struggled not to think about what kind of animal it might have been.
On the parchment, a strange and scratchy handwriting surrounded bizarre symbols. It was writing of some kind, possibly a language…diagrams? Were these instructions? Holly looked at the sewed pattern on the fabric; it certainly appeared incomplete to her.
She studied the needle carefully and observed the spool for markings. She flipped the fabric over, checking the stitching from both sides. She gave the strange language only a cursory glance — she knew she wouldn’t be able to decipher it — and focused on the ornate symbols.
“I don’t suppose you offer hints?” Holly couldn’t help herself. The cooing weaver shifted, the rustle of robes in the dark louder than thunder.
A sister would need none.
Holly’s bed was small, rickety, and at least a hundred years old. It had belonged to her grandfather, after it had been given to him by his grandfather, along with the tiny cabin. It had been the only piece of furnature in the cabin for years. Holly’s great great grandfather had been the chronically outdoors type, unwilling to do anything inside that could be done just as well outside. He cooked his food, mended his clothes, polished his rifle and sharpened his tools all outdoors. He only slept inside, and even then only when it was too cold, wet, or dangerous to sleep outside.
Holly’s grandfather was nowhere near as outdoorsy, so he had improved the cabin with some modern renovations. A sink, a fireplace, a few cupboards and shelves. It was nice and cosy, the perfect place to get away from it all.
