“He’s healing and resting,” Sidra replied. “He was struck by two different blades.”
“Enchanted?”
Sidra nodded, hoping her fear wasn’t evident.
“Then it’s a good thing he has you, Sidra,” Mirin said kindly. “I know you can heal him swiftly.”
Sidra could have melted to the floor in that moment, feeling the suffocating weight of her defeat. But she was thankfully afforded a distraction. Mirin held out a folded plaid, a beautiful green shawl the shades of moss, bracken, and juniper. The colors of the earth, like all the growing plants in her neglected garden.
“For you,” Mirin said, sensing Sidra’s admiration and confusion.
“It’s beautiful, but I didn’t commission this,” said Sidra. She reached out and let her fingertips trace the softness of the wool. The moment she touched it, she knew the plaid was enchanted.
“Torin did,” the weaver said. “He came to me days ago, asking if I could make a shawl for you. And as you well know, it can take me a while to create an enchanted plaid, but I wanted to get this one ready for you as soon as I could.”
“Oh.” Sidra didn’t know why that surprised her, but the revelation warmed her spirit like a flame. “I … thank you, Mirin. It’s lovely.” She accepted the plaid, holding it close to her chest. The realization that Mirin had expedited this order humbled Sidra, and she said, “Let me provide you with a tonic, to help you recover.”
The weaver nodded, and Sidra rushed to fetch a bottle of Mirin’s favored brew.
“Frae has something for you as well,” Mirin said after accepting Sidra’s tonic. She gently nudged her daughter forward.
Sidra crouched so she could be level with Frae’s gaze. The lass was regarding her shyly until she extended a covered dish.
“I made a pie for you and the captain,” Frae said. “I hope you both like it.”
“I love pie!” Sidra said. “And so does Torin. I bet he will eat the whole thing when he wakes from his nap.”
Frae beamed, and Sidra stood to set the pie and the plaid down on the table. She wanted to give something to Frae in return, and she chose a stem of dried primrose.
“For you,” Sidra said, tucking the flower into Frae’s hair.
Protect her. The prayer rose naturally, surprising Sidra. She wondered if the spirits would hear her plea, and she inwardly added, Watch over this little one.
Frae grinned and blushed. It made Sidra remember a time when she was Frae’s age. How many days she had spent in the pastures as she watched over the flock, weaving wildflowers into crowns.
“Before we go,” Mirin said, breaking Sidra’s reveries, “is there anything more we can do for you?”
“The plaid and the pie are plenty,” Sidra said, honestly. “But thank you for asking.”
She watched the weaver and her daughter depart, the sun breaking through the clouds. Sidra decided to leave the front door open to welcome the rain-washed air into the cottage.
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. It was an odd size, a bit too large for a typical shawl, but it made her feel safe. She reached for a spoon and sat at the table, eating Frae’s pie. The tart berries melted on her tongue, summoning memories of long summers with her grandmother, foraging amongst the hills and woods.
Sidra closed her eyes, the remembrances bittersweet. Knowing she could get lost in those old days, she brought herself back to the present. To the table strewn with materials that had turned powerless in her hands.
And she thought, How do I find my faith?
Torin knew he was dreaming, because he was looking at the men he had killed.
He saw the mortal wounds he had given them. They bled and bled, their throats sliced open and chests gaping, exposing splintered bones and sputtering hearts, and the men beseeched him with requests. Feed their wives, their children, their lovers, because the northern wind would soon come with ice and darkness and hunger in his breath.
“They are not mine to feed!” Torin replied, angry. He was tired of the guilt he felt. “You should have stayed in the west. You should have known better than to raid the innocents of the east. We have wives and bairns and lovers to feed and protect here, as you do on your lands.”
“Why did you kill us?” one of them asked.
“You take a life,” another said, “then you must take care of the ones your violence marks.”
Torin was exasperated. It was frustrating, speaking to dead men, and it was grim, having to look their ghosts in the eye, even if it was in the boundary of a dream. He shouldn’t care about what they were saying to him, for he had done his job, he had completed his task. They had raided, they had stolen, they had trespassed with ill intent. He had defended his clan, as he had been raised to do. Why should he feel guilt over this?
Then the dream shifted, but the six ghosts remained with him, as if they were fastened to his life. He was standing in a meadow, and the world was blurry until he saw Sidra walking toward him in her vermilion wedding gown, wildflowers in her sable hair. His breath caught; he was about to marry her, and he realized the ghosts could see her. They crowded around Torin.
“Brave of you, to tell her of your guilt,” one remarked. “To tell her of us.”
“And yet how foolish you are,” another hissed, “to believe her when she says she loves you, even with such blood on your hands.”
“Don’t you know that her eyes will soon be open to see us?” a last one stated. “When she weaves her life with yours, we will haunt her as we haunt you.”
Torin shut his eyes, but when he opened them, Sidra was still approaching him, and he saw that he had blood on his hands. Blood that was not his and blood that he couldn’t wipe off. Sidra was reaching for him, a tentative smile on her face.
Torin jolted awake.
He didn’t know where he was at first. He was gazing up at a shadowed ceiling, and the bed beneath him was too soft to be the cot he slept on at the barracks. But then he smelled the fragrance of herbs, which meant he was home.
He didn’t even try to speak. A talon was hooked in his throat, holding his voice captive. The sting in his shoulder was still vibrant, feeding his irrational fears.
Torin raised his head from the pillow and caught a glimpse of Sidra, working at the table. He could hear her grinding herbs, and he relaxed until he remembered his dream.
Slowly, he rose from the bed. His body felt weak and the world spun for a moment; he waited until his eyes had focused before he walked barefoot into the kitchen.
Sidra felt his presence. She turned, wide eyed, and he thought she was about to scold him for being out of bed. He just wanted to be near her. Then he realized she was wearing the plaid he’d commissioned. She had it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, but Torin had requested a longer length, and its edges were getting in Sidra’s way.
“You should be in bed,” she said, her eyes racing over him.
Torin reached out and took hold of the plaid, gently tugging it from her shoulders. Sidra let it fall away, although her brow was furrowed in confusion.
“Mirin brought it. I’m sorry, I thought it was for me.”
Torin hated every time she said sorry. Sidra took responsibility for too many things, and he worried it would break her one day. He opened his mouth to speak before remembering his voice was gone, and he realized he would have to express this another way. A way without words.