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Quinn looked up from the diagram on the sheet in front of her and rubbed her eyes. The weave had become too complex for her to confirm its utility in her mind; she needed the backup of paper and pen.
They had combined standard Healers’ techniques for sealing off poisoned or wounded parts of the body with newly developed templates accessing directional energies. The result had been welded to Ezra’s protective template, itself more intricate than any she had ever conceived on her own. Ezra’s schema drew on the life force, which was irrelevant in the context of the power cell, but its basic structure would give the rest of the weave stability.
Quinn worried that the resultant working might be too complicated, so that the Weavers in the circle would find it impossible to complete their individual assignments.
No, she told herself. The template was dense, but not difficult. The intricacy lay at the intersections, where earth melded into air, air into fire, fire into water, water into earth. Given the dissimilar energies, creating stable joins to unite them had been the most challenging task of her career. Even with their most experienced practitioners stationed at the cross corners where the directional energies merged, the connections presented serious challenges.
Amazing that we dared to try it last year.
A fear-driven decision, she saw now. Since then, their knowledge had grown exponentially. Events of the past autumn and winter had opened their eyes to the reality of a force they had seen as benign – and controllable. Its power awed and scared her in equal parts. A renewed appreciation of the Aura tempered Quinn’s work. She respected the dangers but itched to experiment with new techniques. First, though, they’d deal with the power cell.
Quinn was grateful for the grueling schedule and unrelenting expectations. With no time to analyze her own feelings, she tumbled into bed each night so exhausted that she actually slept. In all her years as a Scribe, she had never driven herself so relentlessly.
It was paying off, though. Only a nine-day after their return, she could no longer see any way to improve the weave. Arwen agreed, so the time had come to meet with the volunteers.
Only she, Arwen, Tai, and Dorcas grasped the scope and detail of the proposed template. The design was such that participants in the binding dealt only with their own directional energies while maintaining the flow and building the currents, then shared in gathering up the eight strands of focus into a protection template that would be indissoluble – or so they expected.
Giving up on her faltering concentration, she left her lodge and walked through a warm spring shower to the river. Kiril stood near the riverbed, his wet tunic clinging to him, tossing stones into the tumbling water.
Not her idea, seeking out Kiril. Arwen’s command.
Quinn used the high trail that paralleled the riverbank, so she saw his face in profile as she approached. After traveling through the hills with him, she was accustomed to an expression of amused contempt on his face. Finding the smirk replaced by worry surprised her.
What did he have to worry about?
“Lousy weather for a swim,” she commented as she came up to him, speaking loudly above the rushing water. Even Bryar avoided the river in its full spring spate.
“Not planning on it. What’s up?” Kiril tossed a final stone, then propped a shoulder against a tree.
“We need your help.” No point dragging this out.
“How?” His eyes ranged over her, but they were masked, waiting to hear what she would say.
“You’ve heard about the circle to seal the power cell.”
He grinned. “Then hide it where nobody will find it.” The grin faded. He turned away and tossed another pebble into the torrent. “You can stop worrying about me. I’m not interested.”
Good to know, if it was believable. “Why not?”
“I have other plans.”
“Really? What?”
“You care? I’m touched.”
Her lips tightened. “The Midland’s a big place, and no doubt you have some useful skills.”
It was insulting, and she knew it. Kiril straightened, rolling his shoulders before re-establishing himself against the tree, arms folded. “I managed for a long time without your help, in the middle of winter, too. I don’t need you to vet my plans.” His unemotional tone failed to mask his irritation.
“You’re still here.”
“The food’s good.” He shrugged. “We didn’t come out of that little adventure in the best shape, remember.”
That much was true. The planes of Kiril’s face were sharper, his body under the wet tunic bordering on gaunt.
“I guess I owe you thanks for saving Bryar. But why make up a story about killing that man?”
“Duncan? Big fat guy, but stronger than he looked. Thank god Bryar exposed the cell. If he’d accessed his voodoo, we might both be dead. Although on the whole,” he continued as if reflecting on a recipe, or a new approach to plowing a field, “I think he was the type who’d torture before finishing you off. I pictured a lot of suffering in our future. So why wouldn’t I kill him?”
“Because Bryar had already done so. Why lie?” Then she dismissed any possibility of noble intent. “Oh, never mind, I get it. For the glory. You figured he’d return home a hero. You wanted a piece of that. Right?”
“Believe what you choose.” He maintained the relaxed posture. But something lurked behind his eyes. More was going on here than she could figure out. Or cared to.
“It’s irrelevant, it just muddies the folk history. I’ll find it in the Aura anyway.”
“What do you people want me to do?”
Business. Solid ground. “We’re confident in the technique, but we need a person without Entrée present, in case.”
“To pick up the pieces if the whole exercise goes kablooey on you?”
“You’ll be our fallback man.”
“Pack mule? Messenger boy?”
“Got it.” Quinn derived a perverse pleasure in confirming his derogatory assessment of his role.
“Sure. Happy to help. When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon in the conference room for planning, then rehearsal the next morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
Quinn started to turn away, her message delivered, but hesitated. “Kiril-”
“Yes, darlin’?”
She cringed at the casual, contemptuous endearment, but kept her face from showing it. Her eyes hard, she said, “If you do anything, one single thing, to sabotage this, I’ll see your guts spread out in a field for the crows. Got it?”
He stretched and turned a full-bore grin on her. “I like crows.”
Quinn wheeled and stormed off, muttering ‘bastard’ under her breath. When she was ten paces down the trail, he called after her. “Hey!”
She stopped, her hands balled into fists. “What?”
He was serious. “Stop worrying. I told you, I don’t want the cell. Do what you please with it.”
She turned, her smile feral. “I will believe that when the Southlands freezes over.”
Her pace measured, she left him there, furious at herself. How did he get to her that way? Why did she let him?
~~
DAL JOINED QUINN FOR lunch before the team meeting. She usually enjoyed his company. Restrained and cerebral, he aligned well with her own preferences. About ten years her senior, he had been Willow’s mentor and lover during her journey year, when Quinn worked with Ezra at his compound and Bryar battled through his last months of training, the first time the three of them had been separated since they all arrived at the Motherhouse. She trusted Dal and would turn to him with a problem before most others.
Not that she had a problem. Or so she assured herself.
“I suppose you’ve recruited nearly the same crew as last time,” he said as he cut into his chop.
“New volunteers in the north and south, and Judith won’t be participating.”
He nodded. “Shock and burns, last time. I heard she volunteered.”
Quinn chewed and swallowed. “She did. She’s powerful, but elderly.”
“Even so, she wanted to be a part of it. I hope you let her down gently.”
“Of course. What do you think we are?” She paused to tone down her blatant irritation. “The fact remains, we need our most reliable Weavers for the cross-corner positions.”
“Quinn? Is everything okay?” Little ruffled Dal, but he paused with a bite halfway to his lips, looking askance.
“Sorry.” She reached out to touch his hand. “I didn’t mean that. This last nine-day was hard.”
“In ways you didn’t expect. Listen to me.” Dal rested his knife and spoon on his plate and speared her with a look. “You’re suffering, and it isn’t necessary. Not when help’s available.”
“All I need is a break. And to have this binding over with.” She dismissed his concern with a little wave of her free hand before shoveling a spoonful of mixed root vegetables into her mouth.
Dal shook his head. “I know you better than that. Don’t let this go too far, okay? Life has changed. Your job is to come to terms with it.”
Quinn poked at her remaining vegetables. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. If you were going to be in the circle, I’d force the issue. At the least, you risk hurting Bryar if you keep on this way.”
“It’s nothing to do with Bryar,” she blurted before taking time to consider her words. She never gave that much away.
“I think it is. You’ve chosen a solitary path, which suits you, but only because of the support of your friends. Now they’ve gone in different directions, and you’re lost.”
Fighting an almost visceral fear of exposure, she didn’t answer.
“I know what I’m talking about, Quinn,” he continued in his quiet, aristocratic voice. “The same thing happened when Mari was born, remember? And because I’m much like you, I recognize the signs.”
She never enjoyed being in the spotlight and liked less the idea that anyone saw through her carefully constructed barriers. Dal put her separation under a magnifying glass, forcing her into the open.
Don’t blame Dal.
Still, she couldn’t handle any more pressure on top of the intensity of the template work. “Stop. Please.” The ‘please’ was formal, spoken for the sake of manners, not a plea.
“I beg your pardon. Be careful, that’s all. Tell me who’s joining the circle.”
The rest of the meal passed in the exchange of Motherhouse news – never called gossip, because it reflected the caring everyone shared for other Weavers. Whether you got along with somebody or not, they were part of your tribe, understood how it felt to be different, and bore the burden the Aura placed on them all.