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The Motherhouse was in disarray, although you had to live there to recognize it. The visit from Borgonne, and now the object in the sky... senior Weavers spent inordinate amounts of time huddled together, planning, Kiril assumed, for whatever might come next.
He kept himself as invisible as possible, listening. Arwen wanted him gone, had ordered him gone, and he could hardly blame her. Besides putting himself at perceived risk due to proximity to the hills, his ongoing presence disrupted the smooth running of her little empire. But at the moment he had nowhere else he was in a hurry to be, and the Motherhouse was the best place to stay current with the news.
Especially given the possibility – the likelihood, based on Joss’s radio reception – that the new light in the sky came from Terra. He didn’t intend to find himself stuck in some remote outpost when it landed.
It was a lonely existence. The Weavers were polite, even inviting him to join them for meals, but he sensed the distance they put between himself and them. They had their own lives and occupations and no free time to devote to his amusement. The older students talked to him occasionally, curious about life on the mysterious Terra, the nature of the cosmos – questions that never arose in their usual course of studies.
But living amid these people with their voodoo powers, even the kids, creeped him out. Increasingly he found himself in the village, and eventually in the little room they called the biblio where the archivist cranked out records of births and deaths, the occasional handfasting, the state of the crops each year.
Not scintillating information, but it represented books of a sort, pen and ink, an opportunity to learn the handwriting of these outliers from Terra.
So he sat with the archivist when he got the chance, and at other times studied the ledgers. He stole a quill pen and made himself ink from black berries that grew in abundance along the roadside. He amused himself by practicing, using bark as paper. If the coming ship offered no hope for return home, at least he might acquire a profession.
Stranded in an alien culture, without either the comforts or the rank he’d enjoyed before, facing the prospect of life in a hamlet, with that demon fighting to break free inside him...
Despite the heat, Kiril shivered as he walked back to the Motherhouse in the late afternoon. He wondered about their assessment, that the farther from the hills he took himself, the better. Probably true.
He was early for supper, so he claimed a bathing room in the guest lodge and treated himself to a soak, thinking of the river that flowed by Stanstead. Might that be far enough away? Stanstead was one of only two or three settlements that large – he snorted a laugh – but he couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime in any place smaller.
Relieved to be free of the dirt and sweat of his walk from the village, he made his way to the dining hall. As he passed a table where Arwen and three other Scribes sat, he heard one word that never failed to seize his interest.
Quinn.
As unobtrusively as he could, he got his meal – a stew involving meat today, a pleasant change from the usual fare of lentils, beans, and mushrooms – and eavesdropped.
But Quinn’s name wasn’t mentioned again. Instead he picked up a deep uneasiness. A large party had entered the hills. No one could divine their intent, but everyone was aware of the potential threat.
He knew it too, he mused as he chewed the tough meat, even without overhearing their quiet conversation. It was as if an invisible cord connected him to the hills, alerting him when the energy there went awry...
Stop right there. He was starting to sound like the Weavers. As if he believed in their hocus-pocus stuff.
Realization hit him, and he blinked. Denial had become a habit. It had taken him over a year of near daily proofs, but he no longer doubted their powers.
Kiril left the dining hall disturbed, his mind uneasy. An urge to defend the hills, to take action, swept over him, but how?
Their problem, he told himself.
Nevertheless, the next morning he started assembling a travel pack. Food, water, a knife, a basic medicine kit. All easily obtained; they pre-packaged necessities, making it easy for Weavers to prepare.
He dithered another day, but the pull of the hills had become a compulsion. Whatever was happening there, he had no choice but to be part of it.
He hated the hills. Dreaded returning to them.
At first light, keeping his own counsel, he left.