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Index Page The Final Strom clouds were gathering on the horizon, bathed red in the light of the setting sun. Approaching on the narrow pathway was Hans the cowherd, trailed by six velvet-brown cows. "Hans, what news?" Hans, a man of unidentifiable age and fair, wind-blown hair stopped in front of the cottage door. "Only bad, Mendosa, " he replied gravely. "The Mongrogan have taken Plenor Fields. We hear no word from the sisters." Hans turned toward the township of Latherham, spread out below in the soft greens and golds of the valley, shading his eyes from the setting sun. "No word, only smoke." He raised a hand and pointed. Nesta followed his gesture. A thin finger of smoke rose from beyond the hills skirting the valley where the monastery of Sacred Genevieve lay. Nesta pulled her shawl tight across her shoulders. Sister Margaret, Sister Betha...Their familiar faces glowed in her mind. The scent of wintergreen and baked apples came unbidden, filling her throat with tears. Orphaned at birth, Nesta had been taken in to be raised by the sisters of Sacred Genevieve and the monastery had become home to her. When it had become apparent she possessed the talents of a Mendosa she had traveled to and fro between the monastery where she had learned her letters and the art of rising bread and to the village of Plenor Fields that nestled at it's foot, to the weaver's cottage where she learned to thread her silver needle and sew her spells around the village. Her needle was the only thing she had taken with her into the spells cocoon, on that last awful day of her training. She had lain in a space no wider than a coffin, her only illumination light from the silver threads that bound her. And all around her the horrible inviolable silence of a infant universe. Nesta fought away the suffocating memories, putting her mind to other tasks to calm her racing heartbeat. She turned her mind outward, feeling for the tapestry of her spell, like fingers running along a seam. Through the wood and field, up hill and over water, circling the township, a weaving of protection and prosperity, the spell held. "Mendosa?" "Thank you, Hans." Nesta whispered. "Please tell Kathleen's mother the Moessa should be here for her teaching as usual." The cowherd nodded, hesitating a moment before calling to his cows and moving on. Nesta stood alone long after the golden tones of the cowherd's bell had faded. Arms folded across her body, fingers flat against her ribs, she watched the thin line of smoke grow dark against the bloody sky. Tomorrow they would come. Nesta stepped inside the cottage and closed the door with a firm hand. From an oaken chest carved with harts and hounds Nesta chose her threads. Green and grey, lavender and white. From a loop of thread she begin, her previous weaving forgotten. The cattle fields could wait to be replenished. A deeper and more pressing magic called her fingers. Nesta had seen the weaving only once, but it was the spell a Mendosa heard first, one she longed for and feared to weave. It was her last spell. Nesta set her jaw and drew the silver needle through her tapestry. Kathleen should be there to watch, she knew. But the silence of the room enfolded her and the whispering song of the spell called her fingers to dance. The beeswax pooled and ran under the flame till Nesta took a candle from the shelf and lit it from the drowning wick of the other. The moon still hung heavy in the western sky when the sound of shouting and horses hooves drew Nesta from her weaving. The beat of hooves drew nearer and then passed by. The threads were changing now, shimmering in the flickering candle light like the inside an oysters shell. Down in the valley, the chapel bell begin tolling. A horse was coming up the path to the cottage at a fast trot. Nesta rose and went to the door to listen. The horse stopped and there were footsteps. A child was sobbing quietly. Nesta opened the door. "Mendosa," the young man greeted her nervously. The slight figure clothed in scarlet and rabbit's fur that clung to him now detached itself and straightened, one hand wiping away tears. Even at her young age Kathleen knew the responsibility she carried as Moessa, Mendosa in training. "Why is the bell being rung?" Nesta ask. "The marauders set fire to the western fields and several of the houses nearby..." Nesta felt a spark of fear flare in her gut. She sent a whispering touch out over her weavings. They held true. "How was it done?" "They have a goodly number of catapults." The young man, whom Nesta vaguely recognized as a hired hand of Kathleen's family, was clearly nervous. Nesta understood his fear. It was rare for a band of marauding Mongrogan to bother with such heavy and cumbersome machinery. "Master Pelarman thought the Moessa would be safer here." Nesta looked to where her student sat on the hearthstone, taking comfort from the fire, seemingly oblivious of the conversation. "She will be safe." The young man nodded and backed toward the door. Below the bell continued it mournful tolling. Nesta listened to the sound of the horses hooves fade and seated herself again to take up her weaving. Kathleen removed her hood and watched in silence. The only sounds to be heard were the snap and crackle of the fire and the muffled call of the chapel bell. After a time Nesta spoke without looking up from her work. "I have spoken to you of the Final before, have I not?" "Yes, Mendosa." Kathleen was watching the silvering threads move through and through the weaving. "You said it was how you survived the rasing of Plenor Fields when the Mongrogan came the first time." "Yes, that is so." Nesta swallowed and forced her focus back to the threads she worked with an even flow of her own power. "But they didn't burn Latherham. They left before they burnt it." Kathleen's voice rose in desperation. "Mightn't it be the same this time?" There were tears in her words. Nesta looked up at the young face of her student, thin and pale with fear and a sleepless night. "I too wish it so. But we must be ready." Kathleen nodded. "Tell me of the Final," Nesta said softly. The threads took a turn here. The candle light showed them in a rainbow of color. Kathleen folded her legs under her and settled back to begin, the familiarity of lessons recitation calming her. "It is our last spell." "Go on." "It is unlike the spells of protection you weave around the village. Still unlike the spells you use to keep the rats away from the grain and the bats from the barns. It is the only spell of it's kind." The bell had stopped tolling and while it's silence seemed to reassure Kathleen, it sped Nesta's fingers on their way. "The Final is a Mendosa's tomb. And her bridgeway. It..." Kathleen's brow furrowed. "It carries her to the green lands...but Nesta, how are you here when you were woven into the spell?" "The Final is a porthole," Nesta explained. "It is a matter of where the porthole opens." Kathleen nodded, watching the silver needle work. "The porthole I went through was to an unborn land and after a time the porthole drew me back out." Kathleen's eyes were wide, her lips parted in an expression of horror. A brushing touch, a gentle tugging; the touch of foreign magic. Nesta paused in her work, her breath catching in her throat. The press became harder, more insistent, like a fist in her gut. The war-mage had arrived. Nesta's hands stilled, her focus drawn to the invisible web that wound through the trees and the township's bordering fields. Guarding against retaliation she reached in to essay her challengers strength. Like a whip across the cheek the lash of magic jolted her to toes. There was a ringing in her ears and it took a moment for Nesta to realize the sound was outside of her head, a eery whistling echoing off the ceiling beams and slate tiled floor of the cottage. Kathleen was standing before what had been a brightly burning fire moments before but was now only cooling ashes, her slender frame shaking with more than chill. Nesta stood unsteadily, needle still clutched in her hand. "Mendosa?" Kathleen whispered. The silence was eating. Nesta looked down at her hands, bleeding from the prick of the needle. There was no way she could fight and conquer an enemy like this war-mage. Her defenses around Latherham would stand only so long. "Kathleen, put on your coat and hood," she said in an even tone, taking up the weaving of silvering threads and tucking the needle into her girdle. "Are we leaving? Can we get my family? Nesta?" Kathleen called as Nesta disappeared into the bedroom. Nesta pulled on her coat and woolen hood and tucked gloves into a pocket. From beneath folded clothing she took two short-blades, the handles inlaid with pearl and deep green tsavorite. "Nesta!" Kathleen's scream spun Nesta around, the lid of the trunk slamming closed. "They are burning it, they're burning everything," Kathleen sobbed. She stood at the round window, dressed again her outerwear, hands clutching the wooden sill. Outside the glass and beyond the trees, flames lit the night. "Catapults," Nesta said. She took Kathleen by the shoulders and turned her towards the door. "We can not stay here." The weavers house was the first place the war-mage would come once he had breached the border. The night was frosty, the ground frozen hard underfoot. A fretful wind blew, carrying the heavy smell of smoke. Nesta made for the stand of trees uphill from her cottage. Below, human shapes were moving among the darkened houses. Beyond the fields and scattered trees the Mongrogan's fires burnt bright. Kathleen kept close to Nesta, stepping carefully over the frosty ground in the dark. Nesta felt for the silver needle in her corset. Continue reading here. Taliesin do you hear whispered tidings that it bears ever near wakening long dead things for it comes to carry you far from here |