Grandmother picked through her skeins of yarn. Recently she and Lala and some of the other women had journeyed down to Mirwellton for supplies and there she visited the spinner who made a fine quality of yarn and also had a good head for dyes. Grandmother spent precious silver to replenish her supply.

She decided to use sky blue yarn. The eternal meadow, the heaven of her people, was always perceived to be “somewhere up there” above the clouds and beyond the stars, so using the color of the air seemed appropriate.

She removed her mittens and cut a length of yarn. She tied knots into it, murmuring in prayer, “Dear God, our shepherd, keeper of the eternal meadow, I seek guidance for those who are Your faithful on Earth.” And on she went, focusing only on the prayer and the formation of knots, opening herself to any sign from God.

When she finished, she held in her hand a round, knotted wad of yarn, and she threw it into the fire. The smoke would carry her words to the sky and beyond, and she waited, gazing into the flames, hoping, wishing, praying for at least some inkling of inspiration.

The flames flickered in the wind, spat sparks, separated, merged, and separated again in their elemental dance, and nothing came to her. Grandmother did not know how long she sat there, but she’d had enough. It was time to move her old bones and stretch.

But then a glowing ember caught her eye. The ember grew and grew in her vision, a depthless golden flame, and in its midst was a hot, white light with columns of flame twisting and branching within it like a forest. She wanted to avert her eyes, but did not dare.

The whiteness sucked her in until she was surrounded by it and the coiling, flaring trees. All else—the encampment and Hawk Hill—was lost to her.

It was as if a door opened then and cold blasted her and dimmed the white light, made the trees of flame dip and sputter like candle flames. She had a sense of traveling forward through a tunnel, of being touched by time and its passage. Through the opening came a faint, black breath of command: Awaken the Sleepers.

And that was it. She was thrust from the white light, out of the vision, and found herself blinking at her very ordinary campfire. She had sought the word of God and heard it, and she now knew what she had to do. She must take a journey, and she would hasten it by traveling the ancient ways of her mothers, which would cover long distances in a short time.

She stood. Though her bones ached, she did not feel weary, but renewed, excited, invigorated. She must now speak with her people and Captain Immerez.

SARGE’S GIFT

“This sword was made for stabbing Make it rain blood ye infantrymen This sword was made for slashing Keep in step ye infantrymen”

At times the marching cadences allowed Beryl to transcend pain and discomfort, the rhythms carrying her aloft from the cares of the physical world up toward the dark of the heavens and peace, till she felt nothing at all.

Only to be yanked back to Earth by her guard jangling her chains, which sent shards of glass ripping through muscle and tendon. She screamed until she was too weak to scream, and was left whimpering and drenched with sweat, the gold chains strung tautly about her body. She became conscious of the camp buzzing around her and the sweat cooling on her skin. The tremors started as her body tried to warm itself, rattling the chains anew and sending the glass shards slashing again.

Did she weep blood? Did her flesh gape open from a multitude of wounds? She did not know. She knew only hooks and chains until she could gather her focus again, begin the marching cadences all over and escape. The moments of peace were worth the violence of being yanked back to herself, though she did not know how much more she could endure.

She was about to start the cadences again when she sensed Grandmother and the man standing nearby. She willed herself to listen to their conversation.

Grandmother sighed. “Eventually it would work. She’s wearing down, but I have not the time to wait.”

“What are you saying?” The man’s gravelly voice chafed Beryl’s nerves and only her will prevented her from shuddering.

“The book is on its way to Sacor City,” Grandmother replied, “and our brothers and sisters there will see it to the high king’s tomb. I am done here. It is time I went south and awaken those who sleep.”

“Done?” the man demanded.

“Done here, my friend. The work itself goes on.”

“What of us? You can’t just leave us.”

“But I must if I’m to succeed. You knew this day would come.”

Silence.

Then, “I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” the man said. “What are we supposed to do?”

“As you always planned,” Grandmother replied. “Disperse. Disperse as my sisters and brothers will, until called. Before I depart, I will release this Green Rider of her chains, and you may do with her as you wish. There is no time to see this experiment through to its conclusion.”

Beryl almost cried out her joy. To be released from gold chains! It did not matter what came next, for surely even death was better. The man cleared his throat as though to respond to Grandmother, but a commotion arose from somewhere across the encampment. Grandmother and the man left her.

Her elation turned to despair and again she almost cried out, for Grandmother had not released her. She had no other choice but to focus again on her cadences. Maybe it would be the last time she’d have to do this. Maybe Grandmother would return soon and release her. She enfolded herself in the steady rhythm of her cadences and awareness of everything around her dissipated.