The Woven Crown (Completed)

Chapter 11

"Do you have to leave so soon?" Ryla asked, leaning against Willem's wagon as he tightened a loose harness strap.

"Got to be in the capital in time for our annual meeting," he answered.

It was the first cold day of the year. The crew busied themselves gathering their supplies and brushing down the horses. Ryla helped pass supplies to Danelle if only to spend a few more minutes with them.

"We'll be back before the first major snowfall," Thistle reassured her. After that, the passage through the mountains would be impossible to travel.

Firdas sat on the stairs to his wagon, overseeing the distribution of fabric and clothes from his stores to some women of the refuge. His arm was bound up in a sling, but after seeing Oran on the night they arrived, he was well on his way to a full recovery. "You'll be too busy to notice we're gone," he said.

Ryla doubted that very much. Ever since rumors of her lesson with Elira got around, she'd been getting her share of sideways glances from some of the Woven. And although she'd only known the Caravan for a few weeks, they already felt more like family to her than anyone at Wightmanstry ever had.

Too soon, the crew was ready to go. Ryla wasn't the only one sad to see them off. The children especially hung around the wagons, looking forlorn. They had enjoyed a front row seat to Sahana and Rhid's fire dancing practice, and it wasn't rare to find a gaggle of children following Graphiel around, tugging on his cloak, begging for another story. But the time for departure inevitably came, as goodbyes always do, and Ryla stood with the others, waving goodbye as the wagons disappeared into the forest and through the boundary that lay between the refugees and the rest of Religo.

During the next week, Ryla slowly assimilated into refugee life. As questions about her abilities subsided, with help from a few pointed words from Oran, the settlement and the friendliness of its inhabitants began working through Ryla's timid shell.

No one at the refuge was excused from having a job. There was always enough work to go around, even for the little ones who helped sort vegetables and hang clothes out to dry. They assigned Ryla to picking vegetables in the garden and helping with the mending, the non-magical kind. The work kept her from seclusion and for once, she was happy to have had her experience as a servant. She felt helpful. But unlike the monotony of work at the estate, this felt like being a part of something bigger than herself, something good. Even with the strangeness of her newfound magic, Ryla felt herself become attuned to the routine of the place.

The women she worked alongside made it a point to make her feel like she belonged. Marta and Penelope always let their happy chatter fill the hearth as they worked on mending the never-ending pile of children's socks for the coming winter. They could not afford to throw out any clothes, no matter how badly they'd been torn or how many patches were sewn on.

The Caravan brought as much supplies back as possible, but Ryla soon learned Janek and a few others still had to make regular forays past the boundary to collect necessary tools and materials. Graphiel explained to her that people who sympathized with the Woven, such as the Hollanders they buried on their way to Greyheights, often collected supplies for them. And, during some of their more desperate seasons, they had stolen supplies from nearby estates.

Oran and the others decided to use the tree Ryla grew for her house, rather than the one they had started with since Ryla's was already twice as big and there was stronger magic in something made by your own hands. They made the necessary adjustments to the roots to shape it into a home, complete with a bedroom and a small hearth and chimney. Elira explained that they wove protective magic into the wood to keep it from burning.