The Woven Crown (Completed)

Chapter 1

There's nothing worse than laundry day, thought Ryla— standing over steaming vats of boiling water to churn heaps of clothes, using an iron heated by the fire to smooth out wrinkles, spending hours mending unsightly tears and stains in precious garments. These tasks were even more arduous in the blazing summer months. Luckily for her, the days were just beginning to have a touch of autumn's chill, leaving laundry day bearable at best. Her arms already ached from stirring the heavy wooden paddle in a load of men's tunics. Gretha, the House Mistress, was especially paranoid about lice, so she wouldn't let Ryla use water any cooler than a rolling boil. She had to be wary of the water that splashed over the sides of the vat.

After putting the tunics out to dry, Ryla set to mending the cuff of a riding coat. She settled herself by the sunlit window, weary of stone walls. Ryla had never been much of a seamstress, but she'd improved enough over the years to be given some of the less intricate work. She sat crouched over the cuff, the tip of her tongue poking out between her lips and steam-loosed curls escaping her braid.

Ryla had just tied off her thread when Sage came bounding down the stairs, cheeks flushed and eyes glowing like coals. She slowed to a walk as soon as she noticed Gretha on the other side of the room taking inventory of the sewing materials. When Sage bent to gather a folded stack of clean clothes from Ryla's workbench she whispered, "The Caravan's been spotted!" She winked and darted back up the stairs.

A spark of excitement jolted through Ryla and she almost dropped her work. Gretha paused in the middle of counting spools to shoot her a stern look.

The Prestige's Caravan only came once a year— that is, unless the weather prevented it from coming at all. The Prestige sent it all across the kingdom, bringing much needed services and entertainment to the people of Religo. The train of wagons carrying a myriad of talented folk and supplies stayed at each estate or town for just a short while. There were fire dancers and puppeteers, a tailor, a blacksmith, and a story teller, among others, all bringing an air of exuberance with them.

Ryla had a hard time sitting still knowing that at this very moment, The Caravan might be pulling in to the little glen where the travelers camped each year. She imagined harnesses being lifted from the sweaty necks of the enormous horses that pulled the wagons. She could almost sense the hustle and bustle as the crew unloaded equipment and organized the grounds into their makeshift home. Ryla hoped she could come up with an excuse to slip outside and get a glimpse of the camp before nightfall.

She glanced over at Gretha going through piles of scrap fabric. Once the performances started, the servants were allowed to go and watch, as much as it pained Gretha to see them enjoying anything at all. It was decreed by the Prestige that all who were physically able to be present for The Caravan festivities were allowed to go, no matter their station. Ryla silently thanked the Prestige for this rule. It wasn't often something this exciting happened at the estate.

Throughout the day, Ryla noticed the other servants stopping in the hall to exchange grins and whispered rumors. Seeds of excitement were dispersing and taking root all through the estate. When told to replenish the supply of firewood from the stack at the edge of the forest, Ryla couldn't get out the door quickly enough. She crossed the stable yard carrying the cloth to hold the firewood. But instead of stopping at the neatly stacked woodpile, she kept walking until she neared the grove of birch trees that housed The Caravan.

She heard them before she saw them— shouted instructions and bubbling laughter, a level of unabashed joy that was foreign to Ryla. She pushed a branch thick with leaves out of her way and finally caught a glimpse of the ornately decorated wagons.

Through the leaves, Ryla caught sight of reds and yellows as brilliant as the gilded clouds at dawn, deep and vibrant blues and greens, and colors she couldn't even put a name to. Ryla's world at Wightmanstry Estate seemed painted in a scale of gray and washed-out colors. The only rich hues were found in the gaudy clothing and jewelry of the estate's guests, but the Caravan wagons were painted with the brightest of colors.