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A STORY BETWEEN FRIENDS

SILAS

W ren’s fingers jerk slightly and her eyes flare in surprise. “Wha—” she begins softly, but I interrupt her. I’ve already earned an avalanche of enmity from her, what’s one more pebble on the pile?

“Apparently you’re the only one she’ll listen to. I’m asking you for your help. She has to trust some one other than skeletons to be on her side.”

Her eyes narrow but her white gaze drifts; I can tell she’s listening to someone, or arguing with someone, judging by the small crease of her brow.

We wait, and wait, seemingly endlessly, but she stays where she is, not returning to us from wherever she has gone.

Only a knock on the door brings her back, and it is almost eerie to see the life re-enter her face like a candle being lit.

Rannoch surges to his feet in alarm, hand dropping to the knife at his belt, moving quickly to block the Keeper from the door, placing his body between her and the entry in an echo of the surprisingly brave little boy earlier.

It’s wasted time, but I stop for a moment to take it in — the way he is angled, the look on his face — and I’m suddenly and overwhelmingly concerned for him.

He has become less and less cautious these past few weeks after a lifetime of care, and is exposing himself more and more, peeling away layers of skin to reveal the muscle below.

We’re less than two months from the Storm season now, from meticulous plans and hidden deeds; if he can just wait , just a little longer, there’s a chance that the Month of the Maiden will bring more than poison for him this year.

How will happiness find him if he’s forbidden to follow the footsteps of a shadow?

The thought is insidious; I do my best to ignore it.

Maybe…maybe without the weight of midnight machinations, when he is free to wander the village and meet all the women from First to Third Ring, maybe his eyes will find purchase on another face.

Would yours? the voice whispers, but I shove it deep in the back of my mind.

The village first. There is no other choice.

“Rann—” His name is a caution, a warning, but he’s clearly moved beyond caring.

“Tread your path, I’ll tread mine,” he replies simply, the divergence so sudden and unexpected it feels like a knife in my stomach.

“ Rannoch .”

“I’m the pauldron on your shoulder, Silas. Always . But I’m also the shield in her hand. And you’ll have to trust that I can be both; the shield is in front, but the pauldron is tied to the body.”

And what is there to say to that? The knock sounds again, and I turn to the door, yanking it open, unable to hide the anger that surges in my chest, the familiar emotion lurching to the front, trying to suffocate the unexpected hurt.

“What?” I bark out, knowing there is the edge of a sword in my throat.

In front of me is a suddenly alarmed Protector, with the Miller standing nervously behind him.

“I’m sorry, Father!’ The Protector steps back at the look on my face; I immediately smooth it into, if not a placid expression, at least one that doesn’t bode of murder. “You asked me to bring the Miller here when he arrived, to discuss the silos?”

“Yes. Of course.” Exhaling sharply, I motion for the Miller to enter. “Thank you. ”

“You’re welcome, Father,” he mumbles awkwardly, then wastes no time leaving, not even looking over my shoulder into the room.

The Miller is still standing on the threshold of the door, and I wave him inside impatiently. “Find a seat,” I command, not caring how I sound anymore. “Tahrik, is that correct? We have things to discuss.”

Tahrik pauses, looking around him quickly before his eyes settle on Wren. “Like silos?” he asks, and I cough out a sardonic laugh.

“I think you know we’re not here to talk about grain and wheat.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Wren didn’t look up when Tahrik entered, and is still staring deliberately at her feet.

He sighs deeply, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he takes in the scene before him.

Rannoch has relaxed his stance somewhat, hand off his dagger, but is still forward on his toes, as though he’s unsure of the Miller.

And given the tension in Tahrik’s shoulders, I’m not far behind him.

There is a look in Tahrik’s eyes as he studies Wren that I’m not entirely sure of; I can’t put my finger on it, but it sets my teeth on edge, and I narrow my eyes thoughtfully as I watch the decisions play out across his face.

After what feels like far too long but is most likely only a minute, he makes up his mind, glancing at Rannoch and myself before going to sit next to her.

He’s not close enough to touch her, not exactly, but closer than one would expect, his choice to be next to her rather than on a separate chair a clear statement.

Settling back, he rests one of his hands in the space between them, almost an invitation, and lets out a deep breath, as though he’s climbed a mountain and finally reached the summit.

“So. The silos.” His voice is open and friendly, his face calm, and only the slight tremble of his fingers on the seat of the couch belies his worry.

“The silos, or something like it,” I repeat wryly, and Rannoch snorts, but any amusement, however misplaced, drains from his face as he watches Tahrik and Wren next to each other.

In her exhaustion, things she has kept hidden are slipping through cracks, and I don’t know what is happening, or why, but her secrets are flashing beneath still waters like the silver scales of the tiny fish in our brackish ponds, catching the light and then disappearing.

Beside Tahrik, Wren is unfolding, slowly, slowly like a mountain daylily opening in the early light of the rising run.

As Rannoch and I claim chairs across from them, one of her hands drops from its deathgrip on her necklace and drifts down to the seat, resting at first casually beside, then against his, her skin brushing his fingers seemingly unintentionally.

He flinches slightly, then freezes in place, forcing his hand to be still.

They don’t look at each other; at first glance, they would not appear to be anything to each other, but when her smallest finger finally touches his, her shoulders relax, tension draining from her as though a question was asked, and answered.

It changes what I thought I’d say to him, how I was going to approach him about last night. In the space I’m taking to think, Wren sighs and shrugs, then looks directly at me with her moon opal eyes.

“Would you like to hear a story? It’s one no one has ever heard before, I promise you.”

Rannoch and I exchange confused looks. She sounds so…

complacent. As though none of this has touched her.

As though we’re discussing fabric or bread.

There is nothing in her voice that seems bothered by the growing threat against her.

Only that tiny finger, pressed against the Miller’s, shows any emotion.

He hooks his over hers, and I suddenly want to take my knife and slice his fingers off.

She doesn’t wait for a response, just starts speaking, level and bland.

“It’s from when I was a child. The last year I had my mother.

Before the Council fully adopted me, before my eyes went white, before every breath I took was weighed and measured for its hidden meaning.

I hadn’t yet lost all my milk teeth. I still crept into my mother’s bed at night, when the color of the sky looked like blood on the moon, when the thin woolen blanket was not warm enough.

When I dreamed of the dead that whispered to me as I wandered the village, and panic ripped my heart at the wriggling, glowing souls I had to keep safe. ”

Wren’s voice trembles before she clears it and forces it back into dispassionate carelessness.

“And her arms were enough to protect me, and her promise of ‘it will be alright’ was enough to soothe me. I was her only child left, my father was long since gone, and she was grey from sadness. Not even the golden light of the Dancing could warm her enough to bring her any joy. I was too much for her and not enough, all at the same time, but she tried to give me what she could. As with everything in our village, what she had was scant and faded, but sufficient to keep me alive with hope.”

The man next to her turns his hand over, palm up, and she glances at him, confused, before a small, sad smile flashes across her face.

Wren intertwines her fingers with his in a strangely uncertain dance as though they’ve done this forever, but also never before; their every interaction is confusing.

He squeezes her hand gently, and she swallows hard.

“During the Crone’s month of my ninth year, the storm stopped at midnight for an extraordinarily long time.

Long enough that the black of night was fading to the thick gloom of day, long enough that someone — I’ll never know who, but someone — ventured into the streets.

We could hear his scuffling feet, dragging, from houses away, in the silence of the waiting.

He was staggering in the direction of the nearest well; the sound of his steps haunts my dreams sometimes…

a long, wet, dragging sound, a pause, and another following in a strange, syncopated rhythm that scratched at my eardrums. I remember the fear on my mother’s face — how she looked at the door, then down at me, then back at the door, and then, with dawning horror, heard the first drip-drip-drip of the rain’s returning. ”

Wren is gone now, lost in the memory, and I want to yank her from it. Her eyes are mist, are cloud-filled and glistening, her face tight, jaw flexed. She’s not here anymore; we are watching an echo of that day play out before us.

“No. No no no!” Her moan makes us all jump; she doesn’t sound like herself, but an older version of herself, and I realize it must be her mother’s voice. “Cover your ears! Ceridwen, cover your ears!”