Nimue's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Nimue pulled the chariot into the quarry and stepped down onto broken stone. The cats waited behind her, their breath clouding in the cold air. She needed to test which stones could hold magic, which ones might lift when she found the right mixture. Her fingers ran over rough surfaces, searching for cracks or smooth patches. Some rocks felt warm even in the morning chill. Others stayed cold no matter how long she touched them. She marked three large blocks with chalk and loaded them onto the chariot. The cats pulled steady as she guided them back toward the workshop. This was the beginning. Every stone she chose brought her closer to the sky where her sister lived. The bridge would rise from these first heavy pieces, and she would learn what made them want to float. Back at the workshop, she unloaded the stones and placed them in a row. Night would come soon, and she needed light that wouldn't die when the sun set. Inside a wooden chest, she found an astrolabe made of dark gunmetal with gold patterns carved into its surface. She carried it outside and set it on a flat rock near her workspace. The metal caught the last rays of sunlight and threw them across the ground in bright lines. As darkness fell, she noticed the gold patterns seemed to glow faint but steady. She could track the stars above while her hands worked below. The astrolabe would show her which star positions matched the warm stones and which matched the cold ones. She wrote her first notes by its light, marking down everything she'd learned today. The bridge had begun with three stones and one tool that watched the sky. The next morning brought a new problem. She couldn't work on the ground forever. The bridge needed to reach upward, and she needed a way to build at heights that would grow taller each week. Behind the workshop stood a grove of young trees with branches that bent without breaking. She walked between them, testing their strength with her weight. Then she began weaving the branches together, pulling vines through gaps to bind them tight. The structure grew around the workshop like a living frame. She climbed up ten feet, then fifteen. The branches held firm beneath her boots. This scaffolding would rise with the bridge, letting her reach higher as each stone locked into place. When she stood at the top and looked up, the sky seemed closer than before. Her sister was up there somewhere. These first tools and structures were the beginning of the path that would bring them together again. But tools and scaffolding weren't enough. She needed knowledge. Nimue walked three miles to the village where traders passed through each month. A cart sat in the square, its wooden sides carved with symbols she recognized from old temple walls. Books filled every space inside, stacked and leaning against each other. She climbed up and began searching through the pages. One book showed drawings of towers that fell. Another described a mountain staircase that crumbled after two years. A third told of chains hung from clouds that snapped in winter storms. She bought five books and carried them back to the workshop. That night, by the light of the astrolabe, she read about every failure. Each mistake would teach her what not to do. Her bridge would learn from the bones of dead dreams.