Lysander Brightwind's Arc

Chapter 4 of 11

By first light Lysander stood at the near cliff with a coil of rope over his shoulder and a spool of moth-silk at his belt. The chasm cut the grove in a long ragged line. Across the gap, a small figure sat with her knees drawn up. Behind her, a whole field of pale daisies bent in a low steady wind. He had come to string a line and cross. He had come to bring the child back with her arms full of stems. The wind changed while he uncoiled the rope. It came down the near cliff in a dry rasp, and the leaves at his feet curled black and lifted off the stone. Blight-wind. He knew the sound. He had heard it seep through Celestia Threadwhisper's seams six days ago. Now it moved along the cliff toward the far side in a slow gust, and it was stripping every green thing as it went. He looked across. The daisies still stood. If the gust reached them first, the roots would go before he ever touched a stem. Celestia landed beside him with her spindle strapped to her back. Her hair was tied off her face. Her hands were bandaged at the knuckles. "You're not fast enough alone." "I know." "Then let me spin a shield across the gust line. Short throw. It might hold long enough for you to cross." "Your thread snaps." "Not every time." She was already unwinding. "Go when I say." She braced her feet at the edge and threw a line of silk sideways along the cliff, spinning it thick and low against the stone. The thread caught on a root knot and held. The blight-wind pressed against it and slowed. Not stopped. Slowed. The leaves past her thread still curled, but the gust bent upward and thinned as it climbed over. "Now," she said through her teeth. Lysander shot a weighted line across the chasm. It bit into the far rock. He hooked in and went hand over hand above the drop. Halfway across, the wind clawed at his back. He heard Celestia's thread snap behind him with a sound like a wet cord breaking. He did not look. He kept moving. He landed on the far cliff and ran. The child stood up. Her face was streaked with dust. He did not stop to speak. He pulled daisies by the fistful, roots and all, and stuffed them into the sling at his hip until it bulged. The wind was climbing the far cliff now. Leaves at the field's edge blackened. He caught the child under the arms. "Hold my neck." She did. He hooked the line and swung them both back over the gap while the field behind her went dark. On the near side, Celestia was on her knees, hands bleeding through the wrap. She looked at the sling, then at the child, and said, "Thirty days of thread."