Lysander Brightwind's Arc

Chapter 5 of 11

By midday Celestia sat on the floor of her shed with her back against the wall. Her hands were wrapped again, and the wraps were already spotted through. The spindle lay in her lap. She had tried to spin twice since dawn. Both times the thread had come off knotted and thin. Lysander watched her from the doorway with the sling of daisies still on his hip. "I can't work the wheel," Celestia said. "Not for thirty days. Maybe not for ten." "The seams open in six." "I know." The daisies in the sling were pink and purple, roots trailing dirt onto the plank floor. He had risked her hands for them. Now they would rot before anyone could spin them into thread. He set the sling on a hook and looked at the empty wheel. "I'll spin," he said. "You don't spin composite. You weave." "Then teach me." "In six days." She almost smiled. "You'd tear your fingers to the bone and still be short." A small knock came at the shed door. A green-haired fairy stood outside in a robe she had clearly made herself. The hem was uneven. One sleeve was longer than the other. She held her own spindle against her chest like a shield. "I heard from the elders," she said. "That you needed hands." Lysander did not know her. Celestia lifted her head. "Lyra. The apprentice." "I'm not a master," Lyra said. "My weavings fall apart before the magic sets. Mostly." She looked at the floor. "Once I held warmth in a bench for three days. I want to know if that was luck." Celestia watched her a long moment. "Composite thread. Daisy fiber and moth-silk. The ratio has to be exact or it snaps at the loom." "Tell me the ratio." "Three of silk to one of fiber. Twist tight. Feed slow." Lyra set her spindle down and picked up Celestia's. She sat at the wheel. Her first pull came off lumpy and broke. Her second held. Her third ran clean for the length of a forearm before it thinned. She stopped and looked at Celestia. "Slower feed," Celestia said. "And don't watch the thread. Watch your thumb." Lyra tried again. The thread ran even. Lysander sat down beside Celestia and unwrapped the sling. He began stripping stems for the wheel. By dusk they had a full spool. Not thirty days' worth. Not yet. But the spool was real, and the wheel was turning, and the hands at the wheel were not his. "She's slow," Celestia said quietly. "She's spinning." "She'll need to be faster." "Tomorrow." Celestia closed her eyes. Outside, the blight-wind pressed at the shed walls and did not find a seam.