Lysander Brightwind's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

The patch held. The whistle stayed gone. Lysander stood on the bench and stared at the grey smear he had chewed into the gap. Six hours. Aria's thread crossed it in a tight X. By dusk the pulp would dry and crack, and the blight-wind would slide back in over the fresh spools. He needed something that would not rot, would not pull loose, would not care about wind. He climbed down. Celestia watched him from her stool, her wrapped hands folded. Lyra kept the treadle moving. "Stone," Lysander said. Celestia's brow lifted. "You can't stitch stone." "I don't need to stitch it. I need to set it. A plug the shape of the gap, cut to fit, wedged from above." "Who cuts stone that small and that clean?" "The troll at the quarry road." Celestia's mouth tightened. "He charges." "I know." He found Aldric on the path outside. The old scholar had not gone far. His gossamer robe was pulled close against the wind. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, which he did when he had already thought a thing through and was deciding whether to say it. "Grendok," Aldric said, before Lysander spoke. "Yes. Take him a stem of Aria's thread as proof of the size. He'll want a measure, not a story." "He hates fairies." "He tolerates work. Offer him something he wants." "I have nothing." Aldric looked at him a long moment. "You have the moth-silk scraps. He builds. Scraps bind mortar. Not much. Enough to interest him." Lysander ran. The troll worked under an open shed at the edge of the grove, sleeves rolled, hammer set aside. He was short and thick through the chest, black hair falling over dark eyes. He was running a thumb along the grain of a grey block, reading it. He did not look up. "Roof gap," Lysander said. "Shed. This wide, this deep." He held up Aria's thread bent to the measure. Grendok took the thread. Held it against his thumb. "Granite plug. Tapered. One hour to cut." "I have moth-silk scraps for your mortar. Nothing else." "Two sacks?" "Two sacks." "Done." Grendok picked up a chisel. "Bring them at dusk. I'll set it myself. Fairy hands won't seat it right." Lysander opened his mouth to argue and closed it. At dusk Grendok came to the shed. He climbed the bench without asking. He knocked out the daisy pulp with the butt of his chisel. Lysander flinched. For a breath the gap was open and the vapor curled through. Then Grendok drove the plug up into the hole with two flat strikes and packed the seam with grey paste from a tin. The whistle did not come back. Grendok climbed down, took his two sacks of scraps, and left without a word. Celestia looked at the roof. "That will hold past the blight." "Yes," Lysander said. Then, quieter: "We spent the last of the moth-silk."