Sylvara Moonwhisper's Arc

Chapter 5 of 6

Sylvara came down from the frozen garden with the dead man's journal and a hard truth. Diaran had lied. The book held no rite, only a warning. But the warning meant something had been woken once, and it did not sleep. Before she faced Diaran, she needed to know what the merchant truly was. A dead trader did not scribble in a broken hand over nothing. She needed someone who read old things, dangerous things. She turned her path toward the crystal tower deep in the mountains. The spire rose from bare rock, all sharp facets and cold light. She knocked. The door opened on a short, broad man with a white beard and a scowl. Aldric Threadweaver looked at her pointed ears and green hair and did not flinch. "Elf," he said. "You want something made." "I need to pass through human villages," Sylvara said. "They won't talk to me as I am. Can you make me look human?" "I make cloaks." He stepped aside. Inside, thread moved on its own along a loom. "One rule. It hides your shape. Not your heart. Fear bleeds through. Grief bleeds through. Rage. If you feel them, people see them. And then they’ll see you." He pulled a dull gray cloak from a hook. Its inner lining shimmered blue and violet. "This one's done. Payment first." Sylvara reached up to her crown. She loosened a strand of rainbow unicorn hair. It glowed with a soft lunar light in her palm. "This binds love to the faintest heart," she said. "It is rare. It is worth at least as much as the cloak." Aldric took the strand. He held it to the window light and studied it in silence. "Rainbow herd," he said. "I know what that's worth." He wound it into a small spool and set it among his threads. "Done." Once Aldric relinquished the cloak into her grip, she glances at her reflection in the mirror he presumably kept around for just such occasions. The face staring back at her was utterly foreign. Rounded ears where there should be points. Raven black hair instead of green. Her own mother, departed many moons ago, wouldn’t have even begun to recognize her. "Before I go," Sylvara said, "a merchant died on this mountain. He woke something and wrote a warning. Do you know of such a man?” Aldric's hand stopped on the loom. "He bought thread from me. Once. Said he dug under old stone for buyers who paid in gold." He looked at her, flat. “That’s all I know. If you want more, go ask the commoners. They spend more time yapping with others than I.” And with that, he ushered her out the door and closed it quickly in her face. Lying and afraid, or merely annoyed by any intrusion, she couldn’t say.