Amelia Loken - Unravel

My thumbs prick with temptation, the yearning to thread my magic into the muslin cloth almost irresistible. That cannot happen.

Not on a burning day.

Clutching my embroidery hoop with sweaty, twisted fingers, I follow Isabeau and the others in our orderly procession. Sometimes the magic swells like this, filling me like heavy thunderclouds fast approaching the Valon Mountains. I must hold it tight, else the magic will dribble into my embroidery, my clothing, or any other cloth I brush against.

Voyants are here, close. One glance, and theyll notice the resulting Otherlight glow. Some voyants arent as skilled as others, but Ill not stake my life on such a chance.

We file past the raised stone platform in the middle of the square. Bundles of kindling lean against firewood lining one whole side of the knee-high stonework. Enough to make a good-sized bonfire. The stone pillory stands stark in the center. A pair of stocks usually flank it, but theyve been removed. Todays trial wont end in a pelting of rotten vegetables. Nor with twenty lashings. Not for a trial of the most grievous offense.

Witchcraft.

Fire stops a witchs magic from spreading. Without fire, witchery sweeps from one feeble female to another, like a plague. Or so my uncle says, which is nearly the same as official church doctrine.

But fire doesnt stop witchcraft.

Magic is like breathing, and no one can hold their breath forever.

Ive been subtle, figuring out the ebb and flow of my Gifts demands. Making sure I only use my magic when Im certain no voyant will be around to see my Otherlight aura, or for the two days afterward while I still gleam. Unfortunately, none of us heard about the trial until yesterday, when I was already sloshing full of magic.

We file toward the benches on the south side of the square, already full with the women of St. Clotildes Abbey. The nornes study every move from the back, three rows of them in charcoal gray. The novices sit before them in unflattering tones of ash, and in front of them sit the postulants in lighter shades of gray wool. The rest of us, their students, wear the pale gray of dawn. Weve made no vows to the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades. Not yet. We settle on the front row benches like pigeons along a rooftop. The pillory is only ten paces before us. We have the best view and are on full display ourselves.

The abbey and St. Clotildes cathedral cast a long morning shadow across half the benches from their perch on the mountain shoulder above us, creating an inviting coolness in the late summer heat. I sit fully under the morning suns rays. Any Otherlight shine might be less obvious

A trickle of wayward magic seeps into the cloth. I clench every muscle.

My skin tightens. My embroidery hoop trembles.

I change tactics.

Ive a theory Ive only begun to test. Ive little affinity with wood, or plants, or metal, or stone. Perhaps if my magic isnt flowing directly into thread or cloth, and Im not purposefully using it, any resulting Otherlight will be dim? The magic might soak from the bench into a dozen gray skirts but should still remain faint. My theory has seemed to hold up so far.

Fates, so let it be!

I grip the bench, letting magic dribble undirected from my palms, hoping itll pool on the wooden surface. The tightness loosens. I sigh.

As the rest of the square fills with townsfolk, the abbey Threadmistress, Sister Egethe, takes her place before us like a field officer surveying infantrymen. We straighten our spines. When she looks down the line, I realize shes already speaking. I focus on her serious expression. She stands to my right, so her words are inaudible. The teachers have been told I cant hear on that side, but they always seem to forget. The lefts not much better, but until she moves, I must watch her lips. Something about embroidery and the trial. My hands lift to the silver combs holding tight, dark curls away from my face. A gift from my godmother years ago, they seem expensive but also ordinary. I press them against my scalp; the teeth of the combs bite my skin and her words amplify to an audible murmur.

Begin your thread-sketches. Whilst the trial proceeds stitch the essence speed, not precision. No colored silks necessary.

I pull the cloth taut in my embroidery hoop and thread my needle with silk as black as my own hair. Black is good. Its stark, truthful, dyed with oak galls gathered from groves descended from the Valonian Oak. Each of my grandfathers seven thrones are carved from that legendary tree, for none can stand before it and utter lies. With black thread, magic feels more manageable. Less wild.

Sister Egethes hands move as if offering a blessing. Your thread-sketches will be used as references for the tapestry commissioned by the Bishop-Princep.

I tighten my jaw. Ive no love for the Bishop-Princep. His Bonifactum Edict issued last year introduced superstition and suspicion throughout Valonia, sweeping through each village, abbey and manor. I keep my expression neutral; catching the eye of Sister Egethe will bring consequences, which might tempt the Fates notice. Notice brings interest. Interest brings curiosity. And when the Fates become curious, they play with the threads of your life, twitching one here or pulling one there. The resulting upheaval rarely proves beneficial.

So, wrapping my left hands stiff, twisted fingers around the embroidery hoop, I obediently dip my needle into the cloth. The black silk slips after, again and again, until it outlines the pillory in the middle ground and the three-story guild hall behind it. The building dwarfs a faceless crowd of townsfolk below, indicated with small loose stitches.

The folk grow rowdy until the abbey bells chime Terce hour. The crowd quiets.

My stomach flips. Thereve been burnings in a few villages since the edict passed, but this is the first in the Clair Valley. The first I must witness.

The Moir Brethren from St. Clotilde lead four manacled women onto the raised pavement. I shudder as the clergymen jostle the women into a line. Stained dresses, once pretty, hang on too-slender bodies. There are books in my grandfathers library with theories that starving a witch takes her power. Its a backward logic that accidentally lands on truth, and those books have migrated from the library to my uncles chambers. Did he direct his men to only feed these women enough to keep them alive while his magistrates searched for evidence? Someone did. Men seem to find starvation a natural precaution to panicked, desperate magic.