The Woven Crown (Completed)

Chapter 8

She wished Oran would have allowed Graphiel or one of the other members of the crew to come with them. Even though she had learned to trust the Caravan, she still felt uneasy about being in a room alone with a Woven. Last time that had happened, Ryla had almost been killed. Of course, she ended up doing the killing instead.

Inside, her fears were somewhat soothed by the innocuous interior. The tree was lit with a lantern's warm glow making it surprisingly homey. The roots curved down from a point overhead, weaving tightly over and under each other to form curved walls. An unlit fireplace took up most of one side. A multitude of rugs covered the floor and a chair made from cut branches sat in front of the fireplace. In one corner, a humble table and stool sat piled high with books and parchment, quills and ink bottles. A small archway led into a dark room where Ryla could make out a small bed.

"Please, take a seat," said Oran, gesturing towards the chair. He busied himself with lighting a fire and once a steady flame took to the logs, he slid the stool over next to Ryla. He folded slender hands onto his lap and looked at her. Ryla felt like there was something boyish about his face, as if it had once been easy to coax a grin into it. She perched on the edge of the chair. A hundred questions burned inside of her.

"I know what you must be feeling. There's a lot to explain and I always wonder where to start," said Oran carefully. "As you've probably already noticed, the Woven are not quite what we've been made out to be."

"Is everyone here a Woven?" The first question slipped out before she had a chance to swallow it. Lessons from her life as a servant kicked in and she silently chastised herself for interrupting someone of importance.

Oran seemed to sense the battle warring inside of her. "Ryla, you are no longer in the service of Lord and Lady Wickson, or anyone for that matter. The refuge is a community that depends on each of us doing our part, but we are all equals here." He paused, holding her gaze. "You are free to ask questions, although we may not get to all of them tonight. But to answer your first, most everyone is a Woven, yes. There are a few common-born among us as well, including those of the Caravan who have given up their lives in order to fight for our survival." Ryla thought for a moment, choosing her next question carefully. It had been the one question plaguing her since the very beginning.

"If the Woven aren't out to destroy the kingdom like we've been told, why has the Prestige made it his agenda to kill them... to kill us?"

"It's a long story Ryla, but the important ones usually are. It begins with the Prestige himself. In your mind you've pictured him as a tall man, handsome, most likely. A man ready to command armies, lead a just kingdom. Am I right?"

She nodded.

"Now let me ask you this. Have you ever seen the Prestige with your own eyes? Not a painting, like the ones commissioned for the estates, but the actual man?" When Ryla shook her head, he continued.

"Have you ever wondered how you've gotten that picture in your mind? How everyone seems to know exactly what he looks like even though they've never seen anything past an expensive rendering in oil?" He paused long enough to let the question sink in. "It's because everything you know about the Prestige has been meticulously crafted by his father, Alden Ashemore, through the stories you grew up hearing either from the Caravan's work or tales heard 'round the hearth. I can guarantee each and every one of those stories had its start at the capitol.

"In reality though, the Prestige is not much older than yourself and is never seen outside the Lithe Castle. His father groomed him to take the throne, but even though the Prestige is the imagined face of Religo, his father is still pulls many of the strings in the background.