The Weaver's Source

Chapter 47

Lillith was quite warm and welcoming to me when she opened the door to find me standing on her crooked wooden steps, looking worried and cold. She ushered me inside and, gripping my shoulders, propelled me to the only comfortable looking chair in the hut that stood beside the flaring fire. She chatted mindlessly, talking about how cold the weather was this year and fearing the winter that was on its way. The snow last year was thick and the air frigid and killed both cattle and people alike. She feared the winter this year will be the same or possibly even worse.

As she talked to me and I listened, I looked about the room, my eyes fixating on the armour. As I stared at the strange piece, I found my senses tingling. I could feel magic rippling off of it weakly. Had she really worn that? Had she really fought alongside Weaver Jon as an equal, despite being such a risk? I tried to imagine myself like that, fighting alongside Grigore, but quickly shook the thoughts away. He struggled enough with me simply holding a bow, let alone letting me face down monsters.

I looked up at Lillith and saw her smiling down at me, holding a small clay cup out for me.

"You were so far away there."

I took the cup and nodded, casting a wary glance at the battered armour. Lillith looked at it and she seemed to understand.

"I was lucky, you know." Lillith said as she reached out and let her fingers touch the emblem burned in the chest. "I was born with a Weaver for a great-grandfather, a strong man who took it upon himself to train me and protect me."

I simply watched with eager curiosity as she opened up to me easily, a distant expression on her face.

"My great-grandfather allowed me to remain with my parents up until I was matured. He taught me sword play, how to use a bow, how to read and nurture my magic, and throughout he built me a set of armour, a sword, a shield and a dagger imbued with my magic to keep me safe and armed. The moment I was singing, he took me away with him, building me up into a solider. Whenever we found a monster, no matter how tough, he'd make me fight it, drilling me even as I fought for my life." She smiled softly at the distant memories, even as I stared in at her in confusion.

"But how could you fight? Weavers use wards to match up to monsters."

She smiled at me. "I held them. My grandfather's wards." She flexed her large withered hand. "I couldn't create spells, not like he could, but I could use them."

I sat blot-up right at her comment. "I never knew that."

Her old eyes slipped to me. "It takes time, Lyra. Trust as well. A Weaver has to willingly give the ward to you, it's not comfortable task, and you'll also need the reserves to hold it." She inhaled deeply. "Your magic is still quite young and inflexible. You'd need to train it hard to achieve it."

"What would I need to do?"

"First, you need your magic to grow deeper, so wait. You'll know when it's ready."

I chewed my lip in frustration as I poked the magic in my chest, testing its reserves and finding them shallow. I sighed. I really was weak.

"There's no hurry, Lyra."

"I thought I'd prove to be useful."

Lillth laughed. "You're as useful as myself right now, so don't feel too frustrated."

My gaze flicked to her. "Couldn't Grigore give you wards?"

She sobered a little and suddenly looked quite old. "Passing of wards is quite personal, Lyra, I wouldn't want to broach onto a Weaver not my own." She said. "And my magic is too weak and thin now. It can barely pick up when the Black Dog is moving, only when its directly outside, and my body isn't youthful anymore. I grow weaker every day."