The noise of the caravan echoed across the plains - laughter, the occasional argument from Órlaith's cousins in the children's wagons, the jingling of the horses' tack, the low hum of conversation.

Órlaith tipped her head back, listening to it all from where she sat inside one of the covered wagons. Normally she would be out there with the other younger adults, taking her turn guiding the horses or helping with the children. But right now, she could only sit and wait for the heavy dye in her hair to set.

"You would think we would have a faster way for this by now," she muttered, glancing at where her mother sat on the other side of the wagon.

Her mother barely glanced up from the fabric she was repairing - a bag, Órlaith thought - as she answered.

"Fast -"

"Doesn't last, I know," Órlaith completed, sighing. One of her mother's favourite phrases - one of the whole family's favourite phrases, in fact. Probably one of the entire convoy's favourite phrases. If they wanted fast, they wouldn't spend their lives travelling by caravan, after all.

And it wasn't wrong - Órlaith had tried a few of the other options, dyes that promised quick results. None of them had lasted, covering the white streaks in her hair for only a few days before slipping away. At least this dye left a pinkish stain even when it was fading - it still didn't match the rest of her scarlet hair, but it was less obvious than a glint of white.

"Cheer up," Órlaith's mother said a few minutes later, setting the repaired bag aside. She smiled at Órlaith, the fond expression crinkling her face along well-worn smile lines. "Eventually you'll get to my age and then it won't be so obvious."

Órlaith laughed, shaking her head. "You're not old, Mama. And you're going grey, not white." She flushed a moment later, realising once she'd spoken how the words might seem rude. But her mother just snorted, shifting closer to look at Órlaith's hair.

"Nearly done," she said. "Give it a little longer. It'll be settled well before we get to Leyfield, though. Fresh for the festival, hmm?"

Órlaith nodded, thoughts drifting to the future. It wasn't anything new - Órlaith had grown up a traveller, had been born and raised on the road, just like the rest of her family. She couldn't have pictured a life she'd prefer. But still, no matter how many festivals she went to, how many towns and cities she visited, there was always that flare of excitement in her chest. New people, new songs, new things to see and do and experience... It exhausted her every time, left her napping on and off for days after, but she wouldn't give it up for the world.

The festival in Leyfield was one of her favourites. It was smaller than many of the ones in the cities, smaller even than some she'd been to in other towns. But it made up for that with enthusiasm, bringing people from villages miles around to join in the singing and dancing and laughter. Over the past few years, it had brought in more and more strangers, too - people who'd heard about the festivities and wanted to see them for themselves. Last year, Órlaith had spoken to a woman who'd travelled from a distant continent - it hadn't been solely to attend the festival, but that, the woman had told her with a smile, had been a highlight of her trip.

The wagon slowed, and swayed to a halt. Órlaith's mother set aside the next piece of repairwork she'd just picked up, just as the call of, "Rest break!" came from outside.

"Now?" Órlaith asked, gesturing at her hair, and her mother sighed.

"Now," she agreed, smiling, and Órlaith nearly whooped in relief. She clambered down out of the covered wagon, wincing at the sudden brightness, and almost sprinted over to a nearby pool to rinse the dye from her hair.

It was a common rest stop for the caravan. A few straggly trees dotted the upper edges of a dip in the ground, and the shelter of the dip was enough for soft mosses to grow alongside the banks of a river that wended its sluggish way through the plains. Órlaith had read the name of it once, but it had slipped away - it was one of the ones that was called a dozen different things in different lands, so it was easier to just call it the river. Dotted around the tiny valley were pools like the one Órlaith sat beside now, where the river's underground flow pushed up to the surface. Rumour had it that a strong swimmer could pass between the pools, if they could hold their breath long enough.

Needless to say, each and every child of the caravan was warned strongly against that from a very young age. Everyone had heard the stories about a cousin or an aunt or a nephew who'd tried it and never been seen again. The river ran deep, and the parts of it that hid below the soil ran deeper still. For all that the surface flow was slow and meandering, the currents below could easily pull an unwary person straight off their feet.

The dye disappeared down into the pool as Órlaith watched, and she grinned at the shout from one of the children. She always chose this pool for a reason - right about now, the dye would be appearing in the river, a streak of deep ochre, gleaming in the sunlight. It wouldn't do the waters any harm, and it kept some of the children entertained with watching it and guessing how far the colour could spread before the river carried it away.

These people, her family... They were the only people she could do this around. The only ones she could trust to know what she was, what she hid. What they all hid, on her behalf, finding her the dyes to minimise the chances of suspicion falling on her, changing the subject if a conversation with outsiders got too close to the topic of magic, doing everything they could to keep her safe.

It was a little bit stifling at times, Órlaith had to admit. But she knew just as well as anyone else what would happen if she didn't.

Órlaith trailed a finger over the water's surface, letting a spark drip down her hand, feeling the energy within the water leap eagerly to her will. For most of the caravan, for most people, something like this would be a frivolous waste of power. Power that could be better spent on something else, like encouraging their crops or soothing an animal.

But Órlaith was a spellweaver. One of the rare few who could harness the same energy that others used for minor magics, and do far greater - and far more terrible - things with it.

And if anyone outside of the caravan found out what she could do, then Órlaith would end up worse than dead.

She sighed, rolling over away from the pool to lie on her back, staring up at the sky. The sounds around her faded a little, though they never quite became background noise.

Her mother had always been honest with her, from the very first day she had realised her daughter's abilities.

They'd hunt her, her mother had warned. Órlaith would be captured and used - to work magics for kings, lords, anyone who could pay enough to satisfy whoever caught her. And there would be no escape. Magehunters were careful and canny about how they did things. Once they had Órlaith, the chances of her escaping - or of anyone ever helping her - were next to nothing.

Órlaith understood. She did.

But that didn't stop the frustration, whenever she spoke to an outsider and magic came up. The awkwardness when they asked the all-too-common question of her favourite working, the most useful way to use magic that she knew of. A little laugh and a quick hint that she was near-powerless worked most of the time, but it tended to kill a conversation, too. If you were a spellweaver you were dangerous and desired - but if you had barely any magic at all, you were pitied, even if your work wouldn't have been suited for magical help anyway.

It was safer to be pitied than for anyone to know what she really was. Sometimes, though, Órlaith wondered what it might be like to tell someone the truth.