Chapter Two - Leyfield

It was another few days before they got to the town - a heatwave had struck, forcing the caravan to travel much more slowly and break more often. They'd planned to arrive a day or two before the festival began, but instead, the wagons rolled into the clearing when the festivities were in full swing. Órlaith could hear them, performers and hawkers and merrymakers thronging the town, and she let herself cast one longing glance at the town gates before turning back to the wagons.

There was work to do before anyone could join the festivities, and Órlaith would never let it be said that she didn't pull her weight.

By the time everything was set up - horses tethered, stalls set up for those who were selling, guards and town elders greeted - it was late afternoon. The sun hung heavy in the sky, not a cloud in sight to offer a break from the oppressive heat. Despite her tiredness, though, Órlaith was practically bouncing as she collected her bag and money pouch from within their wagon, and then she was off towards the gate, barely sparing a moment to wave to her mother.

The guards let her through with barely a glance - even if they hadn't been so busy with the festival, they'd been standing there watching Órlaith and the rest of the caravan set up for hours now, they knew who she was. Órlaith let herself get swept up in the crowd, wandering through the festival. A stall selling sweetmeats caught her attention one moment, another selling glittering trinkets the next - then she was off again, to whatever might catch her interest after.

Finally, after what felt like days but, by the sun, could only have been an hour or so, Órlaith slipped away from the crowd. She followed familiar streets to a little square with a fountain in the middle, where she knew it would be quieter.

The noise of the festival was still clear, but more manageable. As always, the square was empty. Órlaith took a moment to wash her face and drink from the fountain, borrowing one of the cups set beside it for that purpose. Then she sat down on the fountain's stone edge, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.

When she opened them again a moment later, she wasn't alone any more.

There was someone standing opposite her, at one of the entrances to the square. He was tall, but too thin for his height, with ragged clothes that didn't match the festival attire everyone else wore today. His green eyes were wide, fixed on Órlaith - he hadn't expected anyone to be here either.

But that wasn't what caught Órlaith's attention.

His hair was white. Pure white, half-hidden by the cap he'd jammed over it, but not hidden well enough.

Órlaith started to her feet, and the young man jerked back, eyes going even wider.

"Wait -" Órlaith began - but he turned and ran.

Órlaith swore, and ran after him. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, when he clearly was afraid - but his hair. He was a spellweaver, that was the only reason his hair would be white so young - it was how you could spot one, the whole reason Órlaith had to sit with dye soaking into her hair. It varied person to person, how quickly the hair turned white - but it always happened, always the whole head by the age of thirty. Órlaith's few streaks of white were unusual for her age.

His hair, though...

Órlaith pushed herself, sped up. She couldn't lose track of him. Because if he was a spellweaver, and he had to be - he wasn't in a good position. His clothes, the skinniness, the fear... Órlaith didn't want to think it, but she had to.

Traffickers. The ghostly threat that had haunted her most of her life, the warning she'd always held in the back of her mind. Magehunters, the ones who caught and sold spellweavers.

Órlaith could help. He could come with the caravan, get to safety - they could show him the dyes to use, the ways that Órlaith had learnt to hide. And it was partly that, and partly a selfish desire to finally meet someone like her, that kept her running even as her lungs burned and the sweat dripped down her neck.

She saw the man dart into an alleyway, and she turned - Órlaith knew this part of the town, likely far better than he did, and she knew how to cut him off. Sure enough, a moment later he skidded around a corner, and Órlaith was face-to-face with him.

"Wait!" she gasped, reaching towards him before catching herself, desperate to stop him from running again. "Wait, I'm not -" she had to pause to drag in a heaving breath. Then she looked up, staring at where his hair escaped from the cap. "I'm like you."

***

After that, it was easy. Well, easier; the young man still didn't really trust Órlaith. He told her his name - Leolin. But that was all he'd tell her, even if he followed her when she led the way to another quiet place she knew.

It was a little outside the town's boundaries, but Órlaith knew the way to slip past the guards - an old path, no longer maintained, and so overgrown that nobody ever used it. For Órlaith, though, getting through was as simple as reaching out to the energy in the plants and coaxing them as gently as she could to ease back, just a little. Just enough for her and Leolin to squeeze past, and then afterwards the plants could settle their leaves and thorns and branches back over the path again, as though they'd never been any different.

That, Órlaith thought, was what finally convinced Leolin. Because when she turned at the end of the path to check that Leolin had made it through, he was staring at her, something like awe on his face.

"It's something we can do," she explained, looking away. She couldn't help the faint flush that rose in her cheeks - everyone in the caravan was used to Órlaith's magic by now, even if she rarely used it, and it was strange - and a little embarrassing - for Leolin to be so awestruck by it. "People like us, I mean."

"Spellweavers," Leolin said, his voice very soft. Órlaith wasn't sure if that was deliberate or just how he spoke - the handful of words he'd spoken so far didn't give her much to go on.

She nodded. "We try not to use that word too much, though," she said, keeping her own voice low. "It attracts too much attention, especially in places like this, with so many people at the festival - not here, obviously, that's why I brought you here. But still..."

"Better to be safe," Leolin finished, and Órlaith nodded. "I know." Órlaith wasn't sure if she was meant to hear those last words - they were quieter than anything else Leolin had said, and that was saying something.

They went further along the abandoned path - the town had been built where the edge of the plains met and blended into a more wooded area, and that was where Órlaith was aiming for. Under the shelter of the trees, they could get a break from the sun - and nobody would look for them there, either.

Once she felt they were far enough away from town, Órlaith sat, barely paying attention to keeping her festival clothes away from the soil. It was mostly dry anyway, it wasn't as if it had been raining enough recently for any mud. Leolin joined her a moment later, hesitating a moment before he dropped to the ground.

"So," Órlaith said, leaning forwards. "I introduced myself already, but I'm Órlaith. I came in with the caravan, for the festival. They all know about me, they're my family," she added, when Leolin winced; she wasn't sure why, but perhaps telling him that might reassure him, let him know that the caravan was safe.

"Leolin," he murmured, looking away. "I... was brought here. On the way to somewhere else. My... the people who I travel with wanted to see the festival."

"Magehunters." Leolin flinched at the word, and that was all the confirmation Órlaith needed. She frowned. Before she could say anything else, though, Leolin spoke again.

"Yes," he said. "I..." He trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger, firmer. "I ran. I escaped from them, with the festival as a cover. I don't want... I won't go back to them. I can't."

Órlaith nodded. That was good - at least she wouldn't have to convince him not to go back to the magehunters, like she'd been half-afraid of.

"Come with me," she said. "To the caravan. We can leave early, or even just hide you in one of the wagons til the festival is over - we can keep you safe, and we've got dyes that can hide your hair, and nobody cares if you're a spellweaver or not, they just want you to help however you can and then they help you back. It's safe, I swear it."

Leolin stared at her.

"That's not -" His voice cracked, and he looked away. "Things are never safe for people like us. Even if you think that they're going to help, even if they tell you they care... what does that mean, when things get difficult? When the winter is hard, and there's no money, and -" He shook his head.

Órlaith really did not like the implications of that. That was too specific to be something hypothetical, so Leolin must have...

"Not the caravan," she said after a moment, believing it wholeheartedly. "Not my family. We help each other. We have to, otherwise how could we survive? If we couldn't trust each other, when we rely on each other so much..." Órlaith shook her head. "We've had hard winters. We've had difficult times. People just appreciate any help you can offer, and we work together to survive. Nobody gets left behind or abandoned." Or sold, she narrowly stopped herself from saying. Because Leolin hadn't actually said that, even if what he had said implied it.

Leolin drew in a long, slow breath. Both of them sat in silence for a while. Órlaith didn't think anything else she said would convince him any further - if he couldn't bring himself to believe that the caravan was safe, then she couldn't force him to believe it. All she could do was tell him the truth, and try to get Leolin to understand that she believed it.

Órlaith had never been very good at just sitting silently, though. After a few minutes, she started trailing her fingers through the dry soil beside her. From there, it was as easy as breathing to reach out, tug gently at the energy of the seeds within the ground, and watch them unfurl, pushing up through the dirt til the green poked through. She stopped herself before going any further - encouraging seeds to grow was one thing, but much further than that and she'd have to start pulling energy from elsewhere, too.

Leolin was staring at her, eyes wide. The same expression he'd made when she coaxed the plants to let them through earlier.

"How did you do that?" The words seemed to slip out by accident, if the way Leolin immediately clamped his mouth shut was anything to go by. Órlaith frowned - he looked almost afraid.

"The same way anyone does," she answered, deciding to leave it for now. "Except a little bit stronger, because of what we are. I learnt how to do it with the caravan, ages ago - with seeds it's fine because they already have the energy within the seed, but you can't let it go further than that unless you've got something else to feed it with." Your own energy, or energy from somewhere else - there were more or less ethical ways to do that. Órlaith knew a lot of them, even if she'd never use anything that needed to take, rather than share.

"I should have learnt how to do that," Leolin murmured, staring at where the previously bare earth was dotted with little green sprouts. "If I could do things like that, if I could actually use this magic I'm meant to have..."

"You can't?" Órlaith asked, curious. She was lucky to have had the whole caravan to learn from, all the different magical talents and knacks that you found in such a large group of people, but surely Leolin had had somebody to learn from. Family, or friends, or something.

Leolin shook his head. "I don't know how to do anything like that. Only..." He hesitated again. "I know how to hurt people with magic. That's all. That's all they taught me."

Órlaith winced. She'd heard of that, too - yet another warning tale, another reason to be careful not to get caught. The little magics she loved, like growing things, were of very little use to the magehunters. They wanted magic for war or murder, ways to use a spellweaver to gain an advantage over whatever enemy or rival they might have. It was rare that they'd want somebody to grow crops - ordinary people could encourage that, after all. And even in the aftermath of a famine, anyone who'd employ the services of a magehunter would be more focused on protecting whatever power they had than on helping people.

"That's fine," Órlaith said, realising she'd been quiet for a little too long - Leolin was looking away again, clearly expecting to be rejected, expecting Órlaith to be horrified. "Well, it isn't fine, because it isn't fair to you. But it's not your fault. Did - is that what the magehunters taught you?"

Leolin nodded.

"I know how to hurt people as well," Órlaith said. "Not just with magic either." She didn't let her hand drift to the knife hidden away under her skirts, but it was tempting. "To protect myself, same as anyone else. Knowing something isn't necessarily a bad thing - it's how you choose to use that knowledge that matters." That was what her mother had always told her, and it was an idea Órlaith had always liked. She was curious, always had been, and it was easier to let herself follow any interests, learn and absorb information, when she wasn't chastising herself over whether it was wrong just to know something.

"I've used it to hurt people." Leolin seemed determined to - what? Convince her he was evil? Well, Órlaith wasn't going to go along with that.

"Did you choose to?"

"I was ordered to. And I followed orders."

"You didn't choose to, then," Órlaith said. "The magehunters, right? Could you really have refused?"

Leolin still wasn't convinced, that was clear. But with his faint headshake, he seemed to be listening to her for now.

"Can you show me?" he asked, changing the subject ungracefully. Órlaith recognised the tactic - it was one she had used herself plenty of times to try and escape an awkward or embarrassing conversation.

So she let it go, and they spent the rest of the afternoon there under the trees, Órlaith telling Leolin as much as she could. How to use the magic they'd both been born with, how it was different from other people's. The limits other people had, ones that Órlaith had never really understood as a child, not until she'd seen other children learning the same spells as her and realised where their power ended, when hers didn’t. The different ways she had been taught to use and manipulate energy, to heal or grow or soothe.

Órlaith stayed well away from anything that could easily be used to harm. Even if it wouldn't make much of a difference, she felt like Leolin had probably learnt more about harming others with magic than he ever wanted to.

By the time they both tired, it was getting towards evening. The sun had sunk so low that it was near-dark in the forest - only Órlaith's familiarity with the woods, and the faint hints of moonlight filtering through the trees, let her keep her footing. Leolin seemed to find it easier - maybe he was more used to the dark.

"I'll go with you," Leolin said abruptly, breaking the silence just as they began to walk back through the overgrown path. "To the caravan. If - if you're sure they'll take me."

Órlaith grinned. "Of course! They'll be happy to meet you, and they can all teach you so much more than I can - I mean, I learnt everything from them anyway." Except a few things she had picked up from books and scrolls she'd skimmed, but that was nothing compared to the collective knowledge of the caravan, all her family and friends. True, none of them were spellweavers, but they all had their own different magics, and between them all, Órlaith thought they'd covered most things she'd ever need to know. Hopefully they'd be able to do the same for Leolin.

The town was lit by soft lanterns now, a mixture of plain amber torchlight and various colours of magical lights. The street they stepped out onto had a pretty alternating pattern somebody must have set up - blue and red lights, blending into purple in the spaces between the lamps. Órlaith paused for a moment, staring up at the lights.

“They’re beautiful,” Leolin said, stopping beside her. Órlaith glanced at him; he was staring at the lamps too, a soft expression on his face she hadn't seen yet.

“Yes,” she said. “The town puts them up every year. Everyone does what they can with their magic to make them.” She glanced at him again, and added, “Another way to use magic for something good, instead of to hurt.”

Leolin snorted, and shook his head. “I already said I would come with you,” he reminded her, “you don't need to keep pushing it. Although… It is good to see other ways.”

They went on through the streets of the town in silence. It wasn't awkward though. More of a comfortable silence, both of them admiring the lanterns. Órlaith was hardly thinking about them, though. She was more focused on how she was going to explain this to her mother. It wasn't something she'd really considered before, when she'd offered Leolin a chance to join the caravan. He'd be accepted, of course, there was no doubt about that. But her mother wasn't likely to be too pleased about the magehunters that might be following Leolin. Still, she would deal with that when it came to it.

Órlaith’s distraction meant that she barely noticed it when Leolin stopped dead. It was only when she realised that he wasn't walking beside her any more than she stopped, glancing around.

Leolin was nowhere to be seen.

Órlaith didn't have more than a moment to realise that, however, before a group of men stepped out of a side street. A single glance told her everything she needed to know.

All three of them were rangy and scarred. Long black coats hid what was probably body armour. When one of them shifted, she could make out the glint of the sword beneath his clothes. And if one was armed, the rest probably were as well.

But more than that, there were the marks.

Every one of them had a mark tattooed on the cheek. It was a simple upside down triangle. But Órlaith knew its meaning.

They were magehunters.

Órlaith took an involuntary step back.

“No need to worry,” the leader of the three said, stepping forward. “We mean you no harm, young lady. We are just looking for someone – a friend of ours.” He held his hand up at exactly Leolin's height. “About so tall, thin.” His eyes narrowed. “Might be hiding under a hat, but – white hair. Sure I don't need to tell you what that means.”

Órlaith swallowed. She had a few options. But the one option that never crossed her mind was to tell them the truth.

“I saw him,” she said, raising a shaking hand to point ahead of her. That was the only direction she could be certain Leolin hadn't gone in – she would have seen him. “He went that way. Is it – is he really -” She didn't finish the sentence, trying to play up part of a terrified young woman as far as she could.

The man nodded, already striding forward in the direction Órlaith had pointed. “He is,” he responded over his shoulder. “No need for concern, though. We'll be dealing with it. Stay safe.” And then the three of them were gone, marching in sync down the street.

Órlaith watched them go, fighting against the urge to turn and run. That would only make them suspicious of her. And she couldn't risk that. Not with the caravan outside the town, not when there could be more of them.

The right thing to do – the sensible thing to do – would be to go back to the caravan now. To tell her mother what had happened, to hide in the caravan till the festival was over, or the magehunters left. But Órlaith knew she couldn't do that. Not when Leolin was somewhere in the town still, hiding from the magehunters. He would have no idea where to find the caravan, and no reason to think that he would be accepted without Órlaith by his side. No, she had to stay in the town. Keep taking part in the festival, make sure she didn't seem suspicious. And hope that Leolin was able to find her again.

So Órlaith did exactly that. She wandered the streets, taking in the sights and sounds of the festival. It had lost all of its charm now, though. She was tired, her feet hurt, and she was consumed with worry for Leolin – and herself. Every time somebody looked too long at her, or jostled past in the crowd, she flinched, terrified that this might be it. That this might be the person who realised what she was and handed her over to the mage hunters.

Eventually, she gave up, and paid for a space to sleep. It wasn't much – all of the inns and rooms had been bought up for the festival well in advance. It was just a mat, in a room shared with various other women. It was better than nothing, though. Even if it would have been better still for Órlaith to return to the caravan, sleep on the bed she was used to, with faint creaking of the wagon settling soothing her to sleep.

With all of the stress, Órlaith slept poorly. She woke with the dawn, and considered trying to sleep for a moment or two longer before giving up.

The streets were silent, nobody else awake or around. There was a faint smell of smoke in the air, probably from the festival fires that had burned late into the night.

She needed to go back to the caravan. She had already been missing all night. And whilst that could be passed off as getting caught up in the festival, if she left it much longer then people would begin to worry, if they hadn't already. She would be able to return to the festival and seek out Leolin again tomorrow – or rather, today. As long as she didn't tell anyone that the magehunters were in town. Because if she told her family that, there was no chance that she would be allowed back into the town until the magehunters were gone. She'd be lucky if they didn't decide to pack up the caravan and move, no matter how suspicious that might seem.

So Órlaith made her way towards the gates of Leyfield. She tried to arrange the words in her head, exactly what she would say and how she would word things, to convince her family that she was safe in the town, but that they should accept Leolin. She could find him tomorrow, and only tell her family then; but then she would be lying to them anyway until she did find him. And Órlaith didn't like that idea. No matter what, she would have to lie to them somehow. Even if it was only about the magehunters. But she would rather not if she could avoid it. It would be easier to minimise the amount of lies she had to tell them.

In the end, Órlaith decided to keep it simple. She would tell her family that she had run into Leolin. But she wouldn't tell them about the magehunters. She was sure that she could figure out a way to word things that made it sound like they had simply lost each other in the crowd, rather than Leolin fleeing after seeing the mage hunters. And if they questioned it, well… Órlaith wasn't sure. She might have to make something up. Or just try to convince her family Leolin needed their help more than Órlaith needed to hide.

The gate guards were only half awake so early in the morning. They let Órlaith through with barely a nod. That was when she realised she'd gone through the wrong gate. The caravan had set up near one of the gates, but not this one. She'd have to walk.

Órlaith sighed, and kept going. She would rather do the last of the walk outside the town walls, since she'd had enough of the cobbles battering her feet for one day. As she walked, the smell of smoke grew stronger, and Órlaith frowned.

Had they burned fires at the caravans last night, too? That wasn't usual, not when they were set up outside a town like this. People didn't tend to appreciate it, and there was no need for it in the summer. Especially when the wagons were usually plenty warm enough all on their own.

Perhaps the smoke was simply drifting over the city walls from the festival fires, and she was near the courtyards that had burned the most fires. Yes, that made sense. More sense than the caravan having campfires, on a warm summer night like last night.

Her footsteps slowed as she approached where she knew the caravan was. She still hadn't really organised her excuses. And she was beginning to regret it now. Órlaith's mother has always been able to see through her like water. Her chances of lying to her probably weren't high.

But her mother would still want to help Leolin. Órlaith was certain of that. So she kept going.

She didn't believe what she was seeing at first. It couldn't be possible. Not the caravan. Not like this.

When she had left yesterday, the wagons have been lined up neatly, organised in a careful semicircle that allowed access and kept the wind out. The horses had been tethered, grazing as they wanted. A few people had set up tents, those who preferred to sleep on the ground rather than in the wagons when they had the chance.

Now, there was nothing.

Or more accurately, there was fire. Smouldering embers, the occasional flame licking up a wagon bar or burning away a piece of fabric. The horses were gone – Órlaith could only hope they'd been freed by whoever had done this.

And the people gone, too. Órlaith stared at the wreckage, and tried not to question whether that lump was a body. It was still dim enough in the dawn light that she could trick herself into thinking it wasn't.

A laugh rang out, contemptuous and mocking. Órlaith jerked.

It couldn't be. Even if anyone had survived this, they wouldn’t be laughing now, surely. But maybe…

Órlaith took a few steps forward. Then she stopped. Because a figure was walking towards her, from behind the wreckage. And it was one she recognised.

“Well, little spellweaver,” the magehunter said, folding his arms and smirking. “Seems like you didn't quite tell us the truth, did you?”