“She will not die, Jade – Jade, listen to me, look into my eyes. Your sister will not die.”

The girl’s disheveled brown head turned up to stare at Bethan. Her face was as swollen and as red as a tomato, soaked in tears. “She been like that for so long, though. Oh Bethan, for the Spirit’s sake, please promise me she’ll live.”

“Aye, she will,” Bethan said firmly. “Marcy has pneumonia, Jade love, I’ve given you all the right medicaments, and with my healing she will be fine within the next ten days. Meanwhile, keep sponging her off and keeping her warm. Make sure she gets enough fluids, and nothing cold, mind you.”

Jade nodded vigorously. “Aye, aye. O thank you for coming, I’m afraid you’ll miss the service. Please, see yourself out.” She dug a hand into her apron pockets and produced a few coins amounting to twenty-five Silvers. Bethan took them and ducked her head in thanks.

She was glad to leave the dark and humid room. But the image of Marcy, sweat covered and thrashing in her fever, stayed with her even as she made her way down Lake Road, the main arterial road that ran through the town, crossing over Crafton River. Standing on the bridge gave her a good vantage point and she could make out the bell tower of the white church. Jade was right, she was late, it was nigh on seven o’clock and the service had started half an hour ago.

Bethan broke into a run down the rest of the road that snaked alongside the river. She passed the closely packed houses of the upper class until she came to the church, its façade and stained-glass windows scrubbed clean. The grass surrounding was bright and well-kept, and even the gravel path under her feet as she crossed the churchyard seemed somehow clean.

The high priest was at the altar, garbed in thick woolen robes and a lush wolf pelt around his shoulders. Bethan felt all seven hundred eyes of her sect turn to her as she padded down the stone isle and dropped to her knees before the priest.

“Your holiness, please forgive me for I am late. I was attending to Marcy Longston, for she is sick in bed with pneumonia.” Bethan kept her eyes to the floor as she spoke, her bare hands gripping the cold flagstone.

“I understand you are an accomplished Healer, child?”

“Aye, your Holiness.”

“And is young Marcy expected to recover?”

“Aye…your Holiness, she is.”

“It is a pity then,” the priest chuckled, “that Healers cannot adhere to business hours like the rest, eh. Rise, child, you are forgiven. Please take your pew.”

Bethan first lifted her eyes to the elderly man, then rose to her feet and bowed before taking her usual seat in the second pew from the front. She adjusted her skirts, mindful not to elbow the young man beside her.

The high priest continued with the service.

“It is important for us all to remain pure against all odds, for it is then that we may experience real satisfaction and gratitude towards the Spirit. We must acknowledge his sacrifice for us, and never take it for granted, for it is through him that we breathe, we live. We must strive to banish all evil from our souls and do all we can to help others and in turn ourselves. We make no room in our hearts for evil, and evil in our town shall not be tolerated. We are in the belief that everything was created in its own right, and we shall not manipulate that which has been given to us. Manipulation leads to evil. Manipulation is unstable, uncertain, and placed into the wrong hands, it can lead to catastrophe. It is this we teach our children, this upholding of purity, and it is this virtue we want our town to take on.

May it serve as a reminder to all that, as a citizen of this virtuous town, anyone going against our morals and beliefs shall be charged with treason, for, again, evil is not tolerated. There are no exemptions; all measures are taken to keep this town safe and happy for everyone, and in such trying times, drastic measures are to be taken.”

Bethan shifted in her seat as a sharp jolt of fear invaded her. She had almost forgotten the danger presented to her home town a mere week ago when Devon’s vassals had ridden into Lupon to stir havoc as a type of forewarning of what was to come.

At the end of the service she found herself standing in the churchyard surrounded by neighbours, all nervously chattering about the threat to their dear town. Bethan, her flaxen hair glinting in the sun, said not a word but her ears were as keen as ever.

“It’s being kept in the dark that’s the worst.” A middle aged woman declared.

“Aye, no one knows what’s happening. What are we to do? Is anything being done?”

“We must trust the Spirit and the priesthood. Surely they know what actions to take if such a time comes as…”

“It’s our silver – they want our silver.”

“Bethan – O Bethan, there you are.”

Bethan jolted and turned her head to see her friend Tamma, her face tense. “What do you think of all this? The whole town’s on edge, o Bethan what are we to do?”

“It may be nothing more than a ploy to stir us up,” Bethan replied uncertainly. “I see no reason why our supposed allies would wish to cause a war with us.”

That night, Bethan lay in her bed but was unable to sleep. Several times she threw her quilt off, only to retrieve it again when the night air chilled her. The silver light of the moon streaked through the casement, illuminating her cramped bedroom, so that the oak dresser, cabinets and spinning wheel resembled shadowy creatures huddled together, waiting to attack. The mirror on her dresser reflected the moon into her eyes, and even the tree tops and distant mountains of the town were visible.

With a frustrated sigh, Bethan flung herself out of bed and stood at the casement window. Her home was built into a mountain among thick forestry, which gave her a relatively unobstructed view of the town. The mountains were mainly inhabited by the poorer folk, but apart from the inconvenience of not being able to own horses and carriages, life was interesting for her up here and she would not trade with the people below in the valley.

Below, the Town Centre street lights flickered and a few residential homes were still lit, but apart from this, the town lay quiet and dark, its shadows peaceful. Yet the feeling of unease remained. It was such a night only a week ago when she had stood in this very spot and witnesses the horrible streak of yellow flame as a group of mounted men galloped through Lake Road and then dispersed into the streets, generally causing a ruckus. However, no real damage had been made. They could have set the whole town alight, but it had not happened.

Bethan drew the drapes and stepped away, reaching for the flint and oil lamp. Soon there was sufficient light in the small room for her to grab her latest tapestry. It was almost finished, and it depicted a scene of Wolf Lake, surrounded by the Whitewood Forest. It was a sacred area, situated to the left of her mountain on the outskirts of town, even beyond the farms. Fore this reason she thought it would sell quickly at the markets tomorrow, along with the nine other tapestries and six patchwork blankets she had made during the last month.

She worked on the Wolf Lake tapestry for the remainder of the night until, exhausted, she lay back as she was and fell into a deep sleep. The pain in her unmoving muscles woke her at noon, and when she realised what had happened, Bethan groaned and made for the washroom that came off her room. She splashed her face from the water in a basin and combed her hair back into a presentable coil at the nape of her neck.

After that, she wasted no time in gathering her quilts and tapestries and running out the door, for she was late for the markets and only the Spirit knew if there would be a free stall. The yard surrounding her small home was in full shadow, tall trees towering and splaying their branches and leaves across the roof of the cottage. Moss grew in velvety patches on the packed earth while a few tufts of grass were scattered elsewhere. About fifteen feet from the cottage, the land rose sharply into a mountain face and a few shrubs and thin trees grew precariously on a steep angle.

Bethan turned right, opened the gate, and stepped onto a dirt path. The going was steep, but she was accustomed and knew her footing well. For the first half of the journey down, she was flanked by high rising boulders and rock and foliage on her left, while her right consisted of houses similar to hers, built into the mountain on steps of leveled terrain. For the remained of the journey, houses dominated both sides, enormous trees sprouting from in-between them.

When she reached the bottom, it was only a matter of crossing a grassy field before she was at the Market Square, amidst a throng of buyers and sellers, the poor and the wealthy, voices raised.

Thanking the Spirit under her breath, Bethan saw that the stall she usually occupied was indeed empty. She then saw the stallholder beside her raise an arm in greeting and she scooted over, placing her goods down. “Afternoon, lass! I kept yer place for ya, I did. Knew there’d be no way of getting’ it otherwise!”

“Thank you, Mr. Goode – I was afraid there’d be no space for me today, and I ever so much need the money right now.” Bethan smiled and talked as she spread out the tapestries and quilts so that they were on full display. Beside her, the middle-aged Mr. Goode was selling pure beeswax candles, lamps and various sized candelabra.

Soon people arrived at her stall, chattering among each other, turning the merchandise this way and that, running their fingers over the soft material. Bethan watched patiently, scrutinising faces. Some seemed genuinely interested, others were simply browsing for the sake of it.

A young woman seemed to be taking particular interest in the Wolf Lake tapestry. Her expensive violet dress and matching bonnet flaunted her high status, and when she looked at her Bethan had the distinct feeling that the woman was giving her the same attention that she’d give to a moth. “How much for this one?”

“Two lupons, ma’am.”

“Two? Why I’d give no more than one. It’s a pretty thing, but the depiction doesn’t give the place justice, I’m afraid.”

Bethan bit the inside of her cheek. She recognized the behaviour of hagglers. This woman wanted the tapestry badly, yet she didn’t want to part with her money. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I cannot let it go for less than two lupons.”

The woman made a face, her pointed nose wrinkling slightly. “Dear, no one will buy this for two, trust me. I’ll offer you one and a quarter.”

“One and three.”

“One and a half, and that’s the last of it.”

Bethan’s green eyes narrowed. It was tempting to take the offer, for she was in dire need of money, yet her pride prevented her. If it were anyone else but this vain woman she would have agreed. “I’m sorry. One and three is the lowest I’m willing to take it down.”

The woman sneered. Multiple shouts and screams echoed as a horde of people suddenly rushed in one direction. Bethan and the woman both shrieked at the sight. About twenty mounted men invaded the square, their identity elusive for their were covered from head to foot in black and red armour, long horn-like objects protruding from their helmets. The armour seemed to consist of thick strips of thick leather-like material, overlapping to resemble scales. They carried lances and pikes, using the weapons to clear their path from humanity.

Bethan, gaping, was thrown backwards as the woman who had been her customer only moments before leaped over the stall, skidding through the tapestries to fall across to the other side. The two women then pressed their backs against the stall, hoping their presence there went unnoticed.

Horrific screams still dominated the scene, along with the whinnies of confused horses. The people that were in the Market square quickly dispersed, seeking refuge in their homes and bolting the doors shut. A few were less fortunate though, knocked dead by the pikes and lances. The armoured horsemen seemed not to care if they killed or maimed.

Stalls were overturned, merchandise spilling onto the ground to be trampled by hooves. Fruit and vegetables, along with blood and limbs, stained the pavement.

Bethan brought her hand to her mouth and absentmindedly chewed at her nails, her heart caught in her chest. It had been pounding before, but now she was almost afraid it had stopped of its own accord. Beside her, the woman whimpered, her flowered hat askew and dark hair escaping around her pale face.

Then there was the dull thud of hooves. Very close. Bethan could smell the beast, could hear its breath. Her eyes looked up and she screamed at the top of her voice. Before her stood one of the horseman, towering and black against the bright sky. Bethan covered her head with her arms and continued to scream until her throat constricted and she spluttered. The other woman had passed out, her head limp and lolling.