Stonewielder by Ian C. Esslemont

sufficient, am I, for curing the pox? Or helping out the local girls who have gotten themselves into trouble, yes?’
    ‘No offence, auntie – but have you even left the island?’
    Agayla knotted her hair into one long braid. ‘This island hedge-witch can be of no help to one like yourself who has moved in such high and mighty circles, hmm?’
    ‘Agayla …’
    ‘Just call the wind and make my candles, shall I?’
    Kiska simply hung her head and waited for the storm to blow itself out. Eventually she said, studying her hands on her lap, ‘That’s not what I meant.’
    ‘You’re young yet, child,’ Agayla said, her voice softening. ‘Full of yourself. Quite certain you know the way of things now that you’ve seen the world. When in truth you’ve hardly even begun your education.’
    Kiska’s head snapped up. ‘Don’t treat me like a child. I may still be so in your memories, but I have moved on. I am a grown woman now and I will make my own decisions.’ She steeled herself for more argument but it never came. Her aunt merely inclined her head, conceding the point.
    ‘True. To me, you will always be that child whose cries I soothed, whose hands I guided. Nothing can ever change that.’ She bound up the thick coil of her hair. ‘So enough talk for tonight. Sleep. Your bed remains. Things may look different in the morning.’
    And Kiska eased back into her chair, let her hands rest on her lap. She was tired. The soup was a warm caress in her stomach. Nodding, she stood and made her way to the rear of the shop where a narrow stairway led up to her old room.
    ‘Sleep,’ Agayla murmured to her retreating back, her eyes narrowed once more. And more softly yet, ‘And dream.’
    When she was alone, Agayla crossed the shop to the latest tapestry stretched upon her loom. She set her feet on the pedals and pushed the shuttle across the weave, then reset the pattern. She worked on towards dawn, the frame rattling as the threads crossed, the wooden shuttle making its countless passes. As she worked she cast her mind far from the task at hand; her fingers moved automatically; her gaze was unfocused, seeking deep into the dazzling pattern emerging from the weft.
    ‘Enchantress,’ she entreated. ‘This lowly servant would seek counsel. Bless this one with your guidance.’
    For every pass of the shuttle was a prayer sent; every shift in the woof a revelation. ‘O Queen—’
    And came the answer, that cool gentle voice so familiar: Greetings, Agayla Atheduru Remejhel. Most valued servant. Always I welcome your wisdom .
    ‘My Queen. I beg an audience. News has come. Though my heartis heavy with the weight of it, I may have an answer to that problem we have spoken of.’
    And the answer came, full of understanding and thus sharing in that same heaviness: Bring her .
    Agayla clamped her hands upon the loom, stilling the mechanism. She blinked to return her vision to the dawn’s light. It took many slow breaths to calm the hammering of her heart. An audience. It has been so many years. Oh, Kiska … what have I done? Yet how else could I stop you? She saw before her how her tears darkened the polished wood.
    *    *    *

    At night in an alley in Banith, four men dressed in loose dark clothes crouched, whispering. ‘All we have to do is walk in!’ said one. ‘The door isn’t even locked.’
    ‘This foreigner claims he keeps it open,’ added the second, aside.
    ‘It’s open. What are we waiting for?’
    After a moment’s silence, the third cleared his throat. ‘It’s consecrated ground. We shouldn’t spill blood there.’
    ‘Consecrated to what? ’ said the first. ‘Some nameless foreign entity? The man’s a charlatan. A fake. He’s just pocketing everything. It’s a mockery.’
    ‘No one’s seen him take any coin from anyone,’ pointed out the third.
    ‘He eats, doesn’t he?’ the first answered. The third nodded, conceding the argument.
    ‘Perhaps he eats what his followers provide,’