The Fragile Threads of Power (Threads of Power, #1)

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” she said, as if this were just a bedtime story or a bit of gossip, something that would keep. “Sleep well, little rabbit.”

Tesali swept the owl into her arms, and pressed it to her front. She sat, shaking, on her bedroom floor as the door swung shut. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the little owl. “I’m sorry.”

She knelt there, mind spinning over what she’d done, what she’d said, as she listened to the sound of her sister’s retreating steps, heard her father’s join them, followed by the creak of stairs as they went down into the shop below.

And then she was on her feet, sprinting into the hall.

Tesali had always been mature for her age. Independent to a fault. But in that moment, she wanted her mother. Wanted to feel her soothing touch, and hear her say that it would be all right. That it was bound to come out sooner or later, that she had only needed to hide the talent when she was little.

But as she stood in her mother’s room, and showed her the owl, and told her what Serival had seen, her mother’s face lost all its color. And when Tesali was done, she did not tell her daughter it would be all right, did not say they’d find a way, that Serival would never do her youngest sister harm. No, she turned, and went to her dresser.

“Where is Serival now?”

“In the shop, with Father.”

Her mother nodded and pulled out a pouch. “Good,” she said, pressing the pouch into her hands. It was heavy with coins. “You must go.”

Tesali stared down at the money. She didn’t understand. Go? She was twelve years old. This was her home. A cloak settled over her shoulders. Quick fingers tied the laces at her throat. She found herself saying all the things she’d come to hear.

“It will be all right.”

“I’ll say I stole the bird.”

“We will think of something.”

“Look at me,” said her mother, gripping her arms, and when she did, there was fear in her mother’s eyes. Her mother, who mourned each daughter’s absence like a death, who longed to have them all home. Her mother, who often joked that at least she had Tesali. Would always have Tesali.

“I won’t do it again,” she said, but it was a lie, and they both knew it. When you had a power, not using it was like trying to hold your breath underwater. Sooner or later, something made you come up for air.

Tesali didn’t know she’d been crying until her mother smoothed the tears from her cheeks.

There was pain in her mother’s face, but not surprise, and Tesali realized she’d been waiting for this day, had known it would come. Her mother kissed her forehead, and pulled her close, and whispered into the wild of her hair.

“Your power is yours. Let no one else claim it.”

And then she pulled back, taking the warmth with her. “Now go.”

For once, Tesali did as she was told.

The house was quiet, save for Esna, humming softly in the kitchen. Tesali crept past, down the stairs to the front door, where the shoes were left.

She started for her soft-soled slippers, then stopped, and changed course. She almost took Serival’s—they were leather with laces that wound like corset bindings up the front, and toes capped in silver—but didn’t, in case her sister might use the boots to track her. In the end, Tesali reached for Esna’s sturdy boots instead, peeled off her socks and pushed them down into the toes to make them fit.

Then she opened the door and crept out, past the house, and the windows of her father’s shop, before taking off down the street.





V


Go, her mother had said.

Perhaps she should have asked, How far?

Perhaps she should have asked, How long should I hide? But she hadn’t, afraid the answers would be like rocks in her pockets, weighing her down until she couldn’t move.

Tesali kept the owl pressed to her chest as her stolen boots sounded on the stone road.

It was almost dark when she reached the docks. The sun was gone, but not gone out, the waning light hugging the horizon, turning the ships there to shadows. But in Tesali’s eyes, the world was always bright.

The dock market was shuttered for the day, the stalls collapsed, sailors now loading whatever they’d failed to sell back onto their ships. The vessels looked like birds, some readying for flight, others pulling in their wings, bedding down for the night.

She found the sailor at the far end of the docks, hefting a crate of unsold things toward a narrow ship. The silver tokens in his hair caught the last of the sun. The pale blue of his magic shone on the air.

“You again,” he said as she ran up, dragging to a breathless stop. Her cheeks were flushed, her curls escaping. She must have looked as wild as she felt, because he glanced over her shoulder to see if she was being chased. “Are you in some trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Then take it somewhere else,” he said, turning away.

Her eyes darted to the ship. “Is that yours?”

He grunted, a sound that could have been either yes or no, save for the fact he was in the process of carrying a crate up the ramp. She followed in his wake, but he stopped at the top and turned, blocking her way. “Go on. Don’t need you tracking mud on my deck.” She looked down at her boots before realizing it was a turn of phrase.

“Please—” she started.

“—is a nice word for fine company,” he said, jerking his head toward Hanas. “Now go home. It’s past your bedtime, little lady.”

Tesali bristled. “I can pay,” she said, feeling the weight of the coins in her pocket.

“Not enough for the trouble,” said the sailor.

Her eyes dropped to the crate in his arms. “You won’t get much for broken magic.”

He cocked a brow. “Insulting my wares now?”

“But you could,” she continued, “if it was fixed.”

What are you worth? her father asked.

She was about to find out.

“I can fix broken things,” she said. “Sometimes, I can even make them better.”

She opened her cloak, revealing the little owl he’d sold her earlier that day.

“What do you think?” she asked, and before he could say that it looked the same, the owl twitched in answer to the question, and tucked its head under one wing, and began to preen the place where its feathers would be.

The sailor jumped, and then let out a barking laugh that caught her off guard. It was rich and full, and delighted. “I’ll be a priest,” he swore.

She tucked the skeleton away. “I have a knack,” she said.

“I can see that.”

“If you take me wherever you’re going, I’ll fix everything you couldn’t sell.”

He studied her. “What is your name?” he asked, and she almost told him. But then she stopped. Names had value. And her father taught her never to give a thing away for less than it was worth. Especially something you couldn’t buy back. She thought of giving him Serival’s name, but the idea left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she knew it would make her jump, every time he said it. So in the end, she bit off the first part of her own, and gave him that.

“It’s Tes.”

“Well, Tes,” he said, setting down the crate and holding out his hand. “You have a deal.” They shook on it, her hand swallowed up in his as he drew her aboard the ship.

His name, she soon learned, was Elrick. His ship was the Fal Chas.

The Good Luck.

“Where’s the crew?” she asked, and he spread his arms, as if to say me, but also, perhaps, to say us.

“She is light, and sweet,” he said, patting the hull. “And she gets jealous easily. But you’re small enough, I hope she won’t be cross and try to drown you.”

He had a way of flattening his tone when he spoke, which made it impossible to tell if he was joking. (She would learn that while Elrick was a sailor now, he’d been a soldier, first, which had given him a very dry humor.)

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