Brightly Woven

to melt together beneath my feet.
    When the men from Saldorra came to trade their water for our dirt, I thought, wouldn’t they be surprised at what they found?
    The scent of rain and dust was dizzyingly wonderful, and I wished for a bottle to capture it. A new carpet practically wove itself in my mind, and I could see how to bring the blues together with the silvers and browns. I could almost imagine what the village would look like spotted with green. We wouldn’t be forced to work so hard, every single day.The possibilities were freeing beyond my wildest dreams.
    I found my basket right where I had left it, where the sun could dry the roots that Henry and his brothers had helped me pull from the ground. They were a soggy mess, but I didn’t think my mother would mind.
    I wrapped my arms around the basket, holding it closely to my chest, breathing deeply. I would stay up here a little while longer, where only the rain could touch me.
    Suddenly I could hear voices rising from below even with the fierce pattering of rain against the rocks. Only they were not raised in joy, they were shouts coming in a different tongue.
    I pushed the wet hair off my cheeks and was to the ledge in three short steps, bracing my basket against my hip.
    There were horses and men in the field just beyond the mountain, hundreds of them. Their scarlet uniforms were a blur from my vantage point, a long, twisting line of men and beasts.
    My eyes drifted along the river of red, twisting down the pass. Behind the first group of horses were wagons, their wheels now trapped in the yellow mud. It looked as if the soldiers behind them were pushing vainly as the horses struggled to pull them free.
    They weren’t bringing in the usual trade of water.
    I took a step back, colliding with something solid, my startled cry muffled by a hand. I was pulled away from the ledge, spinning toward the overhang of rock.
    “Don’t scream,” someone said in my ear. “I’m going to let you go, but don’t scream, all right?”
    I nodded, holding my basket tightly.
    The man let me go without a moment’s hesitation. I whirled around, the basket coming up to smack the side of his face. He staggered back, but before I could bolt past him, he had me by the arm again, and this time his grip wasn’t as forgiving.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked. I kept my eyes diverted, looking for a way to escape, to overpower him. He wouldn’t let me; he hauled me around and pinned me there. The happiness in my heart was entirely gone, replaced by fear.
    The stranger wasn’t dressed in a Saldorran uniform as I would have expected a scout to be, but in simple clothes. He looked to be about my age, maybe a few years older. I watched the rain drip down the length of his long nose and collect in his dark, uncombed hair. There was a small cut on his face where the sharp edge of my basket had caught his skin, but it was nothing compared to the bruise on his other cheek.
    I let myself admit that he had a roguish charm about him. Some hint of softness in his eyes, at least. No, he wasn’t a soldier, but he was still a stranger, a vagabond, maybe. Even if I hadn’t seen his face, his worn boots and torn cloak would have told his story. The pressure of his hand on my arm became nearly unbearable, yet it wasn’t until I let out a gasp of pain that he released me.
    “Are you from the village?” His words came out in an urgent rush. “From Cliffton?”
    I nodded. “Why are the soldiers here? Do you have any idea why—?”
    “Can you take me to the elder?”
    “My father?” At that, I did take a step back.
    “Is he in the village now?” I wasn’t sure how to respond, and he must have been able to tell. He took my arm again, this time far more gently. “You can trust me—I’m here to help you. Is your father in the village, or has he left for the capital?”
    The sound of horses and men below drifted in and out of my ears. I searched for a reason to distrust him, but instead I saw the desperation in his face, the real concern.
    He had a kind face, even with the dirt, even with his wounds.
    “Yes,” I said finally. “He is. I can take you to him.”
    He took my other arm, pulling me toward him so quickly the basket slipped from my hands. It was the last sound that reached my ears, for in the next moment even the rain disappeared. The man brought his black cloak up around us, pulling me close to him. The world spun away under our feet. I felt my stomach lurch and