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This is the second part of Chapter 3 of I Am The North, the first installment of the Sitka Saga trilogy.
Shared with permission, written by Rae Wojcik.
Chapter 3: The Memory Circle | Sitka
Part 2
Late that night, after the blotchy ink has sufficiently dried on my letter, I fold it up and descend the creaking staircase to the first floor of our cottage. Father and Skye occupy the worn armchairs near the woodstove, sipping from copper mugs as they talk in low voices. As soon as they notice me, however, they stop.
“Are you doing better?” Father asks, standing.
Skye does the same. Her dark hair is up in a bun and she has traded her cotton cloak for one of dark green wool, her sturdy hands adorned with a latticework of swirling black designs. It must be a ceremony night.
Everyone said that Skye and my mother had often been mistaken for twins, despite being born two years apart. I can hardly remember what Mother looked like, and I find my recollection of her has become conflated with Skye. Sometimes, when I was younger, Father told me to tell strangers that Skye was my mother, usually when we were traveling or when someone new was visiting town. I never really knew why, but it was easy enough to go along with it. Even today I almost imagine them as the same person.
“A bit.” I hand Father the letter. “Could you drop this off in town tomorrow?”
Father takes the letter, and he and Skye exchange a knowing look as they read the address.
Skye cocks an eyebrow. “Not one to give up, are you?”
I shrug. “Guess not.”
Father puts the letter in his basket near the entryway before relaxing back into his armchair. A newspaper sits beside him, and its headline catches my eye. Jailbreak from Grath Prison: Prisoner Set to Be Executed Escapes.
“What’s that about?”
Father follows my gaze to the paper. “Oh, that! It seems there was a jailbreak a week ago; a woman was imprisoned for being a Seer, but before she could be executed, she broke out. I guess she’s on the run and hasn’t been heard from since.”
My eyebrows raise. “How?”
Father shakes his head. “That’s the funny thing. Apparently, an old tree grew into the bars on her window so quickly that it broke the bars apart.”
My body goes still. An old tree can’t spontaneously break bars apart. “But that can’t—”
“Must have had a pretty good Naturalist on their team,” Skye says, stooping to pick up a covered basket. “I’ve met a few who could have done such things that quickly.”
“You probably could,” Father says.
Skye lifts the hood of her cloak and gives a slight smile. “It wasn’t me. I promise.”
I look back to the paper, biting my lip. I feel for the poor Seer woman—that she was set to be executed in the first place, and for the many like her who weren’t so lucky as to escape. I don’t know why the Southern Province thinks so poorly of magic as to have mages executed, but it seems to have become one of their favorite pastimes. Even here in Elm most mages are afraid of practicing since the annexation happened. While there hasn’t been a constant presence of Provincial officials in town, it's rumored that they have spies in every village. I’m not sure whether they’d actually take a Northerner to court, but none of us want to be the first to find out.
“Are you going to the Circle?” I ask Skye.
She gives a somber nod. “A few of us are gathering to honor Sigrid and the child.”
“I’ll come, too.” I jump up from the couch and grab my cloak from its hook on the wall.
“You will do no such thing,” Skye says firmly. “You need to rest.”
“No, I want to go. Need to go.” I fasten the clasp of my cloak and look to Father. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”
His shoulders fall and he gives me a pitying sort of smile. “She was your friend. Of course, you can go.”
Skye crosses her arms. I can tell she disagrees, but she turns from Father and cocks her head to the door. “Come along, then,” she says. I follow her through the adjoining barn and out into the misty night.
“This isn’t the ceremony for the family, right?” I ask as I follow Skye’s long strides. Ever since being appointed Priestess of the Elm region, Skye had been dutiful about honoring every birth, marriage, and death at the Circle, just like every Priestess since Sage the Great had.
“No, not until the fortieth day. This is just an informal gathering to honor her spirit. It felt wrong to do nothing.”
The two of us catch the trail that leads out from behind our cottage and begin the climb uphill, the evening perfectly still except for our footsteps and the gentle swish of our cloaks against the rocky path. The mist has completely obscured the stars, and as soon as we leave the light of our farm, I wish I had brought a lantern. But there is no need; almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind, Skye holds out her palm and a dancing blue ball of flame erupts, casting the darkness aside. Most Naturalists had command over just one element, but Skye was able to tame them all. It was thanks to this talent that she’d been named Priestess, and I don’t think Elm could have chosen a more dedicated woman to carry that honor.
“I have some news for you,” Skye says, as we continue the trail uphill.
My heart sinks. “Oh?” I don’t know what this news is exactly, but after everything that’s happened today, I can’t imagine it being anything good.
“You don’t have to sound so downtrodden—it’s not bad news. I’ve heard from Elan Smith. It seems he can make a trip to Elm after all and should arrive within a few days.”
A small breath escapes my lips. A longtime family friend, Elan Smith had lived in the Borderlands District—the northernmost district of the Southern Province—for many years. His annual trip up to Elm was the highlight of every summer. I delighted in listening to his tales from the South, and as a child would marvel at his ability to sniff out magic like our sled dogs could sniff out discarded food. Elan hadn’t been able to visit in the two years since he moved from the Borderlands District all the way down to Grath on the very southern tip of the Southern Province. But I’d always hoped he’d find a way to make the long journey back to Elm someday.
“That is wonderful news,” I say, and although my chest still weighs heavy with the loss of Sigrid, this news makes me feel just an ounce better. Maybe all is not lost in the world quite yet. Maybe there is something in the world I can look forward to.
We continue hiking for twenty minutes, following the thick outlines of moose tracks until eventually the trail narrows even further, and we come across the silhouette of a leaning, abandoned barn. There’s movement next to the barn, the shifting figures of about a dozen people, their faces turning toward us as we approach.
“Hello,” Skye says with a bow of the head, and the others all return the gesture. Among them is Aaralyn, our neighbor, along with Flora and Mr. Fintan, the wizened little man who owns Elm’s bookshop. “Thank you all for being here tonight. Follow closely.”
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