Wheat had not wintered well. The Lowland invasion last fall had forced her to stray far to the western highlands with her flock this winter past and she was having a tough journey back to the Middlelands with her Jacob Sheep. The ewes were heavy with lamb, the paths were steep. To compound her hardship, sudden spring rains had swollen the rills and streams as she herded the sheep east, birthing freshets along Glacier Pass that blocked her usual trek, delaying her return. These past few days the smell of smoke increased as she trekked east. Now she was close enough to glimpse it like sooty fog settling into the river valleys under the shadow of the Northland Glacier, burn out from the Crystal Caves that lay behind her now, she had no doubt. The haze of smoke on the horizon struck her with fear at what may have been unleashed from the days of old, but there had been no summon--not that she could have seen any fire in the sky, so far removed from her usual path was she.
Although unavoidable, Wheat's tardiness meant that she had completely missed the World's Fair in Middlemarch, something that had not happened in decades. It was a crying shame, for the fair committee looked to her to judge the skirted fleeces and the finer hand spun yarns. Known far and wide as a fiber savant, she had only to touch fleece to ken its animal family, staple length, loft and future twist. She could even envision the resultant garment and the properties it would have, although this knowledge she kept to herself unless asked.
Only the large felted backpack under her oilskin cloak or the twin crystals knotted around the curl of her shepherd's crook with sheep gut string could possibly give her away, had anyone been near enough to notice. After a close encounter with a band of Lowlanders last fall had sent her scurrying to the western prairies with her sheep, she had seen nary a middle lander or north lander since the winter snows had blocked the migratory footpaths. The shepherds she encountered out west had little knowledge of the twelve or their yarns, although she dared reveal nothing because magic was still forbidden in all the lands.
As if reading her mind, the amber crystals on her staff clicked and clacked together softly in the breeze, chattering to each other in a way they hadn't for years. Crystallized amber from the Burnt Caves, each cabochon encased a large beetle imprisoned within when the crystal had not yet hardened. These rare jeweled coffins were dulled now, weathered by seasons past, but Wheat could recall a time when each scarab glowed with an opaque fire, the beetles preserved for eternity lit from within. Catching the roughened orbs in her hands, Wheat gave the them a gentle squeeze and thought she felt a pulse of warmth in reply. But when she scrutinized the crystals, they remained dormant. With a sigh, she let them loose to swirl to and fro around her staff. Although curious at their sudden liveliness, Wheat had more immediate things to worry about.
What worried Wheat were simple day to day hand to mouth quandaries. She had several rams to cull from her current herd, many of her ewes were due to lamb this spring and she was sorely short of Northland Silver. She hated to hazard the handsome price her yearling rams would have brought under the exotic breed auction tent at the World's Fair in Middlemarch. Small and hardy, their coats glistened black and white, the tiny horns three and four to a head, each marking unique, genetically perfect for stud.
