The Queen’s knitting circle sits in the painted tower, four double-pointed needles and a ball of yarn apiece, as the blackbirds sing in mourning. The sun sets, the stars awake, and points go click, click, click.

Magic, formed with each stitch twist and loop, keeps the candles burning bright.

Mistress Avalard, of the Sing River crossing, uses the pattern her grandmother taught her beside the tollhouse hearth. A string of vines and berries. Winter in the forest. Her socks banish weariness, and holding them, she can hear the trees whisper two miles away.

“Did you see what the honour girls were wearing last night? Those necklines. Those satin shoes! You’d think they were at the summer court.”

Night wears on, the young and very old sleep on in the castle where they’ve sheltered for seven long war years. A shadow falls over the moon.

Lady Verde follows her maid’s instructions. She’s never knit a sock in her life. She mutters the rhyme of it under her breath as she turns the heel. A plain pattern. Beige yarn. Reliable and strong.

The king is dead.

The war in the west rages on and the war in the east slips by. The war in the north freezes solid and the war in the south…well, at least there’s little to be said about that. No news is good news. There’s a map on the table around which they all sit.

Knitting socks for soldiers.

Keeping busy.

“Paulina, did you say your husband was coming home for winterfeast? That’ll be nice, won’t it?”

Archduchess Paulina Naieve made socks as a girl but not since she put up her hair. Not since she went to her husband’s castle in the highlands. She paints now, scenes of mountain passes where the traders meet, and dogs. She’s forever painting dogs. Her socks, a little loose — her tension’s always been off — are blue like the sea. The sea and its power are bound to each stitch.

“My eldest got back from the oracle yesterday. She thinks we might see peace this year. Who would have thought it? Peace in our time.”

Glances are exchanged in silence. A chill intake of breath moves around the circle. Remembering, the King is dead, and this is a knitting circle.

Geraldine de Verdigris knits ten shades of green, from the forest floor to the moss on the castle wall. She has five daughters and five sisters. The pattern keeps to the Southwold twist and bristle. She could knit it in her sleep. Her husband died in battle far away, with his socks worn through at the heel. She is quiet, tall, and ready.

Widow Knight is knitting her socks toe-up because she is weird.

Katerina of the Summer Spring, a ward of the fae, knits her socks without touching the needles, reclining in the chair. She is a promise of good intentions. Her socks glow in the dark but even she has the good sense to start with the cuff.

Knitting socks for soldiers.

Keeping busy.

“Oh, I heard back from the sword-smith in Troll Bridge. She’s accepted my twins as apprentices. It’s such a relief to get them settled.”

The King is dead. Home from the battlefront for only two days, looking for the welcome from his wife he thought he deserved. Instead, a knife between his ribs as he slept. One less thing to worry about. Time to end this, once and for all.

The Queen knits her own socks for the first time in years. She likes the rough feel of the yarn, the tightness of her stitches, the usefulness of her hands. She uses needles thinner than a daisy stem, making tiny twists and lace.

When each finishes their work, they take the darning needle from the one who finished before, binding up the toes and weaving in the ends. Then each lays her socks over the arm of her chair and waits.

“There’s a storm brewing in the west. Dragons they say, perhaps. Fire in the skies.”

The Queen finishes last. She has to. No one can keep knitting if she sits idle. While they wait they pass the finished socks between them, feeling the magic imbued in each stitch. It rushes through their blood and bones like fire.

Each member of the circle holds out first one and then the other to the Queen. She inspects their work, takes it to the window for the dawn light, testing the power of the patterns and the strength of the yarn. Her fingers taste the magic and what each will bring to the fight.

They hold their breath and know they have done their best. They know they are ready. Thirteen women with their hair bound up and their sturdy boots beside their chairs.

The Queen chooses.

She takes the late King’s sword from beside the fire and holds it out to Geraldine de Verdigris, mother of the Southwold. “You shall take command of the armies in the west. Go, with my blessing.”

“By your leave, my queen.”

“Mistress Avalard, Katerina, go with her. Your work is powerful but not quite strong enough to bear the duty of command.”

To each women there she gives an order. They put on their socks, their boots, their swords and shields and helms, and take their leave. To Archduchess Naieve, she gives command of the ships. No one is surprised by that.

The Queen’s knitting circle goes to war and the Queen, who knows her craft isn’t strong enough to pass the test of battle, is glad to have such women she can rely on. She chose well when she summoned them.

She calls the court to bury the King in the tomb of his forefathers and stands alone while they do it. Then she returns to the tower, to the centre of all things. Knitting socks for soldiers while she waits.

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Ⓒ Louise Hughes