The Luck of Brin's Five by Cherry; Wilder

wicker stools; three ancients, all female, old as Gwin.
    They were still, their faces hidden, their limp bodies moving a little with the motion of the old keel boat. And I saw why the sight of them, strange and terrible as it was, moved me to pity rather than terror.
    â€œIt is a death-pact,” I said. “See . . . their hands.” The wrists of the three old persons were firmly bound with a red cord.
    â€œHow?” whispered Diver.
    â€œPoison. It is an old thread we follow. See the cups.” Two cups and a cracked beaker rolled about on the table top.
    â€œCome away,” said Diver. “Poor old creatures. . . . Aren’t they female?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “We must go down.”
    â€œNo need.”
    â€œYes!” I was urgent. I did not dare look back to the friendly shape of the barge in case my nerve failed.
    â€œPlease, Diver. We are the first finders of a death-pact. We must pray and take their message skein.”
    Diver nodded, and we went down the slippery ladder into the hold. I began the prayers as soon as I came to the foot of the steps, stumbling over the words in my haste. I picked at the fringe of my tunic and drew out a red thread; this was going to be the hardest part. With Diver, solemn-faced, watching me and shining the light, I drew back the captain’s leather coat and laid the thread to her forehead. It was not terrible. She was old, wrinkled, pale; now she slept. The same with the other two. Three old sibs, most probably, or relicts of some five with a new bird-boat in happier days.
    There on the table lay a long message skein in yellow flax fiber, teased from a rope. I finished my prayers and took it up, with the required response, near as I could recall. Diver saw that I was ready. He flicked the light around, examined the piece of the twirler’s cape, then flung it aside. We hurried away, catching our breath.
    â€œAnything else?” asked Diver, on the deck.
    â€œWe must show Brin the skein.”
    It had grown much darker, and the crossing from one vessel to the other was more difficult. Coming back to my Family, even so short a distance, was enough to make me shudder and sob with relief.
    We sat in the tent, except Mamor who kept watch, while Brin read the message skein again and again. Her eyes flashed golden in the light of Diver’s torch.
    â€œWhat’s in the wind?” asked the Harper.
    â€œEvil. . . .” said Brin in a fierce tone.
    â€œWhat became of those spirit dancers?” demanded Old Gwin. “Child, tell us. . . .”
    I looked at her and saw the three pale faces in my mind, in contrast to her lively brown wrinkled face. Brin read the skein:
    â€œOur birds have flown.
    Our sweet singers have been hauled from the hold.
    We plied our trade honestly and gave shelter to travellers,
    But now our good keel is dishonored.
    Mother North Wind accept all we can give,
    Ourselves compacted in death.
    Mother North Wind bring deepest ruin
    Upon the hand that strangles the Spirit Warriors.
    Spirit of Eenath, his own kin,
    Be stern upon the Elder Tiath.
    First finders, remember your charge.
    Be blessed if you be not accursed.
    Itho, Lanar, Meedo.
    Bird Carriers out of Cullin.”
    She read the message aloud several times until even Diver understood, with our prompting. Harper Roy went out and told it to Mamor.
    â€œI have put too many in danger,” said Diver. “The twirlers were speaking about my ship. . . .”
    â€œNot you . . .” Old Gwin flashed her favorite finger sign before her eyes like bone scissors. “Not you, young Luck. There’s only one hand at work here and a bloody one. Strangler Tiath has dishonored these poor old bird runners.”
    â€œDragged the twirlers off their boat!” said Brin. “That means he may not be far away. I could wish we were all safe at Whiterock Fold.”
    â€œDoes this mean Tiath Gargan killed all the twirlers?” I asked.
    â€œWho