Woven

by Michael Jensen

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  PROLOGUE: THE TRAVELER’S SECRET

  1: THE KNIGHT OF COBBLESTOWN

  2: THE FESTIVAL

  3: THE AX

  4: A KNIGHT IN THE WOODS

  5: THE PEASANT’S MOTHER

  6: THE TERRACE

  7: THE MAD PRINCESS

  8: UNWOVEN

  9: THE LOOM

  10: REFLECTION

  11: PICKING PANSIES

  12: THE KING’S CHARGE

  13: THE WESTERLY MANSION

  14: THE MOUNTAIN WITCH

  15: THE SHADOWED BOOK

  16: A STONY CONSCIENCE

  17: BEARS AND BEESWAX

  18: WESTMINE CASTLE

  19: HILVAR’S TREASURE

  20: THE MASTER THREADER

  21: MYLAN

  22: THE ETHEREAL DANCE

  23: THE WEAVER’S GATE

  24: THE WHISPERING LIGHTS

  25: BROOKLET’S FLIGHT

  26: EVEN IN DEATH

  27: ALTERATION

  28: THE PEASANT OF AVëRAND

  EPILOGUE: A PROMISING SEAMSTRESS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR’S

  COPYRIGHT

  Dust tickled the side of Kettle’s nose, but he did not bother to scratch it. The torchlit outline of Castle Avërand loomed ahead in the moonless night, like a candle against the stars. He cared little for the grand edifice that stood over Hillshaven, but he traveled toward it anyway.

  What lay within its walls was far more important.

  It’s been a long time. Not much farther now.

  Kettle strolled down the wide country road, carrying a small knapsack over his shoulder, a dim lantern in one hand, and a short walking stick in the other. The weight on his shoulder was light but tiresome. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, appropriate for the warm summer night.

  Torches lined the granite walls that surrounded the city, revealing moss and thick ivies on the old stones. The smell of fresh dew enveloped Kettle’s senses and the trickling of a small brook met his ears, followed by the sight of a bridge. Making his way over the water, he saw a shadow move alongside the base of the southern tower. Kettle smothered his light, crept into the grasses, and peeked through the blades, hoping to catch another glimpse of the shadow before he approached. He waited and watched as torchlight illuminated the figure. It was a young maiden with long golden hair, dressed in a fine summer gown.

  What’s a pretty thing like her doing out in the middle of the night?

  She made her way to the front gate, looking around cautiously. A guard stood from his chair as she neared. “Feeling better, Your Highness?”

  The maiden shook her head. “These insects are awfully loud tonight.”

  “There’s no moon. How else will they find each other?”

  “Open the door — and speak of my leaving to no one.”

  The man frowned as he let her pass and then he locked the door behind her. Intrigued, Kettle reached out his hand to grasp the maiden’s thread. The girl had a strong will, and noble blood flowed through her veins, just like his old friend.

  Could it be?

  Yes. He had no doubt. She was the daughter of his friend, the prince. When he had seen her last, she was nothing more than a babe in a bundle of cloth. Not anymore. She had grown into a striking young woman, a maiden of virtue and fair beauty, as Kettle would have expected from the prince’s bloodline. He would surely see her soon enough, but, for now, he had to introduce himself at the gate and make his way inside. Kettle emerged from the grass.

  “Who’s there?” said the gatekeeper. “What do you want?’ ”

  “I am a lone traveler,” Kettle answered. “No one of consequence.”

  “It’s much too late to be traveling alone, old man. What do you want?”

  “A night’s lodging within your walls, if you would accommodate?”

  “You’re too late to lodge here, stranger. Try the inn at Boarshovel, just down the road.”

  Kettle pressed his back against the wall. “I have come from Harvestport and would rather not retrace my steps. I will wait here, if you don’t mind. I have business inside.”

  “You carry a light load for business …”

  Smiling, Kettle lowered his knapsack and lantern.

  The gatekeeper grunted as he sat down in his chair. “You’ll have to move along.”

  “Would you like some company? I would imagine your job must be quite dull.”

  “Dull? Ha! Frightfully so …” The gatekeeper sighed and then smiled. “Fine — I suppose you can stay. Just don’t try anything. I may not be young anymore, but I can still take you.”

  Kettle chuckled. “So it would appear.”

  “What’s your name then, stranger?”

  “You may call me Kettle.”

  This made the man laugh. “Like Kettlescreek, north of here?”

  “Why, yes,” he said, joining in the laughter. “Just like that.”

  “Curious name for an old goat — mine’s Dyre.”

  Kettle smiled without allowing the remark to insult him. The gatekeeper had judged him only by what he could see. “Thank you for allowing me to rest here. It will give me a chance to study you.”

  Dyre raised his brow. “Study me?”

  “I am an artist, my good man. Inspiration comes best while I watch people. I study their faces, observe the way they move and speak. Every subtle difference fascinates me.”

  Dyre rocked his chair back. “I’d rather not have you stare at me all night.”

  “If you would prefer conversation, there is much I would like to know. It’s been years since I last visited Avërand. Your crops are the healthiest I’ve seen since my youth.”

  “I could oblige that. What would you like to know?”

  “That maiden who entered the gate — who is she?”

  The man hesitated. “Oh, um … I’m afraid I can’t talk about that.”

  Kettle dabbed his finger into a pocket within his sleeve and secretly flicked a drop of blue dye at the gatekeeper. It landed on the man’s hand, unnoticed, and seeped into his skin.

  That should do the trick. “You can tell me; I will not say a word.”

  “She’s King Lennart’s daughter,” the man said without hesitation. His voice, throat, mind, and body had completely relaxed. Blue dye: subtle, yet effective. “She’s not allowed outside this late, but it makes her happy, mostly. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  “Of course, and neither will I. Prince Lennart has assumed the throne, then?”

  “Not that he does much with it — he hasn’t done much of anything since his father was murdered.”

  Kettle nodded his sympathies. “Yalva. I knew him well. Such a tragedy.”

  “Indeed, it was.” Dyre coughed. “We don’t like to talk of it, even though it happened ages ago — rumors and such. Some say a wizard killed him, if you believe such nonsense.”

  “Right,” Kettle agreed. “Utter nonsense.”

  The gatekeeper cleared his throat. “What else would you like to know?”

  “Much.” Kettle had a long list of questions with hours left before dawn. He decided to save his more delicate questions for later. “What is it like to be the gatekeeper here?”

  Dyre beamed. “Easy, with plenty of perks, the best being this sweet scullery maid who brings me cherry tarts — they’re my favorite!” The man leaned forward and stretched his legs. “I manage the outs and ins from here; three night watches and four day watches a week.”

  Kettle looked at the wooden lever beside Dyre’s chair as the gatekeeper succinctly laid out his occupation. All of this was good to know. “Why do you sit out here and not inside the gate?”

  “The night air is peaceful,” the man said
. “I’ve had no problem at this post for years. And besides, the most I would have to do is pull this lever if danger should ever come this way.”

  “I take it you’ve seen everyone who comes and goes this way?”

  Dyre laughed. “I’ve seen every last soul in Avërand.”

  “Then you know Lady Katharina and her boy, Lief?”

  The gatekeeper furrowed his brow. “I haven’t heard their names in years.” Dyre sat up, placing his hands on his knees. “How do you know of them?”

  “I knew them long ago,” Kettle said. “Are they no longer among the nobility?”

  “They vanished from the castle shortly after King Yalva’s death.”

  Kettle’s smile thinned and then faded. “Do they remain in this land?”

  Dyre frowned as he shook his head. “How should I know?”

  This news made Kettle clench his teeth.

  The boy can’t be gone. He has to be here! She wouldn’t leave …

  All had gone according to plan, but now he would have to improvise.

  “Will he come for the princess?” Kettle asked.

  “Come for … who?” The gatekeeper rubbed his eyes. The dye had worn off.

  Since Kettle’s business no longer resided in the castle, he would have to look elsewhere for the boy; but where else would he be? He had to find him. Kettle’s return to Avërand would be pointless otherwise. He reached out his hand to grasp the boy’s thread, to sense his presence in the land … but he felt nothing.

  If I am to find him, I must stay close to the princess …

  He had no other choice. Kettle focused his eyes on the gatekeeper and studied him. Chin, cheeks, forehead, then ears, eyes, nose. In seconds, Kettle memorized Dyre’s face.

  The gatekeeper squinted as he raised his hand for the lever. “Who are you really?”

  Instantly, Kettle pushed off the wall and shoved Dyre away from the lever. He then covered the gatekeeper’s mouth with one hand, brandished a knife in the other, and grazed its fine edge along the man’s throat. Dyre’s eyes widened as Kettle’s face unraveled and coiled in the air like a spool of fleshy thread — and wove back as a mirror image of the gatekeeper himself.

  “For now,” he said, using Dyre’s voice, “I will be you.”

  Nels did not like the taste of dirt.

  An unrelenting hand pressed down on his head. “Do you give?” Wallin jeered.

  Clenching his jaw, Nels twisted his leg free and rolled Wallin to his side. “Never!”

  The boys around them cheered as the two seventeen-year-old grapplers leaped back to their feet and watched for the other to make his next move. Nels held out his arms, waiting for Wallin’s counterattack. A layer of dust, bonded by sweat, caked their skin — and Wallin had removed his shirt, making it even more difficult for Nels to gain a firm hold. Nels smiled confidently as he eyed the steps of his opponent. He had never lost a match to Wallin before — he wasn’t about to let Wallin win now.

  Nels let go of his breath as a summer breeze touched his sandy-brown hair. He had only a short time to finish his chores, so it was unwise of him to use the last of the day’s light to accept this challenge — but it wasn’t like Nels to turn down a match with Wallin in front of an audience. Wallin had something to prove, apparently; otherwise he wouldn’t have come all this way or stayed so late. Nels watched him. Timing and strategy were Nels’s strongest assets — although his height and strength were certainly helpful as well.

  Go for his leg?

  No. Wallin would expect that.

  Fake a grab and then go for his leg?

  That might work.

  Making his move, Nels jumped to the side, ducked for Wallin’s leg, and quickly threw him off-balance. He then tossed his weight and rolled Wallin onto his stomach, leaped for his head, and planted his face deep into the upturned soil. No matter how hard he struggled, Wallin would never escape this hold.

  The boys counted: “One — two — three!”

  And the match was over.

  “Enough!” Wallin spat as he tapped the ground. “I give!”

  Releasing his grasp on Wallin, Nels reached out his hand and helped his friend to his feet, all while the young spectators clapped. Nels remained their champion, and he planned to keep it that way.

  “How’d you know I was coming after you like that?” Wallin asked.

  Nels laughed. “Knights always anticipate the moves of their opponents.”

  “Yeah …” Wallin mustered a sore smile. “We’re not exactly knights yet.”

  “Nels!” A woman called to him from the cottage at the south end of the field. “What are you doing? Stop fooling around and finish your furrows. Go on home, you lot — all of you!”

  Wallin chuckled as he shook his red head and patted the dust from his trousers. “I’ll get you yet,” he promised. “One of these days, I’ll get you — unless that old nag beats me to it.”

  Nels readied his fists. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

  “With all this work, she’s more like a slave master!”

  Nels threw a playful punch, one that Wallin avoided with ease. Wallin threw the next fist, also easy to dodge. One of the young boys stepped in to prevent a third. No — it was a girl. Jilia’s boyish, short, dark-brown hair had misled Nels again. The girl scowled at the shirtless Wallin. “Knock it off, you ruffian!” she said with childish formality. “You’ve lost this day.”

  Wallin glanced down at her and laughed. Picking up his shirt, he ran toward Cobblestown with the others, leaving Jilia and Nels alone.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Nels said. “We weren’t serious, you know.”

  “I know.” Jilia picked up a stone and chucked it at Wallin. The projectile bounced off a tree’s trunk instead. “But they should respect the Knight of Cobblestown … and your squire …”

  “My squire?” Nels said. “Is that why you keep following me?”

  The girl crossed her arms, a blush rising in her cheeks. “It’s my duty.”

  “Then fetch me that spade, milady; I have a field to vanquish!”

  Jilia dashed straight for the tool and placed the handle in his hand.

  Nels could not contain his smile. “You didn’t have to do that, either.”

  “Well, until you become a squire, you’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “Guess that means I better hurry up then.” Nels winked.

  The girl furrowed her thick brow. “When will that be?”

  “When will I ask you to go fetch something else?”

  “No, you dolt! When will you become a squire?”

  Nels glanced at the cottage and the white clouds beyond. He did not have a ready answer for her question, one that he had asked himself many times. The knighthood chose their squires once each year, an event that Nels had yet to experience firsthand. Tomorrow was the big day.

  “You’ll have to take that up with my mother. Knowing her, it’s out of the question.”

  “What’s with your mother? She’s so prim and proper — she never lets you do anything.” Jilia scrunched her small nose. “My father lets me do whatever I want, and I turned out fine!”

  Nels smirked as he looked at the torn sleeve of her hand-me-down shirt. Patches covered her trousers, frayed shoes barely fit her feet, and her ankles drowned in oversized stockings. Her round cheeks had splotches of dirt on them, all but hidden by her small, charming smile. Unlike Nels, she had no mother, raised with her five brothers on a pear orchard on the other side of town.

  Inversely, Nels had no father — none that he knew of, anyway. “I’m all my mother has.”

  “Not if you get married!” The girl slugged him in the shoulder.

  “Hey!” Nels rubbed at the smart. “What was that for?”

  “That’s what’ll happen if you marry someone other than me.”

  Nels raised his brow, his deep-green eyes at home among the oak leaves that surrounded them. He hadn’t expected their conversation to suddenly veer down this thor
ny path. Nothing so bold had ever come out of the thirteen-year-old’s mouth. Nels had to keep his tone light if he wanted to come out of this unscathed. “Marriage? Aren’t you a little young to be thinking such a thing, Jilia?”

  The girl shrugged and spat phlegm over her shoulder. “If things keep going the way they are, you’ll still be living here, and then” — a soft pink rose to Jilia’s cheeks, making her small freckles stand out more — “I’ll be old enough …”

  Nels tried his best to laugh subtly. “I think I’ll keep you as my squire for now.”

  “Sure.” Her voice fell flat. “Well, I’d better go, but you will come to the festival, won’t you?”

  “We’ll see what happens,” Nels said. “I’ll ask my mother over supper.”

  “Good, because you may not have another chance. Please, please come!”

  “I’ll do my best,” he answered, with a more sincere smile.

  “You always do.” She winked back. “See you then!”

  The girl ran across the field, stepping clumsily over the furrows. Nels shook his head, smiling as he watched her go. His friends were interesting; Jilia followed Nels whenever he went into town — not that he went to town often — and Wallin turned every encounter between them, from eating pies to shaking hands, into a competition. Still, they were his friends. And they believed in his dream.

  It would be dark in a few minutes — not enough time left to sow the barley seeds and other vegetables that needed planting. A thick forest of white oak trees surrounded their land, hiding their little cottage from the world. Their shrouded path traveled east into Cobblestown, not more than a half-hour’s journey on foot, half that on horseback. Not that Nels would know; his mother forbade him from riding horses after Old Brown had — just once — bucked him off.

  Nels leaned forward and dug another furrow.

  “Some knight I am …”

  Despite his efforts to talk himself out of it, he could not surrender his desire to become a knight of Avërand. Everyone in the village approved, and many were surprised that Nels was not already among their ranks. He was old enough and strong enough, and plenty had vouched for his bravery. When the townsfolk saw him save a half-buried man from a rockslide last summer, they hailed Nels as their hero. And after he jumped into the river to rescue the locksmith’s daughter from drowning, they called him “The Knight of Cobblestown.”