The old man chuckled and winked mischievously. “Some youth labor so hard, they do not know what they accomplish.” He reached into his pocket. “I came to give this to your mother.” He placed a spool of white thread in Nels’s hand. “I commend your obedience, but if you should change your mind about the festival …” He then placed a small brass thimble in Nels’s other hand. It was cool to the touch. “Good afternoon to you.”
Nels watched the old man leave for the road before he looked at his chores again. He could not have finished them all. Had the sun gone to his head? Was something else at work here? For now, there was no time to find answers — only enough time to get ready.
He ran inside, washed his face, and slipped on the shirt and green vest he saved for going into the village. Good thing he had wet his hair outside; his loose locks were now tamed across his forehead. Nels laid the thimble and spool of thread on the counter and started for the door, only to hear a chime at his feet. He spun around. The thimble had rolled toward the threshold and had come to a stop in front of him. Rather than retrace his steps, Nels shoved the bit of brass into his pocket and opened the door.
The bright sun lingered just beyond the middle of the sky as Nels stepped outside. Their field was perfect. Never before had their property looked so well tended. Mother would not be home for three hours, at least. If he timed this right, she would never know he left. At long last, he was about to have his chance. Nels ran after the old man without bothering to look back.
He should have.
One by one, every chore unraveled to the way it was before.
A cool breeze rustled the dark leaves over Nels’s head as he sprinted to catch up with the old stranger, who had already reached the divide where the shrouded path unfolded into a grassy meadow. Either Nels had taken a long time to get ready, or he had greatly underestimated the old man.
The man’s weathered cheeks cupped a wide smile. “Changed your mind?”
Nels nodded as he paused to catch his breath.
“Good. Squirrels are less likely to pounce with you here.”
“Squirrels?” Nels glanced up, catching a serious look in the man’s eye.
“Indeed. Vicious little hoarders. They always go after my spools and batting!”
Releasing a wary laugh, Nels pressed on beside the man. The dirt road arched eastward with the rolling hills before them, away from the tall white oaks. The first hill lay just ahead, lush and green, with thick grasses and drooping purple flowers that basked in the summer sun. It was a beautiful day — and a mysterious one.
Nels studied the stranger and his cane. “How do you know my mother?”
The old man glanced at Nels, his brow slightly beaded with sweat. His lips thinned as the same wide smile spread over his face again. “She was one of my better pupils some years ago. I taught her everything about her trade. I see she has done well for herself … with your help, of course.”
“I do what I can,” Nels said, “but she never mentioned you before.”
“She may prefer not to. I work in the castle, you see.”
Nels stared him in the face. “You do?”
“I do. I am the tailor of Avërand.”
Something about his answer made Nels stop. He had heard of this man. The tailor was the greatest cloth maker in the kingdom, an artisan who attended to the royals’ fabric needs. “Wait — you’re the tailor of Avërand?” Nels said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
“And you, dear boy. Are you sure your mother never mentioned me?”
Nels shook his head. “Never.”
“Well, Katharina should have told you by now.”
“Katharina?” Nels had never heard that name before. “Who’s that?”
“Why, your mother, of course.”
That wasn’t her name at all. Nels’s suspicion returned. What kind of friend was this man if he did not even remember her name? “You’re mistaken; my mother’s name is Norell.”
“Ah,” the man said. “Thank you for correcting me. My memory is not what it once was.”
“Right,” Nels replied, still a bit suspicious. “So what should she have told me?”
“That is Norell’s responsibility to answer.”
Nels kicked a small rock off the road. Maybe the tailor’s mistake was just that. The man was old, after all. Many men his age could not tell the difference between breakfast and supper, let alone remember names from long ago. “She doesn’t tell me much,” Nels said.
“Then we had better acquaint ourselves.” The tailor bowed. “I am Ickabosh, but you may call me Bosh, as your mother once did. If I remember right, your name is Lief, correct?”
“Lief?” Nels could not help but laugh. “Wrong again — I’m Nels.”
Bosh chuckled. “See what I did? I said the first name that came to mind and you corrected me with your proper name — it’s a clever trick.”
“Uh-huh,” Nels said. “You’re an odd old man, you know that?”
“A few weaves short of a basket, perhaps — but still useful.”
A minute later, the two reached the top of a quarry just outside Cobblestown. They could see much of the vast kingdom from the final hill’s summit, and a boisterous noise reached their ears from the village below. Excitement filled the air. Fiddles played. Horns blared. The festival was well underway.
“Let us hurry!” Bosh motioned. “The princess will be here soon.”
“Why are you excited about that? Don’t you see her all the time?”
“Naturally — but I want to see your reaction when she arrives.”
That seemed an odd thing to want. Why would he care? Nels shoved his hand into his pocket and felt the thimble against his knuckles. It surprised him how cool it felt.
“She turned sixteen not long ago,” Bosh said. “I believe you share the age.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Are you really? My, how time passes.”
“I’m sure she’s nice, but what does it matter? I’m a commoner.”
“Then why do you wish to see the festival?”
Nels hesitated before he answered. “To become a knight.”
“A knight, you say?” Bosh squinted at him. “Just like your father.”
“My father?” Nels stumbled a little. “Wait — he was a knight?”
“Slipping seams!” Bosh cursed. “I meant he aspired to be a knight … like you.”
“My mother told me he was murdered. Do you know anything about that?”
Bosh eyed him carefully. “That is for your mother to discuss with you.”
“Please,” Nels said. “If you have any information, I deserve to know.”
Bosh shook his head. “My lips are stitched.”
Glaring at the old man, Nels again fiddled with the thimble in his pocket. The piece of brass still felt cool in his warm hand. “Why did you give me this thimble, anyway?”
“It is for luck,” Bosh said craftily.
“Like a rabbit’s foot?”
“Better. You might even say it has magic! Hold it when you need it most.”
Nels shook his head, trying not to laugh. Magic. He wasn’t one for superstition, nor did he think highly of lucky trinkets, but Nels smirked and gave the old man credit for being unique. A lucky thimble was at least different. This Bosh fellow was eccentric, but he was certainly amusing.
The village had no wall around its close assortment of houses and shops, each bearing roofs of packed yellow straw. Before they reached the edge of the village, Nels could see that everyone was outdoors and moving cheerfully about the decorated lanes. Small blue flags dangled on strings, connecting the numerous booths that filled both sides of the crowded main road. Local vendors and merchants sold their fruits, jewelries, and simmering meats. Children ran through the crowd, chased by playful dogs, begging the merchants for a taste of honeysuckle candies.
All Nels could do was smile. He’d never seen the village so jovial!
“Well, well!” cried Dungus, the cobbler. �
��The Knight of Cobblestown is here!”
Heads turned and faces smiled. A few girls admired him shyly while others waved. Nels returned their welcomes as he swallowed his embarrassment.
“Why do they call you the Knight of Cobblestown?” Bosh asked.
“Well,” Nels began, “they know how much I want to be a knight —”
“Sausages!” interrupted Klen, the butcher. “He saved the locksmith’s girl from the river!”
“And pulled my husband from a rockslide,” Hilga added from another direction. The burly woman neared and tousled Nels’s hair. “Thanks to him, my children have their father.”
Bosh scratched his beard as she left. “You did all that?”
Nels was about to explain how much the villagers exaggerated when someone jumped onto his back. “You’re here!” Jilia wrapped her arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it!”
A sharp blow struck Nels in the shoulder. “I can’t believe it, either,” said Wallin.
Nels rubbed his arm and adjusted the weight on his back. “You can let go, Jilia.”
The girl slid off, grinning impishly. Somewhere in the last several hours, her trousers had found a new hole. “I can’t believe your mother let you come. I will be your escort all day long!”
“Lucky you,” Wallin teased Nels. “You guys hungry? Gamel’s got a spit going.”
Before Nels could answer, Jilia gestured at the old man. “Who’s your friend?”
Bosh’s smile seemed to reach his ears now. “No one of consequence, and I have a small errand to attend to before Their Majesties arrive, anyway. Thank you for accompanying me, Nels. The squirrels know better than to mess with the brave Knight of Cobblestown. Enjoy the festival!”
With that, the old man strode off into the throng.
Wallin knitted his thick brow. “Squirrels?”
Nels nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“Who was he?” Jilia asked.
“A friend of my mother’s,” Nels answered, thinking it best not to mention that he had escorted the tailor of Avërand — his friends would have fewer questions that way. He peered down at Jilia and extended his elbow. The girl looked back with a raised eyebrow. “Show me what a festival’s all about, milady!”
Her face filling with glee, Jilia locked her arm with his.
The three set off into the bustle, sampling fresh pies, playing games, and running races. It did not take long for Nels to feel dizzy amidst all the excitement. Men slapped his back, and girls flirted with him despite Jilia’s warning glares — everyone wanted his attention. The three friends had such a good time that Nels wondered why the village held this event only once a year. He brushed at his hair and glanced up at the sun to make sure he would have enough time to run home.
Just after they browsed the trinkets available at the busy market, a group of people dressed in unusual clothing caught his eye. They wore shirts with bagged sleeves and colorful vests, and skirts embroidered with golden flowers, metallic moons, and crystal stars. They were not from the village, nor even from Avërand. Nels could tell by the unique tailoring of their clothes, their raven hair, and their silvery eyes. They had to be the Vagas, a free-roaming people who lived in the forests on the other side of the Westerly Mountains. He’d never had the opportunity to see them up close, let alone meet them, considering the things that he’d heard about them.
Some of the villagers assembled to watch their cartwheels and other tumbling tricks. A few knights stood by as well, also watching. But apprehensively, with hands on their hilts.
“Can’t trust these Vagas,” one of them muttered.
“Keep watching, or they’ll steal right from under you,” said another.
“If not for Arek,” said a third, “they’d have already run off with the king’s crown!”
“Right you are,” said the first. “They had better leave before Arek shows up.”
Did they mean Sir Arek, the favored knight of Avërand? Nels looked again at the graceful dancers and musicians. The few times he had heard the village people speak of the Vagas, they had done so with disdain. Now that he had seen the Vagas, Nels couldn’t understand the villagers’ contempt. The Vagas resonated with warmth and they played well-rehearsed music, a rare sound for Nels.
The Vaga men strummed instruments and played tambourines while the women twirled about in their long skirts, but the reverie came to an abrupt end when one of the girls fell, thumped in the head by a putrid turnip. The music stopped, and the villagers yelled, booed, and urged the foreign people to leave the village at once as they threw more vegetables. Nels couldn’t believe what they were doing.
He waited for the knights to step in, to keep the peace, but they laughed instead.
The Vagas gathered their belongings and rushed to leave, but the fallen girl struggled to get up. Nels stepped in, blocked another turnip, and helped the girl to her feet. Her silvery eyes gazed back at him through long strands of dark hair. She could have been the same age as Jilia, but her appearance was far more defined. A sapphire stone dangled around her neck. Suddenly, she gasped as she pulled away from his touch. “You are not supposed to be here,” she said, a soft accent on her small lips. “I am sorry.” She gathered her skirt and dashed off with her people.
Her words ran a chill down Nels’s neck. What did she mean by that?
The angry crowd dispersed, and the festival continued as if nothing had happened.
“They’ll be back,” Wallin said. “And we’ll just have to kick ’em out again.”
Shocked by his friend, Nels faced him. “Why would you say that?”
“The knights say they can’t be trusted,” said a strong voice. It belonged to Lars, the blacksmith, his brown hair shorter than usual, making his broad shoulders look even broader. “They tried to steal the crown a few years back. Once thieves, always thieves, those people.”
“Come off it,” Nels said. “You can’t blame a whole people for one crime.”
Wallin thumped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, you can, if it runs in their blood.”
Lars chuckled. “That’s right, Wallin. You remember the story of King Hilvar, the man who ruled the forested Valley of Westmine?” Nels nodded, but the blacksmith carried on. “The Vagas stole a mound of treasure from him hundreds of years ago. Hilvar searched for the rest of his days, but he never found it. The Vagas have decimated that land with witchcraft ever since, summoning demons and keeping the dead from leaving our world. Some say Hilvar searches for his treasures to this day. No one goes to Westmine anymore; they fear the wrath of his ghost.”
“Ghost?” Wallin laughed. “You don’t believe stuff like that, do you?”
“What nonsense,” Nels said. “That happened centuries ago.”
Lars shrugged. “It’s in their blood, that’s all I need to know.” He waved his hand as he left. “The shop’s not the same without you, Nels. Visit more, and say hello to your mother for me.”
Nels frowned as he faced his friends. “They didn’t do anything.” Wallin looked indifferent, and though Jilia didn’t seem to enjoy what had happened, she hadn’t said anything to protest.
“It’s a sly cover,” Wallin said. “They draw in the crowd with entertainment while their little rat children pick our pockets and raid the shops. Living in the woods has made you too trusting.”
“At least I don’t treat people like rubbish!”
Wallin clenched his teeth and rolled up his sleeves.
Jilia thrust herself between them and pointed at the square. “The royals are coming!”
Nels let the argument slide as the girl dragged him to the village square. He could not believe what Wallin had said about the Vagas, or how the knights stood by and laughed as the Vagas were accosted. He felt sorry for the mysterious girl, too. No one deserved such treatment, even if they were criminals. And the girl’s unique and mysterious voice continued to haunt him.
You are not supposed to be here …
She was right — but how did she know?<
br />
Onlookers filled the square as a team of horses trotted into the village. Nels was tall enough to see without having to peer around the heads in front of him. Stewards blew horns as the knights entered, wearing black coats of leather armor. The largest of them was a burly man with dark hair and hazel eyes. Two squires followed him on foot, holding tall banners. Davin and Alvil were the squires’ names, boys from the villages of Kettlescreek and Watersfork. Nels knew them well, having heard of their appointments last year. They were younger than Nels — by a few years.
“That’s Sir Arek,” Jilia pointed. “He’s the favored knight of Avërand.”
“And the biggest,” Nels replied. “I’d hate to have a go with him.”
Jilia almost sneered at the knight as a couple entered on white horses.
Everyone but Nels knelt as they arrived. Wallin tugged at Nels’s sleeve, urging him to do the same. He did not understand why until he noticed the couple’s fine clothing and golden crowns — King Lennart and Queen Carin. The red-haired king looked side to side and waved halfheartedly, his gaze vacant and dispassionate. In contrast, the queen beamed a bright smile and blew sincere kisses, her blond bun shiny in the sunlight.
Nels admired their attire. Even his mother would appreciate such excellent tailoring.
He looked to the sky again, using the sun to gauge how much time he had left.
When will they select their squires? I shouldn’t stay much longer.
Jilia peeked over the shoulders in front of her, trying to catch a glimpse of the royalty, as a white mare entered the village next. A young maiden rode on its back. She looked around and waved to the people as well, but there was something more to her — something truly striking about her. It wasn’t the beautiful teal dress and bodice that accentuated her slender frame; nor her perfect, blushing lips. Not even her clear blue eyes or the radiant shine of her flowing golden hair adequately explained the warmth that spread through Nels when he looked at her.
Bosh was right; Tyra was the most stunning maiden he had ever seen.
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