Nels raised it back to the cart. “If you’d rather not —”
“No!” The merchant held up his hand and laughed boisterously. “Please, keep it, my young friend … so you will always remember the day when Princess Tyra gave you the ax!”
Cocking his brow, Nels glared at the man. He then seized the ax, held the handle tightly, and walked away with it, his jaw clenched because of the merchant’s jest. It was bad enough to have the princess humiliate him in front of the villagers; now a complete stranger had to go and pour salt into his fresh wound. Nels’s emotions peaked, his eyes burning. The glare of the late afternoon sun was of no help, nor was the pain in his side or the crusted dirt on his face.
Someone tugged on his vest. “Cheer up, Nels. I thought you were brilliant!”
The knot in Nels’s throat made it impossible for him to speak to Jilia.
“Why’d you take an ax? Why not a sword? He had some nice ones.”
Some nice ones? Nels did not know how to respond. Every old sword that he inspected on that cart would have snapped midswing. It took all his will to not take the ax back and see how well it could chop up the merchant’s lackluster cart, but Jilia’s words kept him at bay.
“How’s your head?” she asked. “Whoa — your eye!”
He didn’t want to hear that, but she was right. The area around his right eye had swollen like a ripe plum, each passing second made it more difficult for him to see.
“You’re banged up a bit. How are you going to explain this to your mother?”
The shock of the situation had made him forget about that. His finished chores would not explain the condition of his pummeled body. Nels sighed, and his head began to swim.
“Old Brown!” Jilia said. “You blame everything on that horse, anyway.”
Nels gritted his teeth. Her voice grated on his nerves.
“I’m glad you didn’t kiss that princess; she’s a real witch.”
“Leave me alone!”
“N-Nels,” Jilia sputtered. “I … I didn’t mean …”
He took a deep breath and cut her off with a glance, doing his best to keep his face calm. He had a hard time of it.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Jilia hesitantly continued. “Or that louse of a knight, or that crummy old merchant.”
“It’s not them, Jilia.” Nels grasped his ax. “I’m never going to be a knight.”
“Yes, you will,” she said. “The queen said they needed you!”
“No, Jilia. I don’t want to be a knight anymore!”
The girl’s voice caught in her throat. “You can’t mean that!”
But he did. Nels looked at the empty streets, now lacking the festive music and cheer that once filled them. Even the weapons merchant had packed up his pitiful cart and headed toward the west. Nels could hardly look Jilia in the eye. Never had a silence lasted this long between them.
“You can’t desert your dream, Nels. It’s my dream, too!”
Nels stared at her as seriously as he could. “Then you’d better wake up.”
Jilia’s lip quivered as she glared at him. “Go then! Go home and quit — lousy quitter!”
She punched him dead in the arm and ran off. After a brief chance to cool her hot head, she would be fine. Brushing away her sting, Nels let the ax rest on his shoulder as he turned to leave. He had barely passed the cobbler’s shop when Wallin blocked his way and stared at him angrily.
“If you weren’t already all roughed up, I’d smash your other eye,” he said.
Wallin chased after Jilia, ramming into Nels as he passed.
Nels left the village then, paying no heed to those who had overheard his declaration of defeat. Some gestured with disappointed headshakes. He didn’t care; he was done. They could think whatever they wanted. The Knight of Cobblestown. Someone else could have the meaningless title.
I don’t want it. I never wanted it.
The sun fell fast toward the west as he climbed up the quarry’s steep hill. He had lost track of time. Mother would be home soon, if she wasn’t already. He should have listened to her. The festival and the royals were nothing but a headache, and those knights — they were the worst of it.
Who in their right mind would want to stand among their egotistical ranks?
Not Nels. Not anymore.
Trying to weed the princess from his mind, Nels jogged back into the woods.
An aged squirrel scampered down a branch as Nels slowed to a walk. He lumbered along the road, looking at the evening sun through the oak leaves. Mulling over what happened to him at the festival only slowed him further, his thoughts occupied by the pompous knights, the cold princess, and the outcast Vagas. But what haunted him most was the Vaga girl’s warning.
You are not supposed to be here …
“Did she know my day would end like this?”
There was a light in the cottage window. Mother was home.
Great. She’ll never forgive me for this …
He slowed his pace, no longer seeing the need to return as quickly as he had planned. But then, as he neared, he stopped, mouth gaping open, and dropped his ax by the edge of the field. He stared with his good eye at the incomplete fence, the unswept barn, the bone-dry field, and his tools lying haphazardly in the dirt. Aside from the planted field, he had never finished his chores.
Nels pocketed his hand. The lucky brass thimble rubbed against his fingers. The magic sewing implement had helped him defeat the knight, but it didn’t matter now.
“Luck,” he scoffed. “That tailor did this …”
For now, the old man was the least of his worries. Going to the festival would make his mother angry; but going to the festival without finishing his chores would make her furious.
Taking a deep breath, Nels picked up his ax and headed for the inevitable.
The floor groaned as he stepped inside, the noise drowned out by the clicks and clacks of his mother’s loom. He closed the door and stood near the table. The spool of thread was still on the counter, unmoved. No meal was cooking and no fire was burning. He placed the new ax on the table and waited for his mother to scold him. But she said nothing. Not a single word.
Tension filled the room as the minutes rolled on. The new tablecloth Mother was making was quite exquisite — the first of a dozen left to be woven.
“We have no wood for a fire,” she said. “Will you chop some for us?”
Nels had been expecting the greatest reprimand of his life, but now he assumed she was waiting until later, when she was done weaving and could focus on his punishment. He picked up his ax and walked through the back of the house. His ribs ached from where Arek had kicked him. He hoped nothing was broken; he would find out for sure with his first swing. Nels chopped at a felled tree and split a few decent logs in half the time that it normally took. The new blade was sharp. Although his time at the festival had turned out to be a nightmare, at least his consolation prize was useful. He raised the blade over his head and buried the ax into the chopping block before gathering up the wood and walking inside.
Mother said nothing as he built the fire. The flames rose high and hot, casting shadows around the room. If Mother refused to speak, he would have to. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
The woman finished her edging. “How was the festival?”
Nels sat up straight, struck by her pleasant voice. She blinked at the sight of the bruises on his face, but there was no anger in her eyes, nor did Nels see a smile on her lips.
This is unlike her. Why is she so calm?
She breathed a deep sigh and returned to her work. “I see you learned your lesson.”
Nels could only stare at her. That was it? She was letting him off that easily?
“I don’t want to be a knight,” he said. “You were right. I should’ve listened.”
“A parent’s word is not enough,” she said. “Children have to learn for themselves. You are home and safe now, and that is what matters most at the end of the day.”
“
You’re really not mad at me?”
“I was furious, but who is to say I have no fault in this, cooping you up in this cottage?” She touched his hand. “I never want to see you hurt, Nels. I could not bear to lose you.”
“I see that now,” Nels said, pointing at his swollen eye.
“And wherever did you find that ax? Did you buy it?”
“I won it,” he said. “It’s okay, though. We needed a new one.”
“Won it? Wrestling, no doubt. Is that how you blackened your eye, as well?”
Nels nodded, grateful that she was no longer angry with him. “I’ll wash up.”
“You must finish your chores tomorrow. You are behind enough as it is.”
“Lars said hello,” Nels added quickly, hoping it would lighten the mood.
Instead, Mother’s eyes suddenly widened. “What is that?” She was pointing at the spool of thread on the counter.
“It was left for you,” Nels said.
She stood and slowly picked up the spool. “Who left it?”
“Some old man … Ickabosh. He said you and he were friends.”
“What?!” she cried. “He knows better than to come here when I am gone!”
A knock rapped at the door before Nels could ask further. His mother held the spool of thread in her hand as she marched to answer it. Beyond the doorframe was a young man wearing a brimmed hat with a white feather. Draped over his shoulders was a bold banner of the royal crest, embossed with a golden seal. Mother grabbed her chest, backing away with a start.
“Is this the home of Norell, the seamstress?”
“What are you doing here?” she answered.
“I, uh, brought you a message,” he said, surprised by her reaction. He unrolled a piece of thin parchment and read from it. “ ‘His Majesty desires an audience with Norell, the seamstress, and her son, Nels, known as the Knight of Cobblestown. Give your consent to the messenger’ — that’s me — ‘and arrive at the castle by midday tomorrow,’ signed, Lennart, King of Avërand.”
“No!” Mother answered without hesitation. “We will never go there.”
The man clutched the parchment. “Begging your pardon?”
Nels felt like a cornered mouse. The man had already said too much.
“We will never set foot in that castle,” Mother said. “Go!”
“But — but the king wants —”
“I do not care what he wants. He has no right to want anything from me!”
“Good lady, be sensible!” the messenger pleaded. “You should have seen your son this afternoon. The favored knight of our land was no match for him. It was amazing to watch!”
“Serve His Majesty these words,” Mother said. “ ‘I will never forgive you!’ ”
She pushed the man over the threshold and out of their cottage, slamming the door as the speechless messenger scuttled away.
“Mother?” Nels asked. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, Nels!” She braced the door with her back. “What have you done?”
Without waiting for an answer, she shot past Nels, gathered a burlap sack, and frantically searched the cottage. Nels did not understand what she was doing until she started to raid the pantry and dumped all of their food into the sack. She was packing their things.
“What are you doing, Mother? What do you mean you’ll never forgive the king?”
“There is no time to explain. We must leave at once!”
“Leave?” She could not be serious. “Why?”
“Confound it, Nels!” Mother cursed. “I brought us here to protect you! If the king knows where you are, so will he.” She collected a few blankets and bundled them under her arms after she doused the fire. “We must get you out of here before he finds you … and kills you, too!”
“Kills me?” Terror sheered through his body, causing him to tremble. “What are you talking about?”
She refused to answer as she carried the sack out the door.
Nels followed her to the barn, completely baffled.
Why would someone want to kill me?
“Will you tell me what’s going on?”
“What happened at the festival?” Mother asked. “How did the king find you?”
“I wrestled with his knight, and I won,” Nels said proudly, “and the prize was a kiss from the princess, but she refused. Maybe that’s why the king wants to see us — to apologize?”
“The princess refused you?” Mother stared at Nels, her lips pressed tightly together. “That girl is mad if she thinks she can do better than you.” She proceeded to load the cart when she cursed again. “Not even a slip stitch can save us now.”
“Slip stitch?” Nels had no idea what she was talking about. “What’s a slip stitch?”
The woman turned around and looked Nels directly in the eyes. “I cannot explain right now, my son. You must go back inside and get your things. Bring only what you absolutely need.”
She really meant this. Nels could see the urgency in her eyes, but how could he up and leave without saying good-bye to anyone? No more secrets. “Tell me what’s going on first.”
“I lost your father to him. I will not lose you, too. Now hurry!”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me!”
Mother stopped and looked him squarely in the eyes again. “Get your things.”
His anger rising, Nels left the barn and headed back to the cottage.
“Hurry,” Mother called. “We must not waste a second!”
Nels kicked the door open. Never had he felt so furious, so untrusted. Mother had always had paranoid fits in the past, but this instance was unlike all the others. He did not want to leave his life in Cobblestown — or his friends — without knowing why. Then again, the extreme way she was acting was reason enough to pause; this was not the time to rebel. Mother had never created a fuss like this before, never in his life. If she was speaking the truth, they were in real danger.
She may have kept secrets from him, but she’d never lie to him.
Someone could be after us.
Nels grabbed some of his clothing and a few things that might come in handy on their journey to … wherever they were going. They would also need something for protection. The ax. He had left it outside. Opening the back door once more, Nels dashed out to the chopping block, pried his ax free, and turned back to the cottage to gather up the rest of his belongings.
“Did you think you could hide from me, Lief?”
Nels stopped in his tracks. A man’s voice whispered all around him, using the name Ickabosh had called him earlier. He turned to see a caped man leaning against the largest oak — not the tailor — someone else. The stranger entered the clearing. Pale twilight revealed dark hair and equally dark eyes.
Mother was right. Someone was after them — and he had found them.
Nels held his ax up to his chest, ready to strike. “Who are you?”
Without a word, the man raised his arm and threw a knife.
Nels held up his ax and deflected it. When he saw a second knife, he knocked it down, too. It surprised him how powerful these throws were, and also that he managed to evade the knives with ease. Nels still had the thimble with him, so that probably had something to do with it. A third knife flew at him. This time, it rose high and wavered in the air before it came down to strike.
Before he could think of how such a throw was even possible, Nels swung the ax and struck the blade. His blow sent the knife back to the villain, finding a home in the tree behind him. Their confrontation was at a standstill.
“Leave us alone!” Nels warned. “You’re outmatched here!”
The man raised his hand.
A sudden chill ran through Nels’s body, and then he couldn’t move. The man jerked one hand and Nels fell, pulled by something unseen. The man’s other hand slammed downward toward the ground. Nels wanted to get up and fight, but he was flat on his back — he couldn’t budge. The thimble — on its own — slid out of his pocket. The shiny piece of brass ho
vered over his head before it drifted out of reach and fell to the ground nearby.
“Now that you’re without protection,” said the dark stranger, “you will die.”
“Nels?” his mother called from the cottage. “Where are you?”
Growling, the man stepped back to the edge of the woods, grabbed his knife, and pulled it from the oak. The trunk burst like thunder, sending splinters up the hill. “Farewell, Nels.”
With a twirl of his cape, the stranger vanished into the shadows.
Unable to move or shout, Nels watched as the oak fell toward him.
A half-moon hovered in the reddening sky as Nels sat up by the edge of the pond, gasping for breath. Surprisingly rejuvenated, he looked around and searched for the dark stranger. Strangely enough, his face even felt better. He touched it; the skin around his right eye felt normal.
Nothing had happened, nothing at all. Nels exhaled a long sigh of relief.
The festival; the dark, caped stranger; the tree — it was all a dream.
I can’t believe I fell asleep out here.
Nels jumped to his feet and ran back to the cottage. The back door was open and the kitchen was dark, with all the dishes put away. Mother was not at her loom, nor was she in her bed.
“Mother?” No answer.
He called again. No response.
Why was the back door open?
He stepped outside, back into the dusk, watching the wind tousle the treetops.
Strangely, he couldn’t feel the wind.
A mournful wail reached his ears from the edge of the woods. Nels went to investigate. The cries intensified as he approached a felled oak, the same oak from his dream.
Is this really happening? I’m not dreaming now, am I?
He found his mother at the base of the tree, her face buried in her hands.
“What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked. “I’m here.”
She did not answer him. All she did was cry.
Nels jumped over the fallen tree. “Mother, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, Nels!” She sobbed into her hands. “It’s all my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
Again, she didn’t respond — when Nels looked down, he understood why.
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