Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Everyone turned to the scribe, especially the peasant.

  “Murder?” Mother cried. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “A farmer from Boarshovel found a man buried in his field, a knife wound in his back,” the scribe explained. “All we know is that he was a weapon’s merchant from Harvestport. His cart was found beyond Cobblestown.” The scribe searched through his papers and notes, urgently seeking more information. “Witnesses claim to have seen him and his cart at the festival, but our investigation has led us to believe that he was murdered within a day before the festival.”

  “Two deaths at the same time?” Tyra piped in. “Quite a coincidence.”

  The scribe adjusted his stance, as if his feet were uncomfortable. “Yes, Your Highness, and the lad’s mother swears her son was also murdered, but we have no evidence to support that.”

  Tyra’s mother, looking terrified, glanced at the king. “Do you suppose —?”

  The king stood. “Look into this matter. Send for the knights. I want to know their findings immediately. Please excuse me.” He left the room, the tail of his mantle flying behind him.

  Tyra didn’t understand what was happening. She had never seen her father so focused and motivated — or disturbed. Granted, these were the first murders Tyra had ever heard of; such things did not happen in Avërand. Or if they did, she was unaware. The weapon merchant’s death was unfortunate, but it validated everything the peasant had said throughout the night.

  Who is this murderer? “May I be excused, too?” Tyra asked.

  Mother squeezed a napkin as she consented. “Be mindful of your conduct, dearest. And until further notice, I do not want you to leave this castle. Is that understood?”

  Checking on the distraught peasant first, Tyra hastened to the nearest corridor without giving her mother an answer. Suits of armor were mounted evenly along the limestone walls of the hallway. She paid little attention to them. All she wanted was to outrun the ghost while he was lost in his own wallowing. She hoped the terrace would provide the solitude she needed.

  Morning sunlight glistened over the polished granite landing as Tyra stepped outside. A wide stair led to a grand terrace below. Mother hosted parties and dances here for the residing nobility whenever the weather permitted. Tyra stepped down the stairs, strolled to the far side, and looked over the edge of a short wall of stone, garlanded by overgrown ivies. A pauper walked through the main gate below — although he looked more like a large rodent from her perch on the terrace.

  She leaned on the trellis, wondering why Sir Arek never arrived in the woods as he’d promised. The only way to find out was to ask him, but she wouldn’t have the chance to see him until noon. Until then, she would have to wade through another long set of grueling lessons.

  “I can see the quarry from here!”

  Tyra rolled her eyes and blew a strand of hair from her face as the peasant emerged onto the landing. The central tower rose high above him, anchored by eight buttresses that supported the outer walls. Beyond that, a second wall had been added years ago, when the castle became more than just a storehouse for annual crops. A small city surrounded the castle, with mansions in the upper district, cottages in the lower district, and a busy market for those who did not go to Harvestport.

  Hillshaven was just that, a small haven on a hill, overlooking the kingdom.

  The peasant stood by her. “So the merchant was killed before the festival?”

  Tyra shrugged. “I guess.”

  “The merchant I saw … he didn’t look anything like the man who killed me.”

  She shrugged again. “I guess.”

  Together, they gazed at the lush land of rolling hills. The grassy fields moved with the breeze, spreading like thin waves over a shore. Tyra was too exhausted to appreciate the view, and she was used to it, anyway. The wind blew at her hair, making each golden strand dance behind her back. The peasant’s hair was darker than hers, like sheaves of wheat.

  Strangely, it didn’t move in the wind.

  “How did I end up in this mess?” she wondered aloud. “Must I suffer because of your problem?”

  “I think it’s our problem,” said the peasant.

  “Our problem? Why must I be involved?”

  “You can probably see me because you refused to kiss me.”

  She glowered at him. “That’s absurd!”

  “Think about it. You made a promise and never fulfilled it.”

  “Promise? Ha! You swore on your grave to leave me alone, yet here you are!”

  “I was hoping you’d fulfill my request with a bit more tact.”

  Tyra ignored him. “I find it hard to believe that you are a ghost because I withheld a kiss.”

  “Me too, but I can’t think of a better reason why only you can see me. Can you?”

  “Yes! You’re punishing me because I didn’t kiss you and you can’t get over it.”

  “Believe me, I wish I could show myself to someone else — anyone else.”

  Tyra shook her head, wanting nothing more than to see his wish come true so he could be someone else’s problem. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. “My instructor once told me that ghosts exist because of some injustice, or because of some important business that they never had a chance to finish, or for completely selfish reasons — like haunting me.”

  The peasant snapped his fingers. “That’s it!”

  Tyra leaned her hands on the trellis. “What is it?”

  “The reason you can see me — you have to help me!”

  “Help you? Ha! I’ve already tried that, remember?”

  “If I’m to be at peace, then you have to bring the man who killed me to justice.”

  “Find your killer?” Tyra laughed at the thought. “What do you suppose I should do if we find him? Let him kill me? No. I bet the merchant’s ghost may know something. Go ask him.”

  “I would,” he said, leaning against the trellis, “but I’m the only ghost I’ve seen.”

  “Well then, I’m rather sorry for you, but I refuse to chase after a killer.”

  “But you can order the kingdom to comb the entire land for him.”

  “On the grounds that a dead peasant told me so? I’d rather not.”

  He stepped closer, making Tyra tilt her head back. Daylight intensified the green in his eyes. “This isn’t just about me, Your Highness. What if he kills again? What if he keeps hiding in your kingdom and murders more of your people? You have to stop him.”

  He spoke the truth, but she had no idea where to start or how to deal with a villain — and if she did summon a search party, who would believe her story? “This is not my responsibility, especially after what you did to me at breakfast.”

  “I didn’t tell that man to take your food away. You did.”

  Tyra turned on him, her hands pressed on her hips. “Just stop haunting me, all right? I have no idea who your killer is, and I cannot help you find him.”

  “Ickabosh might know,” the peasant said. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I doubt that cooped-up old man will be helpful.”

  “He might know what’s going on. I know he used some kind of illusion on me. He even mentioned something about my father — perhaps he knows something about our killer.”

  “I don’t care about your killer.” Tyra stood her ground. “I want to be left alone!”

  “Have it your way.” The peasant placed his hands on the trellis and hoisted himself up. He let his legs dangle as he sat. “Until my murderer is brought to justice, you will never be rid of me.”

  Tyra could hardly keep her tears back. If this was to be her fate, haunted for the rest of her days — no, she couldn’t bear to imagine it. She was already distraught from having to accept the fact that this boy was indeed dead, even if he looked and acted like a normal person, as if he were still alive.

  As he glanced up, their eyes met. “What if you kissed me now?” he asked.

  A shiver ran up Tyra’s spine, making
her cough. “What was that?”

  “Maybe if you kissed me now, that’s all you’d need to do.”

  “How would I accomplish that? You don’t have a body!”

  “I have a soul. Maybe it would work if you had one?”

  She glared at him. “I’d rather search for your killer.”

  “Just as I thought.” The peasant laughed. “No soul.”

  Balling her hands into fists, Tyra charged at him. “You …! Insufferable …!” The peasant leaned back to avoid her wrath. “I don’t care about you or what you plan to do, but I will not have you embarrass me in front of anyone, especially my mother and father!” She moved right into his face, forcing him to lean back farther. “You will never convince me to help you. Am I clear?”

  “Whoa!” The peasant flailed his arms back as his body angled over the side.

  “Watch it!” Tyra shouted as she sprang for him, but her hands passed through his ankle.

  She stood on the terrace, completely useless, as the peasant fell toward a group of knights on horseback in the courtyard below. But before he struck the cobblestones, he looked up at her and laughed again. No one else saw or heard him as he jumped to his feet and ran inside the castle.

  He had fallen on purpose.

  Tyra clasped her hand over her eyes and released a long, frustrated scream. A terrible silence followed her tantrum — not one utterance came from the normally busy courtyard. Tyra peered over the trellis to see why. Many eyes stared at her, followed by a few residents clearing their throats uncomfortably. A man had dropped his vegetable basket, and a few knights looked about the castle grounds for danger. Even the gatekeeper gazed at her, looking especially puzzled.

  “Uh,” she said. “Carry on!”

  The everyday commotion resumed as she disappeared from their sight.

  “Insolent apparition … He’s trying to make me look mad!”

  From what she could tell, the ploy worked. Two servants ran by the stairs. When Tyra saw them, they scurried across the terrace as fast as they could until they were out of her sight.

  The morning bells rang. The hour tolled nine.

  Tyra sighed. It was going to be a long day.

  Whispers.

  Whispers.

  Whispers.

  No matter where she went, Tyra heard nothing else.

  Her ears perked at the sound of every quiet voice, and her eyes darted to every concealed mouth. The entire morning was made worse by the peasant’s constant interruptions. She could do nothing. No one else could see the peasant or perceive the irritating songs that he sang — purposefully off-key. Tyra tried her best to pay him no heed all morning, but in the end, his attempts to divert her attention were more than successful.

  Lady Candise invited Tyra to leave her etiquette session because the princess refused to display a suitable introduction to a group of noblemen. It wasn’t her fault; the peasant stepped in front of them whenever she tried to give them a curtsy. Even Master Wussen seemed thoroughly baffled during geography because she would not answer questions about the disaster that decimated the land of Mendarch in the northwest. She wanted to participate, but the peasant’s antics distracted her from hearing the questions. Then, when Wussen changed the subject to history and the fall of Westmine, the kingdom beyond the Westerly Mountains, Tyra was too exhausted to listen. But when he brought up the legend of King Hilvar’s ghost, she couldn’t help but ask a few questions of her own. “How do you stop a ghost from haunting you?”

  Wussen raised his white head. “Why?” he asked. “Are you being haunted?” Tyra gave a reluctant nod, hoping he wouldn’t dismiss her. If there was anyone who would believe her story, it was he. “How very fascinating,” Wussen said. “When did this haunting begin?”

  “A ghost followed me home after a ride in the woods.”

  The old tutor glanced about the room. “Is it here now?”

  “Yes,” she said, relieved that someone finally believed her.

  “Where?” Wussen continued. “What does it look like?”

  “He’s right there.” She pointed at the table next to her, where the peasant sat, perched like a hunting hawk. Master Wussen looked in her direction, but he did not appear to see anyone there. Tyra expected no less. “He looks like an ordinary peasant, until my hand goes through him …”

  Her instructor shook his head. “If you had seen an actual ghost, he would be transparent, like a pane of glass,” he explained, “but thank you for humoring an old man.”

  “You didn’t give him much to go on,” said the peasant. “What about my good looks?”

  Tyra scowled at him. “Exactly how many ghosts have you seen, Master Wussen?”

  “I have not actually seen one, but I had the strangest experience in Westmine …”

  Crossing her arms, Tyra stopped listening to him. Some ghost expert. She knew more about ghosts after one night than her teacher did after a lifetime of hunting them.

  The peasant heaved a bored sigh. “I’d do myself in if I had to go through this every day.”

  For once, Tyra felt inclined to agree — not that killing herself would necessarily improve her situation. She couldn’t bear the thought of ending up like the peasant.

  When it came time for the midday meal, Tyra ran for the banquet hall, decorated for one of her mother’s many social gatherings. She sat at her place at the table, and — without heeding her guests — gorged herself on a selection of jelly tarts. A single laugh filled the hall, unnoticed by everyone but her. The peasant sat cross-legged on the table.

  “Slow down,” he said. “You don’t want to swallow your napkin.”

  “At least I’m not sitting on the table!”

  Food flew from Tyra’s full mouth.

  Everyone stared at her. Several nobles gave indignant huffs, while another leaned back in her chair to fan her face in disgust. Understanding the spectacle she had made of herself, Tyra swallowed and left the dining hall with a few tarts in hand. Although she had embarrassed herself, Tyra didn’t give the people a second thought. She had somewhere else to go, an important place to be.

  It was time for archery practice.

  Arek had better be there …

  Dodging her usual route, she made a pass through the kitchens and lost the peasant before she hurried to her room. She then changed into her archery dress, sewn with a fine indigo fabric. She covered her arms with silver bracers, slipped a leather strap over her shoulder, and buckled it to a belt around her waist. The strap was useful if ever she wanted to carry a quiver.

  “That’s a new look for you,” said the peasant. “Sporting!”

  Tyra slipped on her gloves. “Were you watching me change?!”

  He seemed pleased by her distress. “Did you want me to?”

  It was no use speaking to him. Tyra grabbed her bow and a quiver of arrows. “At least I can change my clothes. You’re still wearing the same shirt and trousers from the festival.”

  “Would you have me remove them?”

  Ignoring his attempt to rile her, Tyra passed through the peasant and proceeded out the door. “Come if you must. I will not even bother telling you to go away, since I know you won’t.”

  He followed her with an amused smirk. “You catch on quick, Your Highness.”

  A few flights of marble stairs later, Tyra was in the grounds behind the castle. Beyond the courtyard, near the inner wall, lay a sheltered pavilion. A few hunters stood by, holding readied bows. Their behavior was rather unusual this afternoon; they were providing more space for Tyra than usual. She tightened her bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly at a bale of hay. The arrow soared through the afternoon air and pierced the center of a burlap target. The other archers clapped.

  Thirty yards. Despite her lack of sleep, at least her aim remained true.

  “Splendid shot, Your Highness!” Arek entered the shade of the pavilion.

  “Arek!” She was so happy to see her knight, more than could be contained. The swelling in his eye had improved so
me. “Can we speak in private, before Master Niklaus arrives?”

  “Certainly.” He turned to the others. “It seems I have misplaced my armguard. Fetch it for me, lads, and do take your time.” Arek crossed his arms as he watched the hunters depart. “I was hoping to speak with you myself,” he continued, once they were alone. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine.” Tyra rubbed at the twitch in her left eye. “Why do you ask?”

  “There are few flattering things being said about you this day.”

  I’m well aware of that. “What have you heard, exactly?”

  “That you speak to yourself and scream for no reason, as if you were mad.”

  Tyra tucked her lower lip some. “What do you make of these rumors?”

  “I do not believe them, but believe me when I say that I am mad about you.”

  In her ear, the peasant burst out laughing. “No man in his right mind would like you …” He was standing behind her, leaning right over her shoulder, like the nosy simpleton that he was.

  Tyra closed her eyes. “Sir Arek, where were you last night?”

  The knight brushed a hair behind his ear. “Training my squire. Why do you ask?”

  “You weren’t waiting for me in a clearing in the woods, outside Cobblestown?”

  “Waiting for you … in a clearing in the woods … on a full moon?” He laughed. “Why would I do that?”

  “That’s it?” the peasant cried. “You came to my woods last night to meet him?” Tyra refused to answer, so he threw his hands up in disbelief. “The Princess of Avërand really is a trollop!”

  Tyra couldn’t endure this torture any longer. Anger surged inside her veins, making her hot enough to sweat. Even her cheeks felt as if they had caught on fire. “Shut your impudent mouth!”

  Arek’s smile fell. “Whatever have I said to offend you?”

  “I — I, uh, uh,” Tyra stammered. “I didn’t mean to say that, Arek.”

  “But you did,” he replied. “Maybe you should go inside and rest.”

  “I can’t rest!” Tyra pointed at the peasant. “He won’t stop pestering me!”

  Arek looked to where she pointed. “Who are you talking about, Princess?”