Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “Just keep an eye out for anyone suspicious. King’s orders.”

  Raising his hands behind his head, Dyre leaned farther back as he watched the eldest of the gatekeepers leave. The tone of Jarvis’s voice rubbed Dyre the wrong way, but he let it slide. The man was a glorified peasant, a weakling with no connection to the castle other than keeping the gate. If Jarvis were more than this, taking his life and assuming his face would be worth Dyre’s while.

  Such was the fate of those who crossed him.

  Having played gatekeeper for over a fortnight, Dyre’s patience had begun to wear thin. He did not anticipate his plan would take so long, but he knew that one false move would expose him. It was safer this way, taking it slow, waiting for an opportunity to strike — and he had found the boy. If any other part of his plan should fail, at least the world would be safe.

  Dyre saluted a new patrol as they marched by.

  Ickabosh knows I’m here. It won’t be easy to find him now.

  The old tailor was the only man alive who could stand against him — or at least he was once, many years ago. If he could find the tailor and be done with him, no one could stop Dyre from seizing Avërand. Because of Lennart’s father, his life was stolen. Only the kingdom could remedy that crime — the whole of it. Lennart’s family would make fitting slaves. The lovely princess would make a particularly special one.

  Dyre’s fantasy was broken by the smell of fresh pastry. He sensed the scullery maid coming his way with a cherry tart in her basket. He opened his eyes and smiled weakly at her. She had let down her graying hair. “Lovely afternoon,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, very much,” she answered quickly. “I saved this one for you.” She held out a cloth-covered basket for him. “You missed breakfast again. I know these are your favorite.”

  Dyre gave her a grateful laugh as he uncovered the basket, reached for the pastry, and cringed as he took a bite. He despised the sweet and sticky sensation in his mouth. He ate it anyway, for it was the real Dyre’s favorite. The things he had to endure to maintain his character. “Thank you much. Now, tell me: Have you any plans this evening?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “None at all, why do you ask?”

  “You’re so kind … and I’ve grown fond of you.”

  Her face reddened. “I was beginning to think —”

  “I hadn’t noticed you?” Dyre’s smile broadened. “Meet me here tonight.”

  The overjoyed woman nodded before she returned to the kitchens. Dyre leaned back again as he reconsidered his plans. Since the maid worked inside the kitchens, assuming the bothersome woman’s appearance would substantially shorten his wait. No one would miss the scullery wench or her homely looks. By using her face, he could more easily infiltrate the castle.

  Outside, a man was riding hard toward the city gate.

  It was Sir Canis — and he looked terrified.

  “Summon the Order!” he cried. “Have Sir Arek’s squire ready to ride!”

  Finding it easy to appear surprised, Dyre stepped back. “What’s happened, Sire?”

  “We’ve not a moment to waste. Find Alvil and have him pack his horse. I’ll round up the other knights and inform the king. We must follow them before the trail runs cold!”

  Dyre looked outside the gate and saw no one. He reached for the blue dye in his sleeve and flung a drop at Canis. It landed directly on his head. “Where’s the princess?” Dyre asked.

  “The Vagas have her,” Canis replied without resistance. “Arek says they used magic on him, and that Her Highness spoke nonsense about a witch and a needle before he was attacked.” Canis took a deep breath. “He was struck from behind. I could hardly tell what he was saying.”

  Dyre’s cherry tart slipped from his fingers. “Needle?”

  “Hurry now! We must catch up if we are to find her.”

  “I’ll do as you say,” Dyre said, “straightaway!”

  Canis nodded before he charged for the castle.

  Dyre reached out his hand to touch Tyra’s thread.

  He felt nothing. Is she using a slip stitch?

  Abandoning his post, Dyre ran for the squire’s quarters, conjuring a new plan. If the princess had spoken of the Needle of Gailner, how did she know of it? He had taken that road many years before, and he returned with nothing except the knowledge that led to his banishment. To know the truth, he had to find the princess. He had to accompany Arek, the knight she favored most.

  I know what to do.

  When Dyre reached Alvil’s quarters, he knocked and reached for a knife.

  “There’s a good spot,” Nels said. “We’ll camp here tonight.”

  Crickets chirped as Brooklet neared a covered glen. Tyra hadn’t said a word since they made their escape into the woods. Nels tried to coax something out of her, but she would not yield. The mare brushed the branches of a willow tree as they found a place where aspen leaves covered the ground. A large rock sat on the other side of the knoll, near a circle of ash. Someone had camped here recently.

  When the mare stopped, Tyra threw her bag on the ground and dismounted as fast as she could, leaving Nels on the saddle. He jumped off next, but his hand slipped through Brooklet as he descended. The mare hollered and darted to the other side of the tall rock.

  “She really doesn’t like it when I touch her.”

  Tyra unrolled a quilt and sat on it.

  “Should we take her saddle off?”

  She turned her back on him.

  Nels sighed. How long is she going to keep this up?

  He walked to Brooklet, unfastened her girth, and slipped the saddle from her back. The mare whickered and adjusted her jaw before she wandered to the bank of the nearby river.

  “So long as I don’t go through her, she doesn’t mind.”

  Tyra pulled an apple from her knapsack and bit into it.

  “Bosh told us to go on this journey alone, remember?”

  The princess remained silent, except for her munching.

  “Are you angry with me?” He waited for her to speak, but she refused to acknowledge him. “If we’re going to do this, let’s have it out; otherwise, this is going to be a long journey.”

  “Anger isn’t the word I would use, ghost.” Tyra repositioned herself and looked at him with utmost contempt. “How about abhorrence? Or disdain? Hate! That’s a good one.”

  “Listen,” Nels said. “I didn’t mean to —”

  “Loathing!” Tyra threw her apple core at him. It passed through his chest. “I loathe you!”

  Nels crossed his arms, his jaw clenched. “Are you done, or do you have more?”

  “Oh, I have plenty more,” Tyra hissed. “Not that I should expect you to comprehend.” Her eyes thinned so much that Nels couldn’t see the blue in them anymore. “You coerced me into coming here!” She choked back a sob. “And you harmed my Arek — he could have helped us!”

  Nels shook his head. “He had it coming. Why do you like Sir Arek, anyway?”

  “He is strong and brave and … and he is everything a princess could want.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but he doesn’t care about you.”

  She glowered at him. “What would you know?”

  “I heard him last night. He only wants you for the throne.”

  “You stay out of my affairs!” she cried, glaring fiercely. “Listen to me, half-wit! Once we find the Needle and end this nonsense, you will leave me alone forever, and I will marry Arek!”

  “Marry.” Nels hated saying the word. “You’re going to marry him?”

  “You’re dead, ghost,” she said. “Not deaf.”

  He shrugged. “Marry him, then. It’s not like I care.”

  She stared back at him, her brow rising. “You do!”

  “What?” Her sudden accusation flustered Nels.

  “Of course you do! It all makes sense. You’re jealous of Arek!” She hunched over and laughed hard. “This is too much. Did you really think you and I could ever —
?”

  “You tell me,” Nels said. “I saw the way you looked at me during the festival.”

  Tyra’s cheeks flushed red. “I would never! You are a peasant — a dead one!”

  “Titles and status mean nothing. At the end of the day, we’re all the same.”

  The girl snickered. “Where did you hear such nonsense? Your mother?”

  Complacently, Nels crossed his arms. “So what if I did?”

  “Then she is a great fool, raising a worthless son like you.”

  “Better a fool for a mother than a coward for a father!”

  Tyra suddenly turned away and curled up on her side.

  “I didn’t mean —”

  “Go away!”

  Stepping through the log, Nels headed to the river, frustrated and discontent. He sat by the bank, searched for a rock, and skipped it on the water. So much for a seamless start, but he was glad to have told the truth about Arek. The night was not so dark — the moon had risen. It looked full, but he knew it was waning. In less than a week, a half-moon would dominate the night sky.

  We don’t have much time.

  Nels threw a second rock. It plinked into the river. The hollow tromping of a horse’s hooves drew near as he searched for a third. Brooklet came close and drank from the bank.

  Nels smacked his lips. He missed the taste of water. “How do you put up with her?”

  The mare shook her mane and snorted before she took another drink.

  “Right.” He laughed. “Don’t stroke her the wrong way. I know.”

  Nels reached for another rock, just as a foot stepped through it.

  “Good evening, young man.”

  Nels jumped back, passing through the mare’s underside. Brooklet screamed and ran to the glen where Tyra lay. A man wearing royal attire stood before Nels. White hair came to his ears, and he wore a blue vest on his chest.

  It was the man that Nels had seen in Tyra’s chamber.

  “Mindless half-wit!” Tyra cried from the willow glen. “Quit spooking Brooklet!”

  The transparent man turned back to Nels, wincing. “I hope you will be patient with my precious granddaughter. She has a good heart, whether she chooses to show it or not.” The phantom approached the riverbank and tossed his mantle back before he sat down; an excited look beamed from his eyes. “You find solace in the water, I take it?”

  Nels stared at him as the crickets resumed their song.

  “As do I.” The ghost motioned his hand to the space beside him. “Have a seat with me. I have been without conversation for years. What better place to have one than by this ford?”

  Not sure how to conduct himself, Nels complied and nearly laughed. Nothing could be sillier than a ghost acting skittish around another ghost. “You’re really Tyra’s grandfather?”

  “Was her grandfather, fifteen years ago. It pains me to see you like this, Lief.”

  That name again.

  Nels was grateful for the change his mother had made to his name after they fled the castle. This man — this ghost — was the murdered king that Nels had seen in the loom, the ghost of King Yalva. So there were other ghosts after all; it made Nels wonder what other myths were real.

  “Call me Nels,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.”

  “The honor is mine, Nels.” Yalva turned to the water. “It is good to be seen.”

  Nels moved his eyes to the water as well. “Did you come to check on her?”

  “The kingdom believes Tyra was kidnapped by the Vagas.”

  Why would they draw a conclusion like that? “She’s not kidnapped.”

  “I can see that, but that is what Sir Canis told them. It is clear that Sir Arek’s story never happened as he told it, but she did disappear.” The king shifted his pale eyes, waiting for Nels to look at him. “Her escorts would not allow her to ride off alone. How did she escape them?”

  “Tyra ordered everyone away” — Nels smiled — “and I clubbed Arek.”

  Yalva’s thick brow rose. “You did? I have never known a ghost to do such a thing.”

  “I’m not like other ghosts.” Picking up a rock, Nels chucked it across the river. It skipped off the water’s surface, reached the opposite bank, and skidded to a stop in the grass. “See?”

  Yalva harrumphed. “I suppose you are.” There was envy in his voice. “This confirms that Arek’s story about the Vagas is false — and rightly so. They are a peaceful people.”

  A wave of guilt washed over Nels as his thoughts returned to the mysterious girl with the silvery eyes wearing a sapphire stone. Now Arek believed the Vagas had taken Tyra. Nels never meant to bring the Vagas into this. He should have swung that stick a little harder. “When did you hear this?” Nels asked.

  “I heard it from Sir Canis while spying on the gatekeeper.”

  “The gatekeeper? Why would you do that?”

  “Because he is the man who killed me.”

  Nels gawked at the ghost. “Rasmus?”

  Yalva nodded. “The Master Threader. He returned a fortnight ago and overpowered the night gatekeeper. I watched Rasmus use his deceptive art to trick the gatekeeper into letting his guard down, as Rasmus did to me. It takes little time for the Master Threader to study a man and learn everything there is to know about him before he takes on their appearance. He assumed the appearance of a merchant from Harvestport, and many others. Even now he rides with Sir Arek as a trusted companion, hoping to catch up with Tyra.”

  Nels thought of Arek’s squire. “You mean Alvil?”

  Yalva bowed his head.

  Nels refused to believe it. He knew Alvil — not especially well — but enough, from the few times he visited Cobblestown. He was a bright lad with a strong future, and he always spoke with admiration of his service to the knighthood. Nels dug his fingers into the bank. His anger rose. So did his fear. If Rasmus could turn himself into anyone, no one was safe.

  “When you knew I could see you, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I have had no one to talk to in sixteen years.” Yalva looked up to the sky. “I suppose I have become shy, and to find a young man in my granddaughter’s chamber took me by surprise. But I tell you this now” — he breathed deeply — “I fear my granddaughter is in terrible danger.”

  “I’d better wake her, then.”

  King Yalva stuck his feet through a patch of dandelions. None of the seedlings broke from their stems. “Arek and his company made camp a few hours south. There is no need.”

  “I’d rather not take any chances.” Nels stood up and faced their camp.

  “This quest is a chance!” Yalva bellowed. “It is an enormous risk.”

  “You think I’ll let harm come to her?”

  “Of course not, but if she dies, you and the entire kingdom of Avërand may be lost.”

  The old ghost’s urgent voice caused Nels to tremble. “Neither of us want that.”

  Yalva rose to his feet, a strange sight to see: He looked so old, yet he moved so quickly. “I came to warn you about Rasmus, but even more than that, I came to ensure that I could trust you with my granddaughter’s life. She needs to see a strong spirit if she is to make this journey.”

  Nels laughed, though he tried his best not to. “All she sees is a peasant.”

  “That is what she will see if you keep presenting yourself like one.” Yalva raised his hand and clasped it on Nels’s shoulder. The grip surprised Nels. He could feel the king’s firm, solid hold. He never imagined that ghosts could interact with one another. “I have been a ghost long enough to know what has bound me to this world and what keeps me from passing on. I thrust my whole soul into the welfare of this kingdom — so much so that I cannot leave its borders. Until my rule is upheld by a worthy heir, I cannot rest in peace.”

  “But your son is king,” Nels said.

  “In his heart, Lennart never accepted the crown. I fear his example has caused Tyra to think she has failed already.” The king released his grip. “Your father was a great
man. Ulrich feared nothing. He desired nothing more than the welfare of others. Perhaps if you can be an example to my granddaughter — as your father was to my son — there may be hope.”

  Nels looked at the ground, allowing the idea to settle in his mind. Be an example? How could he, having already made a mess of things? Tyra had every reason to refuse him. He had made a fool out of her and haunted her and clubbed the man she loved. “I will try.”

  “Not good enough. I must know that you will ensure her safety, above all else, even at the cost of your life. Only through the living can a ghost’s matters be resolved. My granddaughter must accept her duty. Until then, you need her, but, unlike me, you are an exception.”

  “How am I an exception?” Nels asked.

  “The same reason you can throw rocks across a river. Do you not see? She can help you, but only if you protect her.” Yalva looked Nels squarely in the eyes. “I have a charge for you.”

  “What kind of charge?”

  “Kneel.”

  Nels didn’t understand the request. “Why?”

  The ghost said nothing. He only stood there, waiting for Nels to obey. Hesitantly, Nels lowered himself to one knee, not knowing what Yalva had in mind. The ghost king’s hand came to rest on his shoulder again. “Nels, son of Ulrich and Lady Katharina, I charge you with the protection of Tyra. Let your courage and wisdom shine, so she will come to know and respect the woman that she is.” Yalva’s grip tightened. “Arise, Sir Nels, Knight of Avërand!”

  When the ghost removed his hand, his touch still lingered.

  “You knighted me?” Nels asked. “But, if you’re dead —”

  “I am no more a king than you are a knight, but it is the thought of the honor that defines us, and I saw how honorably you fought during your match with Sir Arek at the festival.” Yalva bowed his head. He was a king; dead or alive, he could knight whomever he wanted. “You have the heart of your father. Even if no one else sees that, know that you are a knight to me.”

  Nels rose to his feet, overcome with emotion. He had waited his whole life for someone to say these words to him. And in the eyes of a king, Nels was more than worthy.

  If only Wallin and Jilia could’ve seen this.