Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “Thank you.” Nels’s voice caught in his throat. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “You are quite welcome.” Yalva turned to face the willow tree, clasping his hands behind his back. “Since you kidnapped my granddaughter, where do you plan on taking her?”

  “To the Mountain Witch, for the Needle of Gailner.”

  “Ah, yes — I have heard of such a needle, and I know the woman you speak of; she is a conjurer, different from fabricators.” Yalva shook his head. “I would come with you if I could.”

  Nels understood. If Yalva was tied to his land, he couldn’t leave it. “If you can’t come, can you tell me anything that will help us?”

  A smile dimpled Yalva’s cheek. “I will do more than that.” The king jumped from the ground and rose higher than Nels’s head, but he stayed in the air, buoyant, like a feather. He floated and curved with the wind, then gently settled back to the ground. The ghost king could fly.

  “How did you do that?” Nels asked.

  Yalva chuckled. “Humor an old specter and share a conversation with me. I will teach you everything I know about the nature of ghosts — and of witches — if you have time for it.”

  Nels smiled back. “I’ve got all night.”

  A golden line buffered the edge of the horizon as dawn drew near.

  Tyra heard birds chirping.

  Sunlight spilled through the willow branches that draped over their camp like a curtain. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Tyra searched the grounds. The peasant was gone, and so was her mare. She was about to stand up when galloping hooves, heavier than Brooklet’s, came from beyond the curtain of leaves. It parted, moved by a dark horse, ridden by a man in a suit of metal armor. Before she could speak, the man lowered his shield and removed his helmet.

  Arek had found her.

  “You came for me!”

  “I can fly!” he said.

  Tyra opened her mouth, but she didn’t immediately know what to say. “You can what?”

  The knight jumped off his saddle and floated into the air. He glided to her, like a drifting dandelion seed, and swept Tyra off her feet. They fell together onto a patch of grass.

  “You have to see this!” Arek’s voice changed. “Wake up!”

  Her dream broken, Tyra opened her eyes.

  The peasant hovered above the ground, right over her.

  He was flying.

  She jumped away with a scream. “What are you doing?”

  He returned to the ground with a laugh. “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”

  Tyra scrunched her nose. “Not funny.” Even so, she was surprised. The peasant had never flown before. “Your face isn’t what I want to wake up to. Since when can you do that?”

  “I could all along. I just didn’t know it. How’d you sleep?”

  “Well enough,” she said, eyeing him, “I suppose.”

  He pointed at the log beside her. “I made you something.”

  Looking to her right, Tyra saw one of her handkerchiefs spread over the log’s surface. A ripe apple sat on top of it next to a torn lump of rye bread and a heaping pile of brambleberries. She glanced around their camp. Everything was packed away with no trace they had camped there.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, Your Highness?”

  “What are you doing?”

  He looked around and shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re acting like a gentleman — and I don’t like it!” She frowned. “I said some rather terrible things to you last night. And I meant every word, so why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Shouldn’t I? I’m a subject of yours, after all. If anyone should apologize, it’s me.”

  Tyra stared at the leaves on the ground as she mulled over the peasant’s sudden manners and formalities. They had shared a heated row last night — their worst one yet — but he was acting as though nothing happened. And by the sound of his voice, he meant every word.

  “No, really,” she said. “What has come over you?”

  The peasant said nothing. He hitched the last strap of Brooklet’s saddle before he stepped toward Tyra. It made her timid, the closer he neared. Those eyes of his, green as the grass, made him look more alive than he really was. “I know my place now, thanks to your grandfather.”

  “My grandfather?” Tyra had never known her grandfather — or any of her grandparents. They were long dead. “Which grandfather? Are you telling me that he is a ghost?”

  “King Yalva, yes,” the peasant answered. “We talked last night. He was all see-throughish, just as your instructor described. He also knighted me, and he charged me with protecting you.”

  Tyra flinched. “It doesn’t count if you’re dead, does it?”

  “It’s the thought of the honor that defines us,” he said.

  Tyra scoffed. “My grandfather, knighting you? I find that hard to believe.”

  “You don’t have to, but then, how believable am I? This magic is unbelievable, but you know it’s real.” He stepped right in front of her. The confidence in his eyes left her no choice but to take his word for it. “When this is over, you won’t see me again. You have my word.”

  Does he really mean that? “Well, that’s … comforting.”

  The peasant smiled. “Let’s get going. The sooner the better, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  Tyra sat up, slipped on her boots, and ate quickly, but she could barely digest what the ghost had told her, much less chew on her dried-out bread. In a way, she’d thought his lack of formality was refreshing — how he treated her like anyone else — but now he was like any of her predictable servants.

  Beyond that, the words he had spoken last night troubled her. Perhaps he meant nothing by saying he caught her looking at him during the festival. In truth, he had intrigued her. But Tyra refused to entertain the thought: She had given her heart to Arek. And in that regard the peasant’s other words concerned her. Did Arek truly love her? Was he merely interested in the throne? She never saw it that way. The idea of him using her — she could not think of it.

  He will prove his love by tracking me down.

  When Tyra finished her breakfast, she wadded the handkerchief in her hand, mounted Brooklet, and gathered her reins. “We should reach the Westerly Pass before nightfall.” The peasant nodded as he jumped into the air and glided along Brooklet’s side. His supernatural ability continued to surprise her. “Let me know what else you can do, before you startle me.”

  He bowed graciously in midair. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Thrown by his subservient attitude, Tyra smiled as she guided her mare along the westward path. It was muddy enough to leave behind a noticeable trail. “Let’s go this way.”

  “We should walk in the river for a little while, in case we’re being followed.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, I suppose we can,” but she did not want to. Arek was a champion when it came to tracking. If they left nothing behind, how would he follow them?

  I should be planning our wedding, not hiding from him.

  “Just for a little while,” Tyra conceded. “Brooklet doesn’t like to have her hooves wet.”

  The peasant’s mouth curled at the corners as he smiled, as if to keep from laughing. As he walked ahead, Tyra thought up a plan and tossed her handkerchief at the nearest bush.

  The white linen caught hold of a branch. It waved with the wind.

  Tyra hoped it would linger there for Arek to find.

  Arek pointed at the ground by a fallen log. An aged willow glen kept the abandoned camp cool from the sun. “She slept here, but her captors left no markings — not one sign of rest.”

  “As I have said,” Sir Canis replied, “I don’t believe she was kidnapped.”

  “How can you say that? They struck me over the head!”

  “Or maybe a branch fell and hit you. I wager she ran away.”

  “No!” Arek bellowed. “She was taken. You know these Vagas. They conjured up some
spell to hide their tracks, I am sure of it, just like when they attempted to steal the crown.”

  Alvil tried his best to keep himself from glaring at the knight. Riding beside the boorish likes of him, it was nearly impossible to stay in character. He had never taken the life of one so young, or changed to a body much smaller than his own. It required some getting used to.

  Vagas don’t have that kind of magic.

  He knew this, having studied magic abroad. He could tell the knight was lying. He could sense in the knight’s thread what the truth was. Arek was anxious about having once used the crown to frame the Vagas so he could gain favor in the eyes of the king — ambitious, but futile. Alvil scanned the ground as the real Alvil would. Aside from the horse’s markings, he saw nothing. “Maybe there’s only one captor?”

  “Just as I thought,” Arek said. “Her mare was guided north, led to the river!”

  The knight jumped onto his stallion and steered the animal to the water.

  Canis turned to the squire. “This madness is spreading.”

  Alvil smirked. He couldn’t agree more. Although Arek was a fool, Alvil needed the knight if he stood a chance of finding the princess. Thanks to Ickabosh, he could no longer trace her.

  Why would he use his magic on her?

  Since she had mentioned the Needle, Alvil had an idea of where she was headed.

  The Mountain Witch …

  He had tried to visit her once, many years ago, but the woman refused to divulge what she knew about the Needle. They shared a duel and she died as a result. He never did find her secret book or learn where he could find the lost Needle. He did, however, learn the truth.

  “Nothing here either,” Arek said. “Not a single print along this bank.”

  “What about that handkerchief?” Davin pointed. “Isn’t that hers?”

  Arek spurred his horse and retrieved the cloth. “It is!”

  “See,” Canis said. “A competent kidnapper wouldn’t leave that behind.”

  “Maybe her kidnapper is incompetent. She has obviously left a trail for us.”

  “Sir Arek!” Canis insisted. “There’s nothing to suggest she was taken. You may have only imagined the Vagas, for all we know. Let us find her. You should head back and rest.”

  Alvil was not about to waste the moment. Besides, if Arek found the king’s daughter, how much more favor could he earn? “Perhaps we should split up. We can cover more ground.”

  “I like your suggestion.” Arek glanced at Canis. “I will head up the river.”

  “Come, Davin,” Canis said, walking toward the others. “We better inform the king. If word spreads that Her Highness was taken by the Vagas, everyone would take up arms.”

  Alvil watched them and popped his neck before he turned his horse upstream, away from the departing company of knights. It was better this way, leaving them alone. Bringing too many on the search would complicate his scheme. “He’s using the river to hide their tracks. So would I.”

  The knight cocked his mighty brow. “Good thinking. I knew I could count on you. They are headed for the mountains — the Westerly Pass, perhaps. But why would they go there?”

  “Is that not where the Mountain Witch lives?”

  “So they say.” Arek spoke as if the idea made him nervous. They glanced at the graying clouds rolling overhead. “A storm is coming. We had better press for that mountain before it arrives.”

  The knight spurred his stallion, and they galloped up the shallow river. Alvil sneered as he struggled to keep up with the knight, but it was the princess who remained in his thoughts.

  Ickabosh told her about the Needle. What does she want with it?

  The only way to find out was to ask her.

  Tyra pulled her dripping hair back once she had found an alcove to rest under. After traveling all day and hiking up the mountain until dusk, she was exhausted. They should have made camp at the base of the mountain, but the peasant insisted that they should move on. Now they were stuck in a downpour. When Brooklet could no longer handle the weight, Tyra dismounted and walked the rest of the way.

  Her hair and clothing were wet. She had blisters on her feet. Her legs ached terribly. It was enough to make Tyra regret her decision to help.

  “How can a mansion be up here?”

  The peasant stood on the edge of the trail and glanced over his shoulder playfully. “I was just thinking that. Imagine hauling lumber and stone up here, back and forth.”

  “It … would take … forever,” Tyra puffed.

  He whistled. “The trail’s too steep here. We’ll have to go on without Brooklet.”

  As much as Tyra hated to admit it, he was right. The tailor warned them that their climb would be long and dangerous, but she did not anticipate ascending the Westerly Mountain after sunset, and in the rain. Tyra tightened her cloak and looked up the short cliff that ended their trail. Was there really a mansion at the top? Her thoughts turned to the shadowed book, hoping it would tell them where to find the Needle. Like the peasant had said: the sooner, the better.

  She placed more faith in Arek. He had to have found her handkerchief by now.

  I will find the Needle and show it to him. That will prove to him that I’m not mad. I hope he will still marry me.

  “Not much longer.” The peasant leaned over the trail. “We’ll be there in —”

  “Baaaah!”

  A sudden bleating interrupted him.

  They both looked up. Standing on top of the rock wall was a creature with curled horns and a long face, silhouetted before the clouds. Lightning flashes revealed its gray coat.

  “A goat?” The peasant scratched his head. “Look at the horns on him.”

  “I have never seen a wild one,” Tyra said. “What an odd little thing.”

  The animal jumped onto the alcove above them.

  “Would you like to rest awhile?” the peasant asked.

  Tyra grabbed Brooklet’s bridle. “She needs it more.” Finding a sturdy branch, she tied the mare’s reins to it. “You be good while we’re gone, Brooklet. This shouldn’t take long.”

  The mare shook her mane, as if to protest their absence.

  Before Tyra turned around, the peasant had already reached the top of the wall.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” he said. “You’d better take it slow.”

  Tyra pulled on her hood as she stepped into the rain, shivering as she left her bow behind. There was no need for it, but she decided to keep her dagger, just in case. When she made it to the wall that ended the trail, she saw the peasant’s hand reaching for her. “What are you doing?”

  His eyes shifted. “Helping you up.”

  “I’ve climbed rock faces before.”

  “It’s slick here. I’m just trying to —”

  “Hold my hand? Not on your life.”

  Finding a solid foothold, Tyra reached for a groove and hoisted herself up. She repeated her motions once, and then twice, until she neared the top. She then stepped onto a protruding rock and shrieked as it shifted under her weight. Her grasp slipped. Tyra’s breath escaped her as she reached for something — anything — to hold on to, when someone grabbed her wrist. Wincing at the thought, Tyra saw the peasant smiling above her. There was a calming assurance lurking behind that crafty smile of his. It made her feel uneasy, yet also safe.

  He easily pulled her up the rest of the way, as if she were weightless. Tyra avoided his eyes as she slumped against the wet mountainside, gasping for breath. Hooves clicked against rock. The goat stopped and stared at her with its shining gold eyes.

  “That felt strange,” she said. “Your hand, it was so —”

  “I know. It was like grabbing the air. I couldn’t feel you.”

  “I could.” Tyra rubbed her wrist. “Don’t do that again, if you can help it.”

  The peasant bobbed his head with another smile. “Shall we continue?”

  “You lead on. It’s better if you slip over the edge than me.”

  The peasant walk
ed on, as though he were pleased with himself for having caught her. For all she knew, she could have broken something or plummeted to her death. Tyra looked at the back of his head and shuddered. He really had saved her life.

  Good thing he learned that trick.

  She trailed behind him, her boots trampling mud. She knew she should thank him, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. That charming smile of his was of no help.

  The Needle was hers to find. It was her task to complete.

  Ruling a kingdom should be easy next to this.

  “Baaack!”

  Tyra heard a voice behind her. She spun around to investigate.

  All she saw was the goat. “Baaack! Turrrrnnn baaack!”

  Startled, Tyra dashed to catch up. “Did you hear that animal speak?”

  The peasant raised his brow. “It’s just the storm.”

  She didn’t agree. A voice did come out of the creature — a warning. Tyra tried to hold on to the peasant’s arm for reassurance, but her hands slipped through him like a cold vapor. “This is not a good idea,” she said. “I think we should turn back.”

  “It’s too dark now,” said the peasant, “and we’re here.”

  Tyra glanced over his shoulder, amazed by the sterling mansion in the middle of a small meadow. Dark clouds rolled over it, grazing its dilapidated shingles. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The mansion was like those within the walls of Hillshaven, except for its menacing gargoyles. All of them sat like sentinels, their talons curled beneath each sill.

  No light shone from within the windows, but the front door was open.

  “Not exactly an inviting place …” the peasant said. “Let’s have a look!”

  Tyra shivered. The rising mountain winds had chilled her skin. Rain pelted against her hood, making her ears ring. This was no place for her. This was no place for anyone. She wanted to go back home. The idea of facing a witch had finally dawned on her. “Must I go in there?”

  “I suppose not, but we may not have another chance.”

  A blinding flash crossed the sky as Tyra shook her head. A loud crash followed the sound of tumbling rocks. In this weather, standing on top of a mountain was not the safest place to be. They needed shelter from the escalating storm — or at least she did.