Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “Do you remember what I told you about Rasmus?”

  She nodded.

  “People call him the Master Threader. He can turn himself into anyone he wants. Rasmus went after the Needle himself once, hoping to change reality. Rasmus killed Arek’s squire and took his place — that’s what your grandfather warned me about.”

  “But I told Arek about the Needle!” Tyra raised a hand to her cheek. “What have I done?”

  Her confession created a pit in Nels’s stomach. “Good thing I covered our tracks.”

  “Yes …” she said, her voice shaking. “Good thing …”

  She tapped Brooklet with her heels, urging the mare to quicken her pace.

  Nels breathed deeply as he peered at the sky. The moon fell on the horizon, its shadow creeping farther along. If the thimble’s magic could preserve him for only two weeks, then they had three nights remaining to find the Needle and return to Hillshaven. That wasn’t much time. Nels hoped the Needle was in Hilvar’s treasury — or, if not there, somewhere nearby.

  “You must be exhausted,” he said. “We can rest here and start in the morning.”

  “No,” Tyra said, shaking her head. “I can rest after we find the treasury.”

  Before long, they reached an open gate that led into a courtyard overrun by dry weeds and vines. Tyra navigated through it without a problem, which made Nels smile. She was beginning to impress him in ways he never thought possible. He didn’t know what to think of her now, or if he should even think of her at all.

  Wild rosebushes and withered willows filled the gray courtyard, along with roots that had long since parted the stones in the path. A grand stair ascended to a large iron door. Tyra dismounted Brooklet and pulled on the door’s handle. Nels tugged along with her. The door would not budge. The castle was greater than even Avërand’s. Maybe there was another entrance. They circled around the structure, searching, only to return without finding so much as a crumbling wall.

  Tyra rummaged through her knapsack and retrieved the sewing kit.

  “What do you plan to use that for?”

  She was too busy opening the kit to answer. Moments later, she pulled out the small seam ripper and removed its tiny leather sheath. Tyra knelt down and started to pick the lock.

  “Those are delicate; twist it wrong and you’ll break it,” Nels warned.

  “Shh!” Tyra leaned in and twisted the ripper, as if her tinkering met no resistance. “I can’t feel the mechanism.” When she removed the ripper from the lock, metallic dust sifted through the keyhole. Little grains spilled onto the threshold like brown sand. “What is that?” she asked.

  It wasn’t brown sand — more like tiny bits of rusted iron. Nels pushed at the door, and it swung open without resistance. The lock came apart and fell onto the floor with a clatter, the latch severed in two.

  “Let me see that seam ripper,” Nels said. She handed Nels the tool as he looked through the doorframe. He stuck the tiny ripper into the nearest wall; the tip penetrated the stone with ease, validating his thought.

  “Did you see that?” he asked. “I bet this seam ripper can cut anything!”

  Tyra took the tool back. “I knew what I was doing.”

  Nels laughed. “You’re telling me you expected that to happen?”

  She turned her head away from him with a startled expression.

  “What is it?”

  “Would you look at this place — it’s enormous!”

  She had good reason to be astonished. Everything — the stone, the metal, the woodwork — was of the finest quality, hardly disturbed by time. There was a healthy amount of dust, reminding Nels of Gleesel’s mansion, although no fire was burning. There were no cobwebs, either. The castle was cold and lifeless.

  Something stirred the air, as if someone else was breathing it.

  After Tyra fastened Brooklet to a statue, they went inside. The place reminded Nels of Castle Avërand, but on a much grander scale. Above their heads, several pillars supported arches, bearing the weight of a sharply angled roof. A few tapestries hung between tall windows, their colors faded by the sun. It was dark, but the moon still shone bright enough to see by.

  As Tyra placed the ripper inside her kit, Nels wondered about the spool of thread and the black dye. What were they for? He knew the thimble would protect Tyra, so long as she carried it with her. To think they could have avoided the altercation with the bear — if only he had known.

  They explored an extravagant gallery of ancient arts and statues to their left, and then a library to their right. Hundreds of books littered the floor; only a few remained on the towering shelves.

  “Where do you think we should look?” Nels asked.

  Tyra shrugged as they passed from the library. “Why are you asking me?”

  “You’re more familiar with castles than I am. Where would you keep a treasury?”

  “Well, somewhere out of reach …”

  “See!” He laughed. “I knew you would be helpful.”

  Tyra’s smile widened. “Let’s start upstairs —” She stopped and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?” she asked. “It’s terribly foul!”

  Nels inhaled through his nose. “I can only smell beeswax, remember?”

  She lifted her skirt and took a first step onto the grand stairs. Nels didn’t trail behind her or fly ahead; he stayed at her side. His growing feelings for her — repressed ever since the festival — began to resurface. The memory of the pear blossom scent of her hair, the thought of touching her blushed lips — this wasn’t an appropriate time or place to think of her like that.

  “Is someone there?” Tyra asked, her eyes focusing on something ahead.

  Ahead on the landing, Nels saw the outline of a woman.

  Tyra quickened her ascent. “Hello?”

  Nels wanted to hold her back until he realized that it was only a portrait. The frame stretched from the floor nearly to the ceiling. The painting depicted a woman in a red dress. She had black hair and silver eyes, and she wore a sapphire stone around her neck.

  The Vaga girl at the festival had a necklace just like it.

  “She’s lovely,” Tyra said. “Who do you suppose she is?”

  “She looks like a Vaga,” Nels answered.

  Tyra looked at him, impressed. “You said that rather calmly. Most of the people I know hate or fear them. They brought this kingdom to ruin, they say.”

  Nels placed his arms in a fold. “The ones I met didn’t act like thieves.”

  “What of the ones who stole my father’s crown?” She walked across the landing without waiting for his answer. She reached out and grazed the painting with her fingers, touching the woman’s skirt.

  “What if I told you Arek stole the crown so he could gain your father’s favor?”

  Tyra stood still. She gave him no answer. The news must have shocked her.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but I heard him say it —”

  Without warning, she spun around and punched him square in the jaw. Nels flew backward and floated to a stop in the middle of the stairs. “Why did you do that?!” And then he realized, “How did you do that?”

  Something about her had changed. The locks of her hair floated in the air, waving like threads in water. The look in her eyes had turned vicious and desperate. Nels touched his face again. The blow didn’t hurt, but it was too great for someone as small as Tyra to deliver.

  “Get out!” Tyra commanded, cold and deep — in a voice that wasn’t hers. “Leave us!”

  Dumbfounded by the mannish timbre in her voice, Nels approached her again. “Us?”

  Tyra swung, but this time Nels grabbed her fist and then ensnared her other hand with his free one. She bared her teeth as she thrashed to free herself. She possessed unnatural strength. “I have what I need!” Her tone clashed like thunder in his ears. “Do not interfere!”

  Nels held fast until her wrists slipped through his grasp. Tyra tumbled down the stairs and came to rest on the floor, but
Nels still felt something in his hands — the grip of another. He was not alone. A tall man sneered at him. The man was wearing epaulets on his broad shoulders and a golden vest on his chest. His square, almost transparent face supported a short, well-trimmed beard. If they were able to see each other — and touch each other — then this man was a ghost as well.

  Tyra rolled onto her back with a soft moan, the distraction causing Nels to drop his guard just long enough for the specter to slip away and go after her again. Nels knocked the other ghost aside before it could touch her. The ghost floated back to the ground, his ruthless expression giving way to a befuddled one. “How did you do that?” he cried. “None have resisted me before!”

  Nels maintained his stance. “Have you ever faced another ghost before?”

  “Ghost?” He laughed. “Be you ghost or phantom, I will have her!”

  Bracing himself for the unexpected, Nels charged at the man.

  The ghost tried to run around him, but Nels grabbed the hem of his vest and tossed him across the hall. Their fight carried them into the armory, where Nels ducked a punch that landed on a suit of armor, bending it in half. In the dining hall, the ghost hurled dusty porcelain cups and saucers at Nels. Nels tried to catch one of the saucers while flying in the air, but the dish passed through his grip. Nels looked at his hand, bewildered. He had never tried to hold something and fly at the same time. Perhaps he couldn’t.

  Taking advantage of Nels’s distraction, the ghost soared back to where Tyra lay. Jumping to intercept, Nels rammed his shoulder into the ghost before he could possess her again.

  Before the ghost inhabited Tyra the first time, she complained of a terrible smell, reminding Nels of what she had said in her bedchamber. And he could grasp objects and throw them, just as Nels could. Unlike Yalva and Sibylla, this infuriated specter was a draug.

  Nels grappled with the draug and they rolled into the scullery, where they tumbled down a well. They landed in an underground lake without a splash; droplets fell through their heads from long stalactites. The draug tried to fly away, but Nels jumped into the air to pursue him and grabbed him by his ankle. Their struggle sent them crashing to the nearest shore. They battled a moment longer before the draug pushed Nels through a stone wall — into a room of reflected moonlight. Heaps of gold and mounds of jewels surrounded him. Nels waited for the draug, tripped him as he entered, and pinned him down.

  “Release me,” the draug ordered. “I yield!”

  “Promise to leave Tyra alone first!”

  “If that be the girl’s name, I swear it. Now release me!”

  Nels consented, but continued to watch the draug closely.

  The defeated phantom sat against a wooden chest, a look of amusement on his face. “Ages have passed since I last combated a foe. Fine display, lad. What manner of myth are you?”

  “Are you King Hilvar?”

  The draug laughed. “What is left of him.”

  Nels looked at the wealth surrounding them. If this spirit was the ghost of Hilvar, then this room had to be his treasury. “What is this place? I thought your treasure was stolen?”

  Hilvar frowned. “No hand but mine has ever touched this treasure. Is that what you have come for? I will gladly share it with you!” The draug pinched a coin and flipped it at Nels, only for it to soar right through him. The coin clinked onto a larger pile. “That is, if you allow me the use of her body first …”

  The draug scooted closer to the open chest as he stared at Nels.

  Nels stared back, disliking what Hilvar said about wanting to use Tyra’s body. What could he possibly mean? They came only for one thing, and a deceased king was not about to stop them.

  “Well,” the ghost blared. “Are you going to answer or just gawk at me all night?”

  “Listen — we didn’t come for your treasure.”

  “Is that so?” Hilvar rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. “Why have you come?”

  “For the Needle of Gailner,” Nels said.

  Hilvar let out a laugh. “Who hasn’t sought that?”

  Knowing that this draug knew of the Needle brought a measure of relief to Nels, assuring him that their journey to Westmine wasn’t a complete waste of time. “You know where it is, then?” he asked, carefully choosing his words. “We need to know; please tell us.”

  Pinching his thumb and forefinger close together, Hilvar glanced up. “I was this close to the Needle.” He dipped his hand into the chest beside him and scooped up a palm of gold coins. “Instead of finding it” — he allowed the coins to slip from his hand — “you can guess what happened.”

  Nels didn’t have to; Hilvar was a draug, after all. The specter raised another handful of money and sneered at it. There was an intense hatred in his eyes; frustration lined his face.

  “Your Majesty,” Nels said. “All we’re here for, all we want from you, is to find —”

  “You’ve already established that!” Hilvar barked. “What need have you for this relic?”

  “If I tell you, will you promise to tell me where it is?”

  The draug glowered at him. “A bold phantom, you are. Headstrong! Abrasive! If we were alive at this moment, I would toss you in the dungeons for your insolence!”

  “If we were alive,” Nels countered, “I wouldn’t dream of fighting you.”

  The draug gave him another short laugh. “Death changes everything — well put, lad. Tell me how you have come to be here, and, if you entertain, I may bestow all that you wish to know.”

  Jumping at the offer, Nels recalled everything he could to the dead king: his death, the loom, and their search for the Needle. After Nels recounted their scuffle with the bear, the ghost held up a hand. “You mean to tell me that with this Needle, you will have a second chance to live?”

  The envious stare coming from the draug cut through Nels like a winter’s chill. There was no way to beat around it, so he faced the man and nodded.

  Hilvar frowned. “A second chance.” He closed his eyes, tight at first, before he opened them with a sigh. Remorse weighed down his voice. “A worthy cause.” He stood and waved his hand, motioning for Nels to come. “I will show you where my search for the Needle of Gailner began.”

  Accompanying Hilvar around a pile of emeralds, Nels saw more wealth than he could have ever imagined, a treasure without end. Precious metals and gems caught his eye, including many whose names he didn’t know. Then, as they both rounded an enormous pile of gold, Hilvar crossed through a granite wall. Nels followed, hoping the king hadn’t given him the slip.

  A black blur clouded Nels’s vision until he emerged from the wall. It was too dark to see anything until the draug snapped his fingers. Small fires burst from various torches, the same way Gleesel had lit her candles. A circular chamber came into view, its walls lined with ancient stone.

  “How did you summon fire?” Nels asked.

  “Magic lives in the walls.” Hilvar snapped his fingers again. The lights went out. “Try it.”

  The moment Nels clicked his fingers, the light returned. He could hardly believe it: this place had magic that could react to the actions of a ghost! Amazed by this discovery, Nels used the new light to look around. He saw no treasure in the room, but there were tables and shelves that held the remains of pottery, glass bottles, and mechanisms with complex gears and pulleys. The mechanisms were in shambles, decayed and layered with dust, as if abandoned for centuries.

  In the center of the room was a freestanding arch of dark stone. Directly beneath it sat a decrepit loom. It resembled the one Bosh used, only larger.

  “What is this place?” Nels asked.

  Hilvar opened his arms. “This is Gailner’s chamber — the birthplace of Fabrication.”

  Before Nels could let this revelation sink in, Hilvar led him to the arch. As they got closer, Nels noticed a heap of clothes and a pair of black leather boots leaning against one side of the arch. A bony grin bared its teeth from under a tattered hood.

  Nels pointed at the corp
se. “That’s not you, is it?”

  “He was the only man besides me who came close to finding the Needle.” Hilvar walked to the dried body and leaned against the arch. “Until I killed him, that is.”

  “Killed him?” Nels stepped back as he said this. He had never stopped to think about how dangerous a draug could be, or that a ghost could take the life of a mortal. “You killed him?”

  “Why do you stare at me like I’m some monster? It was not my intent!” Hilvar bellowed. “I was merely going to borrow him. I didn’t expect him to be such a powerful conjurer.”

  “Conjurer?” Nels’s thoughts turned to Gleesel’s father, the man who had disappeared. He approached the body. On its skeletal hand was a ring similar to Tyra’s. “Oyren?”

  “Was that his name?” Hilvar sighed. “Well, now I know. He resisted with such fervor!”

  Nels studied the loom some more. “What do you know about this loom and arch?”

  Hilvar turned, careful not to step through Oyren’s bones. “This arch is a Weaver’s Gate. It was created for a unified purpose.” Hilvar pointed at three people engraved on the face of the arch. The people had their arms outstretched, and each held an item in their hands. “To summon the gate’s power, three sorcerers — one from each of the three magics — must stand in front of the gate while holding a tool of their respective powers.”

  Nels stooped down and raised Oyren’s hand for a better look at his ring.

  “Have you no respect for the dead?” Hilvar asked.

  Oyren’s body fell to the side, causing a chalky dust to scatter. The sound of his rattling ribs traveled up the chamber. Nels looked down at Oyren. Seeing the dead conjurer reminded him of the cryptic passage that Oyren had written inside the shadowed book. “The Weaver’s Gate,” Nels repeated quietly.

  Hilvar nodded. “It was Gailner’s greatest accomplishment before his Needle.”

  “It doesn’t look anything like a gate.”

  “It’s one of three. The others are long since lost.”

  Nels took Oyren’s ring as he stood. “What does a Weaver’s Gate do, exactly?”