Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “I will tell you on the way up; it is a long walk.”

  Nels nodded. Based on how deep they had fallen, Nels could only imagine.

  “Let us leave,” Hilvar said. “An untidy floor is no place for your friend.”

  Nels smiled, surprised that the draug shared his concern. He glanced at Oyren the Conjurer one last time before the torches went out with the draug’s exit. Nels approached the wall, ready to pass through it, but instead he bounced back — as if he were solid. He looked at the ring in his hand. To hold it, he had had to become tangible. Doing so would not let him pass. Nels returned the ring to Oyren’s lap and proceeded through the wall without hindrance.

  On the other side, he found himself in one of dozens of prison cells.

  “Time has a way of keeping some tales but casting others aside,” Hilvar said as he headed up a spiral stairwell. “Have you never heard of the man who made the Weaver’s Gates?”

  “I know Gailner made the Needle,” Nels said, following him. “But that’s all.”

  As they ascended, Hilvar spoke of a time unlike any Nels had heard of, and of lands that he had never known. A terrible conflict once kept the world divided. Those caught in the middle were trampled underfoot, but one man — called Gailner — sought peace. Gailner formed and led an alliance of three sorcerers — himself and one sorcerer from each of the other two magical traditions. Together, the three unified sorcerers discovered a realm of endless truth where they learned how to unify the nations. They forged three Weaver’s Gates — one for each land — to establish lasting friendship and peace among the nations. But they had no idea the damage that the Gates would inadvertently cause. Such powerful magic linking three separate points in the world stretched the Great Tapestry beyond its limits; a tear opened in reality itself. Because of this tear, a great rendt nearly devoured the world.

  To correct their misuse of magic, Gailner created the Needle, a powerful tool with the ability to mend the torn fabric of reality. But Gailner soon realized the danger the Needle possessed. In addition to mending the fabric of reality, it had the power to destroy it forever. This led Gailner to create a secret fourth gate, where he entered and vanished with his Needle, never to return.

  “Without Gailner, the sorcerers’ alliance dissolved,” Hilvar said. “The nations remained at peace for a time. Other sorcerers tried to form a new alliance, but they failed. I have no knowledge about the state of the world as it is now.”

  “Incredible,” Nels said. “Did you know Gailner?”

  The draug let out a boisterous laugh. “His time was six centuries before mine!”

  Nels cursed his naivety. “Sorry. You just seem to know so much.”

  “Books, my lad; my library is filled with them, some of them written by Gailner himself. It is amazing how much reading one can do in four hundred years.”

  “I met another ghost,” Nels said, thinking of King Yalva. “He said a ghost can bind itself to what it cared for most in life. Are you here because you bound yourself to your treasure?”

  “No,” Hilvar grumbled. “I thought they were my treasures, but no cavern of gold can fill the emptiness inside of me. If I had treasured what mattered, I would not have lost my true treasure.”

  “The Vagas didn’t steal your treasure, then?”

  “My treasure was a Vaga … and she stole herself from me.”

  Nels couldn’t help but think of the woman from the painting upstairs.

  “No jewel in the world was greater than she, a fair maiden of the forest. My father, ruling before me, had already stripped the Vagas of their land, forcing them north to Mendarch.”

  Mendarch. The name struck a chord with Nels; Tyra’s instructor had mentioned it.

  “But when my father died,” Hilvar continued, “I was free to do as I wished. I could think of no other woman to sit beside me. There were many who disagreed with our love. As king, I defied those who opposed our union. But over time, I grew obsessed with the many mines that dotted my kingdom. My treasures became more important to me.” Hilvar sounded miserable, and he looked it. “I brought her inside these walls, only to ignore her. I left her alone, cut off from her people, surrounded only by those who rejected her — she wilted like a flower. The only way I can see her again is to cross into the next plane, but I am trapped in this valley. Only by giving up my kingdom and wealth can I be free.”

  Nels felt sorry for the old draug, but the solution to Hilvar’s problem seemed easy enough. Nels certainly wouldn’t mind lining his pockets a little, either. “Give your treasure to anyone?”

  “I must bestow it to the rightful heir of my kingdom,” Hilvar clarified.

  Just like Tyra’s grandfather, they both needed a worthy heir.

  “Do you know who that is?” Nels asked.

  “Yes.” Hilvar smiled. “A child among the Vagas; they call her Mylan.”

  “How do you know she’s the rightful heir? Do you know her?”

  “I have spoken to her … through the mouths of others.”

  “Oh,” Nels said. “That’s why you want to use Tyra?”

  “When I overheard that she was a princess, I had to. I have possessed countless intruders, but no matter how I try, I cannot bestow my throne, even with a willing host.”

  “Why would anyone be willing if it kills them?”

  “If they do not resist me, the worst I can do is cause a deep sleep upon them after I leave the body.”

  Nels wondered: Had Fargut been one such host? The eccentric, pot-bellied man had spoken of Hilvar coming to take him.

  “No one has proved a suitable vessel,” the hopeless king continued. “However, none of them were of royal blood. I suspect possessing your princess will yield more success than a peddler.”

  “You’re sure she’ll make a difference?” Nels asked, continuing up the stairs.

  “I have no way of knowing,” Hilvar answered, “but it is my only hope.”

  Feeling uneasy about such a gamble, Nels wondered if they had enough time to settle this problem before his thimble’s magic wore off. At sunrise, they would only have two days left to find the Needle and return to Avërand before the half-moon waned. It was unthinkable at this point.

  “If she allows me,” Hilvar said, “I will tell you where to find the Needle.”

  “I’ll ask her,” Nels said. After all, what choice did they have?

  The smile on the old draug’s face told Nels that it was precisely what he wanted to hear. “I envy you,” he said. “You have a much better chance to reclaim your love than I.”

  Taken aback, Nels stared at him. “What love?”

  Hilvar pointed up. “The love you have for your maiden.”

  “L-love?” Nels stammered. “That’s … I mean … it’s nothing like that —”

  The draug shook his head slightly. “You bore me to the ground to protect her,” he said. “Do not tell me you have no feelings for her. I know passion when I see it!”

  “She’s only helping me find the Needle. It was made my duty to protect her.”

  Hilvar grabbed Nels by the shoulder. “There is no sense of duty without love!”

  No matter how Nels justified it, he couldn’t refute the way he had felt when he saw Tyra ride into the festival. But that wasn’t love — it was an attraction; nothing deeper. Wasn’t it? The ghost of King Yalva had given him a charge to keep her safe, but Nels realized that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to protect her. If Hilvar was right, then, deep down, Nels had fallen in love.

  Hilvar let go of Nels’s shoulder and tousled his hair. “I swear to you that no harm will come to her, so long as she agrees to help me. And then I will tell you where the Needle lies —”

  Just then, Hilvar stopped, his face suddenly wrought with concern.

  “What is it?” Nels asked.

  The draug placed his hand on the wall. “Someone is coming, riding a horse.”

  Rasmus!?

  Fearing the worst, Nels shot up the stairs to where Tyra had fallen.


  Beams of sunlight streaked across the hall through the upper windows’ broken panes of glass. Part of the roof was missing, exposing a clear sky above Tyra’s head. She opened her eyes and stirred awake, not knowing how she wound up at the bottom of the stairs. Her head ached.

  “Nels?” She sat up. “Where are you?” Tyra thought she heard laughter in the distance. “This isn’t funny,” she reprimanded. “Answer me!”

  She went silent at the sound of her own name.

  Someone was calling for her.

  It came from outside.

  Tyra stumbled to her feet and sprinted for the door. A pair of scavenging sparrows flapped away as she reached the entrance. Brooklet stood in the courtyard, nibbling on grasses among a few neglected rosebushes. The garden looked so different than it had at night; it wasn’t as full or lush, and most of the plants were dead.

  As Tyra neared Brooklet, the mare seemed skittish. Something was troubling her.

  “Was that you I heard?” she asked the mare, stroking the long hairs on her white neck. Maybe it was just the wind carrying the horse’s nicker. “Is that ghost bothering you again?”

  “Tyra!” a voice cried from the front gate. “Is that you?”

  She turned and saw Arek entering the courtyard.

  The favored knight of Avërand dismounted and emerged from the shadows, arms open wide.

  Tyra sprinted across the weed-strewn path. The desire to be held by him had replaced her caution, but the closer she came to him, the more suspicious she felt. A terrible squall sounded from his horse. The stallion heaved from exhaustion and then fell to its side. The knight didn’t flinch.

  “Arek,” Tyra said, slowing to a stop. “Your horse —”

  “I know,” he replied, glancing down at the poor animal. “Finding you safe is worth it.”

  The stallion looked up, its neck trembling, as if death were looming. The horse lowered its head, exhaled, and stopped moving. Brooklet stomped her hooves, startling Tyra from behind. She had done this once before, when Tyra nearly stepped on a coiled adder during a walk in the barley fields. This was Brooklet’s way of warning Tyra that something was wrong.

  If Arek loved anything more than Tyra, it was his horse.

  He would never run it to death, not even for her.

  Uncertain, but trusting her instincts, Tyra stepped back.

  Arek tilted his head slightly, his sullen eyes curious. “Is something wrong?”

  Tyra didn’t know. The sight of Arek had filled her with elation, but to see the way he’d treated his beloved horse … It rattled her understanding of him.

  And when she’d seen him on the pass, there had been two horses.

  Where is his squire?

  “Tyra?” Concern resounded in Arek’s voice.

  “You followed my handkerchief?” Tyra answered.

  “Yes — not that I needed to,” he said. “Why did you go off alone? You wanted my help to find some kind of a needle, right?” He stepped forward. “Now that I am here, I will help you.”

  Looking behind her, Tyra took another step back, wondering why the air felt so heavy and dark, contrary to the light morning. Arek smiled as he advanced another step. She’d listened to what the peasant had told her on their way here, about the man who assumed the faces of others, so Tyra couldn’t contain her suspicion. Her ring would know for certain. “Where is your squire?”

  The knight paused. “You knew he was with me?”

  “I saw you when I was on top of the pass,” Tyra said.

  Arek smirked as he resumed his stride. “We should get you back to your father.”

  Tyra glanced at her ring. It didn’t change. He had avoided her question completely — but why? She had to ask something more direct, something only the real Arek would know. “During our picnic, you wanted to ask me something,” she said, trying to sound calm. “What was it?”

  Without answering her, Arek took another step.

  “You remember,” Tyra said, “don’t you?”

  The knight raised his hand and flicked his finger. All of a sudden, Tyra’s fears lifted like a fog in the sun. She was calm, enraptured by Arek’s smile and the invitation of his strong arms. She couldn’t help it — the thought of Arek holding her made Tyra blush. All she cared about was her love for Arek.

  Involuntarily, she moved.

  “Who told you about the Needle?” Arek asked, his voice cool and blunt.

  “Ickabosh,” she said, surprised by how fast the name flew from her mouth.

  “I thought so,” he said. “Did he send you here to find it?”

  “He sent me to the mansion on the Westerly Pass.”

  Arek smiled. “And what did you find there?”

  There was no way to explain it, but she knew something was wrong. Tyra was so happy, so light, but deep within, she was trying to turn away. Her instincts screamed for her to run.

  She shivered as Arek reached behind his back.

  “What have you discovered?” he asked. “What do you plan to use the Needle for?”

  She had to resist him. Tyra tried to stop, but every time Arek flexed his fingers, she felt pulled from within, as if he forced the words out of her mouth. “I … need it … to save —”

  Thump!

  Arek dropped to the ground, knocked out by a cobblestone in the peasant’s hand.

  In an instant, Tyra’s tranquil thoughts vanished, leaving her bogged down and confused.

  Nels jumped over Arek, ran to Tyra, and seized her shoulders. “Did he hurt you?”

  Tyra looked at the stone in his hand. “You hit him over the head again?”

  “That’s not Arek!” he said, more terrified than ever.

  Tyra glanced at her ring; the stone stayed green.

  The knight groaned as he stirred. Like threads in the wind, his skin unraveled. His hair followed. Something pulled at the fabric of his shirt, and then new layers of skin appeared. Cold eyes stared from a face that didn’t belong to Arek. As he looked up, the man that had been Arek bared his teeth. The favored knight of Avërand had changed into someone else completely.

  “We have to get out of here!” Nels cried. “Come on!”

  Grabbing her by the hand, they ran to Brooklet and climbed onto her saddle.

  “Run for the gate,” he said. “Don’t stop!”

  Tyra kicked Brooklet’s side and sent them off in a run. The wild growth throughout the courtyard narrowed their escape to only one way — the gate. The imposter jumped to his feet, the remains of Arek withering off his body like scattered lint caught in the breeze. He was about the age of her father; he had dark hair and he wore a thick cape and a fine suit paired with a violet vest. He had an air of refinement about him, like a noble, but with an unpleasant stare that chilled her.

  The man, wielding a knife, blocked their escape.

  “Good idea,” Nels said.

  Tyra turned to him. “I didn’t say anything!”

  “Keep going,” he said, “no matter what. We’ll be fine!”

  Had Nels lost his mind? This man was no ordinary person. A simple stir of his fingers could control her feelings and draw from her lips answers that she couldn’t afford to reveal. As they ran forward, the man raised his weapon, ready to strike. “Tell me where the Needle is!”

  Tyra winced as the man brandished his blade and swung at them, but he suddenly stopped. His eyes filled with surprise as he let go of his knife. The imposter stepped aside, rigidly, as if doing so against his will. “I will hold him as long as I can,” he said, in a completely different voice.

  “Now’s our chance,” Nels cried. “Go!”

  They bolted past the imposter, continued down the path, and soared through the gate. The empty city lay before them, but Tyra was too terrified to admire the sunlit edifices.

  Who was that man? Why was he so intent on the Needle?

  Her thoughts darkened. If this was Rasmus, where was Arek?

  No stitch or potion or spell had ever stirred Rasmus’s thread t
his way. Another entity had entangled its spirit with his. The words he spoke were not his own, the voice accented by the remnants of Westmine’s past. Legends spoke of the ghost of King Hilvar, and he believed them; he had accepted what the diviners of Ilyden had taught him concerning the ethereal plane dividing life and death, where the souls of the dead cross after the passing of their lives.

  Phantom or not, he couldn’t lose the princess.

  Release me, Hilvar. You and I have no quarrel.

  The ghost threw his voice into Rasmus’s mouth. “I will not let you kill her.”

  That is not my intention. Release me, or you will regret this.

  Conjuring the magic deep within, Rasmus focused every strand of will from his thread and recited an ancient chant. The ghost resisted the craft, increasing his effort, but there was only enough room for one spirit to possess this body.

  Mentally repeating archaic commands, Rasmus spread his focus throughout his chest until he was able to reach out and move his arms again. All he had to do was find the king’s thread inside him and cast it out. Scratching at his chest, Rasmus found a solid pinch with his fingers. Then, with a slight tug, he slipped his fingers around Hilvar’s thread, made a fist, and secured his grip.

  The ghost struggled. “What manner of sorcerer are you?” he asked.

  The strongest!

  Twitching his forefinger, Rasmus applied as much strength into this thread as he could, removing the ghost from his body. Knowing the phantom would try to ensnare him again, he picked up his knife and flashed through the gate with a speed that rivaled lightning.

  Once there, he closed his eyes and slammed his fists toward the ground. Stones fell from the ramparts as a loud crash rumbled the outer wall. The very foundation shuddered as Rasmus faced the gate and caught his breath, sneering at what he couldn’t see. “I stitched your thread, Hilvar,” Rasmus said. “You’re tethered to this castle now and cannot leave.”

  A stone rose off the ground before it hurdled at him.

  Rasmus brushed it aside without touching it. “I said you would regret this.” The walls thundered, as if pounded on by great fists. The ghost couldn’t stop him — so long as the tethering stitch held. If there was time for it, Rasmus wanted to learn more about this ghost, how he could move objects and possess the living, but that would have to wait. The princess was now just a small dot in the distance, halfway to the forest.