Woven

by Michael Jensen

  No matter; he had plenty of vigor left in his own thread — he could still cord to anything within his sight.

  His arms outstretched, Rasmus formed another circle with his hands, put the circle to his eye, and searched for Tyra’s mare.

  Holding Tyra, Nels made sure no one was following them.

  That was too close.

  He didn’t get a good look, but Nels knew the man by the cut of his cape. Good thing Nels had found them so quickly. Close as they were to knowing where the Needle was, their conversation with Hilvar would have to wait. At this pace, they would be out of the city soon. They had to find a safe glen to rest and wait for Rasmus to leave. Despite his tight grip, Tyra’s body was shaking.

  “Are you all right?” Nels asked. “Are you hurt?”

  “That was Rasmus,” she said, “wasn’t it?”

  He didn’t want to answer her, but did anyway. “It was.”

  “Then,” she asked hesitantly, “where’s Arek?”

  As they began to cross a bridge, Nels noticed a man on the other side, who fell to one knee as if in terrible pain. Nels wasn’t sure who it was, but Rasmus couldn’t have gotten ahead of them.

  “Look! It’s Arek!” Tyra cried. “He’s alive!”

  Before Nels could say anything, Brooklet tripped over something unseen that sent both him and the princess into the air. The mare squealed as she tumbled to a stop. Nels turned his back to the ground as fast as he could and let Tyra land on him. They dug into the earth together until they thumped against the trunk of a pine. Sticky needles fell around them.

  Brooklet stayed on her side, writhing in pain, her leg broken.

  Tyra moaned as Nels jumped to his feet. Tyra’s knapsack — with the thimble inside it — had fallen off her when they tumbled through the air. Before he could grab it, the sound of footsteps made him turn. Rasmus emerged, his eyes fixed on Tyra. The Master Threader opened his arms, closed his eyes, and slammed his fists toward the ground. The clearing fell silent. Brooklet stopped moving, her cries muted. Even Nels’s feet stuck fast to the forest floor, just as he’d been frozen before Rasmus smashed him with the tree.

  Nels struggled to move even an inch as the man approached the princess.

  Tyra tried to sit up, but she couldn’t budge. She could not move so much as a finger. Every muscle in her body was stiff. Her knapsack was on the ground to her side. Brooklet was in front of her, paralyzed on the ground. Nels stood still, his back to her. The only one who roamed freely about was the man who looked like Arek.

  “I can’t move,” Nels said. “Run, Tyra, if you can!”

  The imposter did not react. He could not hear the ghost.

  “You’re not Arek!” Tyra said. “Stop pretending to be him, Rasmus!”

  The knight smirked, and his face and body changed once again into the fabricator. “You know of me? I thought they kept me a secret from you.”

  Tyra trembled. By they, she assumed he meant her parents. “You killed my grandfather!”

  “Yes.” His answer was blunt. “You say that as if it were a terrible crime.” Rasmus stooped down, close to her. His eyes pried into hers. “I am not as wicked as you think, Princess. It had to be done.” He retrieved her pouch and looked inside. “On Ickabosh’s errand, are you?” His dark brow furrowed as he leaned even closer. “Tell me what you know about the Needle.”

  Tyra’s heart thumped in her throat, her will faltering.

  “Well?” Rasmus said. “Where is the Needle?”

  “I … I don’t know,” Tyra whispered.

  Rasmus rested on one knee, blocking her view of Nels. Tyra closed her eyes, hoping that she was not about to feel Rasmus’s knife. She had to do something, but what?

  “Look me in the eyes,” Rasmus ordered. “Look!” Tyra opened her own. His cold blue eyes stared back. “I am cursed with knowledge, knowledge of how fragile our reality is, for it is in danger of undoing itself. With the Needle, I can mend what began years ago. I can alter reality, change it back to how it once was … the way it was meant to be.” Rasmus took a deep breath, his nose grazing her hair. His dark blue eyes opened wider as he pulled away. “This is why I seek the Needle, Your Highness. I have searched the world over for it, and if you do not know where it is, tell me — for the value of your life — why are you searching for it?”

  “You wish to alter reality?” Tyra asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” The man adjusted his violet vest, acting calm, confident, and in control. “You have me all wrong, Princess. I don’t wish to kill anyone, but I will do whatever it takes to keep the Great Tapestry from the rendt!” Rasmus gently grasped Tyra’s chin with his fingers. “Do not hinder me, Tyra. Do what is easy; tell me everything you know.”

  “What have you done to Arek?” she asked, despite the murderer’s clammy hand on her skin.

  Rasmus laughed. “He was a hindrance, so I buried him.” Tyra could barely see her hand, but her ring’s stone was green. Rasmus reached behind his back and withdrew a knife. The blade, held expertly in his hand, glistened in the light. “Why do you seek the Needle? You had better tell me. Now!”

  Rasmus flicked his finger at Tyra again. Her mind numbed. That same strange happiness from earlier buoyed her thoughts — a fake, contrived feeling. Knowing that her knight was gone brought forth tears, despite the effects of this magic. Her desire for life had lost its meaning.

  “It’s not for me,” she said. “The Needle isn’t for me.”

  Nels struggled to free himself. It was all he could do.

  Rasmus groaned as he breathed again. “Who, then?”

  Looking straight into his eyes, Tyra sneered. “It’s for you!”

  The man leaned back. “For me?”

  “To stop you!” Hot tears ran down her face. “I will use it to stop you!”

  In an instant, Rasmus’s body unraveled once more. His skin and clothing whirled in the air like threads in the wind. They changed shape and color and wove back into a new person. He was no longer a man, but a woman, a young and beautiful woman — an exact likeness of Princess Tyra. Knowing that her defiance had sealed her fate, Tyra couldn’t take another breath.

  “You have outlived your usefulness,” Rasmus said, using her voice, “but your beauty will not go to waste …”

  Rasmus pitied the young princess writhing helplessly to avoid his hand. She was a lovely girl, but alas, she knew nothing about the Needle. And she was of no use to him now. He was sure the sobbing princess wished to take back what she had said, but it was much too late for that. Her eyes closed as he knelt down, raised his hand, and aimed for her heart.

  Schhwaff!

  A feathered shaft pierced his shoulder, knocking him back. It was an arrow, shot from the dense forest. Rasmus gritted his teeth against the rising pain. They weren’t alone, and his tacking stitch hadn’t reached far enough to paralyze the unknown archer — wherever he was.

  Clutching his wounded arm, Rasmus returned to finish what he had started when a blow struck him in the face. The princess had escaped the dwindling tacking stitch. She had a bow in her clenched hand and she used it to whack the knife from his; she then struck his head. Rather than use up his strength, Rasmus wove back into himself and ran for the trees — just as another force sent him to the ground. Someone had tripped him; he couldn’t see who had made him fall.

  Has Hilvar escaped my tethering stitch?

  The girl charged at him, but then she stopped.

  “Let go of me, Nels!” she cried. “Let me go!”

  That name … the son of Ulrich … It can’t be!

  Rasmus reached for Tyra’s thread and hooked it around the pine behind her. He yanked hard, the pull forcing her to fly back. As she landed on her side, an unseen power slammed him in the jaw. He rolled, returned to his feet, and looked around but there was no one; at least, no one that he could see.

  It’s not possible — I killed him! I killed Ulrich’s son!

  Rasmus
couldn’t fight what his eyes and magic could not see, nor could he face those who were attacking him from afar. If he left the princess alive, he couldn’t use her face to enter Castle Avërand — it would be too risky if the real Tyra arrived at the castle while he was there threaded as her. But Rasmus had to retreat from this attack; he would have to find another way into the castle.

  “Never come back to Avërand, Princess Tyra!” Rasmus seized his cape, spun around, and vanished, leaving only dust and leaves as his voice faded. “If you return, you will both die!”

  Nels relaxed his fists as Rasmus’s voice diminished.

  The rogue fabricator had left them, but that wasn’t enough to settle his nerves. Even with ghostly powers, Nels had been unable to fully protect the princess — Rasmus was a true master of his trade. It was a good thing Tyra had nocked an arrow — she would have died without it. She stood and limped to him, her cheeks blotchy.

  “How did you land that shot on him?” Nels asked. “I couldn’t even move!”

  Tyra stared at Nels, then looked at the ground where Rasmus once stood. “It was not mine.”

  A twig snapped. Pine needles crunched. Branches jostled around them. Nels turned toward the forest as several men emerged from its shadows. Their clothing blended with the greens and browns of the trees, and they carried sheaths and bows over their shoulders. Nels counted three … seven … thirteen. They all had dark hair, fair skin, and silvery eyes, a trait Nels had seen before. “I know where that arrow came from,” he said.

  Tyra looked at them, but said nothing. Brooklet raised her head and whinnied in pain. With grief written on her face, Tyra examined the mare’s leg. “Not you, Brooklet …”

  As the Vagas advanced, Tyra knelt down and buried her hands in her face. Nels took Tyra’s dagger and wielded it at the incoming horde, but they didn’t seem to care. More crunching came from behind as another group arrived from the east. The Vagas were coming from every direction, except for the path that led into the city. When they reached a charging distance, each of them came to a stop and waited. They stood silently, staring at the dagger in Nels’s hand. To them, it was floating in thin air.

  What are they waiting for?

  From the north came one more Vaga. This one wasn’t a man, but a child — a young girl. She entered the glen gracefully, with a leather satchel over her shoulder. She wore the same attire as her companions, only she had a skirt instead of trousers. Around her neck was a sapphire stone, speckled with golden dust. Her moonlike eyes glanced at Tyra and then stopped at Brooklet’s leg.

  She was the girl from the festival — the one Nels saved from a turnip.

  The girl walked lithely to the injured mare, knelt by her side, and stroked her long mane. “Calm yourself, lady,” she soothed. “Be calm.” The mare flicked her ears back and gave the girl a small whine. “Spirit — bring me Her Highness’s knapsack; I need her sewing kit.”

  Astounded but dutiful, Nels brought Tyra’s knapsack to the girl.

  “How does she know about the kit?” Nels asked Tyra. She said nothing.

  The girl’s eyes looked up and met his. “I am a diviner. The forest told me.”

  She heard me? Nels couldn’t believe it. “Can you see me, too?”

  “I hear your voice,” she said, “but, no, I do not see you.”

  Impressed by her demeanor and moved by the serenity of her voice, Nels watched the girl rummage through the knapsack. She retrieved the sewing kit, paused, and said, “Oh, good — you have conjurer’s medicine, too,” and then also pulled out the flask of creamy, green goop that Gleesel had given Tyra.

  The Vaga girl wasted no time in opening the sewing kit’s small cedar lid and removing the lump of beeswax. The wax had healed Tyra last night; could it do the same for her mare?

  The girl held the flask out for Nels. “Make her drink that,” she instructed.

  Nels poured the goop into the mare’s mouth while the girl coated her hands with the wax and then massaged it into Brooklet’s mangled knee. The mare gave a shrill cry as the girl’s hands moved over and below the injury. Like the caressing hands of a potter, the girl molded Brooklet’s limb into place. In no time, her leg looked normal again. The mare stood up slowly, with a slight limp, and leaned gently on her leg.

  “Soon she will be ready to ride again,” the girl said. “You are fortunate to have this wax.”

  There was something special about this girl. Nels hazarded a guess. “Are you Mylan?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Hilvar told you?”

  “He did. How did you know I saw him?”

  Mylan raised her eyebrows and pointed to the city. “You came from his castle.”

  “Oh … right,” Nels said with a laugh. “Thank you for healing Brooklet.”

  The girl gave a courteous bow. “You’re welcome. Now I must see what can be done for her,” she said, pointing at Tyra. She patted the mare’s neck one last time before she turned and walked to the princess. “I may need you. Come with me, spirit.”

  Nels followed Mylan. Tyra had not moved. Her hands still covered her eyes. “We’re safe,” he said, gently touching Tyra’s shoulder. She did not reply. “The Vagas have come and they’re here to help. They just healed Brooklet — see? She’s walking!”

  “Get away from me.”

  Nels backed away.

  “It’s your fault!” Tyra’s face flushed red. “Arek is dead because of you!”

  Mylan reached into her satchel, opened her hand, and blew a chalky orange powder into Tyra’s face. Tyra coughed until her eyelids slowly drooped closed. She leaned to her side; Nels caught her before she touched the ground. Every part of her was still now, except for her gentle breathing.

  “Do not dismay,” Mylan said. “You did nothing wrong.”

  “But what have you done to her?” Nels asked.

  “I use this powder for my visions. It will help her sleep.”

  Nels couldn’t speak. He just held Tyra, wondering what would happen to them. Death had never come so close to them as at that moment with Rasmus. And if what Rasmus said was true, Arek was dead.

  “Mylan!” A man called the girl’s name.

  “Quick,” the girl said, looking at the ground. “Lay her down.”

  Although he didn’t want to let Tyra go, Nels did as Mylan instructed. The voice shouted again, closer this time. A moment later, a man entered the clearing and rested on the shoulder of a bowman. The man’s beard was decorated with beads, which jostled when he spoke. “There you are,” he said, breathing heavily before straightening himself up. “What are you doing here?”

  “Acting against the council’s will,” Mylan answered. “I am sorry, Father.”

  “Roashil!” The man drew a deep, impatient breath. “When will you call me by my name?” He looked at the men and shook his head. Pine needles fell from his thick locks. “There is danger in this forest and you led our hunters to the heart of it? You may heed premonitions, but you must not answer them!”

  The girl retained a respectful stance, but she didn’t speak. Nels wanted to know what this man meant by premonitions. “I disagree, Father,” Mylan said. “It felt right to intervene.”

  The man pointed at Tyra. “Who is this girl?”

  “She is Princess Tyra, heir to the throne of Avërand.”

  Roashil’s mouth dropped open as he bowed low to the forest floor. “Why are you all still standing?” he yelled to the others. “Show your respect to Her Highness!”

  Mylan suppressed a small laugh. “She is asleep, Father.”

  With a slightly embarrassed grunt, Roashil rose to his feet. “If we had known it was the princess who was in danger, we would have” — he stopped abruptly — “what is wrong with her?”

  “She was in conflict, but I eased her with vision powder.”

  Roashil pointed at Brooklet. “Is that her horse?”

  Mylan nodded.

  “And the one who tried to kill her? Is he the one we suspected?”

  “The Mast
er Threader,” Mylan said. “He is, just as we feared.”

  “Vigo,” Roashil called. “Carry her back to our camp.”

  The largest of the Vagas stepped forward.

  “No,” Nels said. “I can’t let him carry her.”

  Mylan raised her hand. “Wait.” And then she whispered, “Why not?”

  “I am charged with protecting her. I will do it.”

  He reached under Tyra and picked her up off the ground.

  Roashil and the others pulled back and stared at the floating girl. Mylan, unfazed, grasped Brooklet’s reins and coaxed the mare into following them.

  “Great forces are at work,” Roashil said. “Is Hilvar’s ghost with us?”

  “No, Father,” Mylan answered, “but he spoke to them.”

  “Roashil …” the man insisted. “Call me Roashil!”

  Nels walked beside Mylan as she led the Vagas north into the forest, unsure where the mysterious girl was taking them. He was curious as to why Roashil refused to let Mylan call him Father.

  Nels was surprised by how calm he felt, considering Rasmus’s attack, though he worried for Tyra. She had obviously been pushed past her breaking point. At least they were safe now. He hoped when she awoke that she would no longer be angry with him, but he knew she had every reason to be.

  Arek — the man she had given her love to — was dead.

  Tyra struggled to open her eyes. They flitted open and closed, barely able to focus on anything. She was still in the forest — the wind jostled the leaves high above her. Footsteps — many footsteps — marched on all sides of her, and birds chirped from the trees. As her vision sharpened, she saw that her head was resting on Nels’s shoulder. He was carrying her. Before she could notice anything more, her eyes drooped closed and she drifted back out of consciousness.