Woven

by Michael Jensen

Sunlight slipped onto Tyra’s eyes through the loose seams of a tent.

  Where am I?

  She sat up. She was on a soft down mat lined with red silk sheets. The urge to doze off again began to sway her, so she shook her head repeatedly to force the sleepiness away. She looked around, feeling terribly wronged; her skin was bare — she had nothing on her body! Only a white sheet covered her, and her arms and hair were clean. Someone had given her a bath.

  “She is awake,” said a young female voice from behind her.

  Tyra seized the sheet to cover herself and spun around. Kneeling at a table of woven fibers was a girl — a Vaga child. Nels sat across from the child. A tendril of white smoke rose from a stick of incense on the table. The colorful walls of the tent were like finely pressed tapestries; the ceiling swayed above her as the tent shifted in the slightest breeze.

  The child approached Tyra’s bed and bowed politely. “You are safe with us, Your Highness. Your dress was torn beyond repair, so we have some new clothes for you.” The girl pointed to a red skirt that had been draped over the foot of the bed. The skirt had celestial symbols sewn into its pleats, and a matching vest and folded silk shirt lay nearby. The clothing was loud in appearance, but finely woven. “I will leave you, for now,” the girl said. “When you are ready, you are invited to our celebration tonight.”

  The girl bowed again before she left.

  Nels finally spoke. “You’ve been asleep all day.”

  Tyra’s mind was too cloudy to acknowledge him.

  Rasmus nearly killed me …

  “Tyra?” Nels asked gently.

  And Arek … Arek is dead …

  “Hilvar knows where the Needle is,” Nels said. “We have to go back —”

  “What good is the Needle now?” she snapped. “It can only bring you back.”

  Nels looked at her with wounded eyes. “Tyra … I’m sorry … I’m very sorry.”

  “No you’re not! Arek is gone. I can never go home because of you; all you think about is yourself!” Tyra’s anger caused her cheeks to tingle. “I wish I had never met you!”

  “If you never met me, then Rasmus would’ve killed you as well!”

  Nels jumped up from his chair and stormed through the tent wall.

  Shaken by his scolding, Tyra curled up and wept into a pillow.

  Watching the Vagas go about their lives made Nels feel more at home in the strange land. Contrary to what he’d heard his whole life, the Vaga camp was not a small gathering of nomadic people; instead, it was a vibrant, thriving community of hundreds. Tents and wooden shelters occupied the forest floor without impeding on the plants and creatures that also lived there. In the last hour, he had seen dozens of Vagas, each hauling branches and logs to the center of the camp. Vigo stacked the wood high in preparation for an enormous bonfire. Smaller flames were already roasting venison and fowl on slowly rotating spits.

  Nels tried to sniff the roasting meats; he inhaled through his nose, but all he could smell was the scent of stale beeswax. He spent the afternoon wandering about the Vagas’ domain. The large pines were taller than castle turrets, their trunks wider than a nobleman’s carriage. Apparently, the Vagas had taken great care of the forest and, in turn, it seemed to have taken care of them. They had an ample flow of water from a river to the north and worms from which they derived silky, abundant fibers for cloth. In addition, several Vagas hauled baskets of nuts and berries into the camp from diverse parts of the forest. Nels eventually found himself back outside the flap of Mylan’s tent — the largest dwelling in the camp.

  Tyra was still inside. Crying.

  Nels kicked at the dirt outside the tent’s door. The ground was too moist to make dust clouds, but he kept at it anyway. He heard Tyra sob occasionally, but he didn’t move to check on her. Mylan had warned him that Tyra would struggle with this new reality and, thanks to Rasmus, Nels was afraid that she may never forgive him.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  “You worry too much,” Mylan said as she approached him.

  She was so perceptive, even though he was invisible to her. The diviner’s intuition reminded him of Bosh; somehow, they both knew things that ordinary people didn’t. “How did you know I was standing here?” he asked.

  The girl pointed at the ground. “Soil does not dig itself.”

  Nels stopped scuffing the dirt. “I’m glad you can hear me.”

  “You sound restless. You had an argument.”

  “Yeah,” Nels confessed. “Nothing we haven’t done before.”

  Mylan smiled. “Do not take her anger to heart. The only way she can restore the hope she once possessed is through the two greatest gifts of healing.”

  “What gifts are those?”

  “Space and time. She will join us when she is ready.”

  Trusting in the girl’s wisdom, Nels walked with Mylan to the heart of the Vagas’ preparations. He was surprised to learn that Mylan was an accomplished diviner — a leader among her people. That was the reason why her father insisted that she call him Roashil — the Vagas thought it improper for a leader to favor one Vaga over another. The Vagas’ strange culture was completely foreign to Nels, but he found himself drawn to their warmth and charisma.

  “The sun is setting,” Mylan said. “Every year on the midsummer eve, we give ourselves back to the forest, a thanks for providing us life. The forest enjoys our song and dance.”

  Nels looked at her. “How is it that you can hear me?”

  The girl paused and turned; her eyes penetrated him. “You never knew your father. I never knew my mother. In our loss, we share a likeness. My sorrow resonates with yours.”

  Nels didn’t understand what she meant, but he was grateful to confide in her regardless. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “And I for your father, but we ought to celebrate the lives they lived.”

  Nels nodded, accepting the comfort of her words. This young girl reminded him at times of Jilia — same height, same build — but the way Mylan carried herself was completely opposite.

  Smiling, she looked to the celebration. “Tonight, you will —”

  “Mylan!” They both saw Roashil as he ran toward her.

  The girl bowed her head. “What is it, Father?”

  Roashil shook his feather-adorned head as he panted to a stop. He was clearly irritated, but not enough to correct his daughter. “Not this year,” he implored. “Please — must we cater to him?”

  Nels looked past Roashil, wondering who he was talking about. “Who’s him?”

  “He is a part of what we celebrate,” Mylan said. “It is only fitting.”

  “But all he does is eat and watch,” her father answered.

  “If one outsider can appreciate us, more will come to appreciate us,” Mylan said. “If we are to seek favor from our neighbors in Avërand, we must not turn away our only friends.”

  Nels had learned from Mylan that her people had tried to earn the acceptance of Avërand for most of a century. Now that King Hilvar wanted the Vagas to have his land, Nels understood why. If the kingdom of Westmine was restored, they would be neighbors with Avërand.

  Roashil smiled. “You are even more insightful than our elders.” He placed a kind hand on her head. “Never has a diviner like you lived among us; I am proud to be your father.”

  Mylan returned the smile. “Thank you, Roashil.”

  He laughed. “You will never leave me alone, will you?”

  “Oye, there!” A pot-bellied figure shuffled toward them. It was Fargut, carrying a large clay jug of honey. “Be bring’n the bee barf! Happy to be see’n the dance’n about soon!”

  Mylan laughed and so did Nels, surprised by how happy he was to see the eccentric man.

  Rasmus collapsed as he neared the summit of Westerly Pass.

  Moments ago, the sun had set behind him, cloaking the sky with a violet that revealed the more prominent stars. Cording to the top of the pass had worn him out. He clutched the arrow in his hand — he�
��d pulled it from his shoulder before beginning his ascent. The pain was of no concern to him. He obsessed, instead, about Ulrich’s son thwarting his plan.

  Miserable boy! How did he get involved with the princess?

  “Ickabosh!” he whispered. “You basted their threads together, didn’t you?”

  Only his old mentor was capable of a stitch like that.

  But what does the princess really want the Needle of Gailner for?

  The Needle couldn’t bring back the dead, so it was useless to her new, invisible friend.

  Unless …

  The thought chilled him. What if the boy wasn’t actually dead? The Needle could weave together an unwoven soul. The old tailor must have hidden the boy’s body somewhere. Rasmus cursed. By the blood of his wound, he would stop at nothing to prevent the princess from saving the boy; he could not allow the son of Ulrich to live.

  “This way!” someone shouted. “It came from over here!”

  Rasmus jumped as a few steps drew close. A dozen more followed. He couldn’t afford to be discovered, not now, and not like this. He threaded back into the form of the knight he had slain.

  “Sir Arek?” Canis said. “What’s happened to you?”

  The false Arek turned to the approaching knights, holding up the arrow in his bloodied hand. “Ambushed — by a horde of Vagas. They have the princess!”

  “Help him up,” Canis ordered.

  Many men were with Canis. These same knights had searched for Tyra while wearing nothing more than vests and trousers. But now they were in full armor — dressed for a fight. Were they onto him? Did they know that Rasmus was back?

  Two sturdy knights helped him to his feet. “Where’s your squire, Sir Arek?”

  He faked a frown. “I was about to ask you the same. He … deserted me … when the Vagas attacked. He could be anywhere in that valley.”

  As they reached the meadow, Rasmus was truly amazed by the number of men who had gathered on the Westerly Pass. There had to be a hundred, if not more. “What is going on, Sir Canis?”

  “Your squire is dead.”

  They found the boy’s body. “What?!”

  “We found him after we returned to the castle — after you and your squire continued the search without us,” Canis said. “The Alvil you and I were traveling with was an imposter.”

  “But — how — this is —” Arek feigned utter disbelief.

  “We’re sorry for doubting you, Arek.”

  Arek tightened his fists for show. “If I had known.”

  “It’s Rasmus,” said another of the knights. “He’s returned.”

  Canis nodded. “And now he’s after our princess.”

  “I saw her,” Arek said. “Before the Vagas nearly killed me.”

  “So you left her with them?” One of the younger men had spoken up. He was armed with little more than a head of red hair. “You — the favored knight — ran away from them when the princess was in danger?”

  “Quiet, Wallin!” Canis ordered. “He’s done the right thing, coming to us.” He leaned in close to Arek’s ear. “Don’t mind this untrained lot. We felt it best to gather a few volunteers. If Rasmus has come back, we need every able-bodied man if we stand a chance of stopping him.”

  Arek said nothing. If Lennart had sent these men to reclaim the princess and stop him, then their absence would make the castle vulnerable. He could alter his plan. “That explains why Alvil behaved so strangely,” Arek said. “He was in league with the Vagas!” Arek turned to the men waiting for his command. “I need a horse. I must go back and inform the king!”

  They collected a stallion without questioning him further. The knights cast angry looks to the Valley of Westmine. The false Arek smiled; he had put their prejudice to good use. As he mounted his new horse, he announced profoundly, “Do what you must. The Vagas will not give up without a fight. I will return once I have spoken with the king.”

  “Be on your guard,” Canis warned. “Rasmus could be anywhere — or anyone.”

  The knights of Avërand and their untrained peasants marched west as Arek spurred his horse to the east. That had been a close one. If that lot had suspected him, he would have been done for, even though he had enough magic left in his thread to handle many of them. The ground was dark, making it hard to navigate past the Westerly Mansion and the mound where he had left the real Arek to rot.

  It was a relief to see the shallow grave undisturbed.

  Arek stopped at the cliff, raised his hands, and formed another circle with his fingers. He pointed them at Castle Avërand, which from here was just at a splotch of light in the distance. His arms shook, as did his breath. “No,” he whispered. He had to accept his limits. “Cording that far will tear me apart.”

  He pointed to the base of the mountain instead, and was gone.

  The sun had set, but the moon had yet to rise.

  The Vagas celebrated the night with fervor. Everyone came fashionably dressed, wearing extravagant blends of red, white, and gold. They danced around a dozen fires, each flickering above the heads of even tallest Vagas. The camp was bright, and the tall flames cast long shadows into the forest. Fargut was clearly enjoying himself, clapping to the beat of tambourines between sips of strong cider.

  When they weren’t dancing, everyone drank, enjoyed the feast, and told stories — many of them new to Nels. They were a happy people — genuinely happy.

  And Tyra was missing everything. His anger toward her had faded. He recognized the amount of shock and loss she’d been forced to confront in a very short time.

  Mylan was sitting beside Nels, enjoying her people’s talents. She clapped whenever it was warranted — which was often — but between cheers, she told Nels more about her people’s reason for the celebration. Midsummer was the height of life for the Vagas, and each of their dances carried a special meaning. Their music and dancing stirred his spirit, just as it had when he was alive — at the Cobblestown festival. In their celebration of life, the Vagas held nothing back.

  Right now, only couples twirled in the circle.

  “The courtship dance,” Mylan said. “For those who have found love.”

  It was a nice thought. “I should check on Tyra,” Nels said.

  “No need,” Mylan replied. “She will find her way.”

  Nels wanted to believe her. But he also wanted to make sure Tyra was all right, even if he was the last person the princess wanted to see. He was about to stand and go to her anyway, despite Mylan’s advice, when the music changed.

  New dancers entered the circle, lighting long yellow candles as they stepped within the perimeter. Each participant lit the candle of the person behind him or her.

  “The knowledge dance,” Mylan explained. “A light in the darkness will guide one through.”

  All the dancers held the candles in their left hands. The women used their right hands to hold up their skirts, and the men pressed their closed fists into their sides. They spun slowly and placed their steps with perfect grace. Nels had never seen such a beautiful waltz.

  “Why do they move so slowly?” he asked.

  A warm smile sprang onto Mylan’s face. “Move too fast and your light will go out,” she said. “What will you learn if you rush through life?”

  Knowledge. Nels thought about her words through the remainder of the dance. This young girl knew so much — probably even more than she let on. He remembered when they had met at the festival, and how she had withdrawn from him. She’d seemed frightened of him.

  “Do you remember me from the festival, in Cobblestown?” Nels asked.

  She laughed. “Yes. Should I eat another turnip, it will be too soon.”

  “When you said, ‘you are not supposed to be here,’ what did you mean?”

  The girl looked away uncomfortably without answering the question. Nels was about to ask again when Mylan’s eyes darted over his shoulder. “Welcome, Your Highness!”

  Nels turned around. Tyra stood behind them, watching the dance wit
h a glazed look on her face, the glow of the fire shining in her swollen eyes. She had cried for hours. Nels wanted to say something, but Tyra’s sad beauty left him speechless.

  She wore a long red skirt, a matching blouse that emphasized her bare shoulders, and a leather bodice that had a small pocket on the side. Every seam was sewn with gold thread, and flowers and leafy stems were embroidered throughout in painstaking detail. Were it not for her blue eyes and yellow hair, she would have looked exactly like one of the Vagas. The only item she wore from her old wardrobe was Sibylla’s iron ring.

  “Where is my mare?” she asked.

  It was a good question. Nels hadn’t thought of Brooklet since that afternoon.

  “She is resting,” Mylan answered. “Are you rested, Your Highness?”

  The princess didn’t answer. The music came to a stop, bringing the knowledge dance to an end. Tyra’s eyes stared blankly at the Vagas as they clapped for the carefully bowing dancers with their still-lit candles. The musicians set down their instruments and helped themselves to what they could find on passing plates. With a grateful nod, Mylan accepted a helping of flatbread. Tyra let the plate pass by her untouched; she seemed oblivious to her surroundings.

  “Be with me,” Mylan said to Tyra, inviting the princess to sit by her side.

  Without looking at anyone, Tyra complied.

  “I hope you like your dress,” Mylan continued. “We do not have textiles or looms as advanced as yours, but it is our very best. It is our gift for your return home.”

  “Home,” Tyra said mournfully. “I can’t go home.”

  Nels stared at her, saddened by the emptiness in her voice.

  “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” Mylan said. “If you decide to stay, our eligible young men will certainly take notice, as beautiful as you are.”

  Another plate — this one loaded with drumsticks — came their way. Tyra turned it down.

  “You should eat something,” Nels said. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You’ll starve.”

  “So what?”

  Mylan held out her hands and took hold of Tyra’s palm. The Vaga leader closed her eyes and drew a long, steady breath. A cool breeze followed, as if called by the breath, leaning the fire’s flame to the south. “It is easy for sorrow to consume our feelings. You suffer, Princess of Avërand, because you hold more than a memory. You wish to solemnize your heartache. You are not alone.”