Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Tyra raised her eyes. Nels did the same.

  A few Vagas had returned to the dance and waited for the fiddlers to start a new melody. The women held the hems of their skirts with one hand and extended their other hands; the men formed a similar pose with one arm behind their backs. None had a partner.

  “The ethereal dance,” Mylan said. “We diviners believe in an unreachable plane — called the ethereal — where we all must cross to when we die. This dance allows our hearts to ease the burden of loss. That child over there” — she pointed to one side of the circle — “lost her brother to a fever last winter. And that man over there buried his wife many years ago.” Mylan released Tyra’s hand and stood. “If you would pardon me a moment, I wish to dance with my mother.”

  With that, Mylan left them and entered the dance.

  Nels observed the girl, her face calm compared to those who cried. He was just realizing that the crying dancers weren’t sad, they were joyful, when a sharp sob drew his attention away. The firelight glistened in Tyra’s tearful eyes. Her tears were not ones of joy.

  Nels didn’t know what to say after all they had been through, but he decided to try anyway. “You’re doing okay,” he said, reaching for anything that might help. As expected, she did not respond to him. “When I died, my mother was much worse,” he continued. “After a while, she just didn’t have any more tears left to cry.”

  “It’s my fault, Nels. I left a handkerchief for him to track us.”

  Instead of being upset at her confession, Nels accepted it. She had never sounded so sincere. “No,” he said, “It’s not your fault. I should have told you sooner that we were in danger. You had no idea.”

  She looked at Nels with regret in her eyes. “You were right. Arek wanted the throne for himself, and in my heart, I knew it. But I wanted him to have it — so I wouldn’t have to rule. I’m a coward, just like my father!” She raised her hands to her face. “I’m afraid to return to Avërand.”

  “You’re not your father, Tyra. You’re brave. Your parents need you, your kingdom needs you, and” — Nels reached for her hand and linked his fingers with hers — “I need you.”

  Tyra glanced down. Her fingers slid through his hand as she stood. “I can’t.”

  Feeling useless, Nels watched as Tyra joined the dance.

  It was the fire that lured Tyra into the dance.

  Its heat caressed her shoulders and its light threw shadows on her face. This was her home now, this wilderness with the Vagas. They were nothing like her subjects had made them out to be; they were kind and generous. Though she still wished this were all a dream, she was slowly coming to terms with reality — her reality.

  The Vagas moved around her like phantoms, dancing with memories of the dead. It was a ludicrous idea, but for Arek, it was all she could do. Tyra looked at the women, copied their stance, and imagined Arek’s hand cupping her waist. She stepped back, mimicking their steps. The ground was free from obstacles, and the other dancers provided her with plenty of space, but her balance swayed and she fell out of sync when she tried to imagine her handsome knight. No matter how hard she tried, his presence would not take hold in her mind.

  As Tyra danced, she asked a question that she’d never thought — or dared — to ask.

  Did I really love him?

  Now that he was gone, there was no way for her to know if she could tolerate his blatant imperfections, his vanity, or his arrogance. She’d cared about him because she knew, when the time came, she could easily shift her responsibilities to Arek. He would have welcomed it. It was convenient … for them both. But that was not love; it was nothing short of selfish.

  No. She never truly loved Arek. Being threatened by Rasmus made her realize just how pathetic she was. She didn’t cry as much for her knight as she did for her parents and her kingdom. They were in danger, but she wanted to stay here, hidden and safe. Exhausted from grief, Tyra stopped her dance and stood still. The shame of her cowardice caused her legs to shake.

  Someone took her by the hand, making her look up. Nels was standing by her side, tall and confident. Something in his eyes — something new — strengthened her. Whatever it was, it gave her courage and made her feel safe. Instead of pulling away, she returned his stare and tried to return his grasp.

  “You’re rather close,” she said.

  Nels placed his free hand on her back. “Not close enough.”

  With the rising tempo, they joined the dance.

  He stepped forward, and she stepped back; she was no longer unbalanced and out of sync. The Vagas saw this and cheered. Even Fargut gave a loud holler, a shred of pheasant dangling from his beard. A smile found its way to Tyra’s face as she locked her eyes with Nels’s. Of all the men Tyra had known, he was the most selfless and the most honest. His eyes, shining in the firelight, had never been this close. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, just to feel him.

  She leaned forward and tried to rest her head on his chest. She felt nothing there, but she kept her head in place anyway. There was no warmth, not even the beating of his heart, but that didn’t stop her from imagining what it would sound like. There was no one else like him in the world — and soon, he would be gone. He was on the edge of the ethereal.

  But with the Needle, she could change that. The thought of seeing him alive — really alive — summoned courage from within her.

  When Tyra raised her head from his intangible chest, she had made her choice.

  I have to bring him back.

  The music reached its climax and then came to a halt. The dancers applauded the musicians, who all took a bow. Roashil was among them, holding a fiddle. Tyra stayed close to Nels, his hand still on her back, until their eyes met again. For the first time since they’d met, she wanted to know what his hands felt like. Alive. Holding her.

  “I never thought a peasant could dance so well,” she said.

  Nels smiled and laughed. “I never thought a princess would dance with one.”

  Mylan joined them. “You danced well. A ghost partner must make a difference.”

  “Are you Mylan?” Tyra waited for the girl to nod. “I must apologize to you.”

  The girl shook her head. “No need. We are at peace with your misunderstanding.”

  Grateful for the forgiveness, Tyra clasped hands with Mylan. “What matters now is finding the Needle.”

  “What about Rasmus?” Nels asked. “He said he’d kill us if we go back.”

  “We’ll use the Needle to stop him,” Tyra uttered.

  “Assuming we find it and learn how to use it,” Nels said.

  “We’ll have to. It’s the only way we can stop him.”

  “You’re right.” Nels looked into her eyes again. This time, Tyra welcomed it. “And I’m not ready to die just yet.”

  Tyra smiled. “Then we must find Hilvar.”

  “Does Hilvar know where your Needle is?” Mylan asked.

  “Yes, but until he gives his land to you and your people, he won’t tell us.” Nels’s eyes returned to Tyra’s. “He thinks he can do this through you — by possessing you.”

  Tyra swallowed. The thought of allowing the spirit to enter her body again; it made her shiver. But if they had any hope of stopping Rasmus, or saving Nels, she was willing to do what she had to. “I’m ready to speak with him,” Tyra said. “How do we find him?”

  “There is no need,” Nels said, looking at Mylan.

  The girl nodded. “Hilvar is already with us.”

  “He is? How do you know?” Tyra asked.

  Mylan smiled. “The scent of a draug is unmistakable.”

  Before Tyra could react, a cold sensation overtook her, just like when she stood on the landing in Westmine Castle. She had no control of her arms, her body, or even her voice. This time, she didn’t feel angry or threatened. Without fighting back, she relaxed and allowed the ghost of King Hilvar to use her however he needed to.

  “Mylan.” Tyra was surprised by her voice — strong and deep.
Compelled to step forward, the draug raised her arms and laid her hands on Mylan’s shoulders. “Centuries ago, my father wronged your people. I wronged the love of my life. Only by bestowing this valley and all of my riches to you — my heir — can I leave this plane and join my love. Will you accept my kingdom?”

  Mylan reached for Tyra’s hands and gently lifted them off her shoulders. She brought their joined hands down, continued to hold them, and smiled. “I will, mighty Hilvar.”

  After the ghost made Tyra bow, Hilvar turned to Nels. “Now I am free.” Tyra’s hands found their way onto Nels’s shoulders now, clasping them firmly. Strangely, Tyra could feel him. “West of my castle, there is a black peak in a barren land. Sealed in a cavern beneath the peak, you will find what you seek. Only a living soul may access the Needle’s resting place. If … if you should find my remains, please dispose of me.”

  With that, the ghostly presence left her. Tyra’s knees felt weak, as if the ground had fallen away beneath her. Nels caught her before she fell. She wanted to sleep, and she nearly did, until Mylan approached with a powder in her hand. One sniff of it and Tyra was wide-awake.

  “It is done,” Mylan said joyfully. “Hilvar is at peace, and my people will have a home.”

  Mustering a smile, Tyra found the strength to stand. Nothing felt impossible now. “There’s no time to waste,” she said. “We must find this black peak! Where do we start?”

  “Go’n to Black Peak, you say’n?” Fargut approached from behind. He put on his lantern hat and rubbed a few traces of food from his fingers — leaving plenty of scraps still in his beard.

  This man knew the valley better than anyone.

  “Can I ask for your help, Fargut?” Tyra asked.

  “Oye?”

  “Can you take us to the black peak?”

  “Desolate land, be’n there. You sure’n about go’n?”

  “Yes,” Tyra said. “I will even make it worth your while.”

  The man’s fleshy lips puckered to the side. “My while?”

  “Do you know the town of Harvestport in Avërand?”

  “Oye!” Fargut held up three fingers. “Be’n there twice!”

  “In return for guiding us, the next time you visit my kingdom, you and I will go to Harvestport together,” Tyra promised. “You can take anything that you can carry!”

  The man let his hands rest on his full belly as he rocked on his heels.

  “Assisting our friends will repay our kindness to you,” Mylan chimed in.

  Fargut let out a small burp, and then he swallowed. “Be a fair trade’n. Pack’n wares! We’re leave’n!” He turned around, hiccupped, and sloshed to the other side of the celebration.

  “Trading,” Mylan sighed. “That is how we deal with him all the time.” She looked Tyra in the eyes. “I am pleased you feel restored, Princess. If you are to reach the peak by noon tomorrow, you had best leave now.”

  Tyra appreciated the advice. “Will you have my horse ready for us to leave?”

  Mylan shook her head. “She is lucky to walk. Your beeswax and flask of conjurer’s medicine saved her leg, but we have other remedies to give her before she can ride. Once you find your Needle and return, she should be ready to carry you back to Avërand — and we will be ready to escort you home.”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself. This isn’t your errand.”

  “It is not, but in doing so — as the new queen of Westmine — perhaps I can lay to rest the rumors about us.” The young queen bowed as she removed her sapphire necklace. “I feel that you may need this.” She placed it in Tyra’s hand. “When you return it, please tell me why.”

  With that, Mylan left them. Tyra waited with Nels by the edge of the celebration. She could barely feel the heat from their fires. She took the sapphire and looped the band around her neck, eager to pick up where their journey had left off.

  “Thank you,” Nels said.

  She turned. The smile on his face was perfect. “For what?”

  “For being the princess that everyone knows you to be.”

  “No. I should thank you for acting like the knight that you are,” Tyra said. “Let’s find the Needle.”

  “Right,” Nels said. “And when we do —” A repulsed look suddenly replaced his smile. He sniffed once, and then twice, as if he were a hound.

  Tyra sniffed. All she smelled was the fire. “What’s wrong?”

  Nels looked around. “I can’t smell beeswax anymore.”

  “What do you smell?”

  “Hay … and horses?” He paused. “I’m in a stable!”

  His eyes widened as fear spread across his face. Someone had moved his body.

  Was it Bosh? Or someone else?

  Tyra’s thoughts turned to the worst. She couldn’t let Rasmus find Nels. “Come on,” she said, reaching for his hand. “We have to leave this place right now!”

  The false Arek rode past the city gate, his bloodied shoulder smarting. He had tossed his thread across the countryside, cording over field and plain whenever he had the strength for it. When he entered the city, some of the peasants asked if he had found the princess. He ignored them. Now that he was inside, he had only enough time for one last ruse before he needed to rest.

  He lumbered up the stairs of the main hall, sneered as he charged past the royal portrait, and barged into the throne room, startling a few noblemen who were conversing with the king.

  Lennart raised his head, immediately noticing the wound. “What has happened?!”

  Out of breath, Arek fell to his knees. “I need water.” He wasn’t pretending.

  The king summoned a courtier with a chalice. Arek seized the cup and drank; he hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. A pair of physicians entered and began cleaning his wound.

  “Who harmed you?” Lennart asked. “Where is my daughter?”

  “The Vagas have her,” the false Arek answered. “This arrow is theirs.”

  The king tucked his chin and crossed his arms. “It is worse than I thought.”

  “Canis told me everything,” Arek added. “The imposter is with the Vagas.”

  “This is no longer speculation, Your Majesty,” said a nobleman. “What are we to do?”

  “I sent my finest knights,” Lennart said. “Then again, that may not be enough.” The king raised his head. His eyes searched the room, pausing only at those who stared back. “Send the rest. Send them all. Have them join with the ranks of Canis. Leave only the reserves behind!”

  “But, Sire,” implored another nobleman. “Suppose the intruder comes back?”

  Arek took another long swig to cover his nerves.

  He was so close to Lennart — closer than he had been in years.

  “I am nothing unless my daughter is safe,” Lennart said. “Send the order. And leave us!”

  Arek raised his head. Us?

  Everyone left, including the physicians who had applied a stiff bandage to the false Arek’s shoulder — not even they could tell the difference between real and fabricated skin. What he would give for a touch of beeswax right now, just to alleviate some of the pain!

  “I know Tyra is fond of you, that she is close to you,” Lennart said as the throne room doors closed. “If you save her, I will grant you her hand. Tell me what you know.”

  The king stood over Arek, who couldn’t believe his good fortune. No one was watching; no one was near. No one saw Arek smile as he drew his knife.

  Rasmus couldn’t have arranged a more perfect reunion.

  The sun moved toward the west, having traveled far since they’d left the Vagas’ camp. The land was dry and hilly, with only a few trees scattered about. Rocks and hardy bushes dominated this region — a more desolate place than Nels liked.

  As he’d promised, Fargut was their guide. He asked for a rest every now and then, but Tyra kept going. She refused to stop. Nels couldn’t help but wonder why she’d become obsessed with finding the Needle. Ever since their dance, since he held her close, she had changed — a chang
e that he liked.

  When the peak came into view, Tyra took the lead. Fragments of black rocks were scattered around their feet as they marched. Nels encouraged her to slow down, but she stubbornly maintained her pace.

  “Sit us down!” Fargut bellowed, about to plop down at the trail’s end.

  “We must find the entrance,” Tyra said. “We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

  Fargut, out of breath, wheezed as the three travelers climbed a narrow path that wrapped around the strange mountain. Nels had never seen anything like it; the peak’s curves were perfectly round, and there were crunchy, glass-like rocks under their feet. Sweat covered Tyra’s forehead. Her legs shook.

  “I have never seen … a real volcano … until now,” she said, breathing hard.

  “Gailner picked a good place,” Nels said. “I’d never think to come here.”

  Tyra heaved a laugh. “I’m sure … that’s why … he chose … this place.”

  She was obviously tired. “Please slow down,” Nels begged as he retrieved her waterskin and handed it to her. “You won’t have any strength to go back.”

  “We may be too late already.” She looked up, drank from the skin, and wiped her mouth dry with the sleeve of her new shirt. “I have a promise to keep.”

  By the time they had rounded the other side of the peak, they had climbed high enough to see far into the fissured lands of the southeast, where the Westerly Mountains stretched to the sea. If they had a boat, they could sail around the peninsula, head east, and reach Avërand in a day. If Nels could fly and carry Tyra all at once, they could go over the mountain and be at the castle in a matter of hours. But no matter how often he’d tried, Nels couldn’t figure out how to simultaneously fly and hold things.

  Fargut turned a bend and collapsed into a shallow alcove. “Find’n it,” he said, pointing at a thick man-made wall of stone. “Good luck get’n in. I couldn’t.”