Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Layers of dense masonry had sealed the entrance from top to bottom. Rusted shovels and broken pickaxes littered the threshold. It was clear that many prospectors had been here and — given the wall’s pristine condition — it appeared that none of them had succeeded in entering. Tyra traced her finger along the grout lines; for the first time this day, she looked doubtful.

  “We never asked Hilvar how to get in, did we?” she asked.

  Nels shook his head. “He seemed confident that we would, though.”

  “There be’n no way in,” Fargut said. “I pick’n for days, and not once make’n a chip.”

  Reaching for the nearest discarded tool, Tyra swung at the wall with all her might.

  Clang!

  The pickax left no mark — not a single scratch. She tried again, harder. This time, the now-crooked tool bounced back with a spark. Nels reached out and stopped her. “You know,” he said, smiling, “I can walk through walls.”

  Tyra blew a strand of hair away from her face and gestured at the wall. “After you …”

  Nels stepped into the wall. Light turned to darkness. He couldn’t see a thing, nor could he tell if he was past the barrier and inside the dark mountain, or if he was still merged with the stone.

  He felt his way around, trying to focus his eyes. Suddenly, he kicked something. He reached out and grasped some kind of pole. It seemed loose, so he pulled on it. A sharp click resonated from within the walls, then he heard a low rumble. As the wall began to sink into the earth, daylight spilled into the cave, drawing air into the cavern like a breath.

  Fargut dashed up, astonished. “How’n you do that?”

  Tyra entered as the wall became level with the ground. “I would like to know, too.”

  Nels pointed at the lever. “A mechanism, like the one I saw in Hilvar’s castle.”

  Tyra glanced at it. “It looks like a crochet hook. How do non-ghosts enter this place?”

  The lever did resemble a crochet hook — and Bosh’s walking stick. “Maybe only fabricators can enter,” Nels said. “Maybe they use their thread to pull the lever from the other side?”

  “We can ask Bosh later.” Tyra gazed deep into the cave. “It’s very dark in there.”

  “Not’n problem!” Fargut removed his lantern hat. He sparked up a wick, adjusted a few mirrors, and in no time had a little flame shining bright from atop his head. Nels looked at the long shadow that Tyra cast on the undisturbed ground. “Walk’n close,” Fargut said. “Be’n dangerous, caves.”

  They walked carefully, listening to the air as it howled through the tunnel.

  “We’re almost there,” said Tyra, a glint of lantern light in her eyes.

  Nels smiled and took hold of her hand.

  Hot, dry air flew up from the chasm below. It brought with it a smell of molten iron and sulfur that reminded Tyra of boiled eggs, making her gag. Tyra leaned over the side of the precipice and peered down the shaft, holding tight to Nels’s hand. She could see nothing but a black abyss. She glanced back at the speck of light where they had entered; it was a straight walk with no forks or any intricate passageways. The chasm didn’t have a staircase or a ladder, nor was there a rope that dangled to the bottom. There was nowhere to go but down.

  But how do we reach the bottom?

  She turned to Nels. “What now?”

  Nels let go of her hand. “I’ll have a look. Maybe I have to pull another lever down there.”

  He stepped off the edge and fell into the darkness. Fargut gave a short grunt. He looked around, found a sizable rock, and let it fall over the side. They listened … and listened … and listened. Seconds later, Nels floated back up, arriving just as they heard the echo of the rock bursting below.

  “That could’ve hit me,” Nels teased.

  Tyra smiled nervously. “How do we go down there?” she asked, glancing at Nels. “Can you fly me down?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “I can only carry things when I’m on the ground.”

  “Oh,” Tyra said. She had never considered that before. “Do you have any rope, Fargut?”

  “Not enough’n,” he answered. “Still have’n sew’n kit?”

  “I do,” she said, “but what good will it do here?”

  Fargut held out his hand, waiting to receive the kit. Tyra searched through her knapsack and retrieved the little box of cedar wood. Fargut opened the lid and passed over the seam ripper and the vial of black dye. He picked up the spool of thread and set it on the ground next to them. Next, he delicately pinched the brass thimble with his thick fingers, picked it up, and handed it to Tyra.

  “Best be carry’n,” he said. “Thimble magic protect’n you.”

  She took the thimble from him and placed it in the pocket of her leather bodice.

  “Here.” Fargut unraveled the spool of thread. “I be lower’n you down.”

  “Down?” Was he serious? “You’re going to lower me down with thread?”

  “Yep! Take’n end. I’ll unravel’n some. See your knife? Hold your end tight.”

  Tyra gave Fargut her dagger, found the loose end of the clear thread, and took hold of it. She unraveled a good yard of the thread and waited to see what the man would do next. What exactly did he have in mind? He held the dagger tightly and placed the edge on the translucent thread. He pressed down, hard, but it didn’t sever — it wouldn’t cut. The thread resisted her sharp blade.

  “Just when you’ve seen everything,” Nels said.

  “Invincible!” Fargut returned the dagger. “Tie’n end under arms. I stay’n and you lower’n.”

  Tyra agreed with Nels; this magic was astounding. “What is that vial?” she asked.

  Fargut squinted as he held the vial up over his head. “For dye’n another threads.” Fargut unraveled the spool some more, revealing more silky clear thread. “Good for make’n threads seen, reveal what fabricators hide’n under sleeves. Remove’n illusions, be’n marked by it.”

  Fargut placed the vial back inside the kit.

  “That could be useful.” Tyra cleared her throat. “Is there enough thread?”

  The man looked over the side again. “Always enough’n for job.”

  Tyra asked Nels to take the end of the thread and fasten a secure knot under her arms. He did so, but looked skeptical. He had fair reason to be; it was terribly disconcerting to think of Fargut lowering her deep into a dark chasm with only a thin thread to support her. Fargut held the spool of thread in one hand, then unraveled several yards of thread with the other.

  “I’ll hold’n this while you go’n down,” he said.

  Tyra sat on the edge of the chasm. Fargut lifted her up by the thread under her arms and dangled her just past the edge, over the blackness.

  “You will wait for us after we get to the bottom,” Tyra said, looking up at the potbellied man. “Won’t you?”

  Fargut nodded solemnly and began to lower her into the darkness.

  Closing her eyes with a sigh, Tyra tried to relax so there wouldn’t be unnecessary movements to cause Fargut extra strain. She’d even left her knapsack above to lessen the load on the man. The lantern light dimmed the farther she descended. The smell of molten iron grew more potent with each passing second. She was grateful to have Nels floating by her side.

  “How much farther before we reach the bottom, do you think?” she asked.

  “A ways off, but there’s another tunnel down there. An orange tunnel.”

  “Lovely. You don’t suppose we’ll need Fargut’s lantern?”

  “I hope not,” he answered. “I’ll walk ahead in case you —”

  Tyra didn’t hear that last part. She’d entered into a free fall. She scratched at the chasm’s wall and tried to scream, but there was no air in her lungs. Suddenly, she jerked to a stop, bouncing a little from the abrupt change in momentum. The thin thread under her arms felt sharp, and she was surprised that it hadn’t cut into her.

  Thank goodness for the thimble!

  Finally
catching her breath, Tyra looked down and found herself dangling mere inches above the ground.

  “Are you hurt?” Nels asked.

  Something dripped on Tyra’s hand as Fargut’s voice reached them. “Girly alive?”

  “Yes,” she said, but not loud enough. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I am fine!”

  “M’sorry! Lost’n my grip! Hand hurt’n! Thread cut it when I caught’n ya! Have you beeswax?”

  Tyra felt sick, knowing it was his blood that she’d felt on her hand. “We’re fine!” she shouted as she rubbed her hand on the side of her skirt. “Take as much wax as you need! Is there much thread left?”

  After a slight pause, they heard him shout back. “Nope! Unravel’n all of it — and you be’n out of beeswax.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Tyra saw a faint orange light in the distance. The light was much dimmer than a lantern but more consistent. Wiping the sweat from her face, she found the chasm floor with her toes and pushed the thread down her body, stepping out of the loop.

  She left the thread hanging there. “We’re moving on! We’ll be back soon!” she called up the chasm, hoping that Fargut’s hand would be okay. She then looked around, searching for Nels.

  He was leaning against the wall, his hands on his knees.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

  He glanced at her and straightened up. “I will be — after we find the Needle.”

  “Right.” Tyra nodded resolutely. “What do you suppose is down here?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned toward the orange light emanating from the tunnel. “Stay close to me.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, coming to his side. “We’ll find it.”

  As he smiled, she wished in silence that she was right.

  Before entering the tunnel, Nels was surprised that he felt lightheaded and short of breath, which he had never experienced as a ghost. He didn’t say anything to Tyra. He didn’t know what to say. Perhaps the magic in his thimble was beginning to wear off. He couldn’t smell the protective beeswax anymore, just the stink of horse droppings and damp alfalfa. Knowing his body had been removed from Bosh’s cellar made Nels even more anxious — especially with the threat of Rasmus’s return to Avërand.

  They were under the earth now, nearing the source of light.

  “It’s warm down here,” Tyra said. “A little too warm.”

  Nels noticed her flushed face. “Just a little farther.”

  Tyra gasped the moment they reached the orange light. The tunnel had given way to a cavern that was bisected by a river of liquid fire. Yellow blotches rose like scalding bubbles, plopping and popping with a deep gurgle. Dark red patches sunk beneath the surface. On the other side of the river was another tunnel.

  Tyra threw her arms in the air. “There’s no bridge. How do we get across?”

  Nels approached the edge of the fiery flow. “Wait here.”

  He jumped into the air and floated over the molten rock. A pile of skeletal remains within a charred suit of armor sat on the river’s far bank. In the skeleton’s slightly curled hand was a partially melted brass thimble.

  “Hilvar,” Nels said. “Not even a thimble could help you here.”

  The tunnel’s entrance was blocked by a large stone wall. Nels stepped into the wall — and bounced right back. He tried again, but he could not pass through. He examined the wall’s surface. There was an engraving of a person, very much like the figures carved into the arch in the Fabrication chamber beneath Westmine Castle. But this person was alone, life-sized, and held three objects in its outstretched hands. Nels couldn’t tell what the objects were — time had faded the details of the engraving.

  On the engraved person’s chest there was a slightly recessed handprint. Nels reached out and placed his hand into the print. Nothing happened. He pushed. Still, nothing.

  Just then, Nels remembered what Hilvar had said:

  Only a living soul may access the Needle’s resting place.

  That’s why he couldn’t walk through the wall; Tyra would have to open the door. Frustrated by his discovery, Nels floated back over the molten river and told Tyra of Hilvar’s remains and the door.

  Tyra stared across the burning river. “Is Hilvar’s body really over there?”

  Nels sighed. He was out of ideas. “What’s left of him.”

  “I was hoping this would protect me,” she said, clutching her thimble.

  “I wouldn’t trust it fully,” Nels said, looking again at Hilvar’s remains. “I can’t get through the barrier, and I don’t know how to get you over there. We’ll have to find another way.”

  “If you can’t fly me across,” she said, “then you’ll have to carry me.”

  Nels spun around. “What?”

  “The fire will not hurt you. I have this thimble, and you are tall enough.”

  She could not be serious. “What if I drop you?”

  “There’s no other way,” she said. “You won’t drop me.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I won’t carry you into harm’s way!”

  “Nels” — her eyes shone from the fiery river — “carry me.”

  Her bravery dissolved Nels’s reservations. She was right; it was the only way and they had no time to argue. To claim the Needle, they had to reach the other side — together. Tyra let out a gasp as Nels reached below her, wrapped her skirt around her legs, and raised her high into his arms.

  “No matter what happens, don’t let go of that thimble,” he warned.

  She nodded and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Nels entered the river and started to cross. He took three steps, and the molten river came up to his knees. Six steps later it was just under his waist. Tyra’s skirt began to scorch.

  Sweat flowed from her pores. “This is really hot!”

  Nels trudged on, holding her body up as high as he could. If they did not reach the other side soon, she would roast. Midway across, his vision began to blur, and his head started to ache.

  “Hot!” Tyra cried again. “Hurry, Nels — ouch!”

  His concentration waned, and Tyra began to slip through his arms. Gathering the last of his focus and strength, Nels flung her across the burning river. Tyra let out a scream as the hem of her skirt caught fire, and she landed on the charred bank. Nels ran the rest of the way and swatted at the flames.

  “What was that?” Tyra sounded furious. “Why did you throw me?”

  “I had no choice. You were slipping through me,” he said.

  “Slipping through? But that means your thimble is” — she stood and looked at the corpse beside them. Everything from the torso down was missing — “running out of magic.”

  “We’d better hurry, then.” Remembering Hilvar’s request, Nels pressed his hands onto the armor. “Thank you,” he whispered to the king’s remains. Then he gently pushed them into the river.

  They vanished quickly, with the half-melted thimble sinking last.

  As she and Nels left the charred bank, Tyra felt grateful for the respect he had shown Hilvar. She never saw Hilvar’s ghost, but she’d felt him both times when he possessed her. She shook the thought from her mind — their business with the ghost was finished, but their reason for coming was still in front of them. They had to find the Needle, and they had no way of knowing how much farther they had to go.

  “All you have to do is touch this, I think,” Nels said, placing his hand on the recessed print engraved on the wall. “Try it.”

  Tyra reached out and placed her hand over his. Something clicked deep within the wall, and a rumbling began beneath their feet. The wall shifted and lowered into the ground, just as it had at the cave’s entrance. A cool breeze rushed out of the newly exposed passage; she basked in the refreshing change in temperature.

  They glanced at each other before they both walked inside.

  The passage wound to and fro for several feet. As they rounded the final bend, they saw dozens of candles, all lit, surrounding the perimeter of a sm
aller cavern. More candles sat on various protrusions along the walls. Three life-sized statues surrounded a pool of shallow water where a dark stone arch hung over a loom forged entirely of metal. The three statues had their arms out, palms open, like pedestals. Tyra and Nels walked in front of them. The statues’ gem eyes gleamed. It was like nothing they’d ever seen, but there was no Needle here. They had reached another dead end.

  “What is this place?” Tyra asked. “Who lit these candles?”

  Nels snapped his fingers and paused, waiting.

  Nothing happened. “What are you doing?” Tyra asked.

  Nels pointed at the statue of a young girl to their left. “Diviner!” He then turned to the statue of a bald man to their right. “Conjurer!” And finally, he acknowledged the bearded man in the center. “Fabricator!”

  If there was a connection, Tyra failed to see it.

  “The three magical traditions in the sorcerers’ alliance!” Nels said.

  Tyra rubbed her temple. “What are you talking about?”

  “This loom and this arch — it’s a Weaver’s Gate!”

  “Gate?” Tyra asked. “What’s a Weaver’s Gate?”

  Nels held out his hand. “Can I see your ring?”

  She pulled it off her finger and handed it to him. He walked to the conjurer’s statue, placed the ring into its upturned hands, and quickly stepped back. Its gem eyes began to glow.

  “Mylan’s necklace,” he said. “Hurry!”

  Tyra removed it from her neck and watched him place it in the diviner statue’s hands. Like the conjurer statue, its eyes also began to shine. Finally understanding the pattern, Tyra seized her thimble and put it in the fabricator’s hands. Light streamed from its eyes.

  The water beneath the loom churned and rose into the loom’s empty shed, forming a clear wall.

  “Whoa,” Nels said. “Bosh’s loom never did this …”

  As the water climbed higher, it revealed Nels’s reflection, but it didn’t show Tyra’s. She was standing next to Nels, but in the water, she was invisible. “Why can’t I see myself?” she asked.