Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Tyra had to face the truth. She had failed.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Nels said. “We did our best. It’s not your fault.”

  She looked up at him. Sadness, longing, and pain cut through her. With so many emotions swirling inside her chest, she was beginning to feel mad. Mad … Tyra sat up. The thought made her pause. It gave her an idea. She had no rational way of getting home in time, but she could try something mad. She had nothing to lose.

  Tyra unsheathed the Needle and jumped onto Brooklet.

  Nels’s furrowed his brow. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe I don’t know what you’re thinking …”

  “Climb up here,” she said. “Hurry!”

  “Brooklet will die if you ride her any farther.”

  “You will die if we argue!” Tyra reached out her hand. “Trust me.” With a skeptical look on his face, Nels took her hand, floated up, and sat behind her. “A little farther, girl,” Tyra cooed to the mare. “I will take care of the rest.”

  “Just how are you planning to do that?” Nels asked.

  Without facing him, she raised the Needle.

  “How did you learn to use that thing, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure how to explain it — and we have to hurry now, anyway,” Tyra said. They trotted down the path until they reached the view of her kingdom. She could see lights from a few villages, and then the castle beyond. Remembering what Threadbare had told her, she secured her bow over her shoulder and closed her eyes as she raised the Needle high. “Hold me,” she commanded.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  She nodded slightly and opened her eyes. “So do I.”

  With Nels’s arms wrapped around her waist, she held the Needle’s eye up to her own, looked through the translucent gem, and spotted her castle. She hoped it wasn’t farther than she could handle, otherwise this would kill her, but to save Nels, Tyra had to test the strength of her thread. She had no choice. She was ready. Tyra concentrated, looked at the castle through the Needle’s eye, and imagined all of them — Nels, Brooklet, and her — standing before the castle gates.

  A sharp rush penetrated Tyra, the same feeling that seized her when she’d crossed the fiery river. The sensation was more intense this time — agonizing, as if something pulled every muscle in her body to the point of tearing. Her stomach burned with the pain that had originated in her heart, and just when she was about to be sick, she felt herself slip off her saddle.

  She crashed at the feet of a startled castle guard.

  “What the —” the guard cried. Another ran to join him. “Where did you come from?”

  Tyra raised her head, the Needle still in her hand. “We did it!” Excited, she looked behind her. “We did it, Nels —” He wasn’t there. He wasn’t sitting on Brooklet’s saddle, either.

  A pair of sharp spears pointed at her. “Who are you?” one of the guards asked. Tyra stared into their surprised faces as they stepped back. “Princess?!”

  Brooklet released a weak moan and hung her head low.

  Tyra sprinted for the gate. “Take care of her!” she yelled back.

  She was within the castle walls before the startled guards could question her. Faint light filled the main hall, and a few candles blew out as she opened the door. She paused at the threshold, breathing hard as she ignored the servants’ excited yells about her return. She made her way to the stairs that led to Bosh’s chamber and descended; she had to find the tailor. There was no one else she could trust, no one else that could help her weave Nels back to life. She hoped it was Bosh who had moved Nels’s body. And she hoped his ghost was okay … wherever he was.

  She could hardly believe what she’d done. Her thread was stronger than she’d thought.

  Thank you, Threadbare. You knew I could do this.

  The bottom of the stairs came faster than she remembered, but Bosh’s open door caused her to pause. It was dark inside. Tyra used the Needle to cast a light into the chamber. The place was a mess.

  “Hello?” she called, and stepped inside. “Are you here, Ickabosh?”

  No one answered. It didn’t take her long to realize that something was wrong. Overturned furniture and other materials were scattered throughout the room. Even the squirrel cage was damaged on the floor, the critter no longer inside. Tyra hoped she wasn’t too late.

  Sheathing the Needle, she turned and ran back up the stairs.

  Where could he be?

  She searched the castle high and low, through kitchens and halls, bedchambers and libraries, but there was no sign of either Bosh or Nels. She paused for breath in the dining hall and thought of one other place she had yet to look — the courtyard. Tyra ran down a hall filled with suited armor and barged onto the polished granite landing. As she started down the stairs to the grand terrace, someone was ascending the lower staircase from the courtyard. He was holding a large crochet hook.

  “Ickabosh!”

  The man stopped when he reached the terrace. “Who is that?”

  “It’s me, Tyra!” she cried, running down the stairs.

  A glint of surprise flashed in his eyes. “Stop!” He raised his arm and brandished his hook. His old face looked terribly grim. “How do I know you are the real princess?”

  She came to a stop a few feet away from him. “You know Rasmus is here?”

  “Answer me first: What did I have you search for on the Westerly Pass?”

  The man was testing her — a good idea. “A shadowed book.”

  Bosh lowered his arms and smiled wide. “Welcome home, Princess.”

  “Not so fast!” She pulled out her dagger. “How do I know you’re not Rasmus?”

  “Is that a conjurer’s ring?” he asked, pointing to her hand. “My name is Ickabosh.”

  Tyra looked at the stone. Green — he was telling the truth. Tyra wrapped her arms around the old man. “I’m so glad to see you!” Then she turned serious. “Where is Nels’s body? Did you move him?”

  “Yes.” The tailor pointed at the sheath around her waist. “Is that a sword?”

  “Not at all,” Tyra smiled. She proudly pulled out the Needle. “See?”

  He looked it over carefully. “Incredible,” he murmured. “I imagined it smaller …”

  “I think we all did!” Just then, a brisk wind picked up and the stars overhead became shadowed by a thick thundercloud. Tyra couldn’t believe it; the last thing they needed was a summer storm. “I used it to come back from the Westerly Mountains,” she continued, “but Nels is still —”

  “That can wait,” Bosh said. “Until then, let me get acquainted with the Needle.”

  Bosh held out his hands, and Tyra carefully placed the Needle in them. The tailor examined the legendary object, turning it over in his hands.

  “Oh. Rasmus has disguised himself as Sir Arek,” Tyra warned. “He murdered Arek, too.”

  “Moth holes!” Bosh glanced at her with an alarmed expression. “Sir Arek arrived here last night!”

  “Then we have to find him,” Tyra said. “I will inform the guard!”

  She was about to step forward when something stopped her from leaving, locking her limbs in place. A dull throb spread through her body. Tyra panicked as she glanced down, away from Bosh’s smiling face — which had begun to unravel like a spool of fleshy thread.

  The Needle had pierced her chest.

  Nels soared across the sky as fast as he could.

  He had been holding on to Tyra as she’d instructed when his body began to fade again. His arms had gone through her stomach, and she and Brooklet vanished. He realized immediately that Tyra had used the Needle to return to the castle.

  The forest below him flew by in a blur as he crossed terrain that he had known his entire life: over Kettlescreek, Cobblestown, and his own cottage. A thin wisp of smoke curled from its chimney, making him think of his mother. He hoped he would see her soon, but he had to hurry; he was more transparent than ever.

  Pushing himself to his limit, Nels dart
ed for the castle. As he approached Hillshaven, distant thunder met his ears; a storm was on its way. Nels slowed and hovered over the castle. The people were running around the grounds like a disturbed colony of ants. Men lit torches and sounded alarms as a pair of guards led Brooklet into the courtyard. Brooklet — Tyra had made it back!

  A lightning flash revealed a pair of shadows on the castle’s grand terrace. Two people were there; one of them wore a red dress. As Nels watched, the girl fell back, landing with her arms splayed above her head. The other was a man in a dark cape — Rasmus held the Needle in his hand.

  “Tyra!” Nels cried. “No!”

  He plunged to the terrace and landed between Tyra and Rasmus. Tyra convulsed. She coughed, her lungs straining for air. Blood spread over her chest and seeped through her blouse.

  Nels tried to shield her from Rasmus, but the man passed right through him and stood over Tyra. He smiled, one side of his mouth curling. “Never trust a conjurer’s ring around a Master Threader. Illusions of that size are easy to stitch.”

  Nels sprang at Rasmus, ready to pummel the villain, but his fists had no effect. He tried to grab him, kick him, trip him — but it was no use. Nels could no longer interact with the real world.

  Rasmus reached into his pocket and cleaned the Needle with a handkerchief — the one Tyra had left as a clue in the woods. “It’s a shame that you had to die, Princess. You would have made an excellent slave, but I am grateful to you for bringing this to me.” Crouching near her head, Rasmus closed her eyes with his fingers. “At last, the Needle is mine. And with it, I will finally mend the Great Tapestry and reclaim my part of it.” Back on his feet, Rasmus ascended the upper staircase and walked away, his head high as he entered the hall of armor.

  Helplessly, Nels watched as Rasmus left and then collapsed at Tyra’s side. He tried to caress her, move her, lift her eyelids, but he could do nothing. She wouldn’t move. Her skin turned pale, and then it turned blue. He was charged with protecting her and now she was dead. He’d failed her.

  All Nels could do now was disappear from the world.

  “Nels?”

  It was Tyra, but her voice didn’t come from her mouth.

  Her ghost moved freely to him. Inside the palm of her body’s hand lay a brass thimble. Like Nels, she was unwoven, a loose thread in the Great Tapestry. Her ghostly hair didn’t move with the wind. “I’m so sorry, Nels. I thought he was Bosh, but it was another illusion,” she said sadly. “I held on to the thimble like you told me to, but it didn’t protect me from the Needle.”

  “It’s over.” Nels glanced down and sighed. “It’s too late.”

  “You can’t give up on me, Nels. You can still stop him!”

  Tired of fighting what he could never defeat, Nels raised his hands in front of her face. As his arms faded, Tyra slumped by his side — and her body — on the stairs. His clothing lost its pigmentation. The tips of his fingers vanished. His legs went next. The transparency spread to his chest, too. Where had they gone wrong? This wasn’t supposed to happen. “I’m sorry, Tyra,” Nels said, his voice like an echo. “I never meant for this to —”

  Tyra wrapped her arms around him and held him. “It’s not your fault.”

  Nels leaned into her embrace, waiting for his end to come. Even under the blanket of death, she comforted him. He held her close, in a way that he’d never held another person.

  Tyra’s grasp tightened around his shoulders. “Your arms! I can feel your arms!”

  Now that she’d mentioned it, he could sense her touch, too! Her skin, so soft and warm, rubbed against what remained of his. “That’s right — ghosts can touch each other.”

  “Even in death …” Tyra said, looking deeply into his eyes.

  Nels returned her stare. “That’s what Bosh told me.”

  “We’re even in death; our threads are still basted!”

  “And that means —”

  He never finished. Tyra had pressed her lips to his. Her perfect smile was the last thing Nels saw before his weightless spirit disappeared from the terrace.

  A pair of horses snorted when Nels sat up from the strewn pile of hay. He drew in a long, deep breath. Someone had taken his body to the stables and buried him in a haystack. He’d been cleaned of the beeswax that once coated his frame — no wonder he’d stopped smelling it — and his body was no longer wrapped in gauze. A dull ache spread throughout his muscles; his every limb had fallen asleep. Nels didn’t mind — he was alive. Even in death, their kiss had worked.

  What about Tyra?

  He stepped forward, stumbled, and heard a soft ringing on the stone floor. His brass thimble rolled toward the exit, as if urging him to keep moving. His stomach churned, and he dry heaved. He was thirsty, and he had no clothes. Nels moved to a vacant stall and found his trousers, shirt, and green vest, all washed and folded. He picked up his clothes and dressed.

  It was slow going with his stiff joints, but he forced himself to move and stretch. He had to get back to the grand terrace. He picked up his thimble and limped out the stable doors. Torchlight filled the grounds with an orange glow. The summer thunderstorm had gathered closer — and it looked to be a violent one.

  Nels ran to the castle courtyard, where a set of stairs led to the terrace. It was a steep climb, a nearly impossible feat in his condition. His first instinct was to jump and soar into the sky, but he couldn’t fly anymore. Adjusting to his body was going to be harder than he’d expected.

  An elderly stable hand was leading Brooklet to her stall. “You’re worn ragged, girl,” he said to the mare. “Makes me wonder what the princess was doing out there.”

  Nels ran over and blocked their way.

  “Hey! What are you doing, boy?”

  “Rasmus! He’s in the castle,” Nels said. “And he’s hurt Tyra!”

  “How do you know?” the stable hand asked. “And who are you?”

  Nels doubled over, his heart racing. His body couldn’t keep up.

  “Wait here. I’ll see if I can fetch the guard.” The man hurried off to the main gate.

  Nels straightened up and looked Brooklet in the eye. She was tired, but more alert than before. Nels touched her long face and, this time, she didn’t pull back. “You know me,” he whispered. “Take me to her.” Summoning his strength, Nels mounted the mare, settling comfortably into the saddle.

  Brooklet whinnied and took off. When she reached the grand terrace’s lower stairs, they quickly ascended. Seconds later, Brooklet’s hooves clomped onto the terrace and came to a stop. Nels jumped down. The wind gusted and lightning flashed. A few of the torches blew out.

  As thunder cut through the air, a raindrop fell on his cheek.

  Tyra was in the middle of the grand terrace. Unmoved.

  He ran to her and knelt by her side. The rain became more intense and began to dilute the puddle of blood that had pooled beneath her. Nels looked around. “Tyra? Tyra! Where are you?” When he heard no answer, Nels stroked the hair from Tyra’s face and scooped her up into his arms. Brooklet ambled over and lowered her head, whickering as she nudged Tyra’s shoulder. Tears filled Nels’s eyes. “Tyra …”

  Tears dropped from his lashes and blended with the cold rain.

  Their kiss had brought him back; they had sewn their seam.

  Nels was alive, but … why wasn’t she?

  “Don’t you give up,” Nels begged. “You never give up, remember?” He held her as tight as he could and pressed his forehead against hers. “I should have told you before. I love you, Tyra.”

  Tilting her head back, he kissed her lips, hoping for a miracle.

  Nothing changed.

  The rain formed a pool in her cupped hand, filling her thimble with water. She couldn’t be gone — she couldn’t be! When they kissed, it should have woven her back, just as he had.

  And then it hit him.

  What if she is? What if she’s in there, right now?

  For all he knew, Tyra was trapped inside her unconscious body. />
  Nels put his cheek to her face, hoping he’d feel breath. Nothing. He listened for any sounds of life. All he heard was a man shouting; the stable hand had returned to the courtyard and was nearing the steps to the terrace. Nels looked down at Tyra. He didn’t want to leave her, especially if she was alive in there … somewhere. But staying here with her wasn’t going to help her, either. It wouldn’t bring her justice, it wouldn’t stop Rasmus, and it definitely wouldn’t heal her.

  But the Needle would.

  He kissed Tyra’s lips one last time before he reached inside her knapsack, grabbing her dagger and sewing kit. He considered taking the thimble from her hand, but he didn’t.

  She needed its protection, now more than ever.

  Nels returned to his feet and followed after Rasmus, into the heart of the castle.

  The upper floor of the castle was a maze of hallways and chambers. Nels wished he could still pass through walls. His stiff body ached and it continued to feel limp and useless.

  Even if he managed to find Rasmus in the castle, what could he do in this weakened state to stop him?

  How do I take the Needle from such a powerful man?

  Nels was in no condition to fight, but he had to get the Needle. It was Tyra’s only hope … if any hope for her remained.

  He leaned against a doorframe and opened the sewing kit’s cedar box. A raindrop fell on the velvet lining. He eyed what was left of the kit’s contents: the seam ripper and the vial of black dye.

  Black dye …

  At Black Peak, Fargut had said something about the black dye: it could reveal fabricator’s threads and remove their illusions. Nels shoved the seam ripper into his pocket, clutched the vial of black dye in one hand, and held Tyra’s dagger in the other. He bolted down the hall as fast as his battered body would let him. He came to a stop at the balcony overlooking the main hall.

  A crowd of the residing nobility had gathered below. Nels didn’t understand what they were doing until King Lennart appeared at the hall’s far end — holding the Needle in his hand.