Woven

by Michael Jensen

  “Rasmus …” Nels’s voice was too weak to be heard. Every noble hushed as the false king entered, followed by two of his guards. Nels limped to the balcony’s staircase and leaned on its banister. He started slowly down the stairs, his limp feet dragging down onto each step. When he reached the bottom, he inhaled deeply. “Rasmus!” This time, his voice echoed throughout the hall. Lennart spun around. His eyes grew wide and then narrowed.

  The false king pointed at Nels. “Take him!” he commanded to his guards.

  The gathered nobility began to whisper and murmur. A few who recognized him gasped — he realized that, to them, he was back from the dead.

  Knowing that he was too weak to fight, Nels let the king’s guards seize him. Nels wanted to be close to Rasmus; only then could he use the black dye to reveal the truth. Besides, the fabricator would not kill Nels — not here, not in front of witnesses. The guards forced the dagger from Nels’s hand. The seam ripper remained in his pocket and he surreptitiously palmed the small vial of dye.

  All he needed now was an opportunity.

  “Bring him to me,” Lennart said, “and hand me his weapon.”

  The guards kicked Nels behind the knee, forcing him to kneel before the impostor. The whisperings grew louder as Tyra’s dagger was delivered to Lennart’s awaiting hand. The king stared at Nels and smiled. “You chose a poor disguise in which to kill me, Master Threader.”

  The guards tightened their grips. The observing nobles backed into the walls. All Nels could do was glare at the imposter, waiting to make his move. He was close enough. If only he could free his arms. But the guards held him tight. Being unwoven had taken its toll.

  “I sentence you to death,” Lennart said, touching the dagger’s tip to Nels’s neck.

  Schhwaff!

  The dagger fell from Lennart’s grip — an arrow lodged in his forearm. The crowd gasped and the guards spun around. Nels scrambled to turn his head, and when he did he was filled with shock and relief. Tyra stood on the balcony, weakly holding a bow in her hand. The torso of her dress was stained with blood. She smiled, and then she collapsed in a heap at the top of the stairs.

  Feeling the guards’ hold on him relax, Nels shoved them away and, as hard as he could, threw the vial of black dye at Lennart. The glass shattered against the king’s forehead, the dye smearing across his face. Nels reached into his pocket, unsheathed the ripper, and stabbed Lennart’s fist. As the Needle fell to the floor with a clang, the false king cursed. His face and clothing began to unravel, like a spool of fleshy thread.

  Rasmus, his true form exposed for all to see, stood where the king had once been. As the nobles screamed and ran from the room, Nels scrambled to the Needle and grabbed it.

  “The lad’s right! Arrest the imposter!” one of the guards cried out.

  The guards charged. Rasmus closed his eyes and slammed his fists toward the ground. The guards stopped, frozen in their positions. No one could move, except for Rasmus — and this time, Nels.

  The Needle protected him from the fabricator’s magic.

  I have to get the Needle to Tyra!

  Nels ran for the balcony steps as fast as he could when Rasmus flashed to the middle of the staircase and blocked Nels from ascending. The Master Threader yanked the arrow from his arm and held the wound tightly. Blood dripped from the incision, just like the black dye dripped down his face.

  Nels held the Needle with both hands. If only he knew how to use it!

  “I watched you die,” Rasmus said, pointing at Nels. “Only the Needle could bring you back, but I took it before she could use it. How are you alive now?”

  Nels kept the Needle pointed at the fabricator and said nothing.

  Rasmus drew a knife from behind his back. “You would keep silent to my question, boy?”

  “What good is my answer? You’ll kill me anyway.”

  Rasmus shook his head and snickered. “How right you are.”

  Nels jabbed the Needle at Rasmus, but the villain dodged to the side and lunged at him with the knife. Nels raised the Needle and deflected the blow — if only he could use the fabrication tool as more than a sword. Remembering what Tyra had shown him about swordplay, Nels held his ground.

  “Why did you kill my father?” Nels asked.

  Rasmus laughed. “You wouldn’t understand. My design was perfect, but Ulrich came and he altered everything. My status, my favor, my friends, my lovers — your father eclipsed them all!”

  The fabricator pushed his palms out, grabbed the air, and pulled his fists across his chest. The banisters on either side of the staircase tore from their moldings and flew at Nels. He dodged them — just barely — and they crashed together, sending splinters of wood around the room.

  “Everyone is a thread in the Great Tapestry — but what kind of thread?” Rasmus asked. “And from where has it come? You do not know that your father was a foreign thread, not meant for our reality, not of our world. He would have caused the rendt and destroyed everything!”

  Rasmus reached behind his back for another knife. “You share the blood of your father, so you also threaten the fate of this world!” Rasmus threw his arms back and cast both knives at the ceiling. Their tips dug deep into the wooden beams. Nels thoughts flashed back to the oak that had crushed him. If Rasmus had the means to yank the knives free, the beams would explode.

  The fabricator reached for the ceiling and yanked his fists down. Chunks of plaster and heavy rubble rained into the hall as the beams shattered. The roof came crashing down, right over Nels. Unable to escape the collapse, Nels shielded himself by thrusting the Needle high above his head.

  A light shot out from the Needle’s opal eye. The ceiling’s broken wood and fractured mortar slowed to a stop in midair and then reversed. The debris flew up and out of the now gaping hole in the roof. The storm outside invaded the hall as the rubble hammered onto the shingles above.

  What did I just do?!

  Nels fell to his knees, the Needle still in his hand. He felt so inexplicably drained. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it was clear that whatever he’d done with the Needle had kept him from danger. The Needle’s power came at a price, however; what little energy he’d had after being unwoven was completely gone now. He would have to be careful to not inadvertently call upon the Needle’s power again. He could tell that he wouldn’t survive it.

  Rasmus stumbled back in shock, his eyes wide and angry. “I tire of your resilience, boy!” he snarled. “I spent half my life learning about the Needle’s secrets. You are not strong enough to handle an object so powerful.”

  “Rasmus!”

  The Master Threader flinched, looked up, and recoiled.

  King Lennart stood at the door.

  “How did you escape?” Rasmus cried. “I had you in chains!”

  Lennart looked at Nels and winked. Nels had seen that mischievous wink before, but not from the king. “You should have killed me, like all of your other victims,” the king said, “instead of imprisoning me.” At that moment, Lennart’s face and body uncoiled and strung in the air like loose threads. They quickly wove back into the old tailor, wearing his gray robe. “No chain can bind this fabricator!”

  “It’s not possible,” Rasmus exclaimed. “I killed you!”

  Rasmus stared at his former mentor as Bosh walked to Nels, his crochet hook pointed at the villain. The tailor gave Nels a welcoming smile, cupped by his weathered, old cheeks. “Good to have you back,” he said, before his eyes shifted to the Needle in Nels’s hand. “Hold on to that.”

  “This can’t be happening!” Rasmus snarled again. “How are you still alive? I slit your throat!”

  “Did you?” Bosh raised a hand to his neck. “Must have been the wrong throat.”

  “I’ve always hated your stale wit, old man. Answer me!”

  “Patience, Rasmus,” Bosh said. “Because you refused the basic truth of fabrication, I was never able to teach you that true power was always within you. It was that power that ke
pt Nels and Tyra from death.”

  Rasmus looked at the Needle in Nels’s hands. “The power to change reality?”

  “The power to design fate. Unfortunately, you care only for yours.” Holding his hook steady, Bosh approached the stairs. “As I was bringing the boy’s body here after you crushed him, I happened upon a sick creature preparing to die by the side of the road. Knowing you would come for my life, I performed an alteration. I allowed the beast a chance to die a more noble death than along the side of the road.”

  Nels could think of only one such creature. “The squirrel?”

  “A squirrel?” Rasmus scoffed. “I slit and buried a rodent?”

  “Larger than usual, but yes,” Bosh said. “I altered the creature into a likeness of myself, took the king’s place, and hid the king and queen where you would not find them. You are a fool to think I would sit serenely all these years without preparing for your return — I watched your pattern. You have tampered with the Great Tapestry long enough, Rasmus,” Bosh continued. “You will account for all the threads you have severed. You will suffer the repercussions.”

  “You call me a fool?” Rasmus laughed. “You, who brought destruction upon us? I know the pattern well. If that boy lives, our world will rendt!”

  “And what if this boy is keeping our world together?”

  Nels had never heard the tailor sound so serious. The exchange of their words confused him. How could his life tear the world?

  “For fifteen years, Ulrich lived in this castle,” Bosh said. “Add sixteen more since the night you killed him. Has the fabric of reality changed? Are the laws of nature not intact? You never wanted to preserve the Great Tapestry. You always wished to recover the life you think you lost. You suffer from pride, jealousy, and a broken heart that you refuse to mend, so you allowed murder to become your answer!” Bosh extended his hands, his crochet hook raised like a weapon. “An unintended thread in the Great Tapestry — like Nels — can stop those who are bent on tearing it apart — like you!”

  Rasmus fell silent.

  “Sew your seam, Rasmus,” Bosh invited. “End this madness.”

  “I intend to,” Rasmus replied, “once I undo your meddling!”

  Rasmus raised one arm and pointed at the rain pouring in from the hole in the roof. Hundreds of droplets froze into needlelike icicles. Each one darted at Bosh as if fired from a bow. The tailor whirled his hook like a scythe, and every icy pin melted into one giant ball of boiling water, still heading for Bosh. He then struck the boiling orb with his hook and catapulted it back toward Rasmus. The rogue fabricator ducked, and steam rose from the floor where the orb splashed.

  Nels had the Needle, but he didn’t know what to do. Its jeweled eye caught his attention — something wispy and gray rested within. He held the eye up to his own and looked through it. Threads — thousands of iridescent threads — were strung across the main hall. Everything in the room was connected together by shimmering fibers. Bosh and Rasmus had seized and were manipulating many of them, using the threads to control the surrounding objects. Like a real tapestry, Nels could see how every single thread was connected to the scene. Everything about his world was interwoven as one.

  The brightest of these threads ran from him — from his heart — up the stairs to where Tyra lay.

  Their connection — their love — was strong.

  Nels limped for the stairs. The stone busts on either side of the staircase burst, sending marble fragments flying through the air. The blast threw Nels onto the floor. His ears rang and his eyes filled with dust. His face stung and blood dripped from a cut on his chin.

  A great crash made Nels turn and face the door. Bosh and Rasmus were on opposite sides, circling the hall while they stared each other down. Each had one arm extended, grasping at the invisible threads of various objects around the room. Bosh’s temple had a deep, red gash, and blood fell from Rasmus’s nose. For a magical art dedicated to mending, Nels found it ironic that fabrication was capable of causing as much devastation as a legion of knights.

  Bosh’s outstretched hand reached toward a vase sitting atop a large stone pedestal on the far end of the hall. The vase flew through the air toward Rasmus, who raised his other hand and made a swatting motion, causing the vase to shatter against the wall.

  Rasmus glanced over at Nels. He reached for the stone pedestal that once held the vase and hurled it at the boy with incredible speed.

  “Stand back, Nels!” Bosh turned to deflect the heavy pedestal, but Nels could see that this was a mistake. With Bosh distracted, Rasmus closed his eyes and slammed his fists downward.

  Bosh froze in place.

  Rasmus’s jaw clenched. “Now, I will take that Needle!” In an instant, he reached his hand out toward Tyra’s dagger, which was still on the floor where he had dropped it. The dagger sailed through the air and struck the Needle with such force that it flew out of Nels’s hand.

  Rasmus instantly appeared in front of Nels. He shoved his hand onto Nels’s face and pushed him to the floor. He straddled Nels’s torso and pinned him to the ground.

  Nels struggled, flexing and straining — he couldn’t wrestle free!

  Rasmus wrapped one of his hands around Nels’s throat and then stretched out the other to pick up the Needle. Nels tried to pull himself free from the rogue’s grasp, but he couldn’t breathe. Like a rolling fog, his vision was beginning to cloud. The light from the Needle’s eye shone as the shaft found its way to the Master Threader’s hand. Rasmus placed the Needle’s tip over Nels’s heart.

  “I killed you once,” he snarled. “And this time, you will stay dead!”

  Nels looked away, hoping that his second death would be painless — but nothing happened. He glanced back at Rasmus. The fabricator’s eyes bulged; the color had drained from his face.

  The tip of a sword had impaled Rasmus from behind.

  Gathering the last of his strength, Nels struck the Needle from Rasmus’s hand. It fell to the ground and its light extinguished. Rasmus twitched, clawing at the blade protruding from his body. He slumped to his side and released his breath. A pool of blood spread beneath him.

  “Stab me in the back, will you?” cried the favored knight of Avërand.

  Nels couldn’t believe it; Arek was alive!

  Wriggling himself out from under the dead man, Nels sat up and gulped down as much air as he could, as if his strangled throat were on fire. Seconds later, Bosh and the two guards began to move again. The battle was over.

  With his death, Rasmus’s magic had released its hold.

  Tyra …

  Nels grabbed the Needle from where it had fallen and hurried up the stairs, but when he reached the landing where Tyra had fallen, Bosh had vanished from the main hall and reappeared next to both of them.

  “Wait,” the tailor said. “You have worn your thread far too thin. Please, allow me.”

  Knowing that time wasn’t on their side, Nels placed the Needle in Bosh’s hand. The old man held it over the open wound on Tyra’s chest. Its eye glowed. Tyra’s flesh began to mend before their eyes. The wound closed and her pale skin began to return to normal. Her bodice and dress remained a bloody mess, but her eyes flickered, and she uttered a weak moan.

  “Tyra?” Nels cupped the back of her head with his hand. “Are you okay?”

  She moaned again and their eyes met. She reached out her hand and touched the side of his face. A joyous smile spread clear across her tearstained cheeks. “You’re … woven.”

  Her eyes closed, and she fell unconscious.

  “Her thread is also very weak,” Bosh said. “You’ve both been through too much.”

  “Tyra!” Arek ran up the stairs and pushed Nels aside. The favored knight glared at him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were dead!”

  “I thought you were dead, too,” Nels replied.

  Arek blinked, as though he were confused.

  “We must take the princess to her room,” Bosh said. “I will send for her mother and fath
er.”

  Nels was about to stand and cradle Tyra when Arek stepped in front of him. The knight’s large frame blocked Nels completely. “Thanks,” Arek said. “I will carry her.” He slipped his arms under Tyra’s body and walked toward the castle’s upper floors.

  Nels had begun to follow Arek when a hand clasped his shoulder. Holding the Needle at its middle, the old tailor kept Nels back as Arek and Tyra disappeared down the hall.

  “I have to make sure she’s all right,” Nels said.

  “That would be unwise.” Bosh placed a second hand on Nels’s shoulders. He led the boy to the stairs, and descended with him. They approached Rasmus’s body, sprawled on the floor. Guards stood on either side of him, their spears ready to strike if there was the slightest twitch. “Tyra’s thread is worn even thinner than yours. I fear the smallest excitement could sever it. If I could keep the favored knight away from her, I would. But for now, having the two of you wrestling at her bedside will only do her harm.”

  “Please,” Nels said, “just for tonight.”

  “There is nothing more you can do here,” Bosh said, “but there is much that you can do for your mother. She deserves to see you right now. Go home and rest.” Bosh leaned close. “You may not realize it, but you followed in your father’s footsteps, standing up against Rasmus as you did. Avërand is in your debt. Be proud of that.” They walked away from the Master Threader’s body and headed for the hall’s exit. “I will send you word when Tyra is well.”

  The promise comforted Nels, even if he was tempted to stay anyway. The hole in the roof allowed light from the waning half-moon to enter the hall. “What will become of the Needle?”

  “I can assure you that it will be safe with me.”

  “Ickabosh?” A woman rushed forward from the open doorway.

  Bosh spun right around. “Gleesel! Is that really you?”

  Surprised to see her himself, Nels backed away, allowing the old woman to wrap her arms around the old tailor. “Oh, Ickabosh! I have so much to tell you, I don’t know where to begin —”

  “Neither do I!” Bosh exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”