Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Nels couldn’t help but interrupt. “Why aren’t you a goat?”

  Bosh looked at Nels with an appalled face. “A goat?”

  Gleesel laughed as she stepped back; her attention fell on Nels. “Only Princess Tyra and her ghost would know about that. It’s nice to finally see and hear you, Nels. Thanks to the shadowed book — and you — I was able to lift my curse. And after I saw that horrible fabricator leave that knight to die, I removed him from the ground and cared for him. I used healing spells until he was strong enough to return to Avërand” — she glanced at Rasmus’s body — “and just in time, I see!”

  Bosh stood speechless, his eyes never leaving the old woman.

  Gleesel smiled, returning his gaze. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  Grateful to see the two old sorcerers reunited, Nels turned to go home. The waning moonlight spilled through the clouds and guided his way along the path through the fields. Nels took a deep breath, welcoming the cool night air. Tyra would be well soon, and then they would be together.

  Like a ghost, Nels walked away from the castle without anyone noticing.

  The first rays of sunlight grazed the highest peak of the Westerly Mountains as Nels snuck along the outskirts of Cobblestown. He wanted to remain hidden. If the villagers saw him, their questions would keep him from returning home. If anyone was going to see him alive first, it would be his mother.

  There were not many early risers among the villagers, so his journey to the white oaks was an easy tread — until a company of knights charged through the village.

  Wallin rode among them.

  No, he was leading them.

  They had missed the fight, but Nels was glad to see the men return. He hoped the Vagas were safe; he would have to visit Mylan soon, to thank her for all she and her people had done. Thinking of her ruling Westmine made Nels smile. It was a happy thought, but Nels couldn’t stop worrying about Tyra.

  As he walked among the white oak trees, every muscle in his body wanted to stop and rest. But he was grateful he had a body again to experience physical pain. He welcomed hunger, the thirst for water, and the smell of bluebells — so much sweeter than the beeswax that once overwhelmed his nose.

  Moments later, Nels arrived at his cottage in the clearing. Smoke rose from the chimney. Mother always had an early start. Someone had painted the barn, and the fence had never looked better. Nels could not picture his mother doing all this work on her own — even with Jilia’s help. The whole town must have pitched in. It comforted Nels to think that his mother had been well cared for during the difficult time. Nels let out a laugh as he passed his grave and approached the door. He stopped when he heard whining on the other side of it.

  “It’s scratchy!” Jilia protested. “I really don’t like wearing this material!”

  A smile crept over Nels’s face as he pushed the door open.

  His mother sat on a stool next to Jilia, who was wearing a half-finished dress. The girl seemed a little taller, though Nels knew that was unlikely, and her hair had been cleaned up some. Without the rough edges, she was quite pretty. As they turned to the door, their jaws fell open. The look in their eyes brought tears to his own.

  “Nels!” Mother cried. “Is … is it really you …?”

  Her voice made his tears flow. “I’m home, Mother.”

  Jilia gasped, jumped off the stool, and threw her arms around him. “You’re alive!” she cried. Tears drenched his green vest. “I can’t believe it! Oh, Nels! You’re alive!”

  His mother rushed in and embraced him, kissing him tenderly on the cheeks as she, too, cried onto his chest. “My son, my perfect son!” she said.

  Nels held them both for a very long time.

  Nels did not like the taste of dirt, but after all he had been through, he was glad to taste anything. “Do you give?” Wallin said, having pinned Nels outside the barn. “Do you?”

  A part of Nels wanted to say never for old time’s sake, but his body was still weak from his battle against Rasmus. Reaching out his hand, Nels tapped the ground. The unconquerable Knight of Cobblestown had finally lost.

  Wallin wiped his brow as he leaned back. “You can’t give up! I want a rematch!”

  “Take the win, Wallin,” Nels said, catching his breath. “You bested me.”

  “Get up, you quitter,” Wallin demanded. “I want another go!”

  “What’re you doing?” Jilia ran over to the boys and groaned when Nels spat grime from his mouth. Rolling around in front of the barn had layered his body with dust. Accusation clouded Jilia’s round face — a look that reminded Nels of a much younger, brown-haired version of his mother. Jilia’s neat skirt completed the illusion. “I thought we were going to the village!” she said.

  Wallin chuckled. “We were passing time while you were playing dress up.”

  Jilia’s hands curled into fists, her cheeks red. “Watch it …”

  Nels reached for Wallin’s hand. “Help me up, will you?”

  Wallin clasped his hand around Nels’s wrist and pulled his old friend up. Wallin looked down at his hand and flexed his fingers. Nels sensed the confusion, the need for reassurance; Wallin had acted this way ever since Nels returned from the grave.

  “You owe me a rematch,” Wallin said.

  “Count on it. Just let me take care of my errands first,” Nels replied.

  Turning to the barn, Wallin retrieved a leather vest from a sawhorse. Beside it was a long sheathed sword. He looped a new leather scabbard through a strap and let it rest against his thigh. Nels’s return was not the only amazing story that had spread throughout the countryside. Those who knew about Rasmus had cheered at the news of his death, and they celebrated Sir Arek for killing him. Others found joy in the princess’s safe return, and for her returned sanity. The people of Cobblestown showered Wallin with praise for helping the knights in a time of need; the knights had rewarded him, too, officially making him a squire.

  Once Wallin had assembled his gear, they headed into the woods for Cobblestown.

  “When do you begin training?” Nels asked.

  “Today,” Wallin said, without a shred of excitement. “I’ll stop at home first.”

  Jilia glanced at him. “You don’t seem happy about it.”

  “You wouldn’t be, either,” Wallin said, “if you had to serve under that pompous Sir Arek.” He let out a sigh. “You wanted this more than anyone, Nels. You should be the one —”

  “You’ve proven yourself,” Nels said. “We both have.”

  Wallin smirked. “I’m glad you’re okay, but you wrestle like you’re only half alive.”

  Nels crossed his arms as Jilia raised a fist. If Wallin only knew.

  “Give him a chance!” Jilia cried. “He’s still recovering.”

  “I’m his friend, too, you little imp-sprout. Don’t hit me for being honest.” Wallin adjusted the collar of his new vest. “We bury him and then he dawdles back like nothing happened?” The new squire locked his eyes on Nels’s. “I don’t buy that, but I can keep a secret.”

  Nels understood what Wallin meant. He knew Wallin couldn’t deny the wrestling match they’d shared at the Vagas’ camp. It was noble of him to keep their encounter a secret. Jilia, on the other hand, was oblivious. She kept staring at Nels, her eyes darting away when he caught her looking.

  They had reached the quarry when a whinny caught their attention. Lars the blacksmith’s horse and wagon approached the summit. The blacksmith was trim and wore a black vest similar to one of Nels’s. It was obvious that Mother had made it for Lars. They’d seen a lot of each other since Nels’s death. “Afternoon,” Lars greeted, pulling the wagon to a stop. “How are you today?”

  “Feeling better,” Nels said. “Still have a lot on my mind.”

  “I’m sure you’ll mull it out soon. How is your mother?”

  “She’s been waiting for you all morning,” Jilia said. “You’re late!”

  Lars winked at her. “I must tread lightly. Thanks, Jil.”
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  Nels couldn’t contain his laughter. Neither could the others. Lars tapped his horse with the end of his whip and the wagon rolled to the white oaks as Nels and his friends descended toward the village. Nels was grateful that he already felt well enough to fetch the usual supplies that his mother needed. Jilia’s dress hindered her stride as they walked.

  The castle in the distance seemed to touch the clouds. Nels breathed deeply, his journey with the princess still fresh on his mind. A day and a half had passed since that night and he’d still had no word from the tailor or Tyra. If he had to wait much longer — the very thought drove him mad.

  What could be taking so long?

  The three paused before they entered the village. “Ready for this?” Jilia asked.

  Nels nodded. “I have to go in there at some point.”

  “Maybe I’ll tag along for a while before I go home,” Wallin said.

  Once they’d entered, a few villagers smiled in passing, but most stared at Nels in shock. Others tried to ignore him or called for their children to come inside. Even a few of the girls who used to smile at Nels shied away from his glance. It made sense — they’d held a funeral and buried him. Those who didn’t see his return from the grave as a miracle must have thought it a curse. He sighed. He couldn’t blame them.

  As they neared the textile shop, Nels heard Tyra’s name mentioned from one villager to another. “Have you heard the news?” Hilga asked them. “Princess Tyra is set to marry Sir Arek! I had a feeling they would, as close as they were during the festival and all!”

  Nels’s heart jumped to his throat. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard, not after what he and Tyra had been through together. Doubt set in. Something wasn’t right. He knew there was something genuine behind their kiss, and he was sure that Tyra knew it, too. Love was the only way they could have come back from death — they both had to love each other.

  Then why would she agree to marry Arek after all that? Abandoning his errands, Nels turned down the road toward Hillshaven.

  “Uh, Nels?” Jilia asked. “The shop’s right here. Where’re you going?”

  Nels didn’t stop. He couldn’t wait for Bosh any longer.

  “Wait up!” Wallin called from behind.

  No. I have to see Tyra — now.

  It was midafternoon by the time they entered the city gates. Nels headed for the castle, his stiff legs still keeping him from a full run. Both Wallin and Jilia clearly wanted to know what he was up to, but he wouldn’t speak. He couldn’t be bothered with anything else.

  Nels walked through the castle into the main hall. A few servants paused as they were cleaning up the rubble and asked if they could be of assistance. Nels ignored them, climbed the stairs, and turned down the corridor that led to Tyra’s chamber.

  “What’re you doing?” Wallin said. “We’re not allowed to go this far.”

  “How do you know your way around so well?” Jilia added.

  At the entrance of the east wing, guards blocked Nels from continuing. “I’m here to see Tyra,” he said. “Let me pass.”

  “You’ll end up in the stocks if you keep this up,” Wallin warned.

  Down the hall, Nels saw Arek leaving Tyra’s bedchamber. Nels stepped forward, pushing his weight against the guards’ crossed spears. The guards shoved back, sending Nels to the floor.

  Both Wallin and Jilia gasped, the looks on their faces confirming that they thought Nels had lost his mind. Maybe he had. So be it. One way or another, he was going to find a way to Tyra.

  Arek made his way toward them, cracking his knuckles as he walked. “What is this?” The favored knight looked down at Nels. “You?” He frowned hard. “What is your business here?”

  Nels returned to his feet. “My business isn’t with you, Arek. Let me pass.”

  The commotion had gathered the attention of a few servants and nobles; many gawked at Nels and his lack of propriety. Arek smiled thinly. “You are not permitted to see my betrothed.”

  “Your betrothed?” Nels scoffed. “I’d like to hear that from Tyra herself, thanks.”

  Nels stepped forward, about to force his way past, when the knight grabbed his shoulder and flung him back again. As he hit the ground, Nels heard the onlookers whispering to each other, asking who he was and what he was doing there.

  Why would a peasant come to see the princess?

  “Do not think I will allow you near her,” Arek said coldly. “You are neither welcome nor wanted here.” He nodded at the nearby guards, who reached down and lifted Nels by his arms. “Lock him in the stocks for a few hours. That should knock some sense into him.”

  It would take more than stocks to silence Nels. “Tyra doesn’t love you! She knows you only want to marry her for the throne.” Nels watched Arek’s face turn pale as the onlookers paused, holding their breath at the sudden accusation. “No matter how many coins you slip, and no matter how many lies you tell, Tyra will never marry you!”

  Like a rat caught in a kitchen, the knight glanced around nervously at the onlookers, who looked back at him with questioning stares. “Enough of your insolence,” Arek said. “Make it a few days in the stocks. That will teach you your place, peasant!”

  Not without a fight!

  Yanking his arm free, Nels flung his fist into the knight’s jaw.

  Arek reeled back, his hand flying to his mouth. A chorus of gasps echoed down the corridor as pain began to set within Nels’s knuckles. Arek’s jaw was as strong as it looked. Wallin stood speechless and Jilia had tears in her eyes. She had never looked so disappointed. While the knight nursed his face, the guards grabbed Nels again, so tightly that his arms tingled from a lack of blood flow.

  Arek towered over Nels. “I will have your head on a block before this day is through.” Arek turned to the side and spat blood onto the floor. “Take this filth to the dungeons.”

  The dungeons — the one place in the castle that Nels hadn’t seen yet.

  “No!” Jilia cried. “He didn’t mean it. Please don’t take him away!”

  “Don’t worry,” Wallin said, his hand on Jilia’s shoulder. “I’ll —”

  “Wallin!” Arek shouted. “How could you let these peasants enter the castle? Get her out of here!”

  Jilia’s sobs faded away as the guards dragged Nels underground. The torch-lit corridors reminded Nels of Bosh’s own underground chambers. Where was Bosh, anyway? The tailor had promised to send word when Tyra was well.

  Nels laughed at himself. It no longer mattered. He had picked a fight that he knew he couldn’t win. It was unlikely the king would have Nels executed for such an offense, but whatever the punishment, it would undoubtedly be severe.

  You’ve really done it this time, Nels….

  The guards threw him into an empty cell and slammed the iron door. Nels grabbed the cold metal and tested the bars; he was alone with a single torch for light. With no cot or chair, Nels sat on the floor, his back against the stone wall.

  This was but a momentary setback, he tried to convince himself. Nothing would stop him from finding Tyra.

  In hindsight, a little patience would have done him well. Finding a different way to Tyra would have been no trouble. Nels hoped she would see through Arek’s fraud — whatever tricks he’d played on her. Nels sat for what felt like hours and listened to the quiet. His thoughts returned to the kiss that had brought him back to life. Would he ever know that feeling again?

  Nels heard a door open down the passage, followed by hurried steps and rattling keys. Someone was coming for him. “I can’t believe you would stoop this low,” Tyra said. “Where is he?”

  “He was acting like a madman,” Arek answered. “Look what he did to me!”

  “He did that?” She paused, a smile in her voice. “Looks like he saved me the trouble.”

  Nels stood and faced the bars as Tyra entered his view. Their eyes met at once. She was wearing her nightgown, despite the midday hour. She looked tired. Mylan’s sapphire stone hung around her neck, and she w
ore the conjurer’s ring on her hand.

  Arek followed her, his face full of frustration. “This is a mistake, Tyra.”

  “The only mistake is what you’ve done. How dare you send a knight of Avërand here!”

  “Knight of Avërand?” Arek scoffed. “He is no knight. He is a peasant, nothing more —”

  “He is a knight to me! Hand me the keys.”

  “My love …” Arek said, his anger rising. “What has become of you?”

  “The keys, Sir Arek …” she demanded. Exhaling through his nose, the knight placed the keys into her hand. “You may leave us. Nels will accompany me back to my chamber.”

  Arek’s final, infuriated glare sent a chill down Nels’s back. The knight turned down the passage and left him alone with Tyra. Although she looked alert, Nels could tell from her stance that she was still recovering from their ordeal. Her thread was not yet at its full strength again — just like his. Nels cleared his throat. He had no idea what to say, but he was relieved to see that Tyra seemed excited to see him.

  She shook her head. “I’m not surprised to see you down here.”

  Nels smiled back. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I know,” she replied. “Come to think of it, I’ve never been down here until now.”

  A rat scampered across the far corner of the cell.

  “It’s cozy,” Nels said.

  Tyra reached for her heart, as if she were in pain.

  “How’s your wound?” he asked.

  Her hand lingered over her chest. “It stings, sometimes.”

  “Bosh said he’d send for me when you were well, but I’d heard nothing.”

  “He had to rush to Mendarch to … fix something …”

  “Fix something? In Mendarch?” Nels couldn’t imagine what would take Bosh to that distant land. Then again, who knew where a fabricator’s help was required? “Did someone bury Rasmus?”

  “Burned,” Tyra answered. “Bosh was very thorough.”

  This relieved Nels. Nothing was more final than ash.

  “Why are you so full of questions all of a sudden?” Tyra asked.