Vivian Amberville - The Weaver of Odds

by Louise Blackwick

  The Æbekanta was first triggered during the Age of Karura, founder of the Guild of Weavers and builder of the Pattern of Threads. As far as Vivian recalled the story, it had been a violent event that resulted in the loss of countless lives. It was the first Unwiring in the history of Ærria that started the permanent parting of Existence from the Non-Existence.

  Before the Unwiring, Existence and Non-Existence coexisted in the same universe, until Æbekanta had forced a Shroud between the human reality and the Alarian one, sealing them in different planes of existence. The Artisan never explained to Vivian what the Æbekanta was except that it had shredded the Pattern of Threads apart. As far as Vivian was concerned, Æbekanta was a fancy word for “chaos”.

  Chaos…

  Her world was the very definition of it. The Economic Fallout of 2220 stood as testament to the dangers of excessive regulation. The Pattern reminded Vivian of the hypernet, with its crowning jewel, the Neuro, whose purpose was to anonymously collect every single human thought.

  The Weavers, as Vivian saw it, were no better than her kind. Greedy as they were, the Weavers hadn’t let something as small as “the loss of countless lives” impede their weaving. Following the events of the Æbekanta, the Pattern was rebuilt, larger and mightier than before. Unlike the first Pattern, this second loom controlled the will and destiny of every individual soul in the cosmos.

  ‘And I thought my world had it bad. Imagine stealing everyone’s freewill.’

  Kaap’s fur turned a shade lighter. ‘No loss for Kaap. Kaap never had freewill to begin with.’

  There was still the problem of Dominus Ashlar, ordering swords and punishing people for failing to forge the mysterious – and very illegal –Æbe’trax. Although the Artisan had advised her against it, Vivian often found herself unsheathing Agi and staring at it for hours, thinking…

  If Kaalà was like imagination made real and Æbe’trax was Kaalà made solid, what would thirteen swords of it do? It sounded to her this Dominus Ashlar was a rather dodgy fellow. Cruel punishments aside, she trusted no leader who had to hide behind a mask just to get by.

  “ I seek Æbe’trax for a greater purpose than the durability of its steel, ” the masked man had told the blacksmith.

  What could a Dominus want with an unbreakable metal? Kranija was a land of peace, the Artisan had told her. It thrived on mining, trade and exports of darkglass.

  “ Æbe’trax is Thought made flesh.”

  Æbe’trax was no regular metal, was it? Surely it wasn’t just unforgeable and luminescent. There must have been a reason the world had forbidden it.

  “A metal born from Kaalà itself! ”

  Thought made flesh? Kaalà was bound to be the answer, she thought. In which way did it relate to the mysterious force that glued realities together? Vivian quickly took a secret interest in studying Kaalà, which the Artisan did her utmost to prevent.

  ‘Stop asking dangerous questions. We’re not in your world. We get arrested for less, here.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Vivian, her thoughts on the Madhad state of Great England, where even thoughts were being policed. ‘It’s alright if you can’t tell me. This time, I have something to tell you .’

  Later that evening, Vivian missed no chance to recount everything about Dominus Ashlar to Lady Saah, who was busy with a healing brew.

  ‘An eye for a lie, he called it. Equal punishment .’

  ‘Equal my hips. Putting people through pain and suffering is sort of his signature move. Been ruling like that for a little over twenty of our cycles.’

  ‘T-two... two thousand years?’ Vivian jumped. ‘Is he immortal or something?’

  The Artisan looked up from the simmering surface of the pot.

  ‘He’s a name and a front, dear. Anyone could hide under that mask – friend or heir. What worries me is that bit about the swords. Ten thousand, you said?’

  ‘Yeah. Some special type, too. The blacksmith said something about having to import them from that... forlorn land in the north I was supposed to have come from—’

  ‘Hoarfrosta?’

  ‘Yes!’

  The Artisan cupped her cheeks. There were purple circles beneath her eyes.

  ‘Shirvek swords, dear?’

  ‘Is what he said.’

  The Artisan added Vivian’s bag of herbs to the brew, while Vivian rolled up her socks.

  ‘The Northern Realm, Hoarfrosta,’ she nodded, her quicksilver eyes reflecting the steaming concoction. ‘They only trade defensive assets, you know. Selling safeguards to whoever buys them. Swords, for instance, usually come with their swordsmen. Aerria hadn’t had a war in many cycles. Who needs ten thousand swords without their swordsmen?’

  ‘Well, the Dominus does. And he needed some thirteen more made. Æbe’trax ones.’

  The Artisan’s smooth features creased. ‘Should’ve known better than to ask the blacksmith. That metal can’t be worked, everyone knows that. I would’ve made you a proper knife otherwise.’

  ‘An illegal knife,’ Vivian added, watching the Artisan’s reaction.

  ‘Now don’t give me lip, young lady,’ said Lady Saah defensively, her chubby hands nearly spilling the foul-smelling brew. ‘I made that knife as safe as blades go. Untraceable, when sheathed. Sacrificed my Shadowhide for it too. A fine gift, if I ever saw one.’

  Vivian waved her hands impatiently. ‘So you keep telling me. Thought made flesh , Ashlar called it. Illegal throughout the world. You never said what’s so special about it. You never explained what Æbe’trax does!’

  ‘Keep your voice down, you hear? Didn’t I tell you when we first met that I cannot explain what I do not know?’

  Vivian crossed her arms. Just like Kaap, she had a feeling the Artisan knew a lot more than she was letting on. If the Artisan was so concerned with keeping within the law, why give her a forbidden weapon?

  ‘Well, whatever Æbe’trax does, Ashlar punished an innocent man for it. The blacksmith couldn’t furnace the ore for him.’ Vivian wrung her hands, her mind replaying the horrible movie, ‘so he branded Jaron a traitor and a liar and blinded him in one eye, so he can never smith metal again. Some democracy you have here.’

  ‘A what, dear?’

  Lady Saah poured the concoction into a small tube. Vivian caught a whiff of bad eggs.

  ‘Nothing,’ Vivian pinched her nose. ‘What’cha brewing there anyway?’

  ‘Matijas had another outbreak,’ said Lady Saah, her dark frizzy hair catching the steam. ‘Now, if this doesn’t work,’ she lifted the foul-smelling phial, ‘don’t know what will.’

  Vivian sat up straight. ‘Is his rash not gone yet?’

  ‘If you call that a rash, dear. Lil’un is in so much pain. Karura be cursed, I tried everything .’

  ‘You’ll figure it out,’ said Vivian reassuringly. ‘You always do. You gave Old Man Jimakki his hands back.’

  The Artisan smiled. ‘We both did. You brewed the Featherweight Philtre that helped me carry him.’

  ‘Simple potion,’ said Vivian, blushing.

  ‘Would you mind—’ Lady Saah extended the phial of medicine.

  ‘Sure. I’ll bring it to him.’

  ‘He wants to see you, the poor boy. Needs company, I imagine. And here, put this in his bed. He’s been having the chills all morn.’

  Vivian took the warm bundle of blankets that sheltered a firestone and proceeded to Matthias’ room. She knocked and a faded voice bid her in.

  It was a small room with a large bookcase and only one window. She found Matijas in bed, the bedcovers pulled to his temples, violently shivering. Vivian unloaded the thermal rock at his feet.

  ‘Here, this should keep you warm.’

  Matijas erupted into a coughing fit.

  ‘Got your rash ointment here. Your mother said to dab it on and around the affe
cted areas ,’ Vivian repeated, unstoppering the phial of brew.

  Matijas pulled the bedcover even higher.

  ‘Really now, show me the damage.’

  ‘Take this first.’

  The boy stuck out a hand from underneath the blanket, opened his fist and extended a tiny square vial of clear liquid.

  ‘My tears, collected to the last one,’ he said.

  Vivian was visited by a powerful feeling of deja-vu. When she couldn’t pinpoint it to its origin, she said ‘why are you giving me this?’

  ‘Vivian, I sense a vast emptiness in you… and from that emptiness, a million fears struggling to see light and confirm your worst. Questions. Lots of questions about your heart… and the journey ahead.’

  ‘Matijas, what on earth are you—’

  ‘—there is a great dark hole in all of reality, a hole you will be expected to close,’ Matijas interrupted. It seemed like he wanted to say a lot of things in a short period of time.

  ‘Are you referring to that hole in the Pattern I heard so much about?’

  Matijas didn’t answer.

  ‘Whether you will or won’t is entirely up to you. A choice will have been made,’ said Matijas, reflecting a bewildered Vivian in his eyes like two copper coins, ‘and each choice will have had its price.’

  Matijas erupted into another fit of coughing. When he finally managed to steady himself, he reduced his voice to a whisper.

  ‘It is your destiny to choose and with every choice, the worst of you must die to validate the better you. Great choices will have demonstrated morals, but bad choices will have taught you purpose. Remember this, when the time comes. Accept my tears, Vivian, as a reminder of the difficult choices ahead.’

  ‘And what in particular… must I remember?’

  ‘That everything you can imagine is real.’

  Vivian repeated the phrase under her voice.

  ‘Does this have anything to do with that Æbekanta symbol I asked about earlier?’

  Once more, the boy returned no answer. ‘Don’t tell Mother.’

  Vivian frowned. What was this about? A door slammed somewhere down the hallway, and Matijas suddenly sat up straight.

  Vivian’s fist jumped to her mouth. The light of a nearby candle fell on the boy’s exposed face, revealing a gruesome sight. Half of Matijas’ cheek was a honeycomb of bigger and smaller holes, each oozing a thick, acrid-smelling fluid. It was a sight Vivian knew only too well.

  ‘Take it,’ Matijas pushed a small phial into Vivian’s reluctant hand. It opened at the bottom with a tiny tap, finishing in a silver-gray chain.

  ‘It’s intended to be worn,’ Matijas said, before erupting into another coughing fit.

  Vivian robotically flung it around her neck, her mind struggling to digest what her eyes had just seen. It couldn’t be. Not here.

  ‘Matijas... how did you—’

  Of course Lady Saah would mistake a patch of honeycomb-skin for a rash, thought Vivian. The Alarians wouldn’t know anything about Filth, would they? It was a century-long human fight, for only humans had grown to dread the signs of Black Flu, a notorious disease whose toll amassed to a million deaths per year.

  Black Flu rarely crept outside the poverty of the Ghettos. What was it doing in a clean household, more than a world’s away from its nest? Disregarding what the disease might do to her, Vivian sat by his bedside.

  ‘Matijas, listen to me,’ she begun only to realize her voice no longer sounded like her own. ‘You’re very sick. What you have there is...’ she swallowed. ‘What I mean to say—’

  She couldn’t do it. Vivian suddenly became aware of the ointment Lady Saah had gone to great lengths to brew. She cleared her throat.

  ‘You need to apply this medicine. This salve—’

  ‘It won’t help,’ said Matijas, shaking his head. ‘If you truly want to help, go back to Mother. Tell her I need whispering roots for the pain.’

  Vivian felt tears sting her eyes, but fought against them. When delivering bad news, Lady Saah had taught her to show nothing but strength.

  ‘Matijas, you’re… you’re going to be alright.’

  ‘The roots, Vivian,’ he coughed, his tiny body rallying in pain. ‘Tell Mother I need whispering roots.’

  She was at the door when Matijas’ measly voice whispered ‘Vivian, you’ve a hole in your sock. Better take some good shoes. Good shoes take you along many paths.’

  Vivian nodded and left the room in a hurry, her face a mask of tears. She found the Artisan in the scullery, wiping tables and told her everything she knew about Matijas’ condition.

  While she recounted, she noticed Lady Saah’s beautiful black face gradually distort into a pained expression. She didn’t fight the information, and kept silent the entire time. At the end, she simply agreed to Vivian bringing the painkilling roots.

  ‘Whispering roses. Big, white, light-giving things. Grow in thin vines across the country, repeating to each other words they pick up nearby. They’re in the forest, so you’ll need to break curfew.’

  ‘I’ll find them,’ said Vivian firmly, although her voice was shaking. ‘Oh no, my Artisan boots are in the wash!’

  ‘Take those for now,’ Lady Saah pointed to a pair of forgotten leather boots, whose shoelaces were knotted together. ‘Been gathering dust in the corner, that junk you brought from the marketplace.’

  Vivian quickly pulled on the dusty old boots. ‘Gonna get Kaap.’

  ‘Sorry dear, but you’ll have to do without him just this once. Shadowhide is rich in Kaalà and can tunnel through anything. I want to try something before it’s too—‘, she swallowed ‘—for all we know, you are in the wrong and... and might have overlooked something.’

  Vivian gave a brief nod and left the cottage. In her experience, once infected, Black Flu was permanent and irreversible. Five generations of advanced microbiology had failed to find what triggered it, let alone a working cure. Her own step-sister, who had always lived a lavish life well away from the misery of the Ghettos, had perished at its hands.

  Then again, modern medicine didn’t have Kaalà-imbibed Threads that could seamlessly reattach disembodied limbs. They didn’t have extracts of alien plants, which in the presence of Kaalà activated their miraculous properties. Vivian stroked the shiny-black leather that sheltered her knife. They didn’t have Shadowhide either. The Artisan’s medicine was strong in Kaalà. There was still hope.

  A lavish forest stretched on the lip of the urb. The violet skies had deepened, announcing the night. Whipped by the biting sea breeze, Vivian tightened the shawl around her neck. The Artisan had mentioned the roses she needed would light up the dark. She squinted, but the darkness remained unbroken. She pushed even deeper into the woods.

  Here and there the odd crack and crevice played tricks on her eyes. Vivian had never quite appreciated how much safer she felt having Kaap around. She anxiously watched previous twigs and shadows become hands, mouths and eyebrows, each shape detaching scary, anthropomorphic trees from a pool of darkness.

  She quickened the pace, determined to outrun her own waking insanity. It took her hours to find the first glowing flowers in a small clearing.

  ‘Is this…?’ she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. It strongly resembled the flower she first found creeping out of her bedroom floor.

  It was. The rose growing between realities.

  She sat on the cold moss, handling the pouch with freezing fingers. It was roots she needed.

  ‘Well, Well, Well…’

  Vivian turned around, alarmed. Five Recuperators had stepped out from behind a line of trees in complete body armour.

  ‘…Artisan poppet, all by ‘arself, pickin’ flawas,’ said a man with a long, oily beard. A second man laughed.

  Vivian’s back collided with a large tree, her heart madly hitting into her ribcage. Of all the times to leave Kaap behind.

&nbs
p; ‘Didn’t ya momma tell ya whot boys like os do ta litagurls like you, in daak forests at noit?’

  Two of the men laughed, while the other two cheered. Vivian steadied herself against the tree, fighting for breath. Of all the times to get a panic attack too.

  ‘Allow os ta educate ya, poppet,’ said the oily-bearded man through a greedy smile. ‘We taik’em to dem Hollows of Chains, where da scum of dis world canhav their way wit dem. Loik’em tender, they do,’ he licked his dusty lips. ‘Thenogain, so does I.’

  Encouraged by the others’ laughter, the bearded man had unbuckled his belt. Fight or flight symptoms hit Vivian like a brick and her hand jumped to her heart. It buzzed like a bumblebee trapped in a jar.

  The man’s pants dropped to his skinny ankles, revealing a revolting-looking piece of yellow underwear. There was an approving cheer from the others, but Vivian heard it as uttered from the other end of a tunnel.

  Her ears weren’t working properly. The image before her flickered and a cold feeling rushed through her head. Suddenly, she didn’t care if she lived or died. She unsheathed her knife.

  ‘Look ‘ere lads, poppet’s got spirit. I like’em with spir— Oi, where’d ya get a naif like that?’

  ‘Keep away or I’ll… I’ll—’

  The bearded man advanced with his underwear on his ankles, laughing.

  ‘Ya whut, poppet? Ya whut?’

  A knife like a setting sun hopelessly cut through the air and the man fell in the grass, his shaking hands clutching a leg that no longer belonged to him. In the dark of the night shrieked a hawk. Next moment, the bearded Recuperator was on his back, his fists punching at a mass of claws, blood and feathers settled around his crotch. He roared, and a hundred whispering roses echoed his scream, carrying his agony towards the deepest corners of the forest.

  The massive bird finally let go, and the bearded man was left to whimper at the bleeding stub that used to be his manhood. A second Recuperator emerged with a bloody cheek, which sported not one, but three dissimilar cuts. Vivian looked around, looking confused. So did the others.

  ‘’Tis dat bloody bird!’ someone said, pointing at the indigo sky. ‘Attacked me, it did!’