Vivian Amberville - The Weaver of Odds

by Louise Blackwick

  ‘I won’t keep her long,’ said Daimey, dismissively. ‘Can we have some privacy?’

  ‘Of... of course, Your Grace,’ said Lady Saah, although every inch of her face spelled the opposite. Wearing the kind of frown that suggested she wasn’t fond of leaving Vivian alone with the Regent, the Artisan made a half-hearted reverence before grudgedly removing herself from the room.

  Daimey approached Vivian’s bedside. ‘How are you feeling?’

  From behind a bandaged face, Vivian fixed her with eyes as cold as winter. ‘The Artisan said I won’t have any lasting damage.’

  ‘Good, good. Thank goodness you’re alright, dear sister,’ Daimey fumbled with the laces of her fastidious dress. There seemed to be a painful internal conflict going on inside her.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear sister . Plenty of room more to snuff it.’ said Vivian, in spite of herself. ‘They say the last Trial gets most of us.’

  ‘Vivian, I don’t think you should compete. I think you should withdraw—’

  ‘Withdraw?’ she waved her hand uninterestedly. ‘As if one can ever withdraw from your little games . I KNOW you’ll go after Kate and Lucian, if I step out. You honestly think I’ll leave them at your mercy?’ said Vivian venomously, surprised by her own audacity. ‘Would rather die screaming, than live to hear the screaming of friends!’

  For a moment, Daimey looked like Vivian had punched her in the face. Her otherworldly features seemed contorted under something worse than anger; it was fear, and shame, and remorse, which scared Vivian more than a thousand nags.

  ‘I’m such a fool... a proud fool,’ whispered Daimey, a twinkle in her eyes like two amethysts. ‘I was three when our mom had you – when it all began. You were such a wee thing, and there was the Guild, saying you were a menace... that your birth meant Chaos... that your inner Thread was dark... that you will grow up to destroy the fabric of the cosmos, and other such idiocies. And our poor mother and father, Alaria and Vishnu, they believed them – though I could tell it was not whole-heartedly, for they opposed to your Unwiring – and fought hard for a compromise.

  ‘They locked you in that tower and forbade anyone from seeing you... a born princess with a bright future, suddenly prisoner and pariah... while there I was, pampered and spoiled and free to go wherever I wanted, groomed to become Queen. The life promised to you became mine, for in our culture, it would have been you, youngest in line, to take the Seat...’

  Her amethyst eyes slowly gave room to tears, but Daimey continued undeterred.

  ‘When I saw you return among us... something horrible stirred inside me. I felt threatened by you, for in my pride and arrogance, I had grown accustomed to the idea of power... and its sweet, sweet taste. I took advantage of our mother and father being away on matters of importance to force you into the Weaver Trials... where I had hoped you’d meet your end... as you were meant to do all those years ago... and that future, yours by right, would be mine once more.

  Under the blankets, Vivian pinched herself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. Daimey went on.

  ‘And if you weren’t to die in the Trials, you would arise as a Weaver, for we all know Weavers bear no titles... and in matters of politics, they take no sides. With you as Weaver, I alone would Seat the Queendom. Daimey the Beautiful. Daimey the Meritous—’ the corners of her mouth dropped ‘—Daimey, Queen Heart-of-Stone, the Thief of Dreams, who stole her little sister’s life and future, and further sent her to her doom.

  ‘Her little sister, whose darkest fear of all is that of failing to save the people she loves; who would rather look fear in the eye than witness anything bad happening to her friends; who worries about Queen Heart-of-Stone marrying the wrong person – yes Vivian, I know you put that wild boy, Ace, to follow the Prince of Fjords,’ said Daimey, large tears clinging onto her thick eyelashes. ‘I deserve worse than death for what I put you through... the Trials... the Tower... for how I treated you…’

  Vivian looked into Daimey’s teary eyes and saw for the very first time, the pale and remorseful shadow of a sister.

  ‘Back there in the arena, you’ve shown me who you were, shown me who I was... and the path of darkness I’ve set myself on. I’m not worthy, no. I cannot return the life I stole from you, no, but I can give some of it back—’

  Daimey raised to her full queenly height. The effect was rather impressive.

  ‘From this resting forth, you are no longer confined to your room, but free to roam the city unescorted and in full privacy,’ she said loftily. ‘At my order, no one shall touch you, from the highest Weaver in the Guild, to the lowest subject of the Folde. Finally, you are excused from the obligation of the Weaver Trials. You don’t have to attend the last Trial if you don’t want to. Now go on and get some rest. I’ll check up on you, come the morn,’ added Daimey in genuine concern and gracefully left the room, leaving Vivian to a general stupor.

  *

  ‘Daimey, doing the right thing? The world’s gone barking!’ Kate exclaimed, after Vivian had recounted her conversation from the day before. ‘What’s next? Tuuk’ta’ne with good bedside manners?’

  At the other end of the room sat Acciper, as always, crouched upon a chair not unlike the large hawk on his armlet. The look on his face was so penetrating, it would have pierced through Æbe’trax.

  Lucian, who was looking particularly smug, put down the large rotulus he was studying by candlelight and said, ‘guess you were all wrong about her, weren’t you? She’s not the dishonourable hag you all said she was.’

  ‘I dunno just yet,’ said Vivian wearily. ‘She might be leading me into a false sense of security.’

  ‘You do talk a lot of tosh, Viv,’ Kate shook her head. ‘You’re free ! Free to do what you want! Lucian – put that scroll down; you’ve already read too many stories! We should all go out and show Vivian how amazing this world is.’

  ‘I thought you hated Ærria,’ said Lucian, lazily rolling up the rotulus and placing it in his pocket.

  ‘I still want to go home, if that’s what you mean,’ Kate crossed her arms. ‘Come on, let’s show Viv and Kaap what Lantana – umm, why is Kaap’s crib empty?’

  ‘He’s assisting the Artisan again,’ Vivian told her. ‘The Trials produced a lot of grave injuries, and Kaap really wanted to help.’

  ‘Nice Artisan needn’t open people up for a change,’ said Acciper.

  ‘That’s Shadowhide for you,’ said Lucian. ‘I read all sorts of interesting stories about it in the annals of Alarian medicine. Healers used to work side-by-side with Kaap-inna-Valmas in their healing Haijks. Too bad human greed drove these amazing creatures extinct.’

  ‘Yes, yes but what about Runar or Ashlar? Read anything on those?’

  ‘Nothing on Ashlar or any other man in a golden mask, but plenty of stories on the Prince of Fjords. Runar is part of Hoarfrosta’s contemporary history.’

  ‘We shouldn’t look anymore. Not relevant to us whether Runar is Ashlar,’ said Acciper, taking a dead mouse out of his pocket and feeding it to his hawk. ‘Daimey no longer regent, remember?’

  ‘Mind you, she’s still a princess. Might still marry Runar.’

  ‘She won’t,’ said Acciper. ‘Whole wedding’s off. Heard from her today.’

  ‘Guess it’s just the Third Trial to look forward to,’ said Vivian airily.

  ‘And the good news is you can finally watch it with us,’ Lucian winked. ‘From the stands, like all normal folk.’

  ‘Would be great, for a change... not risking my life every other waiting,’ Vivian nodded, as she began to contemplate how much her life would change now that she didn’t have to pass those death-defying tests. Maybe Lady Saah would agree to resume Vivian’s training as Artisan – she had felt particularly happy healing people – but then she remembered Lady Saah wasn’t a real Artisan at all.

  ‘Kate, I think I know why all your healing salves go bad,’ s
aid Vivian, and she quickly told the others about her last conversation with the Artisan.

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense!’ Kate began as soon as Vivian brought her story to an end. ‘If the Artisan really does use Weaving in brewing her potions, how did you manage to brew a Featherweight Philtre? You’ve never mastered Weaving, have you?’

  Vivian closed her eyes and thought with all her might, ‘ Darkness ’. Instantaneously, the fire in the fireplace went out, and along with it, every single candle in the room. Under the sudden spell of darkness, there was a loud bonk , followed by Kate’s enraged cursing, Lucian’s glassed fell to the floor with a clatter and the hawk on Acciper’s shoulder gave out a loud shriek, his large wings flapping hysterically. By the time Vivian rekindled the light, established order to chaos and explained herself, the others had already fired their questions.

  ‘Since when you Weave?’

  ‘What else can you do?’

  ‘Blimey Viv, it’s like having superpowers!’

  Vivian turned to each of them in turn. ‘Since the Trial of Fears,’ she told Acciper. ‘Not much else, yet,’ she said to Lucian, before finally replying to Kate, ‘I would appreciate if you three would keep this a secret. Weaving outside the School of Thought can overload the fabric of reality. I get enough blame as it is, with that hole in the Pattern of Threads.’

  After they all promised not to mention Vivian’s sudden bout of Weaving to anyone, they decided to heed Kate’s advice and celebrate Vivian’s newfound freedom by going to town for a drink. By the time they reached Lantana’s suburbs, the sky was a starry mantle of satin and the sand in the Triglas had turned an obsidian-black.

  Vivian, who had never been in this part of town before, was throwing her eyes at every odd boulevard sign, shady-named tavern and rune-incrusted informative plaque.

  ‘Why is everything named like a blind man had pinned a donkey-tail on a list of words?’ said Vivian whenever the Taal’kai in her spine would translate a name such as “ Warmongers & Skints – an Inn for everyone ”, “ The Laughing Lighthouse – 2 miles ” or “ The Devil’s Armpit – infernal sweets at heavenly prices. ”

  ‘You sure the umm... tavern is a good place for a hawk?’ Lucian asked Acciper, his baby-blue eyes shining that unique shine that telepathically communicated something along the lines of “ animal cruelty ”.

  ‘Shéy enjoys occasional taste of lager,’ he retorted to an outraged-looking Lucian.

  Acciper lead them along a poorly-lit cobblestone alley peppered with crooked houses, one shadier and more ominous than the next. But for the hawk occasional shrieks, the silence was unbroken, which made Vivian wonder why anyone would open a tavern in a place like this.

  After they passed a series of broken-down buildings which looked like they were housing the most notorious criminals in Ærria, they stopped before an acorn-shaped wooden plaque, depicting something that looked like a very dishevelled, cross-eyed weasel standing behind a cloud of gas. As Vivian’s brain struggled to understand what it was seeing, the runes on the plaque reformed into the readable English sentence “ The Flatulent Ferret ” – Tavern.

  ‘Great place, the Ferret,’ said Acciper, ignoring the fact that the others were laughing in their fists. ‘Ideal for drinking rootsnaps and playing Tjanz .’

  “ The Stoned Philosopher ”, read Kate aloud, indicating a windowless locale built in the basement of a crooked house. ‘Wonder what happens in there...’

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ said Lucian, giving Kate a meaningful wink.

  ‘Boring folk sit on barrels of mead and philosophize until the mead is gone,’ said Acciper uninterestedly, but Vivian had spotted an even curious streak of names.

  ‘” The Nervous Ratcatcher – Breakfast & Dinner ”? “ The Smelling Duchess – Perfumery ”?’ she recited. ‘Seriously, it’s like they haven’t even heard of marketing!’

  ‘Shall we go then?’ urged Acciper, and they stepped through the creaky wooden door of the Flatulent Ferret.

  Inside it smelled like stale mead and musty cabbages. Vivian gave the small room a sweeping look, trying not to make eye contact with either of the shady individuals sitting at the tables in baggy clothing with hoods drawn over their eyes, drinking from rather large tankards a glow-in-the-dark substance that might have passed for radioactive sludge.

  ‘I-is that w-what I think it is?’ Kate leaned in and whispered in Vivian’s ear, indicating a ghastly pale, horned creature with eyes like two black mirrors, which was serenely seeping away something that looked like mud.

  ‘It’s... it’s a Tuuk’tan,’ Vivian whispered back, while Acciper went to get them drinks. He strutted his way to the tavern keeper – a thin lanky man with large ears, rodent teeth and a round balding head – and promptly returned with four large tankers of the same glowing drink. He found Vivian, Kate and Lucian rooted at the entrance, in the exact same spot he had left them, all three pairs of eyes affixed onto the mud-drinking Tuuk’tan.

  ‘Honestly, you three,’ said Acciper, handing each of them a pint. ‘Flatulent Ferret one of few places you see higher races and beasts drinking together in harmony. Hasn’t had a brawl in waitings! Sit over there, shall we?’ he indicated a dark corner by a barred-up window.

  Vivian, Kate and Lucian scuttlered away, post-haste, without letting the Tuuk’tan out of their sight. All three of them sat down with their face to the room, dragging their enormous tankards of fluorescent-orange drink in such a way that it would obscure everything but their eyes. The large hawk plunged its beak into Acciper’s tankard and drank with relish.

  ‘Not bad, this stuff,’ said Lucian, who decided that whatever was good enough for a hawk, was good enough for him. ‘It’s some kind of mead, isn’t it? Only that it’s warm and spicy and pleasantly aromatic.’

  ‘Rootsnaps,’ said Acciper, draining his tankard in one gulp. ‘Gets its rich flavour and colour from Kaalà-enriched soil. Some brewers even brag about harvesting snaps-roots from beds of Æbe’trax found in the undergrown, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Heavenly stuff, indeed,’ Kate licked her lips, but spat half of it out when she saw Acciper stamp his boot under the table and feed the tiny captured mouse to his hawk. ‘Ace, that’s cruel!’

  ‘That’s nature. Shéy didn’t eat her fill last night. Been using her a lot.’

  Lucian gave Acciper another revolted look. ‘Using her? What do you mean by, using her ?’

  ‘I wove into her, is what I mean,’ said Acciper. ‘Weaving into birds is best of all, since birds are always free.’

  Vivian bent over her tankard and whispered, ‘you can Weave into things too?’

  ‘Flying creatures only,’ he explained. ‘Back when we were kids, we did that every other night, don’t remember?’

  Vivian shook her head so Acciper continued. ‘Spent hours locked inside the greedy mind of seagulls... taste the sea on our tongue. Every bird has its quirk. Learned them all, I did. Three guesses which my favourite sort is.’

  ‘The sparrowhawk?’ Lucian smiled.

  ’What gave me away?’ Acciper laughed, removing a small wooden box from his belt-pouch. ‘Anyone up for a game of Tjanz?’

  Tjanz was a luck-based Alarian board game. It involved the rolling of stones, whose little etched symbols needed to match those on a deck of cards. After a few rounds of rolling stones and matching symbols, Kate, Lucian and Acciper had broken into animated fits of frustration.

  ‘Curlicue-thing!’ said Vivian, rolling the stone, which hastily returned the exact symbol she named. ‘Tjanz!’

  ‘How does she do that?’ Lucian asked.

  Vivian put her tongue out. ‘Weaver of odds,’ she said smugly. ‘Blind Irra called it, not me. I guessed the last time so... my turn again! Let’s see... squished-looking spiral.’

  The stones rolled across the board revealing a lop
sided spiral.

  ‘Haha, Tjanz!’ cried Vivian again.

  ‘That again?’ said Acciper, slamming the wooden lid shut. ‘Not playing if she is.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Lucian, taking a rotulus out of his pocket.

  ‘Not reading those Alarian fairy tales again, are we?’ Kate said warningly towards Lucian, who had spread the rotulus across the table.

  ‘So what if I am?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake Lucian, not here,’ Kate interrupted. ‘Enjoy yourself, for once. Reading stories from day to dawn is all you ever do here.’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it great? If only you knew what interesting tales I’ve found in the Record Room—’

  ‘—not at the table, alright?’

  ‘Fine!’ snapped Lucian, angrily rolling up the scroll. ‘No stories!’

  ‘It’s not like I don’t know these stories are your escape,’ said Kate, folding her arms. ‘We all want to escape Non-Existence, don’t we? We all want to go home—’

  ‘Blimey, you don’t know what I want. You don’t even listen —‘

  Vivian was suddenly shushing them.

  ‘Yes, Vivian,’ said Lucian. ‘Just go ahead and side with her, thank you so much!’

  ‘Shhh, did you guys feel that?’

  The door to the pub slowly opened and in stepped a tall man in a hooded cloak surrounded by an escort of five armoured soldiers. There came a rush of wind, like a gentle, subtle change in the natural order of things. The air seemed to be thinning, the very temperature might have dropped a notch and suddenly Vivian understood who was under that hood. She quickly slipped under the table, her undrunk tankard of rootsnaps clutched between her thighs.

  ‘Viv, what are you—’

  But Kate fell silent, or perhaps sound itself had ceased to exist, for the tall man lowered his hood only to reveal a hideous mask of lacklustre gold, and behind that mask, dead eyes like two cold lights. Ashlar gave the room a sweeping look, and the substance of reality froze into place, and Vivian knew that something had gone terribly wrong, for surely Time itself cannot leave a place; surely Time would know better than stop dead in its tracks.