Woven

by Michael Jensen

  The woman left and began to search through a few cupboards.

  Tyra filled her plate with food. “I cannot believe how good this is.” The peasant’s eyes shifted as she took a bite of a pear cobbler sitting on the table. “What are you keeping from me?” she asked suspiciously.

  He gave her a blank stare. “What makes you say that?”

  “People don’t burn their writings unless they have something to hide.”

  “You should finish your breakfast,” he said.

  Tyra shook her head. “You can be such a headache.”

  Nels shrugged. “I’ve heard the high mountain air can do that to your head.”

  “Speaking of mountains, how are we going to get Brooklet? We left her on the trail.”

  “She is fine, Your Highness.” As Gleesel turned around, she traced her finger along a line of ingredients. “I prepared a trough of oats for her. She will be ready to leave when you are.”

  Tyra’s heart calmed, but her mind still wondered. How did the woman bring Brooklet up to the mansion? The wall at the end of the mountainous trail had to be a ten-foot climb. Had Gleesel gleaned some magic from her father’s book? She must have. Now that she had the book, perhaps Gleesel could become a conjurer herself. Taking a deep breath, Tyra returned to her meal, then noticed a large bowl of fresh lingonberries, her favorite wild fruit.

  She took the whole dish.

  The peasant gave her an amused smile. “It’s like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

  “I’ve had nothing but a knapsack to live on for two days,” Tyra countered as she rolled her eyes. “You are going to tell me what else you and Gleesel were talking about, right?”

  “We talked about you, mostly. She told me things about her father, too.”

  Gleesel’s hand touched the corner of the table, leaving a pouch next to Tyra.

  The princess eyed it carefully, wondering what it could be. “You’re not having me sample anything else, are you?”

  “No, child.” The woman chortled. “It’s a special item that once belonged to my dear sister. It should bring you added clarity as you seek the lost Needle of Gailner.”

  Tyra unfastened the knot on the small, velvet pouch and plopped a small ring into her palm. There was nothing elegant or special about the ring; it was simple, made of iron, and within its setting it contained a green stone, speckled with red spots. It was one of the most ordinary pieces of jewelry that Tyra had ever seen, but she didn’t want to be rude; that would be ignoble. “Oh, I couldn’t take something so precious to you,” she said.

  “Nonsense!” Gleesel said. “I would like you to have it — I insist.”

  Tyra was moved by the old woman’s gesture, plain as the old piece of jewelry was. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Tyra swallowed her food, still annoyed by Nels’s secrecy. If he refused to answer her questions, then perhaps Gleesel would oblige. “I saw what my ghost wrote, Gleesel. Who is Rasmus?”

  The woman was about to answer when the peasant nudged Tyra’s bowl of lingonberries off the table. Porcelain shattered and spread over the stone floor, making Gleesel jump back.

  Tyra leaped to her feet as well. He had done this on purpose!

  Why would he do such a thing? What is he hiding?

  “You should be going, Princess.” Gleesel stooped down to clean up the mess. “Nothing I can say will lead you closer to what you must find. I wish you well on your journey.”

  As Tyra’s temper flared, she placed the ring on the table, walked by the peasant, and then paused at the door. The peasant eyed her apologetically, but Tyra wasn’t convinced.

  “You’re not helpless anymore,” she said. “Find the Needle yourself.”

  With a brief farewell to Gleesel, Tyra retrieved her dried cloak and placed it around her shoulders. She found Brooklet outside, contentedly feasting on oats in a trough at the base of the porch steps. After she brushed the mare’s side, Tyra continued down the path until she reached the edge of the cliff and the path that would take her home. She stumbled a little, and her heart pounded as she took in the sights. They had climbed rather high in the middle of the storm.

  The trail wound endlessly downward, back and forth, until the forest shrouded the path at the bottom. No wonder the trail was so hard on Brooklet; the path was much too steep for her.

  From this height, as the sun rose in the sky, Tyra could see the ocean and the castle before it. The sun’s rays touched the peaks behind her. In no time at all, the dawn had revealed a land of flowing waters, green hills, and ample forests. She had never before seen Avërand like this, from mountain to sea — her kingdom was vast and beautiful. Avërand had always seemed large from her bedroom window, but standing here had truly put the immense kingdom in scale.

  One day, she would rule this land. The thought of it made her feel small and unprepared.

  “You were right,” the peasant said. “Rasmus killed Sibylla.”

  Taking a deep breath, Tyra turned around and awaited his explanation.

  “He killed her in the main hall. That scream you heard was her — an echo.” He came to Tyra’s side, took her hand, and placed Sibylla’s ring in her palm. “Because of her, we know where to go.” He stepped forward, his toes aligned with the cliff’s edge. “I should have told you sooner, but I thought you’d be safer not knowing.”

  “How can I trust you if you’re keeping secrets from me?”

  An apologetic look replaced his determined face. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said.

  Tyra released the tension from her shoulders. “That’s better. Will you tell me your secrets now?”

  “Rasmus was the man who tried to kill me. He murdered my father, your grandfather, and who knows how many others.” Nels looked at her nervously. “Bosh told me a few others things, too, after you left me alone with him.”

  “What exactly did he tell you?” Tyra asked, shocked by this new information.

  “A lot, and I want to tell you, but I don’t know if you can handle it.”

  “As the heir to the throne, I should be able to handle anything.”

  “Our parents betrothed us.”

  Tyra’s stomach fell, her voice caught in her throat. She forgot how to speak.

  The peasant gave her a light smile. “Handling that?”

  “I’m betrothed to you?” She could not fathom the notion. Them? Married? A peasant and a princess — she’d never heard of such a thing. “That’s impossible! Why should I believe you?”

  “I couldn’t believe it myself. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  Her thoughts numbing, all Tyra could do was breathe.

  “My mother was a noblewoman,” he added, “and my father was a friend to yours — when they were young. My father used to be the favored knight of Avërand, too. Should I go on?”

  Tyra wanted nothing more than to remove his words from her mind, to forget she even heard them. “That’s enough, thank you.” She turned to the lowlands. The sun’s light sparkled on the faraway ocean — a warm sight, contrary to the cold breeze she felt. She couldn’t turn back now. He needed her. No one ever needed her. She couldn’t leave him to die.

  “I said I would help. I intend to keep my promise.”

  “Have you ever seen a view like this before?”

  Tyra shook her head. “No. Not ever.”

  He glanced at her. “Neither have I.”

  She returned his glance and she didn’t turn away. Something about his dark green eyes made her wonder what he was thinking — and what he thought of her. She looked deep into them. Really deep. She truly wanted to know. Tyra saw the ridge of his lips and how calm and serious the rest of him appeared. “If I am to journey with you any farther, tell me everything.”

  “Little by little,” he half agreed. “It won’t be such a shock that way.”

  “Right.” Feeling the ring in her hand, Tyra decided to try it on. It fit her finger well, as if the iron band was made for her. “You can start by telli
ng me about this Rasmus.”

  The peasant was about to speak when he looked over the cliff. Curious, Tyra peered over the side with him. She saw two animals — two horses — making their way up the steep trail. It was hard to tell who was riding them, but they rode fast. They would reach the clearing in no time.

  She recognized one of the animals — a black stallion.

  “Arek!” Tyra cried. “He’s caught up with us!”

  The peasant grabbed her wrist. “We have to leave.”

  Tyra yanked back, trying to reclaim her hand. “Let go!”

  He released her, clearly disturbed. “How did he catch up with us so fast?” The peasant suddenly turned away, his face intense, as though he were angry — and terrified.

  Tyra shook her head. “What’s wrong with you, ghost?”

  “You have to trust me.” He held her shoulders with a strong grip. “From now on, we can’t trust anyone.” The peasant let go of her as he ran for the mansion to untie Brooklet’s bridle.

  Tyra couldn’t understand — why was he so afraid of her knight? If anything, he would help them find the Needle faster. “You’re being ridiculous, ghost,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  He continued with his work without heeding her. Fidgeting with the ring on her finger, Tyra saw something different about the stone. A black rock, dark as midnight, had replaced the olive-green gem with its dark red spots. Tyra examined it for a moment. Why had the stone changed?

  “Odd,” she said to herself.

  Relieved as she was to see Arek, the peasant’s urgency caused her more alarm than she expected. She wanted to run to Arek, but in her heart, she agreed with the ghost. If she waited for Arek to reach them, she knew what would happen: He would refuse to help. He would force her to go home.

  She looked over the side of the ledge, her heart torn in two, then left to find Brooklet.

  The false squire waited for the knight to emerge from the decrepit mansion. He knew the princess had long since left this place — searching the mansion was a waste of time — but he had no idea where she had gone. Other than along the path they had come, there was no way to leave the meadow except for the westward trail. But why would she enter the valley? Unless …

  Is that where the Needle lies?

  What stumped him even more was her horse. The wall at the end of the trail was too high for their steeds to climb, but her mare had come this way somehow. No horse could jump such a wall.

  Has Ickabosh found himself a new apprentice?

  Arek stepped out the front door, brushing dust from his shoulder. “This place is a wreck!” he bellowed. “Who in their right mind would build a mansion here and abandon it?”

  “Someone who isn’t in his right mind?” Alvil answered.

  Arek smiled. “She was here, though. I just know it.”

  “Her captor may have taken her down the other side of the mountain.”

  “Yes.” The knight looked to the trail with a slow nod. “Into Westmine.”

  “They can’t be far,” Alvil said. “We should press on.”

  “No. Take the horses back. I will go after her alone.”

  Alvil blinked. “She can’t be more than an hour off!”

  “Westmine is dangerous. One can slip in and out better than two.”

  “Without a horse? Our chances of finding her are better together!”

  Arek turned his back on him. “As my squire, you will do as you are told!”

  Until now, Rasmus — as Alvil — had barely tolerated Arek. The knight’s voice, and the condescension behind his words, reminded Rasmus of a wealthy lord he once knew who had frequently satisfied himself with drink — and any woman he could lure with gold. Even as a child, Rasmus couldn’t tolerate his father’s infidelity, least of all the way he struck Rasmus at the whims of his short temper. The act of spilling his father’s blood freed him then. Spilling the knight’s blood would free him now.

  With knife in hand, Alvil moved close to the knight and satisfied the urge that had lingered with him for far too long. Arek let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled and fell to his side by the trail’s edge. He rolled onto his back, his hazel eyes staring in dismay as Alvil’s face unraveled — and wove into his.

  “I do as I wish,” the boy said, using Arek’s voice.

  Struggling for breath, the knight fell to the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. The imposter held out his arms and clapped his hands — a grassy mound slid over the knight like a blanket. He picked up Tyra’s handkerchief and cleaned his knife.

  “I need the princess to trust me. Your face will suffice.”

  The false Arek approached the top of the cliff wall and swayed his palms. With his hands, he wove both ends of the trail, moving the earth down until they joined together in a gradual slope. The stallions below whinnied, startled by the sudden movement of the earth. The false Arek had one horse too many now; he couldn’t risk having anyone find them. He pinched his forefinger with the tip of his thumb, reached for the thread of Alvil’s horse, and yanked it to the side.

  The animal screamed as it flew over the edge of the trail and plummeted to the jagged rocks below.

  “Baaah!”

  A bleating above the false Arek made him jump. Peering at him over a dangerous ledge was a woolly goat. The creature bleated again, lowered its chin, and nibbled on a weed.

  Shaking his head, the imposter mounted the knight’s stallion and gave chase. He could not sense the princess, but he knew she was headed for the valley.

  Nothing could keep him from her now.

  By noon, the peasant had guided Tyra to the upper hills of the Valley of Westmine. The west side of the mountain was steeper than the east, making their descent a relatively quick one. Tyra remembered Gleesel’s instructions for them to reach Westmine City — west, south, and then west again — but as they journeyed deeper into the pine forest, she began to question their path on the unkempt trail. Few people had traveled this region; the thick overgrowth served as proof.

  Even Arek would have a hard time tracking them here.

  The peasant picked up a branch every once in a while and used it to sweep their tracks. Tyra couldn’t understand what he was so worried about, and he was too busy helping her mare down the mountain to answer. No matter what the peasant did, nothing would keep her knight from finding them. The thought relieved her. He was the favored knight of Avërand, ever faithful, the man she had always dreamed of. He was a lover who would scour the globe on her behalf.

  “You’re sure quiet,” the peasant said. “What’s on your mind?”

  Tyra tightened her grip on Brooklet’s rein. “Nothing.” As she answered, she noticed the ring on her finger. Its stone had turned black when she put it on. What would have caused it to change?

  The peasant smirked. “You’re always thinking about something.”

  “I was thinking, but my thoughts don’t concern you.”

  “If you say so.” The peasant started to hum a pleasant song to himself. “I’ve never seen a forest quite like this. What does it smell like?”

  Tyra raised her brow and sniffed the air. “Trees … and fungus …”

  He laughed. “I’d rather smell that than another whiff of beeswax.” Still smiling, he tried to steal a glance at her. “Did you know about Bosh’s Fabrication magic before all this?”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t.” Up until now, magic was something she had only heard about in stories. She never imagined that magic was real. Tyra went to gather up Brooklet’s loosened reins when she noticed the stone on her ring had changed. The black had turned back to green. Red spots speckled the surface once more. “Oh!”

  “What is it?” the peasant asked. “Did you see something?”

  “Uh … n-nothing,” Tyra stammered. “It’s nothing.” But it was something, and it was happening again. A dark cloud crossed over the stone, and again it was as black as the bottom of a well.

  “Have it your way.”

  Ty
ra examined the ring again, wondering if the stone had reacted to something she had said. Was it lies that made the stone change? Is that what Gleesel meant by added clarity? To find out, she had to test the stone. “I eat eggs for breakfast every morning.”

  The peasant stopped in his tracks and turned around. “What was that?”

  Tyra focused her attention on the ring. The stone remained black. “I hate eggs.” The blackness cleared, revealing a green luster. She cupped her hand over the other to conceal the ring from the peasant. This iron band contained a stone that revealed truth and deceit.

  The peasant stared at her, clearly confused. “What are you talking about eggs for?”

  “My dress is blue,” Tyra said, smiling, as she watched the stone go black.

  His brow creased, the ghost kept staring. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Tyra didn’t heed him; this was all too exciting. She had a ring that could detect the truth. Would it change color only for the person wearing it, or was its power beyond its possessor? She would have to test it to be certain. “Do you want to be united with your body, ghost?”

  He seemed hesitant to answer. “You already know …”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “Answer my question.”

  He shrugged. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  Tyra moved her hand enough to see the stone. It was green again — as she expected. Not only could the stone expose her lies and reveal her truth, it could do the same for anyone, even if they were dead. Such a ring would be the most valuable tool in the world. No one could ever lie to her. “Tell me a lie, ghost.”

  He wouldn’t speak.

  “Go on,” she said. “Any old lie will do.”

  “What kind of request is that?”

  “Oh, come now. Peasants lie as often as the sparrows fly.”

  He scowled. “You don’t care about your people, do you?”

  As the stone remained green, Tyra stared back at him. “I do care about them!” The moment she said this, blackness devoured the stone. Apparently, the ring didn’t agree. Tyra slumped into her saddle, shoving her hand angrily into the folds of her skirt.