Tales of Ravenloft

The Weaver's Pride

Welse, guild weaver of Arbora, tried to hide his disgust at the acrid stench of the half-naked old Abber nomad who fingered through the goods in his shop. Did the nomads ever bathe? he wondered. Perhaps there were no pools of water in their lands. He had heard tales enough to understand the strange haunted looks in the eyes of those who dwelled there, and the stoic acceptance they had of their fate.

"It's fine cloth," he said slowly, hoping the nomad would understand. The nomad scratched his armpit, and Welse hoped he would pick something less fine, for above all else he prized the work he had done on the mauve-and plum-colored blanket. The red and white silken threads that ran through it gave it a delicate look and feel, one unsuited to a nomad's life. Welse almost hoped the man had brought nothing to trade, but it was unlikely. Nomads did not come to Arbora empty-handed.

A weaver did not deal with the nomads often. Usually the Abber nomads brought strange metals and gemstones from their lands, trading for the practical items they needed for their tribe. It always astonished Welse how unsettled, almost frightened, the nomads seemed among the orderly houses and tree-lined streets of Arbora, and how quickly they returned to the ever-shifting terrain of the country all of Nova Vaasa called the Nightmare Lands.

The Abber turned his attention to a pile of colorful scarves and skirts, reaching for them with his filthy hands. How much would Welse have to clean after the grimy man left?" If you show me what you've brought, we can agree on a price," Welse said with some irritation.

"You best," the nomad commented.

Welse adjusted his flowing tunic on his shoulders and tied the contrasting woven belt more tightly. Like all Arbora weavers, Welse wore his own creations. So did his wife, his daughter, and his four sons, weavers all of them. There was no family as prosperous in all of Arbora, and every bit of the wealth had been earned. "My family is," he replied with honest pride.

"Trade for this?" The nomad drew what seemed to be a dirty length of silk from the pouch on his belt and handed it to Welse.

When Welse examined it closely, he saw that the strand was actually a braided chain of perhaps a dozen thinner filaments that glowed with a strange silver sheen. He had never seen a fiber so delicate. He unbraided the end of the chain and examined a single filament, finding it incredibly strong, with an elasticity that astonished him. Though he longed to keep it, he handed it back to the nomad. "Nothing," he replied sadly. "Too small an amount. I am sorry."

The nomad grinned and pulled something else from the pouch, a glowing cocoon of the silver threads. He handed it to Welse. "More," he said. "Many more."

Welse looked at the cocoon. "Many more?" he asked.

The Abber smiled, his teeth surprisingly white and sharp for one so old. He held out his hands, indicating a pile half his height and as wide as his outstretched arms.

"We trade," Welse said.

The nomad returned the following day with two of his tribesmen. Each carried a pair of huge leather sacks. Welse had already cleaned out one of the great metal cauldrons he used for boiling silk. As the nomads emptied their sacks into it, the cocoons expanded, filling the container and overflowing onto the floor. Even here, before Welse had unraveled the cocoons, before he had a chance to use his skill on them, the strands were magnificent. Welse was almost certain that, if he closed the doors, the pile would shed its own silver light.

He paid the nomads in coin rather than goods. He was pleased to see that the old man purchased only his most durable weavings, blankets and clothing that would serve his tribe well through the winter — if there was a winter in that cursed land, Welse reminded himself. Later he heard that the nomads spent every coin he had given them to purchase knives, axes, and other tools. A strange people, Welse thought, yet they had brought him such an incredible find.

No one else in his family would touch this weaving, he declared, for he alone had the skill to work with strands so fine. He boiled a small amount of water and threw in the first handfuls of cocoons. As they hit the water and sank into its heat, Welse thought he heard the insects inside cry out in pain. Later, when he unraveled the cocoons, he found no creatures within, as if the strands had absorbed their spinners completely.

He spun the filaments together, threading his loom with them, then beginning the weaving. Days passed. Welse paused only when hunger made him weak or when Ronae, his wife, or Geryn, his oldest son, intruded to try to coax him to rest. He ignored them, and the intensity of his gaze made them retreat and leave him to his work.

When he'd finished, he had woven a thin cloth the length and height of three men. Welse hung it behind the counter in his shop and let no one touch it. In some lights it almost seemed to reflect the form of an admirer, and the shop was always crowded with people who came to gaze longingly on it then leave with another purchase.

But there were others who came as well. Some were coarse men who had no use for Welse's fine garments and who dressed in hides they had tanned themselves. Others were wealthy and purchased their clothing from the master weavers in Kantora and had no use for locally designed goods. The former made threats, the latter offers that weeks ago Welse would not have refused. Now, with a stubbornness his family could not comprehend, he refused to consider any offers.

One evening, Welse had left the shop in the care of his wife while he ran an errand. As he returned, he saw a crowd of people milling outside of it. Had someone taken his treasure? Furious, he pushed his way through the bystanders and went inside.

The body of a man lay across the entrance way. Welse's wife was on her knees beside it, still clutching the knife she had used to kill him. Though Ronae had borne him five children and worked tirelessly at his side, she had always had a gentle temperament. He crouched beside her. "Ronae," he called gently. "Ronae, what happened here?"

She pressed herself against him, trembling in his arms. Her breath came in shallow puffs, and Welse knew she as still in shock. "The man tried to steal the cloth. I grabbed the cutting knife from the counter and yelled for him to stop. And then. . "She paused and hugged him more tightly.

He pushed her gently away, looking directly at her as he said," You killed him. Had he been caught, others would have done no less."

"Yes, but he would not have died had the cloth not moved."

"Moved? "

"It moved, I tell you. I. ."

"Hush," Welse repeated more forcefully. "Not a word about that. "He sent Ronae home in the company of their daughter and answered the questions the authorities put to him. Afterward, he left his two oldest sons in charge of the shop and went home to get the whole story from his wife.

By then Ronae had calmed, or so her speech made it seem, though her story was no less fantastic. She said the thief had been standing outside, waiting until the shop was empty before coming inside. "He said he needed yarn, not finished goods. I went in the back to find the black and red he needed. When I returned, he was behind the counter, trying to untie one corner of the silver cloth. I picked up the cutting knife and threatened to stab him."

Welse could well imagine the force of her threat. Though she had the strength to bear five children and would fight to the death to protect any of her family, mice gnawed at their bread because she didn't have the heart to set traps in the larder.

"He laughed and grabbed my arm, holding it back. I would have dropped the knife except the cloth moved."

"Was the door open? "

"No. And the cloth did not move like it would in a breeze. It rose as if the corners were on string and covered the man's face. He released his grip on me so quickly that my knife went in. Even after I cut him, he continued to pull at the cloth. When he fell beyond its reach, the cloth grew suddenly rigid as if trying to touch him. I dragged him away from it, and that was when he died."

"Ronae, you were hysterical. Listen to what you're saying."

"It moved! It sucked the air out of that man's body the way a vampire sucks the blood of his victim. Get rid of it, Welse. Get rid of the cursed thing before it destroys all of us."

Get rid of it? How could Welse consider such a thing when it was his most magnificent creation, such a product of his skill that he seemed to have woven a part of his soul into it? Poor Ronae was hysterical or she would never ask such a thing of him.

Welse lay beside her, comforting her until she slept, then returned to the shop. Dismissing his sons, he remained there all night, a sword in his hand, ready to kill any intruder. More than once, he dozed off, but always came awake the moment anyone left any of the taverns on the street or stopped in front of the barred shop door to tell another about the thief that Ronae had killed.

Ronae refused to enter the shop or weaving room behind it until the tapestry was sold. She ordered their daughter to stay home as well. Welse didn't mind. His sons listened to him. They agreed to take turns guarding the tapestry at night, always two together.

The agreement took its toll on everyone.

"Perhaps a wizard could weave a spell to protect the shop," Moro, his youngest, suggested after one of his nights at the shop. Though he was nearly thirteen, he still had trouble staying awake, even on special occasions.

"I'll have no magic here," Welse countered.

"But, Father. . "Geryn said, going to his brother's defense.

"How long before some enterprising thief finds his own wizard and buys a spell to open our doors? No magic," Welse reminded them. "We'll protect it the way we always have," he said, laying a hand on the dagger he carried in his belt.

"Why protect it at all?" Geryn countered. "Prince Othmar's nephew offered you a fortune in gold. We could open a shop in Kantora with the money we'd get for its sale."

"No!" Welse bellowed. "It's mine! I will not part with it."

Geryn, who had done no weaving for days due to lack of sleep, looked from the dwindling stack of weavings to his father's stubborn expression to the cloth itself, hanging with such splendor on the wall. "Who needs a wizard when there's magic here already," he mumbled, softly so his father would not hear him.

Though the young men had been ordered to stand guard in pairs, Geryn consulted with his brothers. Afterward, one would watch the shop while the other went in the back to weave. In that way some of their stock was replenished. Welse, who usually kept accurate count of every scarf and shirt and tunic, did not seem to notice their appearance on his shelves or the shoddy workmanship of his exhausted sons.

Eventually all but Moro became accustomed to their nocturnal hours. The boy kept nodding off. Geryn would always partner with him. At first, he would come into the shop often to be certain Moro did not sleep. After weeks had passed and no one had tried to steal his father's treasure, Geryn began letting Moro sleep for a few hours each night in a chair close to the door, often pausing in his work to check on the boy.

One night, Geryn began a particularly beautiful weave in silk and flax. Caught up in his work, he did not hear the soft padding of feet outside the shop's back door, or the quickly whispered spell, or the creaking of the hinges as the door swung open. His only warning was a sudden draft of air that made him turn and cry out before a thief's cudgel knocked him senseless.

When Geryn regained consciousness, he lay in a square of light falling through the open rear door. Staggering to his feet and into the shop, he saw Moro sprawled facedown across the counter, one hand resting on his bloodied knife. "Moro!" Geryn screamed. As he touched his brother, he saw the boy's head had been nearly severed from his body. The body was cold, dead for some hours. Even so, the cloth was still in its place on the wall.

At first, Geryn thought his brother had managed to kill the intruder, but there was no sign of a body or any blood. With a heavy heart, Geryn tied off the work he had done and wrapped his brother in it. Afterward, he went outside and sent one of the street urchins to deliver a message to his father. When his parents arrived at the shop, he did not lie about what he had done.

Ronae knelt beside the body, stroking the boy's golden hair, crooning to him as if he were still alive, in pain and in need of comforting. Welse, on the other hand, displayed no emotion but fury, and all of it was directed at Geryn. "How could you be so foolish!" Welse screamed. "I gave you orders for your own protection. Everyone covets the cloth. You should have expected this."

"The walls are stone, Father. The doors and windows are barred. Only a sorcerer could have entered without my hearing," Geryn countered with no real energy. "And if the thief was a sorcerer, it might explain why he disappeared after Moro wounded him. If the man is still alive, he'll try again."

"And kill another of us, or perhaps two," Ronae said, her voice dulled by grief. "Sell the cloth, Welse, for the good of all of us."

Sell it! How dare she speak to him that way. How dare the others nod their agreement. "Never!" Welse bellowed. "I'll watch it myself, for it's clear I can't trust any of you. "He moved toward the cloth, as if to protect it. As he did, he noticed a brown smudge in the corner and lifted it up to the light.

"Blood?" Ronae asked, thinking of the thief she had killed.

Welse shook his head and examined the spot carefully, the way a craftsman saw a flaw in his creation. The concern would hardly have been unusual had the son he loved so dearly not lain dead behind him. "The smudge seems to be a part of the cloth, some shift in the coloring. It looks like a face."

"A terrified face," Geryn commented, looking over his father's shoulder. "Two men have tried to steal it. Two have failed. Do you suppose the cloth protects itself?"

Welse looked at his son as if the boy had suddenly gone mad. "I created it. From now on I'll be the one to guard it," he said.

Each night, Welse positioned his chair in front of the cloth and sat with a knife in his hand, constantly alert for any sound outside the thick stone walls. Each day, he slept in the same chair while his remaining sons went about their work. Welse did not speak to them save when utterly necessary.

One afternoon when Geryn was alone in the shop, he saw an old man standing outside the open door, looking intently beyond Geryn to the cloth on the wall and Welse sleeping in front of it. The man was richly dressed in clothes from the northern lands and carried a tall, intricately carved walking staff. "Come in, friend," Geryn called good-naturedly. "See the wares we have for sale."

"Come out," the man responded, holding up a single golden coin.

With a backward glance at his sleeping father, Geryn did.

"You've had problems. Traders as far away as Egertus speak of some strange sorcery. I've come to help you." The man spoke so softly that Geryn had to watch his mouth move to understand the words. There was a persuasiveness to his voice, a persuasiveness so strong that Geryn forgot he should be angry at the rumors, or of being reminded of them by a stranger.

All he believed was that the old stranger was here to help him.

"I understand a sorcerer tried to steal it and failed. Such a foolish thing to do when it is clear that you desire nothing so much as to be rid of it."

"I do," Geryn answered honestly. As he did, the need to dispose of the cloth overpowered all fear of his father's wrath.

"You can have your desire, and he need never know."

"The cloth has cost us a great deal. "Again Geryn confessed exactly what was in his heart.

"Of course. You care for your family. I understand. I would not own such a thing, but there are others foolish enough to want it and to pay well. I am generous. I could steal the cloth, but that is a dangerous thing to do. Far better to share what I have been given. "He returned the gold coin to a purse on his belt then unhooked it and displayed its contents to Geryn.

Gold! Not as much as others had offered, but more than enough for a lifetime of comfort.

The man pulled a small corked vial from inside his cloak and laid it in Geryn's hand. "I will give you the gold now if you promise to follow my instructions. Tonight, when your father has his evening meal, slip this small bit of powder into his food. No, do not worry. It will not harm your father, only make him sleep soundly. In the morning, the cloth will be gone, and no one will know that you were involved."

Geryn looked at the coins and thought of the wealth.

"Spend it slowly, and your father will never know."

Geryn nodded and led the old man into the shadows beside the shop. There he took the money that was given, so thankful for the burden being lifted from him that he kissed the old man's hand before leaving him and returning to his work.

By evening, Geryn was certain that the old man was a wizard rather than a merchant, and a powerful one at that. Yet it was not only fear that made Geryn obey the man's orders. He wanted that cloth gone, and hopefully the curse that seemed to have fallen over his family would go with it.

So he did what was asked. No one saw him mix the powder in his father's stew. When Geryn left the shop a short time later, it seemed that his father already looked drowsy. Once home, Geryn hid the coins in his cupboard in the room he shared with his brothers and tried to forget they even existed.

The following morning, Geryn and his brothers were some distance from the shop when they heard their father's bellows of rage. Saying a quick prayer of thanks that his father was still alive, Geryn ran with the others, pushed past the crowd that had once more gathered in front of the store, and unlocked the door.

As Geryn expected, the cursed cloth was gone. What he had not expected was the terrible damage to the shop itself.

The bare wall where the cloth had hung was coated with dyes from the work room. The blankets he had arranged on the shelves by the door were scattered across the floor. The tunics that had hung on pegs in one corner were strewn above them. The boxes that had held hats and scarves were overturned and broken.

They heard metal beating against the stone walls and floors and ran into the workroom just in time to see Welse toss another cauldron against the wall. "Where is it!" he bellowed. "The doors were locked. Where has it gone?" He looked at each of his sons, madness clear in his eyes, in the tension in his arms, in the way his fingers were spread, ready to grab onto his vanished treasure. "You know!" he declared, staring at each of his startled sons. "Only the family has keys. Tell me where you've hidden it. Tell me!"

While his brothers stood silently, Geryn went to the back door, lifted the wooden bar and examined the door frame. When he did, he discovered that the wooden frame had been carved back far enough for the bar to be lifted from the outside. It would be as simple a matter for the thief to lock the door behind him as it would have been to open it. It occurred to Geryn that the wizard with the beautiful voice had taken great care to see that no harm came to Welse, nor any theft from the shop. "Father," Geryn called anxiously. "Come and see this."

Welse did and, as he began to understand that his sons had not stolen his treasure, he understood that he would likely never see the cloth again. He went into the shop and looked at the wall where it had hung. Tears flowed from his eyes. He began to tremble and fell to his knees in the center of the room where, with his face in his hands, he began to cry with deep, terrible sobs.

His father should have cried for Moro that way, Geryn thought. Instead he had reserved the grief for his lost creation. Though Geryn believed that his father was somehow bewitched, he could not forgive him for such misplaced sorrow.

Later, Welse let his sons take him home. For the first time in weeks, they ate their evening meal together. Though Ronae had prepared all her husband's favorite dishes, he did not notice. Some thief had stolen into his shop, crept by him while he slept, and made off with his treasure.

He could not stop his hands from trembling. He could not stop the rage growing inside him. And he would never stop searching until he found the thief.

His children went to bed while Ronae sat beside him, wiping the tears from his face. Finally, she took his hands and held them gently as she said," It's over, Welse. It's better this way."

"Better?" he mumbled, unable to believe the words she spoke. As he began to understand, his face darkened with rage. His hands tightened over hers until she cried out in pain. "You did it! You paid to have it stolen while I slept."

She shook her head and tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. An instant later, Welse, who had never struck any of his family, was beating his wife. His sons, drawn by her screams, rushed into the room and pulled them apart.

Ronae fled to her sons'room, but Welse followed, rage giving him a strength his sons could not subdue. She pressed herself behind the great chest of drawers that held her sons'clothes, but he pushed it over. It fell forward against the bed, the drawers opening, their contents falling out. "You took it! Admit it!" Welse screamed, kicking the drawers out of the way and scattering the clothes. As he did, he heard the clinking of the coins Geryn had hidden, and he reached for the bag. "So they paid you as well!" he bellowed to his wife as he lifted the sack and felt its weight.

"Leave Mother alone," Geryn said. "A man paid me."

"You!" Welse turned and faced his son, showing all the betrayal he felt. "Tell me why you did such a thing."

Mow that he had told the truth, Geryn had a compulsive need to explain all of it. After the others retired, he sat alone with his father and told him the story, taking great care to make Welse understand that he had been ensorceled.

"Where do you think the old wizard came from?" Welse asked.

"From the look of his clothes and accent, Egertus, I think."

"Excellent! We leave tomorrow to get it back."

Geryn felt some guilt for what he had done, but not much. "I will not help you in this," he said. "The cloth has brought us nothing but sorrow. "He pushed himself wearily to his feet and started for his room.

Welse stared at the fire for a moment, thinking of the betrayal, the beauty of the cloth, the incredible wave of fulfillment he'd experienced after weaving it. How dare his son disobey him! How dare he disobey him still!

The blind rage Welse had felt when he'd first seen the blank wall returned with all its fury. Later, he did not recall pulling the dagger from his belt or moving softly toward his son.

Blood was the first thing he saw — blood lying in a black pool that glittered in the firelight; blood staining the blade of his knife; blood covering his hands; blood seeping slowly from the wounds in his dead son's back.

Understanding came an instant later. With a bellow of rage for what he had done, Welse ran from the house. He heard Ronae's scream, heard his sons rush outside, calling his name. He stood in the shadows and did not respond. He could never face them again.

With home lost to him, only one thing remained. He followed the road until it crossed the Ivlis River the second time, then headed north, drawn by the far-too-real pull of the cloth he had created. He did not stop to wash. Flies feasted on the blood soaking his clothes while the blood on his hands dried and flaked off as he rushed through the scrubby land in search of the treasure that called to him.

The pull of the cloth had grown so strong by nightfall that Welse stumbled on in the darkness. Eventually, he saw a campfire and, as he moved closer, a single man sitting beside it, wrapped in a blanket for warmth. Welse did not need to see the color of the man's hair, or his staff lying on the ground beside him to know that his treasure was there. With his dagger in his hand, Welse crept closer. One stroke, and the cloth would be his once more.

"You may put your blade away, Weaver. You have traveled far in pursuit of me. I will not struggle with you," the man said before turning to face Welse. "Come, friend, sit by the fire, and we will talk."

The man's voice was as Geryn had described. It had a beauty in its timbre that calmed him. Welse, still gripping his blade, did as the man asked.

"Eat," the man suggested, holding out his own bowl to Welse. "You will need your strength."

Welse pushed the bowl away and reached for the man's water cup instead. It has been hours since he'd crossed the river. When he had, he'd drunk deeply, then realized he had nothing to carry more water in.

"You were in an accident?" the man asked, his voice filled with concern.

Welse shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. "I dispensed some justice. You purchased a cloth that did not belong to the seller. I've come to claim it."

"Justice?" the old man questioned. "What did you do? "

"I killed my son," Welse answered honestly. As he did, he felt tears of grief begin to form in his eyes. He ignored them.

"Ah!" the man responded and sat up straighten Welse, alarmed, held out his knife. But the man only pulled the bag on which he'd been reclining from under his back and handed it to Welse. "Have you brought the gold I gave to the unfortunate lad?" he asked.

"You knew he was stealing it. You helped him. In Arbora that makes you a thief as well, and your payment mine to spend."

The man appeared to consider this and decided not to argue. "Be certain it is what you seek," he instead suggested.

"I intend to," Welse growled. He unbuckled the bag and threw back the flap. The folds took on the yellow hue of the firelight, but there was no disguising the suppleness of the fabric, the smoothness of the tightly woven web-thin threads.

"I have taken great care with it," the man said. "You'll find it in perfect condition.

"And you've never owned such a prize, have you? "

"Owned?" The old man laughed, a soothing sound from deep in his throat like the purr of some great cat. "I would not purchase this for myself. Consider what possessing it has done to you."

As had happened to his son, the most gentle suggestion was enough to force Welse to focus honestly on his acts. He had terrorized his family, contributed to the death of his youngest son, destroyed his wares and. .

As he thought once more of Geryn, he began to cry, then once more forced the feeling back, replacing it with what seemed like just fury. "I did what was necessary," he declared stubbornly, then pulled the cloth from the bag. "If it has been damaged in any way. . "he began.

He never finished.

The cloth tumbled over his outstretched arm, but the folds did not fall to the ground. Though the night was still, the cloth moved, rising between Welse and the fire.

The cloth was so thin that, for a moment, he could see the flicker of the flames on the other side of it.

And within the weave itself, something moved. The brown smudge that Ronae had said looked like a face was indeed a face. The eyes were open and staring at him. The lips parted, rising at the corners in a leer of anticipation, of greeting.

This creature that had killed his youngest son now greeted Welse as an equal.

And Welse had killed the oldest.

Horrified, Welse tried to fling the cloth away, but it was already too late. The silvery folds covered him. The need of the fibers to absorb and possess sucked the breath from his lungs, the life from his body.

Though he saw the old man standing by the fire and heard him crying out in alarm, Welse could not answer, could not move. For a moment Welse thought he would die, but death somehow eluded him. Instead, he felt his body thin until it had no more substance than the smoke still rising from the fire. The cloth, so light and supple a moment ago, weighed down on him, absorbing his essence.

Bodiless, but not dead. Seeing, but unable to act. Welse watched the old man lift the cloth from the ground and pause to study his face as Ronae had done to the thief's face some days before.

"I have done no wrong," the man said, and Welse understood that he spoke to the cloth rather than to him. "And I will do no wrong in all the days I possess you. I hope the one who has paid so well for you has a conscience as clear as mine."

With a twisted smile, the old man added," I doubt it."

There would be others, Welse knew then. Many others.

Welse would never lack for company, not here on these folds.