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.