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.