Weave a Story for the Lonely

Coin’s shoulders ached.

His feet too now that he thought about it, though that pain was a familiar agony jammed in his shoes, one he had come to largely ignore. No, his journey had not been an easy one, but as he finally stood before the gates to Inkston, he realized just how terribly his shoulders hurt. The book in his pack was burdensome. He should have just carried it his arms like a real storyweaver, but then again, it had already rained eight times in the short time since he had arrived in the country of Tolskaan. His corebook would have been destroyed if he had carried it in the open. Suffering shoulders were nothing compared to that kind of devastation.

Coin shook himself and pressed forward. He couldn’t afford to get cold feet now that he had come all this way. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?

There were a few other travelers passing through the gates, though it was still a bit early in the day for the usual hustle and bustle, he figured. He didn’t know much about Tolskaan, but it was a thriving nation with a lot of people. Still, he could hope that this place wasn’t too popular, right?

No, don’t be daft, he thought. He shook his head at himself, watching the ground as he walked. The cobblestone beneath his feet couldn’t have been that old, and yet it was well worn. It was the kind of detail no storyweaver worth their salts would ever overlook. The state of a road said much in a story and provided healthy context— dirt meant an off beaten path, a way less travelled and more dangerous. Worn stone meant bodies and traffic and life. This was the infamous capital of storyweavers. Of course this place would have people from all over flocking to it. People just like Coin.

“Oi, boy!” Coin snapped to attention as one of the guards waved him down. The man had a kindly expression and a long beard. Probably a father judging by his warm eyes tinted with concern. He looked Coin over, likely noting his threadbare cloak and his trousers with haphazard patches on the knees. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes straining. “Where’re yer parents? A young one as yerself shouldn’t be travelling all by yer lonesome.”

A heavy accent for these parts, Coin noted absently. He so desperately wanted to stay back and observe this man, to learn his quirks, his past, his life, to understand what made him tick and what made him unique. But he didn’t have the time to loiter.

“No parents with me, sir,” Coin answered honestly. “Just visiting town. I won’t cause no trouble.”

The guard opened his mouth, but Coin took off before he could say anything else. The man was too fatherly for Coin, too stout and kind. He might weave a man like that, but to interact with one left him uncomfortable. But then, most human interaction made him uncomfortable.

The guard called out after him, but Coin darted down another street where a sizable crowd was already rushing to their daily errands. No one gave him a second glance here, where he was just another tired face. He pushed his way through all the bodies, his slim frame hindered by his pack. No matter how antsy he was—so close to his destination and all—he wouldn’t do anything that could put his corebook into harm’s way. The tattered tome had already been through enough.

He constantly found his hand reaching back to make sure the book was still there. It would be of no use to anyone but its owner, but he doubted that would stop any pickpocket from snatching it for a couple notes. Though he always found it there, that did little to calm his nerves. Getting here had been the easy part, really—finding the master storyweaver’s house would prove the challenge. Coin had never been a fan of big cities, but Inkston was known for its twisting roads and labyrinthine design. It was said to be built ages ago as a defense against Norden, the country just a few dozen miles to the north. Soldiers would become lost in its patternless streets and become easily cornered. That war, long gone and buried now, didn’t change the way the city was structured. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone who could give him directions, but Tolskaans weren’t generally known for their generosity...

Coin would figure it out. He had already come so far. He couldn’t give up now. Steeling himself, he tore his gaze away from watching the feet of the people around him and let his eyes rove to the signs hanging above him. Shops of all varieties, but no taverns. He settled for a tailor’s shop. Surely someone of their livelihood would pick up all sorts of information about the town from their customers.

The tailor at the counter, for all the humble adornments around the shop and quaint displays of cloth, would scarcely even acknowledge Coin’s presence. All he got was, “We don’t serve your kind.” Even when Coin explained his predicament, the shrewd man wouldn’t say another word.

Coin left, muttering all sorts of obscenities from home, but he understood in the way probably only a storyweaver would. Everyone had their own problems, quirks, lives that varied as much as the Creator’s creatures. Coin couldn’t rightly call the man evil without knowing all the steps that led him to be a struggling tailor in a thriving city. Still, he probably wouldn’t be weaving anyone like him soon.

He ended up getting help from an aging woman tending a fruit stand. Her graying hair was wound up in a bun, round features inviting to even the most rigid of passerby. Coin only had a couple notes left, but he still gave them to her for her help. She smiled, an action that lit up her face with the practiced ease of any merchant and sent him off with an apple for the road.

Even with directions, it was nothing less than a miracle that he found his way to his destination. He had to backtrack several times, leaving him sweating under the midday sun before he finally stood before the gates of a mansion. The surrounding area had been so mundane he’d been sure for a while that he’d been directed to the wrong place. The old homes leaned against each other for support on narrow streets with children playing stick games on the worn steps. They stared at him wide-eyed as he passed and long after, but he didn’t mind it so much as he minded the gazes of adults. Adults would judge and pick at the seams of his story, but children just wanted to listen and learn.

The mansion, understandably then, was completely out of place. There were several towering oaks planted in seemingly random places around the home, but the hedges around the property were immaculately manicured. This had to be the place. Master Colhan was known for his eccentrics, after all. It was said to be what made him such a good storyweaver.

The black iron gates were set into brick pillars snugly tucked against the hedges. It wasn’t the most practical of designs, but Colhan probably hardly even needed such protection anyways. Coin glanced around what he could see of the garden, testing the gate only to find it locked. He sighed. He could squeeze through if he really wanted to, but he doubted trespassing would make a very good first impression on Master Colhan. If he was anything like Coin, he was a man that appreciated his solitude.

“Can I help you?” At the voice from behind him, Coin jumped three feet high. He whirled around to find a woman in a plain, black dress, auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail and sharp eyes pinning him in place like a hawk watching a mouse.

Well, Coin hadn’t actually heard much about Master Colhan. He had always assumed him to be a man, but perhaps... “Master Colhan?”

She arched an eyebrow, thin arms jutting out as she put her hands on her hips. “Who’s asking?”

“M-My name is Coin.” If this was Master Colhan, Coin had made a big mistake. He couldn’t afford to give up now though. He would just have to petition the woman and hope for the best. “I—”

“You want to be an apprentice, huh?” The woman crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. Defensive—not a good sign. Thankfully, that wasn’t why he was here.

“No, actually,” Coin said, tugging at the straps of his pack. His corebook pressed against his back reassuringly. “But I do have a question about storyweaving that only a master like yourself could answer. And since all the others ones are known for their... less than hospitable... ways...” Coin found himself trailing off as the woman clasped her hands in front of her, a small smile creeping onto her face.

“Well, you seem like a respectable enough young man, packaging not included. I can bring you inside, but Master Colhan is quite the busy man, not to mention a hermit. He’s only had two apprentices all his life, you know, and he ordered me to turn away any more that show up. Finds them too much of a hassle.” Coin followed slowly as she opened up the gate and led him down to the manor proper. The grass around them was perfectly green, evenly clipped, without a weed or flower in sight. “But you wouldn’t care about any of that, hm?”

“So you’re not Master Colhan?” Coin’s mind was reeling trying to keep up with this strange woman. She sure seemed eccentric enough to be the acclaimed storyweaver.

She paused two steps away from the top of the small staircase leading to the front porch, glancing over her shoulder at Coin with those awfully discerning eyes. That smile was still playing on her lips. “Do try to keep up. My name is Oliana, Master Colhan’s housekeeper, maid, cook, anything he needs I will do. Within reason, of course. Your name was Coin, right?”

Coin nodded, too off-put to rightly answer.

“Strange name. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Coin shook his head. “I walked here from the north. My name is quite a common one actually, meant to bless fortune or something like that.”

Oliana blinked at that, whirling back into motion as she stepped up the stairs and opened the front door to the entryway of the home. “Well, that certainly explains the state of your clothing. Your parents?”

Coin’s voice was small. “Gone.”

She nodded. She probably had guessed that considering the sorry state of him. Thankfully, when she looked back at him, there was no pity in her eyes. Instead, there was a helping of respect. “Coming here on your own is no small feat.” She cocked her head. “I must admit, I’m a bit curious about what question could be so pressing that only a master storyweaver could answer it.” Coin opened his mouth, but Oliana shook her head before he could say anything. “Not my business though. I’ll announce your presence to Master Colhan. Could I get a last name?”

Coin hesitated. “We don’t have last names in the north...”

Oliana blinked. “Oh. Right. Sorry, not too many northerners ever venture this far south. I’m sure you know how it is. You go by clan names, right?” Coin nodded. “Well, then what’s your clan name?”

Coin wished he could draw himself up and proudly proclaim his clan name, but even still he felt no attachment to those people. He almost lied and said he was from some other clan, like the Narwhals—everyone liked the Narwhals. But eventually he sighed. “Coin of the Leviathan Clan.”

Oliana bowed her head, smiling knowingly. Coin found himself very interested in the deep red carpet beneath his thin-soled shoes. He hadn’t noticed when he first entered how much his feet sank into it. He bet that if he took a step forward, it would be springy. “I’ll be right back, Coin of the Leviathan Clan.”

The way she said it had Coin squirming. For someone who didn’t get a lot of northern visitors, she sure was one to quickly identify his clan. Though that probably had to do with trying to find out if he was telling the truth, right? The last name question had been the first stumbling stone, and then he had given her an actual clan. If he hadn’t answered properly, she probably would have turned him away right then and there.

Once she was out of the room and turned down a hallway to the right, Coin quickly scanned what he could see of the home. A lot could be learned about where someone came to rest their head, especially if that someone rarely ever ventured outside that place. The entryway was small but tall, an aether lamp hanging high above him. It was unlit right now, the large sphere opaque with the aether dust pressed on the inside of the glass. Beside him there was a sturdy coat rack with two coats hanging from it, one a rich green, the other a soft lavender. It seemed Master Colhan was fond of green.

Red too. The only parts of the floor that weren’t covered in the maroon rugs was underneath the furniture. In front of him there was an archway that led to a larger parlor, in the middle of which was a large table without the rug to cushion it. Instead, it had a red tablecloth with gold embroidery along the edges. In the middle of its surface was a glass vase with two reeds sticking out of it.

There were two hallways to the left and right as well. Coin cautioned a few steps forward to crane his neck for a good look down them. The right led down a long corridor that turned left at the end, several wooden doors on either side leading to other rooms. The left led to a spiral staircase to the next story. Coin hummed and drew back, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his pack. Master Colhan seemed a man of simple tastes. He knew what he liked and he stuck to it—order, green, red, just enough furniture and niceties to feel hospitable, not enough to feel homey.

As the minutes ticked by, Coin began to shift from foot to foot. What was taking so long? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If Master Colhan didn’t want to see him, he would have just said so, right? Oliana would have come back right away to tell him to shove off. So, the man was probably considering seeing him. Not that getting nervous now would help matters.

He found himself pulling out his corebook. It was habit, really, to pull out the old tome and begin skimming the familiar pages; a way to ease his nerves if nothing else. He leafed through until he reached a blank page, pulling a pen from his pack as well. He thought of a kind guard with a wife and two children back home in a distant land, a family he sent most of his money to, only keeping what he needed to keep himself afloat. He wrote to them often too, of life in a foreign land and the daily struggle of their distance. His wife writes back just as frequently, sometimes sending drawings their children had made, pressing her heart and soul between the folds of that envelope and pleading that he stay safe.

The man was of humble beginnings and would live a quaint but fulfilling life. He grew up in a loving family and would show his own family the same care. His mother died when he was young, but his older sister had filled her place, something that he would always be grateful to her for. He sometimes wrote her too, not nearly as often as his wife, but they would occasionally exchange updates of their lives. Should he ever have need of her, she would come, and vice versa. Yes, a very loyal man. And kind to every weary traveler he sees, especially the children who so much remind him of his little ones back home. In a few years, he will return home where he will use what knowledge of the sword he has gained to become a guard in his hometown. He won’t make as much money, but he’ll finally be back with his family, more than enough for him. He will teach his son to wield a weapon, and he’ll tell grand stories he heard from drunken travelers by their fireplace. He’ll teach his daughter the proper way a man should treat her and—

“Coin of the Leviathan Clan?”

Coin jumped, pen streaking across the page as his frantic hand was interrupted. Coin blinked down at the line of ink—thankfully it hadn’t run through any of his words, but it was still an unsightly blemish on the page.

“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry.” Coin expected Oliana to be struggling to hide a smile like his clan members had when he did something like this, but instead her expression was truly aghast. She did keep the house of a storyweaver though. Even if she didn’t know much about the craft, she probably knew how much a storyweaver’s book—even if it wasn’t their corebook—meant to them. “Master Colhan has some ink remover. I would be more than happy to take of that for you while you speak with him.”

Coin hugged the book closer to him, though not shutting it in fear of smearing the wet ink. He struggled to find what to say first. He was thrilled Master Colhan had agreed to speak with him, but to relinquish his corebook to someone—well, he had only trusted it to his mother on a few rare occasions. “Ah, that’s quite alright, I can just write around it. I’d hate to impose—”

“Nonsense!” Oliana proclaimed. “Master Colhan has invited you in. That makes you our guest, which means that I’ll treat you nearly as I should treat him.” She smiled when Coin arched an eyebrow at her word choice. “I understand how precious a storyweaver’s tomes are, so fear not. I have done this many times before for Master Colhan. He startles easily too. Now come along, I’ll show you to his study, then I’ll get right to work on that.”

Coin’s hands wrapped protectively around the book’s cover. “I’m sorry, but this is my corebook—”

“Truly? Then you are a storyweaver?” Oliana’s eyes glittered softly. “And so young! Yes, Master Colhan has made a good decision inviting you in.” And then, while Coin was still reeling from her sudden praise, she whisked his corebook away.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “H-Hey! Wait!”

“Come along now.” Creator curse this woman, she still wore that damned smile. “I wouldn’t leave Master Colhan waiting when he’s been so gracious. I’ll see about removing that ink stain, and we’ll see if I can’t secure the stitching on the spine. My, my, for a corebook, it’s certainly seen better days.”

Coin remained silent. He’d taken care of it the best he could, but the north was even less hospitable to books than it was to people. The road had left it even worse, especially since the people weren’t particularly fond of storyweaving either. That was the one good thing about his clan—they hadn’t cared much about his antics or studies, though that didn’t mean they had sat well with the other children.

He followed Oliana as she led him to the middle door on the left of the hall. She rapped sharply on the door and entered without waiting for a response. “Announcing Coin of the Leviathan Clan.”

This was Master Colhan’s study. It was a giant room with bookshelves that ran all along the perimeter and climbed up to the ceiling. It was the first time Coin had seen such a crazed assortment of colors in the home, the spines coming in every shade imaginable. There must have been thousands of them, of all different widths and heights filling every conceivable inch of every shelf. And in the middle of it all was a fine wooden desk with a man reading a book in an olive-green armchair.

He was an older man, with long, spindly fingers tucked underneath the page he was on, poised to turn to the next. His chestnut hair was silvery at his temples and pulled back in a neat ponytail. He wore a fine red suit with a matching coat draped across the back of his chair. He looked over the rim of his reading glasses at the sorry sight before him.

“Welcome, Coin.” Master Colhan smiled, his weathered face wearing the expression easily. “Come in, come in. I’m afraid I don’t have another chair for you. Perhaps we should move this to the parlor?” Coin was about to protest, but Master Colhan snapped his book shut before he could. “That would be the only hospitable thing to do. Yes, come along.”

Coin just stared at him. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting—well, no, that wasn’t quite right. He had been expecting a master storyweaver, an imposing, grand man busy creating yet another in a long list of worlds penned by his hand. The man before him was grand, he supposed. Grandfatherly.

The man right before him. Master Colhan cleared his throat from the foot and a half he towered above the boy, and Coin nearly tripped scrambling back to allow him passage. Master Colhan smiled at him again, closing the door to his wonderful study and motioning for Coin to follow. Coin hurriedly collected his wits and, noting that Oliana had already left while he wasn’t paying attention, did so. Master Colhan had also put his rich coat on while Coin hadn’t been paying attention, the tail flaring out a bit behind him as he walked.

The master led him to the room Coin had seen earlier, with the large table and three green couches on every side save for the one by the entryway. He sat on the one to the left, motioning for Coin to take the one to the right. Coin scurried over, gingerly sitting on the edge of the seat to try avoiding sullying the fine fabrics.

Master Colhan laughed. “Please, no need to be so tense, Coin. Make yourself at home.” Reluctantly, Coin sat back, eyeing the man before him. Master Colhan smiled at him. “What’s that look for?”

Coin’s face was definitely not red, not even if the burning he felt told him otherwise. “Um, you’re just—” he cut himself off with a gulp. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

The man laughed again. “Ah, the honesty of youth. A good trait to have, though as a storyweaver it’s our job to understand what makes men shed that as they grow, hm? I bet you thought you were going to meet some awe-inspiring man with ink coating the very ground he walked on. And instead, you got me.” He closed his eyes for a moment. Coin fumbled for something to say, but Master Colhan spoke again, saving him the disgrace. “Second rule of storyweaving: never judge a book by its cover. There is always so much more lurking beneath the surface, and it’s of utmost importance we understand that depth. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Coin nodded slowly. “Second? What’s the first?”

“Why the first is something that doesn’t need to be mentioned, I should think.” Master Colhan nodded to himself. “Indeed, it should go without saying that you mustn’t let your feet get cold.”

Coin furrowed his brow. “Uh...”

“That’s why I have such extensive rugs around my home, you see. Interrupts one’s thinking when they set their feet down and get an awful chill.”

“But,” Coin frowned, “You’re wearing shoes...”

Master Colhan laughed, Coin starting at the outburst. “I joke with you, young one. The first rule of a storyweaver is to pour your soul into every word you pen. Though I wasn’t lying about the effect of cold feet. It’s right dreadful. Indeed, I couldn’t work if my feet were not nice and toasty.”

“I... see.” What else could Coin say? He hadn’t the foggiest idea if this man was just continuing to pull his chain. If his next sudden change in topic was any indication, he was being completely serious.

“So, jasmine or oolong?” Master Colhan inquired, pulling out a small notebook from his breast pocket. Coin didn’t have the foggiest idea what an oolong was or what it looked like, but he had seen a few jasmine flowers being sold on his journey here.

“Jasmine are pretty, I guess,” Coin muttered, not certain where the man would go with this new line of conversation.

Master Colhan had a light laugh. “No, no, I mean tea—though I suppose you wouldn’t get such things up north. Ah, well at any rate, you do strike me as a jasmine fellow.” He opened his pocketbook, pulling out his reading glasses and quickly searching the pages. He found the one he was looking for after a moment, smiling.

“Hasha lin, torri bien. Nahnsu reteshka.” The words Master Colhan spoke were alien, but Coin knew their function. Or at least, he knew the first phrase: leap from my page, the standard beginning to most storyweaving. He could only guess that the next words augmented the spell in some way.

There was a trickling sound like the gentle rush of a stream, and black strands reached from the pages of the book. Tendrils of ink. They coalesced out onto the table, forming an ornate teapot and two matching teacups. Wisps of steam rose from the teapot’s spout. Master Colhan snapped his book shut and tucked it back into his coat.

“So, you have a question for me, yes?” His hands shook slightly with age as he poured the tea. Coin watched him anxiously, his chest tightening. “I can’t imagine what question one so young as yourself could have that only someone such as myself could answer.”

Coin had traveled hundreds of miles to get here, sparingly using the small amount of money left by his mother, hunting whatever scrawny bits of meat from the woods, walking by streams and rivers whenever possible so he would have someplace to get water. He had set out with his backpack and a suitcase full of clothes, the latter of which was stolen from him by bandits just a couple of weeks after he set out. He’d been attacked by wolves once when he was hitching a ride in the back of a kind stranger’s wagon. His rudimentary storyweaving had managed to scare them off, but the man had proven to be superstitious and tried to burn his corebook. The back corner of it was still a bit charred. His feet hurt all the time and he was little more than a stick with drooping clothes, but still he had come. He had been so determined despite all the hardships that had come his way. And now that he was here, he found his words stuck in his throat.

“I—” His breath caught. He balled his hands into fists in lap, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look into the man’s concerned gaze. “Is it possible to bring back the dead with storyweaving?”

There was a light plink as Master Colhan startled, dropping the spoon he had been using to stir some sugar into his tea against the porcelain rim of the cup. He was silent for a moment, green eyes searching Coin’s. “Judging by that look in your eye, I think you know the answer.”

Coin looked away in an attempt to stifle his frustration. “I didn’t have a real teacher to teach me storyweaving. I had my father’s notes and research from before he died. He said that it was possible. Other sources said otherwise, but I know my father was a brilliant man—if it was possible,” Coin dared a glance back at Master Colhan, who watched him intently, “I knew a master would be able to show me how.”

Master Colhan set down his teacup. “You say you did not have a proper teacher?”

Coin shook his head. “I mostly taught myself.”

Master Colhan nodded, face unreadable. He did not say anything for several moments, and Coin began to wonder if the man would simply kick him out. “Tell me, Coin, what storyweaving is.”

Coin blinked. “Well, you’re bringing your writing to life. A storyweaver writes down a world, its history, and its people, singling out particular inhabitants and telling their stories. Then they can summon things from that world, including the people they created.”

“I understand you must miss your parents terribly, but does that sound like a power that can bring back someone that has passed on from our world?” His voice wasn’t patronizing in the slightest, instead a genuine, gentle question.

Coin faltered a bit. “W-Well, no, but my father’s research said that if you created a person in one of your worlds like someone that had died, you could bring that person over.”

Even as he spoke, Master Colhan shook his head. “I’m sorry, but even a storyweaver of your caliber should know the truth. Even with all my experience and training, I can only weave over a person for a few hours at the max. To permanently bring someone over—it’s simply not possible, I’m afraid. You’d have to have an incredibly strong soul.” Master Colhan shook his head again. “I’m not even sure a leviathan could manage it.”

Coin stared at his lap. “My father did it.”

There was a long stretch of silence before the master storyweaver spoke again. “I beg your pardon?”

Coin stared at the dirty legs of his once-purple trousers. “He had a childhood sweetheart that died in a fire. He brought her back to life with his storyweaving, and they ran away. They tried to sail away on a stolen fishing boat, but there was a storm that night and their bodies washed up two days later.” Coin looked up at Master Colhan. The man’s mouth hung open even as his brows were furrowed. “I saw it. She had been alive, her body had been flesh and blood that had began to decay by the time we found them. He brought someone back to life. But I have no idea how he did it.”

Master Colhan clamped his mouth shut, eyes searching the red tablecloth in front of him. Suddenly he stood. “Please help yourself to some tea. I’ll be back in just a moment.” His back was rigid as he strode away, steps loud on the carpeted flooring. Coin fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth for a moment before he reached over for one of the teacups. The tea was bland, honestly, but the warmth did help to calm his nerves.

Did Master Colhan think he was lying? He had been nothing but completely honest since he had come to this place—the man had even made note of it. What if Coin had offended him? This man was the master storyweaver after all, and his father had been a nobody cooped up in a study, obsessing over this power that he was sure was the key to resurrection. Coin had never figured out what had driven his mother to marry him, and he had never forgiven his father for the way he had treated her and had treated him. When his father was successful, it only made matters worse, coming out of his study one day with another woman on his arm. Mother had screamed, face pale. Everyone in the clan had seen her and had similar reactions. She was a ghost given a new body, eyes alive, tongue sharp, smile wide. Everyone proclaimed she was just the same as she had been, only older, the age she should have been had she never died.

And then they ran away. Father took most of his research with him—most of which never turned up and what did was too damaged to make sense of. Mother had to take care of Coin herself, but she’d practically already been doing that anyway. They had been happy, slowly forgetting that good-for-nothing man one day at a time, the only reminder of him the notes that Coin studied to learn a powerful craft.

Then Mother died.

And Coin was alone.

So without a father to answer his questions, he set off to find someone who could. Even in the north he’d heard tales of the legendary storyweavers that lived in Tolskaan—most of them waging war with a country overseas, but a few left on this continent. Colhan had seemed his best bet, but now he wasn’t so sure. Did he already manage to mess this up? He probably did manage to offend him. People often told him he was too blunt.

Footsteps coming down the stairs broke him out of his broodings. Master Colhan appeared, a book tucked under his arm. It took Coin a moment to realize that it was his book, his corebook. Master Colhan handed the thick tome to him, its old, beaten cover replaced with a new one of tough, red leather and new pages added to the back. Coin stared at in awe.

“Sorry for the wait, Oliana insisted that she add some more pages for you. I’m sure you have no complaints about the cover, it should prove to be much better at protection. Though if you do, I could always have her paint it a different color.” Master Colhan eased himself back down onto his seat, grabbing his teacup and taking a slow sip from it.

“It’s wonderful,” Coin breathed, pulling it close to his chest. “Thank you.”

Master Colhan waved the words away. “Make no mention of it. Oliana seems to have taken a liking to you. Always did like the sort of no-nonsense people that came from the north. Ah, but there I go digressing. Please, let us get back to the matter at hand.” He leaned forward. “I trust you have woven your parents somewhere in there?”

Coin gave a curt nod. “Just my mother.” He opened it to the right page. When he first started his journey, it had been the last entry in the book, but now there were dozens of pages filled after it with people of all walks of life he had met on the road.

Master Colhan nodded in return, probably noticing Coin’s clipped tone. “Please, summon her for me.”

Coin stared down at the first page of her entry, one that went on for several more pages. It was everything Coin knew about her, every scrap of her past she had told him, every little quirk she ever had, what she disliked and liked, every good and bad aspect of her personality examined from every angle, and Coin had filled in all the cracks in his knowledge with how he thought his mother would have acted. That was the job of a storyweaver. To create a person, or to recreate one, in this case. The more about a character’s life was cemented in the book of a storyweaver, the easier it would be to weave them into the real world, the more like a person they would be, and the more powerful they would be.

“Hasha lin,” he whispered. There was a pulling on his chest, a tugging sensation he’d come to know well. An extra strain on his soul as he wove this character into existence, ink springing forth to give life to a person.

The ink strands gathered into a woman sitting on the empty couch. Her silvery-blue hair draped down her back, an additional blanket on top of the furs she wore to protect against the bitter winds of her home. Her beauty was not the soft petals of a flower as Coin had seen of the women around here, but she was exquisite like a stalwart mountain in an empty plain, built to last the many winters to come. Her gray eyes roamed around the room before they finally landed on Coin. She laid a hand on her chest, a hand Coin knew was calloused from many days of labor.

“Greetings, storyweaver.” Her voice was soft yet commanding. It was a kind voice that pulled at Coin’s memories. “How may I be of service?”

He had never tried to summon her before. He’d been too afraid. And staring into those eyes the color of steel, he felt himself come apart at the binding. “Mother,” he breathed, jumping from his seat and tackling the woman into a hug. She grunted and did not return it, but Coin barely even noticed, biting his lip to hold back tears. “You came.”

“Coin,” Master Colhan called softly. Coin drew back to glance at the man, who nodded to his mother. The woman had gone completely rigid, hands held up so they weren’t touching the boy in her lap. Coin hurriedly drew back, but the woman still did not move, eyes wide.

Master Colhan cleared his throat. “You must excuse this young man, he has been through much recently.”

The woman lowered her hands. “So it would seem. You called me mother?”

Coin searched her eyes, eyes that didn’t hold the faintest flicker of recognition. This woman—she wasn’t his mother. His mother was dead. He had recreated her person, but it was only an imitation. This woman knew him as her storyweaver, the one who had summoned her, and nothing else. He had wrote in her entry about her son and their closeness, but he wasn’t her son. Her son was still in the world he’d created.

“I—sorry.” He fumbled for a moment, hurriedly wiping his eyes. The woman looked on with concern, that same closeness she felt with the son that wasn’t him driving her to lay a hand on his patched knee. “I—” Coin cut himself off, glancing at Master Colhan. What should he tell her? Could he tell her the truth?

Thankfully, the man caught his eye. “It is best to always be honest, especially to your woven characters,” he said softly. The woman was looking between the two of them with confusion bordering on indignation.

Coin took a deep breath. This woman was his mother, but she wasn’t his mother. And it only made the ache in his heart threaten to swallow him up. “I wanted to see my mother again. But now I realize that... you aren’t her.”

The woman blinked. “Well, no, I’m not.” She took her hand back, resting it in her lap. “Was that all you needed, storyweaver?” Uncomfortable in the unknown. Coin had woven that into her because his mother had been that way too, so stoic in the cold waters of unfamiliarity.

Coin nodded. His chest was already beginning to ache both with the effort of keeping her here and having to stare at the face of a dead loved one. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch as his weaving fell apart, the strands of ink unraveling and slipping back onto his page like they had never left. When he eventually opened his eyes again, it was just the two of them.

“I believe you, Coin,” Master Colhan said, voice barely above a whisper, like Coin was a panicked deer that might spring away at any moment. “I truly do. But to simply summon someone made just like a deceased one and hope to keep them here—it’s not feasible. They're not even the same person anymore, no matter how much they look like them.”

Coin nodded. He had grown used to the pit in his chest and the tightness in his stomach. He thought he had accepted his grief and moved past it. But seeing his mother—or the imitation of her he’d made—just made it all come crashing back. He didn’t want this, but it felt like he was trying to patch a dam by poking his fingers in the gaping holes.

The tears slipped down his face silently as Master Colhan continued, “No, but this does pose an interesting quandary. Everything we make is a culmination of our minds, souls, and ink. What we make is basically nothing more than words stitched together with magic.” To accent his point, Master Colhan finished his tea and held out his cup. It wavered slightly before unraveling and returning to wherever his pocketbook was hidden away. “To create a body that persisted after death, to create a mind that retained memories of a life lost,” Master Colhan shook his head, “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the slightest clue how you could go about that. I trust you have no notes that gives you any clues?”

Coin nodded his head, dejected. “The notes my father left behind were old. Any mentions of it were musings and claims that he nor I thought would work.” But Coin had wanted them to. He had wanted so desperately for it to work. He closed his eyes and sighed as Master Colhan sat back, face pinched in deep thought.

“Yes, quite the enigma,” the man mused, seemingly unaware Coin was still there. “Of course, there are the old legends of master storyweavers summoning entire armies and cities. Such things could be placed in the same category, but those stories are completely unfounded.” Master Colhan sighed, crossing his arms and tucking his chin to his chest. “Though there is some evidence, none I had ever thought to consider before as it all seemed so preposterous. Coin,” Coin jumped as Master Colhan’s eyes focused on him again, “You are certain of what you saw?”

Coin had to fight back a nervous laugh. “Even if I wasn’t, there’s hundred people back home that’ll tell you all about it.”

Master Colhan nodded. “If it really is possible...” he trailed off for a moment, a small smile sliding onto his lips, “Well, the implications are awful. Whichever way you want to interpret that.”

Coin found himself fidgeting at the look on the man’s face and wondering if he had started something he shouldn’t have. “You think so?”

“Positive.” Colhan stood and began to pace back and forth in front of the couch. “Just think of it! Before, anything that a woven person brought here or created here would go back with them. Any technology they tried to bring or show us was whisked away the moment they were gone. Even copied blueprints would have the ink evaporate from the page. But your father found a way to keep it here.”

“When you put it that way...” Coin hadn’t even thought about any of that before. He didn’t even know about any of that, really, since had never tried to keep something a summoning made, and his father’s notes made no mention of anything like that. As much as Coin resented the man, he found himself respecting his father’s work. He had come across something amazing. He’d been completely selfish with it, but still. “Well, I’m sorry for bothering you, Master Colhan,” he said, standing.

The man hadn’t had answers. Coin hadn’t really expected him to, if he was being honest with himself, but he had hoped upon hope that he would. Otherwise, he would have to return home alone. Then what would he do?

“Coin,” Master Colhan called. Coin, already moving to show himself out, paused and turned back. “Your father... who was he?”

Coin scowled. “An ass. But I think the answer you’re looking for is a nobody. He was born in the Leviathan Clan, he died in the Leviathan Clan.”

Master Colhan grunted. “I see.” He glanced back at Coin. “You should weave him.”

“What? Why?” Coin clutched his corebook to his chest like the very thought could tarnish its beautiful pages.

Master Colhan shrugged. “You claim to be a storyweaver, yet you see your own father through such a one-tone looking glass.” He tapped his chin, eyes sly. “I wonder if that obstructs the way you’re thinking about all of this?”

Coin bristled, but whatever angry words he wanted to spit wouldn’t come out. What could he say? He was speaking the truth. Coin deflated a bit, eyes still narrowed. “I weave who I want to,” he finally said. “And someone like my father is not one of those.”

Master Colhan looked him up and down another moment, face unreadable, before nodding. “Very well. You may see yourself out.”

————— 

An hour later, Coin still found himself sitting outside Colhan’s property, staring down at a blank page in his corebook. He’d sat down to sulk for a little while, get himself mentally prepped for the journey home, but had absently pulled open his corebook and began skimming the pages. He skipped the entry he had created for his mother and soon found himself a couple pages past the incomplete entry for the guard, pen poised above the page. But he found himself with no words to write.

How would he even go about weaving his father?

Well, how had he gone about weaving his mother? He had recalled every little piece of information he could from all the dark crevices of his mind and compiled them into a coherent biography and personality analysis. But his father... Coin didn’t have enough memories to even do that much.

So he sat, staring at that page just begging to be filled, and not really knowing what to put there. Well, he could start with what bare bones he did remember. His father had been a short, big-boned man with dark gray hair like Coin’s. His skin had been milky white from never going outside, and his sharp features had been made dangerous from how often he skipped meals. He wore thick glasses that were a little too big for his face, but such things, like most, had been rare up north, away from the forward march of civilization. Though, in what blurry memories Coin had of him, it was his eyes that always stood out. They were so big and fevered, like working in that closet of his all day and night had driven him sick, or maybe it was the other way around.

The longer he thought about it though, there was another memory that surfaced, one where his father came out and found Coin crying because he broke his favorite toy.  His father stooped down to pick up the broken pieces, then promptly retreated back into his study. Coin had stormed to his room, angry tears replacing the ones of despair. When he came out the next morning, he’d found his toy, but it was brand new, in a better state than he had even gotten it the first time around. He hadn't thought much of it then, just happy to get it back.

Now though... there had been sympathy in his father's eyes. Remembering it now made his hand stop cold. He hurriedly snapped his wrist back before ink could blot on the page.

He blinked at the slim entry in his corebook, not really sure what to make of the memory. And there was no one there to help him figure it out.

Well... there could be, he thought, flipping his corebook back several pages. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steel himself. “Hasha lin.”

He kept his eyes squeezed shut until he heard an uncomfortable grunt from above him. He cracked an eye open, whatever steel he'd managed to muster up grating against the eyes that locked with his.

“Storyweaver.” It was the closest thing he figured he would get for a greeting after their first meeting.

“Uh, hi, sorry to summon you again after—” Coin cut himself off, clearing his throat awkwardly. The woman arched an eyebrow at him, face unreadable. Or it would be, if Coin wasn’t familiar with even the most guarded traits of this woman. “I’m sorry about earlier. Please, I just need someone to help me figure some stuff out.”

The woman narrowed her eyes slightly but gingerly sat down next to him. She looked rather miserable under the heavy sun in her thick furs, but she still held her head up high, dignified. “What do you need help with?”

Coin showed her the feeble beginning of his entry. “I need someone who thinks like my mother to help me understand my father.”

The woman glanced at him, distrust glinting in her eyes. “I’m not your mother. I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know,” Coin said hurriedly. “I wasn’t going to ask for memories or anything like that because I know that you aren’t my mother.” No matter how much you look like her, Coin thought, gulping as her familiar eyes softened and her pinched face relaxed. He understood his mother well—how could he not after creating such an extensive weaving of her? But that didn’t mean he thought like her. He could guide their conversation, he knew which questions to ask, he just couldn’t gather his thoughts enough to find the answers by himself. “I just... want your input.”

“Alright,” the woman said, scooting just a tad closer so she could better see the page in Coin’s corebook. “What do you need help with?”

Coin bit his lip, forcing his gaze down at the page. She still looked so much like her, it made his heart ache. “My father was a very reclusive, selfish man. Why would you find someone like that attractive?”

“I wouldn’t,” she said immediately. “And I would never marry someone like that out of love.”

“But you would out of necessity,” Coin said, nodding. But then, why would his mother have to marry someone like his father? Mother had been well-respected in the clan. Father hadn’t. Mother had been a hard worker that came from a noble family. Father hadn’t. “I can’t think of any reason yo—my mother would have married him.”

She was silent for a moment, thoughtful. “What about for you?”

Coin shook his head. “They had me a few years after they got married.”

She frowned. Seemed she was stumped too. The silence stretched on for so long it almost became unbearable. Coin shifted, a slight pain in his chest indicating that he didn’t have much longer before he would have to let the weaving fall apart.

“Tell me more about your father. What happened to him?” she finally asked.

Coin relayed everything he could recall as quickly as he could, even what he had just remembered. The woman listened intently to all of it, brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Your mother hadn’t loved him when they first married, though she may have grown affectionate for him just by having to live with him everyday. I could see myself doing something like that, especially if I brought a child into the world with that person.” She closed her eyes, nodding.

Coin stared at the barren entry. His mother hadn’t talked about her family much. She had fallen out of good grace with them. Coin never questioned why, had never even really interacted with them. Was it because she married his father? Or was it because of the reason she married his father?

He had seen his grandmother once, when he was out and about with his mother. She had looked at Mother and shuddered. What could have drawn that reaction?

Clanspeople had always been known as superstitious folk, even if the Leviathan Clan had been slightly less so. If his grandmother had known about his father’s research, that would have meant his mother knew when she married him. She’d gone knowing that his father would be spending all his time trying to bring someone else back to life.

“What would you do,” Coin began slowly, “if your son died?” The woman froze, but Coin continued. “What would you do if someone said they could find a way to bring him back?”

“I’d help them any way I could,” she said, hands balling into fists in her lap. “No matter what.”

Coin nodded. “I don’t think my father came into the marriage with any pretenses. I think my mother knew what she was getting herself into. That she was willingly devoting herself to provide for this man so he could find a way to bring back someone she loved.”

“And do you think he did it? That the woman he brought back was someone your mother loved?”

Coin frowned. “Maybe. I don’t know who though. The woman my father brought back had been his childhood sweetheart, I know that much, but maybe she had been important to my mother too. A childhood friend or—”

“Or a sister,” the woman said, eyes wide. Startled, Coin looked at her, but her eyes were still just thoughtful. Familiar, but not quite right. “If it was her sister that died, it would make sense why she would go through so much to bring her back. And if she had fallen in love with your father in the end, it would explain why she was so distraught when he succeeded.”

Mother had never spoken of having a sister, but then, she had never spoken much about her past or anything that could relate back to Father. And it would explain why his grandmother had been so upset. She wouldn’t have wanted her other daughter to be brought back with storyweaving.

His father had only been upholding part of a deal. They had gotten married so they could live together without the clan raining fire down on them, they had fallen into a tense sort of love, but at the end of the day, Father had chosen one sister over the other. That didn’t make him a bad man—it had just made him a bad husband. It wasn’t that he hadn’t cared for Coin. He just hadn’t loved him.

He had been devoted, utterly determined to bring back the love of his life. He stopped at nothing and when he finally succeeded, he did what he had always planned. He…

He hadn’t been a bad man. A bad father, sure. Misguided, yes, and maybe rash for what he did. But he could not be blamed for doing what he had.

“I... think you're right. Thank you,” Coin whispered. The woman squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome. If you would, storyweaver?” The woman stood. Coin nodded and let the weaving fall apart, the strands seeking their place back in the pages of his corebook. He stared at the nearly blank entry of a man Coin had barely known. And finally, he felt like he could fill it.

It was nearly sundown by the time he leaned back to examine his work. It wasn’t nearly as good as the weaving he had created for his mother, but he was still working with little more than a skeleton of knowledge. He’d just found the heart.

“Did you do it?”

Coin was glad he had already put his pen away or else there would have been a giant streak across the page. He sheepishly looked up to find Master Colhan standing above him, a sleek walking cane in one hand and a top hat in the other. He nodded to Coin’s corebook.

“Yes,” Coin answered once he found his voice. “It’s not as complete as some other entries, and maybe it’s still a little biased. But I did it. I wove my father.”

Master Colhan nodded, staring up at the sky with a sigh. “It’s why I turn away so many apprentices, you know, when they inevitably come. They don’t understand that opinion and bias have no place in storyweaving. They want me to take them by the hand and lead them through all the intricacies of this magic, but it’s simply not possible. It’s more than having a powerful soul, it’s more than having affluence in your hometown or several recommendations from pennybook writers. It’s about being able to understand people and all their many sides. People are not slates of stone. They are multi-faceted gems. It’s our job to capture those gems and find a way to put them down into words. I would never be so arrogant to claim that I could teach something like that. Only experience, trial and error, can teach that.”

Coin nodded. “I’m sorry I got so upset when you suggested it.”

Master Colhan waved his hat. “No, it’s completely understandable. There have been many worse reactions when I told up and coming storyweavers they should weave someone they hate.” He looked back down at the boy at his feet. “What will you do now?”

Coin shrugged. “Have no family to take me back, but I guess I’ll go home, try to start a new life.”

“And instead if I were to offer an apprenticeship?” Colhan’s eyes glittered. And then, he smacked Coin on the head with his cane.

Coin yelped and scrambled away, rubbing his top ruefully. “What was that for?”

Colhan laughed, slinging his hat on his head. “Because an apprenticeship with me will be painful and strange. Every good storyweaver is completely unpredictable. It makes it harder for enemy storyweavers to weave a version of you to understand your thoughts, though I think you’ll simply find it difficult to study under. So, do you accept? I think dear Oliana will be heartbroken if you refuse.”

Coin gave a tiny smile. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

Master Colhan offered him a hand, one that Coin cautiously accepted, but the man didn’t spring any antics on him this time around. He just laid a hand on his shoulder and began steering him back towards the house. “First order of business is some new clothes and notebooks. Not good to fill up your corebook with items and people you don’t want with you all the time. Next, I will teach you some more words to make your storyweaving easier and a little more powerful, all without putting an extra strain on your soul. We should also work on your worldbuilding, I think, and go over some basic vocabulary and grammar. No good having thoughts in your head if you can’t coherently get them down in your notebooks. Ah, and Coin,” the man stopped him right before the front door, turning him to look him in the eye, both his hands on his shoulders, “I will find a way to bring your mother back.”

Coin’s breath stuck in his throat. He held Colhan's honest, unwavering gaze for several heartbeats. In the end, the best Coin could manage was a nod. Master Colhan smiled and eased him inside, the door shutting behind them softly. There was still an ache in his shoulders, his feet, his heart—but for the first time in a long while, Coin was filled with hope.