The Exiles

12. Pry Free

Papa? Attin froze as he spied a figure in the fog briefly. His eyes must play tricks, he figured. How else could he explain seeing phantom family members in the fog? First Papa, then Amer. Of all the families he was to miss, they weren't the ones he expected to see first. Mama perhaps. Or Granny. Or even little Mawsie. But Papa and Amer? That was different. I must be scared. I'm seeing them because I wish to be freed of this strange place, he concluded.

"What is it, dear boy?" Maine asked, halting up ahead.

Papa-fog shook his head. Or at least that's what it looked like. The shadowy figure even put his finger to his lips as if to shush Attin. The figure came in and out of the fog, walking silently beside him. Behind it, he occasionally saw Amer too, foggy but present.

"Nothing," Attin said, hands balled into fists in his coat. He still wasn't able to shake the clawing feeling in his heart, the one that didn't fully trust Maine, or Maan, or whoever he was. "So, what sort of place is this where we can't weave? I've never heard of such a place before?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"A place that is neither here nor there, neither bound to land or air."

"What?" Attin scratched his head, for it was swimming. "Neither here nor there?"

"Yes." Maine smiled up ahead. "Nor bound to land or air."

Attin furrowed his brows. "Why would such a place exist?"

"It didn't once." Maine's eyes darkened. "It was created."

"Created? Why?"

A crooked smile lifted Maine's lips to one side.

Maine's smile didn't sit right with him and Attin could guess with near surety what the man hadn't said. For me.

And that odd, uncomfortable smile told Attin one very important thing. Something wasn't right with this realm, or the man smiling at him. And somewhere inside Attin a voice urged rather loudly, get out of here, now!

"How long have you been stuck here?" Attin asked, hoping his voice was calm as he intended it to be. He resumed walking so that his companion didn't grow suspicious.

"I've lost track now. Many moons. Too many to count." Maine almost skipped beside Attin. "But now that you're here, dear weaver, I think I may yet be saved!"

There it is again. Being saved. Why would Maan need saving? Attin's thoughts churned.

He watched Maine carefully as he asked the next question. "I heard a story about a young monk in a temple once. They said the child fell sick when he ate berries and that you healed him of his sickness. They say you took him to your land—this land—and returned him a few years later, cured. Is that true?"

The way Maine stared at him made Attin well aware. He does not know what I'm talking about, or that I made the tale up. If he claims it as the truth, I'll have my answer. He is not Maan. Dear Father, help me.

Maine smiled, his hard gaze easing up. "Yes, it was nothing. I can heal great many things." He reached a hand for Attin's arm. "Including fear, my dear boy."

The next few things happened in slow motion if you were to ask Attin this later—though in all honesty, it was over in the blink of an eye.

"No, don't touch him!" Papa's voice boomed in the heavy fog.

Then Amer dove at the man before him, as if to push him away from his brother. Instead, he fell through as if the man was made of air. Amer landed on the other side of him with a mouthful of fog.

"Ah, my dear old friend." Maine eyed Amer, who lay several feet from him, though his arm was still within reach of Amer. "Master weaver. In fact, three weavers ensnared in one day"—he turned to Ovek next, who was still rushing to his younger son. "How my luck's changed... I may just get out today."

"You will never get out, not if we can help it." Amer struggled to his feet, eyes locked on Maine, who by now had inched that much closer to Attin and the boy hadn't noticed yet. One more inch and they'd be touching.

"Now, now, Amer. You're hurting my feelings. After all, you are my maker."

Attin looked from his father to his brother, utterly lost. "Maker? What does he mean?"

"Get away from him, Attin." Papa called, looking like he was trying to reach Attin, though something seemed to hold him at an arm's length. On the other side of Maine, Amer too seemed to strain.

"Papa, what is going on? Why can't I move?" Attin turned to his father, feeling like his feet were glued to the ground.

"Oh, did I forget to mention, little one?" Maine moved freely, sliding his hand over Attin's arm. "This is my world."

As Maine's hand touched Attin's skin, pain ripped through the boy, searing from his arm to his body. He felt as if he was being squeezed like a lemon. He screamed, unable to help himself.

"You leave him alone!" Amer shouted, though it was faint in his brother's ear.

"I can't do that, dear weaver. I only just started." Maine's voice was crystal clear, as if it were ringing in Attin's mind. "So much power between you three, enough to undo this spell and set me free."

"Amer!" Papa shouted in the distance, though muffled in Attin's ears. "You wove him, only you can undo him! I need you to weave, son. This is your world, not his... you created it!"

Maine's maniacal laughter ran in Attin's ears. "It's mine now!"

As Attin felt his power weaken, sucked by the demon, the heavy fog around Maine thinned.

"Papa?" Attin forced the words out. "What is he?" For he needed to know. If this was to be his last moment, Attin needed to know—who is he if not Maan?

Papa met Attin's gaze through the fog, a look filled with remorse. But before he could say a word, it was Amer who spoke, his words heavy as his guilt. "I created him years ago... a demon who feeds on weavers, their power."

"Ah, and what power this young man holds, perhaps more than you ever did, dear friend." Maine's arm tightened around Attin's skin.

Pain ripped through him again, squeezing him tighter, and the boy screamed again. His lungs burned, and his muscles ached. Soon, his vision blurred as his magic slowly left him. Beyond his reach, Papa and Amer darkened till they existed no more. Only pain. Pain and realisation that he had not entered Maan's world, but something else.

"Amer!" Papa screamed in the darkness. "Weave, son. Weave! He is your creation. Undo him."

But could Amer weave so brilliantly to undo his own demon? He wasn't sure, not really.

"WEAVE!" It was the last word Attin Silvertongue heard that evening before his world turned as dark as can be.