David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

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.