The Last of the Runners

“In the dim and distant days, when his brothers were at war, Arun the Weaver created the Weave of the World, for, he said, every person had a tale to tell and must be allowed to tell it, whether they followed Arddos and his love of machines, or Arvir and his creations of art and beauty. Thus the balance of the world would be maintained until the coming of the Weaver King would end the enmity between the brothers.”

“As he sang his story and put the weave into the world, Arun shut himself and his brothers out. They could see the world and that that happened but could not bring their power to touch it for good or ill. Their followers thus had only their own strengths to rely on and balance was restored. Villblanche and Villombre were equal.”

“Yet the song continued and wrapped the fair Tresse, sister to the brothers, in its enchantment. She slept beneath the great tree and from her golden hairs and the roots of the tree, Arun fashioned the loom to create the Weave of the World. From then until the end, everyone who lived within the Curtain Mountains would trace their life’s pattern through the loom, their coloured threads crossing the golden strands of the Weave, meeting and parting from all other others as years came and went.”

Gyll’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he finished reading the first page of the document. Such nonsense was an insult to his intelligence. He turned the sheet of parchment over and carried on.

“Among the Weavers, it is said that the Weave can be read and one’s future path discerned, but, as with much of their superstition, the claim should be ignored, It is a lie spread by those from Villombre to explain their idle, wandering lives.”

“We in Villblanche can trace our ancestry to the historical figure of Arddos, who first harnessed the power of water and fire to create machines to mark time and increase our wealth. There is no historical record of his so-called brothers. They are, without doubt, a fiction, created by the idle of Villombre to justify their chosen lifestyle.”

“This is why we forbid the teaching of these fables in our schools. They discourage hard work and conscientious study and encourage dreaming and idleness. Those who wish to serve the City of Villblanche must subscribe to the wise judgement of the Council of Elders and the Proctors and Rectors of the City.”

Gyll finished reading the parchment and picked up the pen. He had no doubts. The Weavers were idle parasites who talked a lot of nonsense. He would do all he could to stop them, With a flourish, he signed his name.

“Congratulations,” said a thin, rasping voice, “I look forward to working with you in your new role, Rector of Villblanche.”

Kyrl knelt beside the hearth, his staff in one hand, the other clasping the hand of Souci. In the flickering flames, as he chanted, the Weave appeared, multi-coloured threads cutting across the golden hairs, twisting, turning, entwining and splitting to form intricate patterns.

Where their two threads joined and ran together, brown and yellow, a new thread was emerging, a new thread and new colour, a kingly colour. Gold.