He thought of Bands.
Stop it. You’re with Mirolah. She is your beloved now.
But even as he thought it, it felt wrong. To use that term for any other than Bands felt like a betrayal.
What if Avakketh isn’t lying? What if Bands has returned?
Mirolah stopped rubbing his back and laid her hand on his waist.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
“No.”
She went silent, and he realized he’d stung her.
“I’m sorry. I just... I need to clear my head.”
“Do you need to take a walk?” she murmured into his shoulder. “Clear the dreams away?”
He smiled his reassuring smile. “Are you sure you can’t read my mind anymore?” He tried to sound light-hearted.
An acutely painful memory of Tyndiria came to him then. He saw his balcony at Teni’sia. He saw the young queen, her long ringlets framing her face. Curling red vines. He felt her come up behind him and wrap her arms around him.
He had betrayed Bands with Tyndiria. He was betraying Bands with Mirolah. He closed his eyes and banished the image.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I will, for just a while.”
“I’ll be here,” she said, releasing him.
He sat up. He felt the urge to lean over, kiss her again, but he didn’t.
The dream... It wasn’t a dream. It was an attack, the first of more to come. Avakketh was coming south. That was more important than Mirolah or Bands, more important than anything personal Medophae might have wanted. Avakketh was going to destroy Amarion.
He got up, began dressing quietly. “I’ll be back by sunrise.”
“Take your time,” she said. “The sun is almost here.”
He looked at her, about to ask how she knew that, but he didn’t. This was Mirolah. If she said she could sense when the sun would rise, then she could.
“Okay.”
“Remember, though, that Tiffienne will be cooking her miraculous eggy hash for breakfast, in honor of our visit. You’ll regret it if you miss it.”
“I’ll be back in time.” He hesitated, then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
He quietly left through the front door and wended his way through the squat buildings, trying to tamp down his emotions, that gutless fear that turned his courage to water, and the flare of hope that Bands had returned. He had put her to rest, clinging to Mirolah in his sorrow. But now, was it possible Bands not only survived the gem, but had emerged? If she had—if there was even the slightest chance she was alive—could he really just ignore it? What if Bands was looking for him right now?
His boots splashed through puddles as he turned down one street after another. He didn’t pay attention to where he was going. He just needed to keep walking.
Love.
It was the answer to the riddle. Of course it was. How could he never have seen that?
Because it was exactly the kind of insidious thing Ethiel would do.
You can have your beloved back, just as soon as you cast her aside and love someone else.
Ethiel knew he’d never do that, so she knew she had him. Medophae couldn’t have seen the answer because seeing the answer meant he had to give up Bands anyway. There had never been a chance for him to solve it.
For a brief moment in Calsinac after they had destroyed Zilok, and then here in Rith with Mirolah’s family, he’d been happy again. He had moved on to a new life. He had found joy in simple things; he’d found humor again. Now he felt like he was betraying Bands by being in Rith. And he felt like he was betraying Mirolah by thinking of Bands.
He stopped walking, put his fists to his head. When he finally looked up, he realized he was standing next to the hacked and marred base of a blue tower. The sun was beginning to rise in the distance, as promised.
The tower loomed high, its pointed top catching the first rays of light. Deep grooves cut away at the blue marble base, back and forth, crosshatching each other. The years had smoothed the scars, depositing dirt into them, making them dark brown scabs. It was as though a beast with steel claws had attacked the tower. Why? What could be so offensive as to...
He looked up where the destruction ended, some ten feet high. There had been a mosaic on the blue marble, and just out of reach of the vandals’ axes, sleek green dragon wings spread wide, gliding toward a setting sun. Astride the dragon was Medophae with flying golden hair. This mosaic was of him and Bands. The bottom half of Bands’s body had been obliterated, but the vandals couldn’t reach higher than that. The Wildmane and Bands in the picture were oblivious to their half-destruction, flying blithely into a brilliant sunset of oranges, reds and purples.
He remembered when he had crossed that ocean with Bands. She was unfathomable back then. He hadn’t even known if she was male or female. Dragons had not even been part of the lore of his people on Dandere. No one had ever seen one before, save his mother. She had crossed that same ocean in the opposite direction and found her future with Medophae’s father on the island.
Bands had watched Medophae all throughout his childhood, unbeknownst to him. She protected him. It dizzied him, how long ago that had been. His life had changed a hundred times since then. The entire lands of Amarion had changed. The time of his childhood was an era that seemed like fragments of a dream.
He entered the tower, taking the steps seven at a time as he launched himself to the top. He emerged onto the turret and looked out over the city.
“Historia,” he murmured, remembering the name and looking at grand spiral below him that had once told the history of the lands from the goddess Natra, who had made the world. Once there had been a great statue of Natra in the center with mist flying out all about, looking out over the unfolding of human history. The statue had been one of the wonders of the Age of Ascendance, and though Medophae had only seen it once in all its grandeur, he had always meant to return.
There were many things I meant to do, he thought, looking away from the sad little lake in the center of the spiral. There were many times I stood at a crossroads, not knowing which way to go. And I have made more bad decisions than good.
Do I believe a hateful god who claims to be doing me a favor? Do I throw away all else and dance to Avakketh’s tune?
Or do I stay true to my companions, continue my search for Orem and Stavark?
The answer was simple. Medophae didn’t trust the gods, even Tarithalius. He certainly wouldn’t trust the god who hated humans above all. There was no reason for Avakketh to do Medophae any favors.
He started back down the stairs, winding around and around.
He would go to Denema’s Valley with Mirolah. They would find their friends. That was what mattered most.
And Bands...
He reached the base of the tower, went through the doorway and turned, staring at the nearly-obliterated mosaic.
Bands was irretrievably locked in a gem. She was beyond his reach. Either that, or she had died centuries ago in that prison.
9
Mirolah
Mirolah woke before the sunrise and helped her sisters with their chores as though she’d never left. Ignoring the GodSpill or any attempt at threadweaving, she carried the wood in for the fire. She swept the dining room floor and helped with breakfast. For a glorious hour, she returned her to her childhood. She was that young girl again, the girl she had left behind, that girl who only transcribed letters for other people, who did not hear the lands breathing, the animals speaking.
But simply because she imagined it did not make it true. As Mirolah diced a cucumber for the morning salad, she felt the tapestry move, felt the breeze outside the door of the little house, felt five men approaching.
She set the knife down next to the half cucumber on the cutting board and ran a finger down one of the deep grooves in the wood, feeling the texture of it.
She memorized the kitchen, the sturdy wooden walls and the sturdy wooden counters, the matching cupboards perched at head height.
Tiffienne and Casra worked together over the stove, their backs to Mirolah, preparing to transform the eggs into a masterpiece. She could hear Mi’Gan arguing with Lawdon in the tile yard. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
I love you. I love you all.
She walked into the dining room and waited. The men outside arranged themselves cautiously, and she could feel their fear. When Mirolah had escaped the jail, the jailors had been beaten unconscious by Stavark in a flash of silver light. The magistrate and his men were going to be more aggressive this time.
The door boomed as the men hammered on it. The kitchen went silent, and Tiffienne hurried through the doorway, followed by Casra. Her foster mother glanced worriedly at Mirolah. She could feel Tiffienne’s protectiveness, a palpable presence.
“It’s okay,” Mirolah said. Medophae hadn’t returned from his walk. That was one small relief, at least. She wondered how much patience he would have for these men who had beaten her foster father and imprisoned her. The last thing Rith needed was an enraged Wildmane.
“Casra, go get Lawdon,” Tiffienne said. Casra nodded and leapt for the back door, but she pulled up short as Lawdon entered the kitchen.
The door thundered again. “Open immediately, in the name of the magistrate!” came a loud voice.
“Go, Mirolah. Out the back,” Lawdon said, coming into the living room. “I will deal with these men.”
“No,” she said. “I’m okay.”
The door thundered again, as though they were done knocking and were going to break it down.
“They’ll not have you this time,” Lawdon said, starting forward. He held that big metal tiling tool again.
Mirolah held up a hand to Lawdon, stopping him, then pulled a thread and opened the door.
The magistrate stood tall and still outside, just as Mirolah had expected. Four men formed a semi-circle behind him. The magistrate, not waiting to be invited, stooped slightly and entered, his triangular hat brushing the top of the doorway.
“So.” He gave Lawdon a cursory glance before focusing on Mirolah. “It’s true. I doubted her when Selene told me her wild story. She said the rotbringer had returned in the night.” The magistrate shook his head. “You should not have come back. We thought you dead in the forest, eaten by animals. How did you survive?”
Mirolah just watched him, waiting.
“If you like, Deitran,” Lawdon said. “We will come visit you tomorrow and tell you the entire story.”
The magistrate shook his head, his lips pressed together so hard they were white. “I am wroth with you, Lawdon,” he said, not looking at him. “You have always been a pillar of our community, but you are harboring a murderer. That is a crime.”
“She’s no murderer.”
“She killed Fillen,” the magistrate said. “A girl entrusted to your protection. How can stand in the way of justice? Does she have you under some spell?”
“There’s no spell over me, Deitran. I know my daughters, every one. You know none of them. Did you give Mirolah a chance to explain? Did you listen to anything she told you about the monster? No, you blamed her and shoved her into a cell and then lied to everyone about what happened. You’re a poor magistrate and a liar on top of it.”
“You’re being foolish. She summoned that monster. We all know about her brother!”
“And what did he do? From how Mirolah tells it, he made some lights float around. That’s worth killing a child?”
“Listen to you! That makes him a rotbringer, and rotbringers are poison. It’s worth killing every single one of them to keep us safe. They destroyed the world. I’m not going to stand by and let one destroy our city.” He pointed at Mirolah. “Men, take her to the jail. Lawdon, I pray you’ll stand aside, but if you choose to interfere again, we will deal with you as you choose.”
The four men filed into the room, and Lawdon lifted the sharp tiling tool like a short sword. Mirolah let out a low breath and—
“What’s going on here?” Medophae’s powerful voice cut through the tension in the room. Everyone, including the magistrate, stopped what they were doing and turned. Medophae filled the doorway, looming like a nightmare behind the magistrate’s thugs. She remembered him as he stood in front of the darklings in Denema’s Valley. He had seemed to grow when he was angry, as though the presence of Oedandus turned him into a giant.
“Who are you?” Medophae demanded.
The magistrate winced under Medophae’s gaze and almost answered. “I am—” But he caught himself and regained his composure. He drew himself up, pointed a finger at Medophae as though to emphasize his authority. “I caution you, stranger, go back about your own concerns. This is official city business. We are apprehending a murderer.”
Lawdon stayed tense, steel raised in case the magistrate’s men should suddenly attack. Tiffienne waited silently, clasping her wooden spoon. Casra had gone to the kitchen and returned with an iron skillet. The rest of her sisters appeared like mice, clinging to corners of the rooms.
“Ah, you must be the magistrate,” Medophae said, relaxing a little. “I was warned you were mighty and fearsome. I see every bit of it is true.” Mirolah could see a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, but she doubted the magistrate or his men noticed.
“That girl, there,” the magistrate turned his finger on Mirolah, “killed her sister and escaped the justice due her.”
“Ah, of course. Was it a knife?”
The magistrate looked confused. “What?”
“The murder weapon. Was it a knife?”
“No.”
“An axe?”
“No.”
“Are you going to keep me guessing? What was it? What weapon did she use? Surely not a sword. She doesn’t look like a swordsman.”
The magistrate sputtered. “There was no weapon—”
“No weapon? Did the girl strangle her sister?” He glanced at Mirolah dismissively and rolled his eyes.
Now Mirolah had to hide her smile. He was playing with the magistrate. She wanted to tell him that, once again, he wasn’t being funny, but this time it was, seeing the magistrate as the butt of the joke.
“No,” the magistrate stated clearly. “She summoned a monster that slew her sister.”
Medophae paused. “Summoned...” he said. “Oh. I see. She’s a threadweaver.”
“Yes!”
“And you are a threadweaver as well.”
The magistrate hissed. “Of course not! She is a threadweaver! A rotbringer!”
“You’re not a threadweaver?’
“No.”
“So you’re a sensitive.”
“A what?” the magistrate asked.
“A sensitive. Someone who is sensitive to the workings of the GodSpill. Someone who cannot wield GodSpill but who can see it happening.”
“I—I’m not... You circle me with phrases I am unfamiliar with, stranger, but it does not change the fact that she is a murderer.”
“So you’re not a sensitive.”
“No!”
Medophae looked skeptical, playing the role like he was a born actor. Mirolah stifled a giggle. “Let me make sure I understand,” he said. “So you are telling me that you aren’t a sensitive, and you’re not a threadweaver. Which essentially means you know nothing about GodSpill—except, of course, that it is a method of summoning monsters. Tell me then how you saw her summon this creature that committed the murder?”
“I did not see her do it,” the magistrate said.
Medophae paused, incredulous. After a long, silent moment, he said, “I’m sorry?”
“There were other witnesses. Eleven, to be precise.”
“Ah,” Medophae said, seeming relieved. “And they were threadweavers?”
The magistrate had begun to understand that Medophae was making fun of him, and his face darkened. “Enough of this farce. This is none of your business, stranger. I am the dispenser of justice in this town.”
“A particularly blind style
of justice, by your own account.”
“Stand in our way at your peril! The girl goes to jail, and we will determine her sentence there. ”
“If I may interrupt again—”
“You may not,” The magistrate said. “Men, Take her.”
The men closed about Mirolah, and Lawdon stepped forward. One of the men cocked back to hit him, but she pulled a thread. The man spun away and hit the wall, fell to the ground, and she bound him there, deftly tying his threads to the floorboards.
Another swung at Lawdon. Mirolah sent him spinning after the other man before he could land the blow. Without waiting for anyone else to attempt another attack, she lifted the remaining two men and threw them onto the heap, binding them all to the floor and each other.
The magistrate gaped.
“I did not hurt them,” Mirolah said. “But I won’t let them hurt Lawdon, either.” She came forward and stopped, looking up at the tall magistrate. Everyone else had gone completely silent. Casra’s iron skillet slowly descended until it slipped from her fingers and thunked on the floor. Medophae leaned against the doorjamb, smiling.
The magistrate held his chin high, like a man readying himself to be hit. A few of the men in the pile grunted as they struggled against the bonds she’d created.
“I am a threadweaver,” Mirolah said to the rigid magistrate. “But that is not the evil you think it to be. If I was the murderer you claim, I’d kill you all right now. But I’m not. You were wrong about me, and if I’d had the power then that I have now, Fillen would still be alive.” She drew a deep breath. “There are many things to fear in the lands now, magistrate. And yes, there are evil threadweavers, but I am not one of them. I am not the enemy you try so hard to see when you look at me. I would never hurt you or your men unless you forced me to do so.” She paused and held the magistrate with her gaze. “I did not kill my sister. You have falsely accused me.”
He swallowed. She felt the magistrate’s fear in waves. He struggled to keep the stern expression on his face.
“But I forgive you,” she said. “The real murderer is a threadweaver named Ethiel. She sent the darkling. I have since brought justice to her. Rith need not worry about her again.”
The GodSpill Page 8
