The GodSpill

by Todd Fahnestock

  We are one....

  Mirolah pushed the voice back, denying it, and she took a deep breath. She had lost her family—again—in Rith. She had lost her mentor in Denema’s Valley. She’d lost her innocence in the battle against Ethiel, and she’d lost her entire identity in Daylan’s Fountain. She had rebuilt herself, and she’d done it around Medophae. He’d been the only steady point around which she could rebuild. In a matter of days, he had become her entire world. But the more she saw Medophae interact with Silasa, with Lo’gan and Deni’tri, with the layers of his past, the more she realized what an infinitesimal part of his life she really was. He had lived for fourteen centuries. She had been with him for a few intense weeks. It was foolish to think he had not bonded with others the way he had bonded with her. It was foolish to think their connection was something unique to him. He didn’t truly belong to her. He belonged to his angry god, to the very people of Amarion. He was their hero, and they would always need him.

  Silasa and Medophae talked near the ocean, reminiscing about events that didn’t include Mirolah, and never could. They talked of generations past and cities long fallen. Medophae had lived a hundred lifetimes, and Silasa had been part of many of them. Mirolah had only been part of the last few weeks. She had been his lover. She’d thought that meant they belonged to one another. She had seen it as a young woman sees such things, hopeful, as if her entire life was beginning with him at her side.

  But did he see it that way? How could he possibly, with her only being a recent addition to his eternal life? How could he really belong to her?

  And where did she belong?

  We are one....

  She pushed the voice back again, pushed down the slowly rising terror she had felt over the last few days. It was as if she had been standing securely on solid ground ever since Daylan’s Fountain, assured of her safety, but all the while she was really standing with her back to a sharp drop-off, her heels almost over the edge. She simply hadn’t seen it because she hadn’t turned around.

  Silasa stood up, giving Medophae a smile, then climbed the rocks and vanished into the darkness. He also stood, preparing to return to Mershayn’s camp, so Mirolah left her hiding place, Sniff at her side.

  Medophae looked up. “Mirolah,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.” She pulled a few threads, floating down to alight next to him.

  He smiled, but it was hesitant. He didn’t light up at her presence like he used to. Instead, she made him uneasy.

  Last night in The Barnacles, she had cuddled up to him in their bed, and he had been reluctant to touch her. She had wanted to mark it up to everything that was happening to them, that he was just as preoccupied as her, but the question arose in her mind: What was wrong?

  As always, she couldn’t let go of a question once it bubbled up in her mind. That’s when she began thinking about the last time he had actually been affectionate toward her as a lover and not just a companion. It took her a moment to trace it back, but it had been in Rith, that first evening in Lawdon and Tiffienne’s house, before he woke up from his nightmare and went for a walk. Since then, so much had happened—the fight with the spine horse, the continuing search for Orem, and the increasingly demanding voice of the GodSpill—that she hadn’t thought to quantify the difference in his behavior.

  But something has happened. Something I’ve been too preoccupied to notice. This isn’t a momentary distraction. Our relationship shifted while I wasn’t watching.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  He paused, then took her in his arms, hugging her and kissing her on top of her head. She felt his glamour wrap her up, making her feel wanted and loved, but she gently pushed it back with her own threadweaving. Usually, she enjoyed basking in that feeling, that warm, golden affection, but tonight, she needed to know the truth.

  He had just kissed her on the forehead, not the lips. He’d kissed her like you would a friend or a sibling. Another sign.

  Her heart beat faster, painfully, like her heels were shifting farther backward, out over the steep cliff.

  She tried to rationalize his behavior. Tomorrow, they would begin an invasion of Teni’sia. He could be distracted by battle.

  Or he could be distracted by seeing his friend Silasa again, or that Elekkena had mysteriously vanished. She told herself it could be any of a half dozen things.

  But she wanted to come right out and ask him: You called out Bands’s name in your dream. Are you dreaming of her? Are you wishing you were with her, not me?

  “So the attack is tomorrow.” She repeated the obvious, losing her nerve.

  “Moving swiftly will take Sym by surprise. I’m still nervous about you going after Zilok.”

  “He thinks I’m dead. He won’t be expecting me. You be the lightning rod. He’ll come to you.”

  “Clever.” He glanced sidelong at her. “It’s what he expects. He’ll believe it.”

  “Then I cut his anchor.”

  “He’s going to keep Orem in a safe place. He was overconfident last time with Vaerdaro. He won’t make the same mistake twice.” Medophae paused. “Are you sure there’s no way he might believe you survived?”

  She shook her head. “I was dead. Zilok knew the job was done, and it would have been, but Elekkena healed me.”

  “I thought you healed yourself.”

  “So did I. That’s what Elekkena said, and I believed her at the time. But now that she has vanished, I’m questioning everything she told me. When I was healed, I heard murmuring in a language I didn’t understand. She said it was me. I marked it up to these strange powers that I’m still struggling to understand, but the more I think about it, the more ridiculous her story sounds. She lied to me, to all of us. She healed me.”

  “What? How?”

  “She’s a threadweaver,” Mirolah said. “She kept it a secret from Stavark, from you. She said she wanted me to train her.” She shook her head. “And I swallowed it because it was just close enough to the truth. It explained everything strange about her—her odd aura, her mystery, her aloof behavior. But she’s not a novice threadweaver, Medophae. I think she’s experienced. She healed me, something even I couldn’t have done, I think. Zilok wouldn’t think it was possible for me to heal myself like that.”

  “But you were the first threadweaver in centuries,” he said.

  “Actually, my brother was the first. It stands to reason there were others. I was just the one Orem found. What if Elekkena left her people when she discovered her powers, then began practicing them in seclusion? I have learned so much in just a handful of weeks. I can only imagine how much she might have learned in two years.” She paused. “Remember at Zilok’s lair in Denema’s Valley? You said Zilok used objects and rituals to guide his mind when he threadweaves. You said others take anchors to help them threadweave, crutches to focus their minds. That seemed odd to me, because I don’t do it that way. But what if Elekkena does? Except, instead of rituals, what if she murmurs words to hold her focus?”

  Medophae stared at her, stunned, as though he’d just had a revelation.

  “What?” she said. “What is it?”

  “I...” He stumbled over the words, then apparently realized his emotions were an open book, and he turned away.

  “Medophae, what?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said to the night. “I just... I mean, that’s just so...unbelievable.” He turned back around, and he had managed to clear the surprise from his face. He gave her a smile, and his glamour tried to invade her threads with its warmth and well-being. She pushed it away.

  “There could...” he began. “Well, this could mean that there are a lot of threadweavers in Amarion, couldn’t it?”

  She felt ill, and she suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here, watching him fumble and try to lie to her. Medophae knew Elekkena’s secret, whatever it was, or he knew something about it. That reve
lation on his face couldn’t mean anything else. Medophae wasn’t terribly sly in concealing his emotions. Yet he didn’t want to tell her about it, and he didn’t want to tell her about his dreams. One decision at a time, he was pushing her away.

  “I wonder if she stumbled across Zilok,” he continued, trying to reinforce the deception. “If she threadweaved near him, and he sensed her, he would have captured her,” he said. “Or even killed her. I wonder if Elekkena went exploring Teni’sia.”

  “I wonder if she did,” she said softly. Her lips felt numb.

  “When we attack,” he said in his confident, commander’s voice, “you know you can’t threadweave until we get close. Not until you’re ready to look for Orem. Zilok will be watching for anyone using the GodSpill. If he senses you, our advantage diminishes.”

  “We don’t want him to sense me,” she repeated, trying to get a handle on her beating heart as she had her own revelation. Who was Elekkena? What kind of revelation could Medophae have had that would stun him so?

  Then a single question bubbled up in her mind. It kept repeating over and over. She opened her mouth to ask him, then closed it again.

  Did Bands murmur when she threadweaved? Was that her anchor?

  44

  Silasa

  A storm must have set in during the day, and snow had begun to fall. The caves and the coast were dusted in white. Silasa watched the boats line up along the sand. It was testament to this Captain Lo’gan’s efficiency that he could organize so many boats in just a day and have them arrive in secret.

  Medophae had told her the plan, and it was elegant in its simplicity. Wildmane, a threadweaver, a vampire, a quicksilver, and fifty soldiers to storm a castle. Grendis Sym didn’t stand a chance. Medophae was an army unto himself. In fact, the upcoming battle would have been a forgone conclusion if not for Zilok Morth.

  But Medophae’s young threadweaver, Mirolah, had a plan to deal with the spirit. She claimed she could neutralize Zilok.

  Apparently, Zilok believed Mirolah was dead. He had attacked her outside of Belshra and thought he’d killed her. To Zilok, fifty soldiers and a quicksilver was a laughable challenge. But Mirolah’s perceived death was an advantage. Zilok would happily envision the battle between just himself and Medophae. He would easily believe Medophae would simply charge forward, relying solely on the power Oedandus to prevail, just like he always did.

  And while Zilok was licking his chops, anticipating the moment he would spring his trap, Mirolah would lie in wait. When Zilok sprung his trap, she would attack, unraveling Zilok’s scheme, and, if the young threadweaver was to be believed, Zilok as well. For good.

  And that was something neither Bands nor Medophae had not been able to accomplish in a thousand years. The young threadweaver seemed inordinately talented, and Silasa found herself beginning to believe her claims were not boasts.

  However, Bands had always been the strategist in her and Medophae’s legendary partnership. To see this spot so elegantly filled by this young threadweaver sat uneasily in Silasa’s belly. Mirolah was not Bands. Yet Medophae seemed happy to let her slip into Bands’s role.

  Silasa dug her boot into the sand and watched the soldiers as they checked their equipment and began boarding the boats. She didn’t relish the idea of sitting in a boat with them, sailing south to Teni’sia. Mortals didn’t like being too close to her, and she could feel their revulsion.

  She knew it was stupid, but she couldn’t help caring what they thought. When they recoiled from her, she couldn’t help but agree with them. How else should a mortal respond to a monster in their midst?

  She waited, watching for the boat Medophae would board. She’d join him on that one.

  The soft step behind her was surprising. It was nearly impossible to sneak up on Silasa, so she knew who it had to be. She looked over her shoulder.

  Ynisaan stood there, wearing all black tonight. Her white hair was bound in a black scarf, and her midnight skin seemed a part of the shadows. Silasa was surprised to see her. Ynisaan didn’t visit when there were other people around.

  “Taking a risk, aren’t you?” Silasa asked softly, facing the beach again so as not to draw attention.

  Ynisaan let out a small breath. “Every moment of my life is a risk. I am used to it.”

  “What’s wrong? Why did you come?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Bands has returned.”

  Silasa felt like Ynisaan had poured a bucket of ice water over her. She swallowed, then backed into the deep shadows next to the mysterious woman. When she was out of sight of the soldiers on the beach, she turned, looking into Ynisaan’s depthless eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have time to explain,” Ynisaan said. “But Bands is free. She has been for many days. As always, she has put herself at the heart of things.”

  Silasa couldn’t find her tongue. After all these years, Bands was alive. She was free. Giddy butterflies filled in her belly. To see her old friend again...

  “Where?” Silasa asked.

  “They fight near Galandel Peak, north in the Corialis Mountains.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “You saw the lights in the clouds?” Ynisaan asked.

  “The unnatural storm. It’s been the talk of the camp. That’s her?”

  “Dragon fire. She has been battling another dragon, all day yesterday and some of the previous night. I need you to go to her with all haste.”

  “And do what?”

  “Make sure she survives.”

  Silasa paused. “Ynisaan, I...I can’t fight a dragon. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  Ynisaan said nothing.

  “And what of Medophae’s invasion?” Silasa asked. “They need me—”

  “He doesn’t need you. Bands might.”

  “Might? You don’t see what will happen?”

  “The ghost lines of dragons are harder to read than humans.”

  “Ghost lines?”

  “There isn’t much time, and you have very far to go. Will you help?”

  Silasa hesitated.

  “Medophae has Oedandus with him,” Ynisaan said. “And Zilok will not take the god away this time.” There was something odd in her tone. Almost...reluctance.

  Silasa tried to guess what it was. “You don’t mean to tell Medophae about Bands,” she said.

  “He must go to Teni’sia. He must defeat Zilok. If he does not...” She trailed off. “This invasion is paramount. Would you tell him right before this battle?”

  Medophae would abandon everything if he knew Bands was back. “No, I wouldn’t,” she said, then shook her head. Silasa looked over her shoulder at the shore. Most of the soldiers were loaded up, and some of the boats had already pushed out into the gentle bay. Medophae was on the beach now, his yellow hair glowing in the moonlight. The young threadweaver and the huge skin dog stood next to him.

  “Will you go?”

  “Yes,” she said. Mershayn wasn’t going to like that. He wanted Silasa with him, but Silasa had come to trust Ynisaan. If she said this was best, then she would know. “Let me just tell Medophae.”

  Ynisaan’s eyes widened.

  “Not about Bands,” Silasa amended at Ynisaan’s expression. “About the fact that I won’t be able to join the invasion.”

  “What will you say?”

  “That my blood hungers. That I need to feed. That I can’t be on a boat packed with other mortals right now. That I’ll meet him later.” She smiled, uncovering her pointed canine teeth. “All those vampire lies.”

  Silasa glanced at the beach again. Medophae’s young threadweaver was looking directly at her, curious.

  “You’d better go,” Silasa murmured to Ynisaan. Mirolah seemed to have extraordinary talent for a novice threadweaver. That she could spot Silasa in the shadows spoke of some kind of extrasensory ability. “The threadweaver is looking this way.”

  Silasa turned around, but Ynisaan was already gone.

  45


  Stavark

  Autumn had turned to winter in a day, and soft snow had begun to fall as they rowed up the coast. Everyone stayed silent at their work. The creak of the wood and the quiet splash of the waves were the only sounds. Stavark worked at the Rabasyvihrk’s side, while two Teni’sians worked the opposite side of the boat. The oars dipped and raised, pulling them over the gentle waves of the Teni’sian harbor. The castle lights twinkled. Stavark watched the shoreline, and he wondered where Elekkena had gone. Somehow, she had snuck out of their inn the night before Captain Lo’gan found them, and she had vanished.

  As with so many things surrounding Elekkena, this was a mystery. He had no idea where she might go, or why she would leave. He thought her connection to this quest was him, but obviously he had been mistaken. In what time he could spare before they came to Mershayn’s cave, he had searched for her in Teni’sia, but he had found nothing.

  He had barely known her. He hadn’t wanted her to come with him in the first place, and yet he was angry she had left. He missed her. And it frustrated him that he had overlooked something about her personality. He would never have guessed she would simply abandon them without a word.

  He pushed her out of his mind and glanced over his shoulder at the shoreline again, searching through the falling snow for any sign that an opposing force waited for them. The unexpected storm was a blessing to their attack. Visibility was short; it would be difficult for someone on the shore to see the approaching boats.

  The other rowboats followed at a distance, carrying the human leader, Mershayn, the Maehka vik Kalik, and Silasa, the hollowskin who had saved Stavark’s life.