“Fair enough. And some mistakes don’t matter. But some can cause an open rebellion!”
“If they wanted a war, they would have gone to war and never invited you to take Tyndiria’s place. They want to work with you.”
“They want to manipulate me.”
“Perhaps the trick is listening to them without allowing them to see how much you need them. They called you here to take charge. Take charge! You deliberate and hesitate in front of them. Don’t. ‘Better to make a mistake with confidence than a brilliant decision with hesitation.’”
“Father said that,” Collus murmured. He paused and took a deep breath, glanced at the door with a dread that touched Mershayn’s heart. He let out a breath. “Okay. I think I’m ready.”
“Good.”
Collus stood up. “Will you attend the audiences for today?”
“They are gravely boring.”
Collus grimaced. “Yes. But I would like you there. At least for the councils this afternoon.”
“If it is important to you, I will be there.”
“It is.”
“As you wish.”
Collus rose and opened the door. Captain Lo’gan and one of the other royal guards stood just beyond, waiting for him. “I shall see you this afternoon, Lord Mershayn,” he said, using Mershayn’s new title as though that would make him excited about spending his afternoon among pompous windbags and toadies.
“I look forward to it, Your Majesty,” he lied.
Collus left and closed the door behind him.
Mershayn let out a long breath. He tossed his sword into the air, snatched it by the hilt, then held it in front of himself. Collus thought too much. Of course, he was a king now. No more gallivanting around the countryside with his bastard brother, poaching rabbits from Sir Gefforak’s lands and hatching plans of how one of them would someday climb the keep walls to seduce his beautiful young daughter. The palace life had its amenities, but Mershayn had not felt completely at ease since they arrived. Collus was right. The denizens of the court were snakes. When Mershayn was a child, wrapped in the ignorance that only childhood can allow, he dreamed of being a king someday. That was before he learned the difference between a bastard and a pure born, and that was the end of that dream. The cold reality had stung, but its sting grew less with every week he spent in Teni’sia. He was glad of his spotty heritage now. Better Collus was king than him.
He stood quickly and stepped into a lunge. He thrust the sword forward at the wall by the window. A whisper of dust fell from where the sword point barely touched the stone.
Relaxed. In control. Would that all of life was as easy as swordplay.
2
Mirolah
After a few days’ rest, Mirolah and Medophae left Calsinac. In another time, if there weren’t so many things that Mirolah had dropped in this last crazy month, she might have liked to explore Calsinac. But her skin itched to get back to Rith, back to Denema’s Valley, back to finish all of their unfinished business. So they took a portal to Buravar, bought horses, and came south to Rith.
She stood on the top of the hill, looking at the valley and the city that she had once called home. The sun slowly sank behind distant mountains, a dusky half circle that painted the clouds red. The caravans had pulled into lines outside the city and put up their tents for the night. The workers had shouldered their hoes and gone home. Smoke from the chimneys of dozens of houses rose into the late autumn air.
The smell of cut wheat rose on the breeze that whispered to her in a language she didn’t understand. Everything whispered now. The last month of her life belonged to someone else, to some unrealistic hero in a story that could never be real. She had transformed from a scared, simple girl to a woman who could battle the legendary Red Weaver, the undead Zilok Morth, even the god Oedandus, burning inside a hulking Sunrider. Now that it was over, she looked within herself to see if she could find that innocent girl again, but she couldn’t.
Last night when they slept alongside the road, she woke up feeling like she was falling. She wasn’t that girl from Rith anymore, the one with eight adopted sisters, a job as a scribe, and dreams of a husband and children.
Who was she now?
A humble letter writer from Rith? Medophae’s lover? The threadweaver who destroyed the Red Weaver? Or was she that brief goddess, feeling all the power of the GodSpill inside Daylan’s Glass, then releasing it all back into Amarion?
The answer should be easy. She should know, shouldn’t she?
She closed her eyes and let her senses wander. The voices returned in whispers and garbled sentences. She could feel the valley breathe, gurgling to her. She could feel every living thing within a mile. Squirrels scurried quietly among the leaves of the trees, watching her, talking to her in a tongue she couldn’t decipher. Prairie mice scampered through the grass, their intermittent squeaks silent to anyone but her. A fox watched her from the edge of the trees, whispering to her. It was as if they recognized her, and they talked to her as if she should be able to understand them.
Her stomach clenched as she listened, because she knew it had something to do with the GodSpill, with the fact that she had been one with that raging force of creation inside Daylan’s Glass for the span of an eye blink. But inside that eye blink was an eternity of time. What had happened to her there? She had thought perhaps these strange aftereffects would fade, but they were only growing.
Everything was filled with GodSpill now; it had transformed the world. The leaves were greener. The mountains seemed taller. Even the air was brighter. Everything shimmered. She remembered her dreams in the rain, of knights riding down the middle of the streets of Rith, resplendent in their armor and their colorful banners, the shine of the sun upon everything, the glow about each and every person because they knew they lived in a land of infinite possibility. That daydream—her daydream—had arrived. Had that always been an effect of the GodSpill in the lands? Had she seen the future when she’d looked at those rainy streets? Or had her imagination infected the GodSpill when she was in Daylan’s Glass? Had she made this come to pass?
She watched the gorgeous purple sky fade to gray, watched until the mountains lost their definition and became hulking silhouettes in the dark. She felt the air begin to cool.
She had left this place in fear, her life threatened, Lawdon beaten by the magistrate’s men, her sister murdered. Back then, this city had been an immense place; it had been her whole world. She had envisioned living the rest of her life on its familiar dirt streets, with the ruins of Historia looming in the background.
Join us....
She spun at the voice, but there was only Medophae, who had just untied the horses. Her heart thumped painfully. The whispers had never been decipherable before.
Who are you?
There was no response. Her stomach burbled, and she wanted to vomit.
Medophae walked up to her, bringing the horses. He was a bonfire in her threadweaver sight, golden flames engulfing him, and the sight of it steadied her. Medophae had a calming effect on people when he wanted to, and she let it wash over her.
When Vaerdaro the Sunrider had taken Oedandus from Medophae, she’d witnessed an evil god come to life in a bonfire of black flame. Medophae had jokingly called the Sunrider “Darkmane,” a counterpoint to the nickname Medophae had been given long ago.
To see that godly flame returned to its rightful color—Medophae’s golden color— made her feel safe. It made her feel that all of Amarion was safe.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
By the gods, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Those gray-blue eyes, that towering physique, like he could push over a house. Even the smell of him, healthy sweat with a hint of some spice, intoxicated her. And here he was, smiling at her. He was hers. It gave her a ridiculous thrill, and for a moment, she actually did feel like that girl who had fled Rith so many days ago.
“I’m fine,” she said. She had told Medophae about the voices when they we
re in Gnedrin’s Post, but she doubted he remembered. He’d had a lot on his mind. They’d had to run for their lives from Zilok Morth and Vaerdaro.
She didn’t bring up the voices now.
“I’m scared of going back,” she said, pointedly avoiding her real fear of the enigmatic whispers. “Is that crazy?”
“This magistrate you spoke of sounds at least as formidable as Zilok Morth,” he said.
He thought he was so funny. It was adorable.
“I was a girl when I left,” she said. “I’d just found my place at Lawdon’s and Tiffienne’s house, in the community of Rith. I was going to start...well, doing what normal people do.” She paused. “Instead, I’m everything they hate. A rotbringer. A threadweaver. A harbinger of death from a frightening past.”
“You realize that all the GodSpill just rushed back into the lands. It’s going to bring a lot of change, probably has already. You could answer a lot of questions for them. They might welcome that wisdom.”
Again, so adorable. How could someone so old cling to such optimism?
“Because the ignorant are always so kind to people who bring change?” she asked dubiously. “No, they’re going to take every fear they have and stick it to me. The more I know, the bigger a monster I’ll be.”
“Well, at least you’ll be a cute monster.”
“You do realize that you’re not that funny, right?”
“Nope.” He started back toward the horses. “Come, lovely monster. Let’s go find the scary magistrate.”
They swung into their saddles, started down the hill, and Mirolah heard the animals whispering in the grass and felt the trees watch them go.
3
Mirolah
Mirolah reached out to knock on the worn wooden door and hesitated. This house had been her home. The only time she’d ever had to knock on this door was when Casra had barred it against her as a joke during a rainstorm. She could hear the voices beyond, distant like everyone was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal.
The girl she had been—who belonged in this house—didn’t exist anymore. She had faced dramaths, darklings, and undead threadweavers, and yet she hesitated to step through this door. She had survived the fight with Ethiel, the GodSpill, Zilok, and Vaerdaro. But what worked here? Either she had to lie to Lawdon and Tiffienne, or she had to tell them she was a threadweaver.
Her fist hung in the air.
“They love you, Mirolah,” Medophae said softly from behind her. “They loved you before. They’re going to love you just the same.”
“You can’t know that,” she said.
“I can and I do.”
She turned. “You know you can’t just calm me whenever you want to. I’m immune to your glamour now.”
“Are you?” He gave a charming smile.
The butterflies in her stomach fluttered away.
She sighed. “You ever do that to me when I’m not expecting it, and I’m going to turn your nose into a potato.”
“You’re stalling,” he said.
“Okay.” She let out a breath, turned back around, and knocked.
The muffled noises from the kitchen stopped. She knocked again. Tiffienne’s voice rose, the words indistinguishable, but she was probably telling one of the girls to get the door. There was a patter of footsteps, coming closer.
“I always have to get the door!” Casra said. Someone from the kitchen retorted.
Casra opened the door, but her head was turned back at whoever had made the comment. She shouted over her shoulder. “No. Always!”
Her black hair flung about her shoulders in a lustrous curtain as she turned back around. She looked at Mirolah, and her mouth fell open. She stepped back a pace.
“Gods...” she whispered.
“Hello, Casra,” Mirolah said, her eyes filling with unbidden tears. “It’s me.”
Casra leapt forward and threw her arms around her sister’s neck, hugging her tightly. After a long moment, she still wouldn’t let go, as if she was afraid Mirolah might disappear. “Oh, Mira, I can’t believe it! They told us you were dead.”
The voices in the kitchen went silent again, then there was a clamor like a horse stampede. Mirolah’s sisters fought to get through the kitchen doorway and flooded into the living room.
Yehnie was first, stumbling over Cisly’s feet, her straight yellow hair in disarray. She righted herself, then stopped a few feet from Mirolah and Casra. The rest of her sisters clustered behind Yehnie. Mi’Gan came sprinting down the stairs from the bedrooms and leapt over the bannister. She landed like a cat and ran around the stunned pack.
Shouting with glee, she barreled headlong into Casra and Mirolah and clung to Mirolah’s waist.
Cisly and Yehnie moved then, throwing their arms around all of them.
“By Thalius!”
“Mira, I don’t believe it!”
When Casra, Cisly, and Yehnie finally moved away, Dederi and Shera enveloped Mirolah in their arms.
“I thought you were dead.”
“We cried for days.”
Locke, ever the sober and responsible one, was the last of the sisters to step up. She didn’t squeal or cry, but the tears on her cheeks spoke louder than words.
“Welcome back, Mira,” she said in her husky voice, hugging her. “Thank the gods....”
And finally came Tiffienne. The other girls backed away, and Mirolah’s foster mother stood just inside the living room, clutching a wooden spoon with white knuckles.
“Oh, my girl,” she said, moving forward. She dropped the spoon, and it clacked on the wooden floor. Her warm, strong arms practically lifted Mirolah off the ground. “Oh, my poor girl. Well...” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and tried to speak in a steady tone. “You have some explaining to do, to make us worry like this. I want to hear it all. I want to hear it all....” She held Mirolah at arm’s-length, clutching her with trembling fingers and inspecting her, then hugged her again, then held her at arm’s-length again. Tears wet her cheeks. She wiped one, then the other, then sniffed. “They told us you had tried to escape, and that they had chased you down and killed you.” She waved a hand. “But never mind. Never mind.” She looked down at Mirolah’s youngest sister. “Mi’Gan,” she said to the little girl, still attached to Mirolah’s waist. “Go and fetch Lawdon. He’ll be in the back. I’m sure he hasn’t heard the commotion.”
“But Mommy, I want to—”
“Never mind what you want, girl,” Tiffienne’s stern voice cracked like a whip. “Do as I say and be quick about it.”
Mi’Gan sulkily let go, looked up at Mirolah again, then sprinted from the room.
As Tiffienne backed up, Casra, Locke, and Dederi stared past Mirolah, out the doorway, noticing Medophae for the first time. Locke narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. Casra’s mouth hung open, again. Dederi walked forward a pace, trying to get a better look, her eyes just as wide as Casra’s, though she had managed to keep her mouth shut.
Mirolah came to her senses. “Um, Tiffienne, everyone, this is my...” She suddenly realized that she didn’t have an appropriate word for him. Her lover? Her consort? She couldn’t say that to Tiffienne. “...Um, my...friend, Medophae,” she finished lamely.
“Well, what is he doing standing in the dark?” Tiffienne said. “Come in, Medophae. Please, come in.”
He ducked as he entered the doorway. Casra clapped a hand to her open mouth, seeming to suddenly realize it was open. Shera hastily drew her fingers through her hair. Dederi smoothed the waist of her dress.
Mirolah stifled a smile. She remembered what it was like to meet Medophae for the first time.
Even Tiffienne seemed taken aback, but she recovered after a moment, pulling him down into a quick hug. “Any friend of Mirolah’s is family,” she said, letting him go then closing the door behind him. “Be welcome here.” She pulled a chair out from the dinner table and said, “Dinner is almost finished. You must be starved. Please sit. I’ll bring wine.”
He nodded
graciously. “My thanks. It is kind of you,” he said in his light accent, with its over-pronounced T’s and lilting flow. He sat in the proffered chair.
“Dinner will be ready in a second.” She turned to the girls, shooed them with a wave of both hands. “All of you, back in the kitchen. There’s a meal to get on.”
“But I want to stay here,” Casra protested. Tiffienne stooped to pick up her spoon from the floor. She smacked Casra on the butt with it. “You can gape at our guest when dinner is on the table.”
Casra stared at Tiffienne, horrorstruck, then turned bright red. “Mom,” she wailed. She glanced at Medophae, embarrassed, then fled to the kitchen. Tiffienne winked at Mirolah.
Seeing the punishment for disobeying Tiffienne’s orders, the rest of the girls scurried away like mice.
“So, that’s my family,” she said.
“They’re wonderful,” he said. She sat down next to him and kissed him.
Pounding feet hailed Mi’Gan’s return. She burst through the kitchen doorway. Her eyes fell on Medophae, and she skidded to a halt. She put her hands on her hips.
“Who’re you?” she asked, coming right up to him.
“My name is Medophae.”
“You’re big.” Her mouth pressed into a straight line. The last big man to come through that door had been the magistrate. “Have you come to take Mirolah away? Because if you are, I won’t let you.”
“Come here, Mi’Gan,” Mirolah said. Mi’Gan gave Medophae a wide berth, then squirmed onto Mirolah’s lap. “This is my friend Medophae.”
Mi’Gan looked back and forth between them. “Do you kiss him?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Ick.” She wrinkled her nose.
Lawdon arrived then, also through the kitchen doorway. He took his wide hat off and set it on the table just inside the living room. He gave Medophae an appraising glance, then turned to Mirolah. She patted Mi’Gan, who slid off her lap, and Mirolah rose and hugged Lawdon.
The GodSpill: Threadweavers, Book 2 Page 3
