“Aren’t you his brother?” Medophae asked calmly.
“His bastard brother.”
“It would not be the first time Teni’sia has seated bastard blood upon the throne. You are the closest claim after Collus.”
“Sym is the closest claim. And Vullieth would never support me as king.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because I am no king,” he said. “Ask Vullieth.”
“Lord Vullieth would rather see you on the throne than Sym, I would wager.”
“That’s money you would lose,” Mershayn said. A spike of pain went up Mershayn’s spine into his right eye. He grit his teeth. “Besides, I do not wish to be king,” Mershayn snarled. “I wish to avenge my brother and then die.”
Medophae nodded as though he understood, and Mershayn wanted to spit at him. This overconfident pup didn’t know what it was to love your brother more than your own life, then to watch him be cut down because of your shortcomings.
“Hmmm,” Medophae said. “I suppose we shall see.”
Another spike of pain went up his spine and into his head. Mershayn stifled a gasp. The room canted to one side and Mershayn closed his eyes a moment. He forced them open again. “I will welcome Vullieth’s help to unseat Sym, but I do not think we will have it when you tell him Collus is dead.”
The woman leaned over and whispered into Medophae’s ear. Another spike of pain shot into Mershayn’s head, and he feared his skull would crack open. This time he could not suppress a gasp.
“My lord, Mirolah says that your wounds are worsening. If you would—”
Mershayn did not hear the rest of what the young captain said. The room slanted to one side, and he couldn’t stop it this time. It was as though everyone before him stood on the wall of the cave. His right eye went black. He could see nothing out of it, and it felt like someone had lit his brain on fire. Something hard smacked into his injured cheek, and he screamed. He saw the woman lunge forward.
Then, nothing....
I will not let you go.
Mershayn struggled in terror against the webs that held him. He must get away. He fought them with every ounce of strength he had, but they held him, immovable. Above him, a huge, gray-black swirl pulled at him. That was where he belonged. He had to get free, had to get to it. He pushed his face between the threads of the web, but could not force his head through.
“Let me go,” he screamed. He felt the fabric of his being tearing. It was excruciating. It was as though he was being torn in half, starting with his eyelids and pulling down until all his flesh was parted. Why could he not get past this web? He needed to reach that swirl. That was where he belonged!
All will be well. The wound is complicated. I will be finished shortly.
“No!” Mershayn threw himself against the web. He bit, but his teeth were not sharp enough. He kicked, but he was not strong enough.
Suddenly, the pull of the vortex lessened. He considered the swirl in the sky and, for the first time, wondered what it was. The bonds of the web did not bind tightly against his skin anymore. Rather, he was floating down, away from it. He turned about and saw his body below him. It jolted him speechless.
The woman knelt over his body, her hands on his chin and his right cheek. As he floated closer, he saw tiny tendrils of light connecting her head to his own. There were hundreds of the light tendrils, wriggling into his chin and cheeks.
Then, all at once, she turned her head, and looked up at him. The tendrils slithered toward him. Mershayn threw his hands up in front of his face and rainbow lights flashed.
He opened his eyes and sucked in a breath. Straight brown hair shielded him in a shimmering curtain. The woman leaned over him, as though she had almost fallen on top of him. She smiled wearily, and it was as if the new day had risen from that smile. He had never seen anyone so lovely.
“By the gods...” he whispered. He saw her in perfect clarity now, through left and right eyes, and the pain in his head had vanished. “What did you do?”
“By Thalius, you fought me,” she said, sounding exhausted. “But I wasn’t going to let you go.”
“You healed me?” She was so radiant he could barely speak. She glowed like a goddess. “I watched you from above myself,” he said. “I was entangled in a web. It burned me, tried to tear me apart.”
“I apologize for that.”
“You made the web!”
“Your spirit had already left your body. There was no other way.”
“That swirling gray above me...”
“The Godgate.”
“The Godgate,” he whispered again. “You are... You are...” He could think of nothing that could adequately describe the surge in his heart. He longed to stare forever into her eyes. He felt whole, but feared that feeling would vanish the moment he stopped looking at her.
She smiled self-consciously, as though she could read his thoughts. She shyly averted her eyes and stood up on shaky legs. “Come.” She extended her hand, though she did not look at him directly. “You should be able to stand.”
He took her hand and a shiver ran through him.
“What is your name?” he murmured.
“I am Mirolah,” she said. Once she had helped him upright, she let go of his hand and went back to stand beside Medophae once more. When her hand slipped out of Mershayn’s, he felt a loss. Without her near him, he felt...fragmented.
Somebody said something, but Mershayn continued to stare at her.
“My lord, I apologize,” Medophae said. “Perhaps we should talk more later.”
Mershayn shook his head, trying to clear it. “What?”
“Perhaps we could continue this conversation in the morning? I think a good night of rest will serve you well.”
Mershayn’s gaze strayed to Mirolah. She watched him curiously. He suddenly realized how strange he was acting, and snapped his attention back to Medophae.
“No, Medophae. Not at all. I feel as though I have just flown through the air. I feel...as if I have awoken from a nightmare to find...” He looked at Mirolah again, but the words he had been about to say died.
“Are you all right?” Deni’tri took his arm, looking with concern into his eyes. “Did she addle your brains, my lord?”
“In the best of ways. Give me a moment.”
He reseated himself, trying to tamp down his unreasonable joy, though he could barely contain it. He felt as if he could take on all of Sym’s soldiers single-handed.
Once he had rallied his thoughts and forced himself not to look at Mirolah, he got back to business. They would retake Teni’sia. They would do it as soon as possible.
They talked deep into the night, discussing strategy. The moon was high in the night sky by the time they finished. Medophae seemed as indefatigable as Mershayn, but the quicksilver—whose name was Stavark—and Mirolah were exhausted.
Their council ended, and it was with that same striking sense of loss that Mershayn watched Mirolah leave his cave. He desperately wished to come up with some reason why he should talk to her alone, but he could think of nothing.
“You should rest, milord,” Deni’tri said.
“I cannot sleep. It is as if I have been reborn,” he said. “Tonight, you sleep. I shall watch over you.”
Her eyes were red-rimmed from fatigue, but she shook her head. “No, my lord.”
“Consider it an order.”
Her mouth set in a firm line.
“Come, Deni’tri. We attack Teni’sia tomorrow. I need you fresh, and I know you have slept but little. Do me this service. Allow me the privilege of protecting you as you have protected me.”
She seemed about to refuse, then said, “Very well, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty. King. Of all the laughable, bizarre things. Tomorrow they would attempt to retake Teni’sia. He didn’t need to worry about something so silly as becoming king. His would be the first blade to cut into Grendis Sym, or he would d
ie trying. That was his kingdom. That was all that mattered.
He leaned against the cave wall and settled in for his watch. Soon, Collus would be avenged, and they could both rest.
And it was all because of her. He knew he should be thinking about the upcoming attack, but he couldn’t. His thoughts strayed to beautiful Mirolah, her brown eyes looking into his soul.
42
Medophae
Cool moonlight shone on the craggy rocks nearby Mershayn’s hidden cave. Since the moment he saw her emerge from the shadows to the left of Mershayn’s chair, Medophae knew Silasa would find a moment to talk tonight. He had made himself obvious, and she would find him.
She appeared around the fold of the cliff, her dark silhouette breaking the glimmering pattern of the waters behind her. The smooth roll and crash of the surf echoed quietly all around.
She was the same as ever, an affliction they shared. Her long black braid sloped over one shoulder, and her stance was that same equal-legged stance she’d always had. She did not cock her hips, lean one way or another. It was the stance of a young woman, open and receptive and unbruised by the lands.
The irony caught at Medophae’s heart. Silasa had been more bruised than most, had suffered more hardship than a mortal could comprehend. She did not stand that way because she was innocent, but because her body had the muscle memory of a sixteen-year-old girl, because that was when Darva had infected her with the blood of White Tuana. Silasa would never hunch under the weight of age, feel the aches in her joints that would cause her to shift her weight when she stood too long. She would never swing her hips seductively to catch someone’s eye.
“I always wonder what you are thinking when you look at me that way,” she said. She hiked her black skirts and deftly navigated her way around the rocky ground. Not a single stone crunched under her advance. She moved as if she was walking on air.
“I was thinking about you during a younger time in your life,” he returned.
“Before I became a vampire.”
“I remember you running after a ball through your father’s audience chamber.”
“Much younger, then.”
“I hadn’t seen you for years when Darva snatched you. By the time I saw you again...”
“I was this,” she finished for him.
He looked down at his hands that rested easily between his knees. “I’m sorry about that.”
After a moment, she said, “It’s not your fault that she took me.”
He wondered if that was true. If he hadn’t spent so much time talking with Darva, trying to find a peaceful solution... If he’d simply jumped straight to violence, would the outcome have been different?
“I found a log,” he said. “Good for sitting.”
She glanced at the piece of driftwood he had turned so that it made a passable—if short—bench, then looked at her dress, then sighed.
“Is that a new dress?” he asked, realizing she was reluctant to get it dirty.
“Mershayn vomited on my last outfit.”
“We can stand.”
“No, let’s sit.”
They sat in silence. After a moment, Silasa scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and they looked out over the ocean, watched the waves lap against the shore.
“It is good to touch someone,” she murmured. “Sometimes, I feel that I am not real because I do not touch. Not the way humans normally touch. I do not shake hands. I do not hug. The only time I touch another creature is when I kill it. I have no contact with those that I love.... It is easy to feel as if I am not real at all.”
His arm tightened around her.
“I have missed you,” she said with a sigh. “I miss the life I once had, broken as it was, when Belshra still existed. Even when my father and sister and nieces and nephews died of old age, I continued helping my grand-nieces and nephews. It wasn’t much of a life, but I miss it fiercely now. My fringe existence near Belshra seemed small and lonely until it was taken away. Now I have no one.”
“You have me.”
“I cannot make a life from waiting for you to stop by every decade or so.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “Tell me of your journeys since last I saw you. Tell me of this Mirolah who you find so precious.”
Medophae related the story of the destruction of Daylan’s Fountain and the ensuing chase by Zilok Morth. He told of how he had lost Oedandus, and how Mirolah had healed something inside him he hadn’t known was wounded. He told of how he had cast away the ruby containing Bands, and how he’d learned to be in love with another.
He didn’t tell her about the dreams of Avakketh, or the answer to the riddle, or the notion that Bands might have been freed when he cast the gem into the Sara Sea.
Silasa wept, and Medophae wept with her.
“And how did you come to ally yourself with this Lord Mershayn?” he asked.
“I fill my nights how I can. There was a need. I helped. Who knows, perhaps Teni’sia will become my new Belshra.”
“You have a right to do what you wish. So much has already been taken from you.”
“Don’t pity me, or I’ll bite you,” she warned.
He laughed. “Mershayn is lucky to have you at his side.”
“And to have Wildmane. And a full-fledged threadweaver. I almost feel sorry for this Grendis Sym.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You’ve already passed judgment on him, then?”
“You think me heartless.” He raised an eyebrow and craned around to look at her.
“I think you implacable.”
He let out a long breath. “I gave too much sympathy to Ethiel. It cost me everything.”
“And you will never make that mistake again, will you?”
“You bait me,” he said.
“Compassion isn’t a failing.”
He went silent. The truth was: he wanted to be fearsome to those who deserved it. He wanted evildoers to imagine the fiery rage of Oedandus coming for them. He wanted them to quiver at the thought of it. “Then I shall do better,” he said.
She nodded. If someone like Silasa could find compassion, past the hunger inside her, after all that had been done to her, then he could strive to at least match that compassion.
He changed the subject. “So, Teni’sia is your new home, then?”
“There are many lightless corridors in the castle. I like it. It’s easy to move about.”
“So Denema’s Valley was just a stop along the way?”
She glanced at him. “Stavark told you.”
“It’s not every day a quicksilver gets saved by a vampire. He thought you came to eat him.”
“I was hungry,” she said. “And I imagine quicksilver blood tastes like fresh snow.”
He laughed, knowing Silasa would rather eat her own arm than feast on an innocent. “What were you doing there?” he asked.
“Protecting my one friend.”
“You should have told me you intended to follow me,” he said.
“And spoil the surprise?”
“Why do I feel like you’re still not telling me everything?”
“Because you have wisdom.” She stood up.
“Silasa—”
“The dawn is close,” she said.
He sighed. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”
“If not, then soon.”
“If you insist on being cryptic, then good hunting, princess.”
She moved down the slope like a dancer, neatly managing her new dress, and disappeared into the night.
43
Mirolah
We are one, the voice whispered to her. Come to us.
It had never stopped since the insidious forest. She was constantly pushing it to the back of her mind. The voice was stronger, more aggressive.
She sat inside the cave, shielding herself, and waiting with Sniff next to her. He never left her side now, and he was a reassurin
g companion. He was content to sit still as long as needed, and he didn’t interrupt her unless something was important. When he was hungry, he would hunt, but he never left for long. And he never complained when he had to sit still.
The cave was a good hiding place. She didn’t want to interrupt Medophae and Silasa’s reunion. The vampire seemed to have perfect night vision, but she couldn’t see through stone. Mirolah could see them, though, with her threadweaver vision. While she sat in this cave, her attention lightly touched Sniff, almost as a reference point, and then meandered farther afield, weaving throughout the threads of the rocky ridge, the waves of the Inland Ocean, and the first breath of winter on the cold air. She also kept her attention on Medophae and Silasa.
Medophae, as always, was a golden bonfire. Silasa’s aura was different. Instead of a fire, she was surrounded by a jumpy white flicker. It wasn’t as overwhelming as Medophae’s radiance, but she was obviously more than human. And less.
The white flicker was a net much like the one Mirolah had thrown over Mershayn to keep his spirit from floating up to the Godgate, but the woman’s body was dead—its natural vibrancy was gone. A normal dead body would have begun to break down, ravaged by the elements, eaten by minuscule creatures that caused decay and eventual disintegration, but an endless network of white threads interwove throughout every part of Silasa: her lungs, heart, liver, intestines, skin, muscle, and bone—all of it, tying it tightly together, holding it still. Only her blood moved—at a much more sluggish pace than the blood of a living person—sprouting the white threads that bound her together. No creature, no matter how low, would instinctually touch Silasa’s flesh, and so she could not suffer from sickness or decay. It was as though Silasa was sheathed in a repellent bubble. Even humans would instinctually recoil from touching her.
It was cruel, what White Tuana had done to Silasa. The goddess had given her supernatural abilities and a thirst for blood, then severed her from humanity. It was no wonder vampires were reputed to be rapacious villains. Humans, their own kind, instinctually reviled them. It would be hard not to become bitter about that and want to lash back. She wondered at Silasa’s will to resist that compulsion. She wondered if it felt like the voice that hounded Mirolah, that demanded she leave her body and join the GodSpill. Did Silasa’s own blood demand that she rip and tear and feast on people?
The GodSpill: Threadweavers, Book 2 Page 28
