She turned to go, and he grabbed her arm. His face was conflicted.
“Mirolah...”
It’s a good kissing moment. Do you feel like kissing me?
“Just...be careful.” He squeezed her shoulder, and she had to swallow her heart back down.
“I will.”
She turned and started up the hallway, following Sniff.
47
Mirolah
Sniff led her down, and even though she trusted his nose, she reached out gently with her threadweaver’s fingers, touching the stale air in the corridors, the rock of the walls.
“Soon, mistress,” Sniff said. “It is soon.”
The air became less stale, a crisp, cool draft coming from somewhere ahead. They turned down a long hallway, then again to the left. Mirolah slowed as they approached an open door. Beyond it was a huge hole in the side of the castle, big enough to fit a house.
“There.” Sniff gave a low growl. “Big GodSpill. Dark GodSpill. Be careful, mistress.”
She moved forward, reaching out and touching everything in the room. There were strange residues on the threads. Someone had been threadweaving here. And most prominent of all, there was a sweltering little dot, a hanging spell like a shimmering silver coin just inside the doorway.
In case it was triggered by threadweaving itself or the mere touch of a threadweaver, she kept clear of it.
“Stay here,” she whispered to Sniff.
“Mistress—”
“I’m not kidding. If something happens, I’ll be able to get away. I’m not sure I could get you away, too. If Zilok is here, you run like I told you.”
He lowered his head, looking up at her with those slitted eyes. “Mistress...” He gave a quiet whine.
“If I start using GodSpill, you run. You go find Medophae.”
He didn’t say anything, but he hunched even lower, chest on the stone.
“Say it,” she whispered.
“Yes, mistress.”
“Okay then.”
She went into the room. It was empty save the hanging spell, just rock walls and that weird, giant circular balcony with no rails.
Dammit!
She spun, feeling Zilok arrive. How had he known she was here?
His presence pushed the threads aside even as he formed his visible ghost of a body on the tip of the balcony, with its black hair, blue eyes, and neat goatee. He adjusted his black vest over his white shirt as though it was actually there, actually needed adjusting, and he “walked” toward her, his boots clicking on the stone. This time, he wore some kind of crystal crown, made of green cords. Were those vines? It was certainly not a part of his fashion statement, and she wondered why he wore it. Did he fancy himself the king of Teni’sia now? The king of forests?
She hadn’t been able to sense him until this very moment. How did he do that? It was as though he could be far away, then suddenly close. She needed to know how he did that.
She had hoped to find Orem first. She had hoped to surprise him. But she had fought Ethiel in her own palace. She had fought Zilok before and survived, and she knew more now than she did then.
The GodSpill flowed all around her, through her, begging her to use it. This time, she was going to show him what she did to those who sent spine horses to kill little boys.
“You’re clever,” Zilok said, bowing.
“I work at it.” She fragmented her attention into a thousand threads, looking for his connection to Orem.
In the hallway, Sniff whined.
She sent a third of her ethereal fingers searching outward, looking for Orem or for the connection Zilok had made to his anchor.
“The skin dog,” Zilok said. “When he began tracking me from Denema’s Valley, I thought it was an amusing trick, but the beast has talent.”
“Where’s Orem?”
“Learning. Absorbing. He is receiving the education he always wanted.”
“Let him go.”
He chuckled. “Lady Rith, you surprise me. The first time we met, I gave you respect and admiration. I gave you the tools you needed, and you eliminated the Red Weaver. The second time we met, you were stronger still and even more clever. Still, I did not underestimate you. What makes you think I will underestimate you now?”
“Because you already have.”
His blue eyes narrowed. “Do you think I was fooled? Lady Rith, I knew you were in Teni’sia the moment you stepped onto the docks. I have hanging spells all over the city. In fact, there is one right behind you.”
She saw the threads shiver next to him, rippling toward his hanging spell.
She froze those threads he was trying to affect. His threadweaving never touched the hanging spell. It hovered where it was, an impotent little node of destruction.
No expression crossed Zilok’s projected face, but she felt his surprise and anger.
She sank into the GodSpill. She became the GodSpill. He wasn’t going to do anything in this room.
“You’re an aberration,” her mouth stated, even as her attention hovered all around him, a part of the very threads of the air and stone. “And you will not touch Medophae or Orem again.” She pushed herself into every oily thread of his spirit, looking for his weakness, for that thin thread that, if cut, would send him hurtling upward into the Godgate.
But there was no cord. She couldn’t see that ethereal cord that had once connected him to Sef. There was nothing. The threads of Zilok’s spirit twisted only around themselves and that crown at his head.
It’s the crown. He’s bound to the crown. That is his anchor now!
She switched her focus, reaching up to slice through his many threads that clung to the crown—
Her questing “fingers” were suddenly seized and yanked up, toward the crown.
She gasped. Her threadweaver sight vanished. The walls became normal walls. She couldn’t see any of the threads, couldn’t feel the GodSpill at all. Even the voice was gone. Zilok Morth looked like a real man.
He made a gesture behind her, and the hanging spell triggered.
There was a loud whack, like someone had clapped their hands next to both her ears, then silence.
Suddenly, there was no air. She gasped, trying desperately to inhale. Zilok lifted her off the ground. She was inside an invisible sphere that he controlled. She flailed, trying to find the edges of it, but she fell forward, and her fall turned into a gentle spin in mid-air. She tried to right herself, but there was nothing to push against. She gaped, mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. How had he removed the GodSpill from this room? That was impossible!
“Yes, why you didn’t die in that forest is a mystery to me, but it’s a mystery I can live with. This is better. Come now, let’s do what you’re aching to do. Let’s find your beloved Medophae.”
He flew upward from the giant balcony, and the invisible sphere yanked her along.
Sniff leapt into the room, charging after her a second too late. His great jaws snapped shut just shy of her boot as she flew upward. She zoomed along the outside of the castle, and Sniff’s mournful howl ripped through the night.
48
Stavark
The Rabasyvihrk led them through the darkened hallways of the castle. They ascended a half-dozen staircases as they wound around, but everyone kept up with the quick pace. Lord Mershayn was energized, determination on his face. Mershayn did not wish to survive this mission. He longed to kill the other human leader, Grendis Sym. He wanted to give his life doing it. That was all. There was no future for Mershayn beyond this night.
The Rabasyvihrk stopped them just before a hallway intersection and held up his hand. Everyone did their best to slow their breathing.
“One more stairway,” Mershayn said. “Sym’s rooms are up ahead. We have to be quick. If Lo’gan hasn’t been spotted yet, it won’t be long.”
“Remember, we capture Sym,” the Rabasyvihrk said pointedly, perhaps seeing in Mershayn’s face the same thing Stavark saw. “The kingdom benefits from seei
ng justice done, a trial and punishment meted out by the crown.”
The muscles in Mershayn’s jaw twitched. “He won’t escape.”
The Rabasyvihrk watched him. “Mershayn—”
“We’re wasting time.”
With a grunt, the Rabasyvihrk moved forward and turned the corner.
At the end of the hall stood Sym, dressed in his nightclothes as though they’d caught him sneaking out to the privy.
He shouted, recognizing Mershayn, then shouldered his way through the door. Mershayn roared and leapt forward, running down the long hallway, but Sym was gone.
Stavark entered the silverland, but even as he started forward, leaving his friends behind, he heard the Rabasyvihrk shout. He stopped, stepped out of the silverland to hear him.
“Stavark, no!” the Rabasyvihrk said, sprinting to keep up with Mershayn. “We stay together.”
“I could catch him, Rabasyvihrk.”
“I know it. But this whole thing is a trap. Let’s spring it one step at a time. Let’s spring it together.”
They reached the end of the hall, burst through the door, then started down a flight of stairs. They could hear Sym’s bare feet slapping the stones even as he reached the landing below and barreled through the door.
“That’s the throne room,” Mershayn said, leaping the last few steps and pushing through the door with the Rabasyvihrk and Stavark right behind him.
They entered the throne room, and it was filled with seemingly every soldier in Teni’sia. There had to be a hundred humans, weapons drawn, waiting for them.
“They knew we were coming,” Mershayn said.
“Yes.” The Rabasyvihrk stepped to the front, and golden fire crackled up his arms and across his chest. “Go back,” he said to Mershayn. “Both of you. They can’t kill me, and I won’t risk you. From here, I continue alone.”
“What—?” Mershayn protested, but Stavark laid a hand on his arm.
“The Rabasyvihrk can fight entire armies,” Stavark said.
“Soldiers of Teni’sia,” the Rabasyvihrk boomed. “I have no wish to kill you. Please lay down your swords. I would parlay with your leader.”
“But they wish to fight you. Every single one of them.” A man stood in the tall window that led outside to the open air. He was of medium height, with a white shirt and an expensive black vest, black breeches, and tall black boots. His hair was combed neatly, he had a goatee, and he wore a crown of crystals atop his head. “I have made sure of it.”
That same voice suddenly slithered into Stavark’s mind. Stavark tried to shove the voice out, but it was like pushing his fist into a bucket of oil. Everywhere he touched, it covered him, flowing over his entire head.
As a last desperate act, he entered the silverland, but the voice followed. Stavark opened his mouth to scream, but the voice told him not to.
So he didn’t.
The man’s voice oozed into Stavark’s mind. Private. Intimate.
I am Zilok Morth, and I am your new master, the voice said.
“Yes, my master,” Stavark replied.
Wait here, Zilok Morth said. I will have need of you.
Stavark shivered. He saw Mershayn shiver next to him, and he knew Mershayn was hearing the same voice.
Then Stavark no longer cared. He cared only about waiting until the voice told him what to do next.
“Just kill them,” Sym yelled from across the room. “Don’t play with them.”
“You have made a dramath’s bargain with Zilok Morth,” the Rabasyvihrk said. “You’ll lose much more than you will gain. At least send your soldiers away. Don’t make them pay for your decision.”
“You killed my father.” Sym spat.
“This isn’t going to be what you think...” The Rabasyvihrk trailed off as the Maehka vik Kalik floated through the window behind Stavark’s new master. Her hands were wide, searching, and she gasped.
“Mirolah!”
She floated so close to the ground that her feet struggled to touch it, but couldn’t. She bowed her head, and her hand went to her throat as she wilted.
“In the end, she’s just a girl after all,” the man in the black vest said.
The Rabasyvihrk charged, sword blazing fire, dropping flecks of golden flame on the floor as he ran. The soldiers in the room ran toward him, blocking him from the Maehka vik Kalik. The Rabasyvihrk knocked soldiers aside as they threw themselves at him.
“You gutless spirit! Fight me,” the Rabasyvihrk shouted, killing soldiers left and right.
“No...” Zilok said, his voice low and full of venom. “This time, there will be no fight. You will simply lose. And I will watch you suffer.” Zilok’s laughter was soft in Stavark’s mind.
One of Sym’s soldiers lunged toward the Maehka vik Kalik, sword first. He would have driven it clean through her chest, but the Rabasyvihrk was faster. He caught the guard’s steel on the godsword. The soldier’s sword shattered. The Rabasyvihrk sidestepped and struck the soldier with his fist, knocking him away. He skidded across the polished stones and lay still.
I need you, the voice said to Stavark. Kill the girl. Now.
In the back of Stavark’s mind, he heard his own voice begging him to resist. But his voice was small. His voice was weak.
He stepped into the silverland and ran toward the Maehka vik Kalik, weaving through the dozens of soldiers that were but statues to him, sidestepping the furious Rabasyvihrk. He reached the Maehka vik Kalik and stepped back into the real land. She saw him appear, and raised her head, her eyes half-lidded as she struggled to breathe.
Stavark, she mouthed, holding up a hand to him. She wanted him to grab it, to pull her away from whatever was stealing her breath.
Stavark drew his sword and stabbed her through the chest. She gaped, eyes flying open as the steel broke ribs and punched through her heart. He yanked his blade out and stabbed her again, then again, then again until she fell, face down, unmoving as she floated above the floor. Her glassy eyes looked at nothing.
“Stavark! No!” the Rabasyvihrk yelled. Golden flames erupted from him like a column, blowing a hole through the ceiling and incinerating the men grabbing onto him. His roar shook the throne room, and he directed the column of fire at Zilok Morth. The soldiers still tried to reach Medophae, driven by Zilok’s command, and they burned as they got caught in the blast.
The fire engulfed Zilok, and for a moment it seemed as though he had been destroyed. But then Stavark could see him in the midst of the conflagration, laughing. The golden fire flowed upward into the crystals of his crown, vanishing before touching him.
Medophae ran forward, pouring all of his rage into that fire, but the crown took it all. The fire seemed never-ending, Medophae coming closer and closer to Zilok.
Then, suddenly, the golden fire slackened, turning from a giant column of flame to a bolt the width of a tree, then the width of a pole, then a spear, then it became a flickering trickle and died out.
Medophae fell to his knees in front of Mirolah, inches from Stavark’s unmoving feet.
Golden fire flared from the crystals of Zilok’s crown.
“Yes,” he laughed. “Yes!” He pointed at Medophae. Inky blackness swirled with golden fire and spiraled toward the Rabasyvihrk. It plunged into him, turning his body black and gold. Medophae screamed, arching his back as the colored fire wrapped around him, chest, belly, neck, and finally his face. Medophae began to shrink.
He became smaller and smaller until he was the size of a fist, then he spun, curling into a ball of black and gold fire, then shot toward Zilok. Zilok’s body vanished into the golden fire, swirled into the spinning ball. The fireball elongated into a thread, then shot out the window.
Stavark stood over the bloody body of the Maehka vik Kalik. He stared at her as Zilok’s control drained from his body, freeing his thoughts once again.
A guttural cry of anguish ripped from him.
49
Mershayn
The quicksilver’s scream broke the sp
ell that had been telling Mershayn to stand silently where he was. He shook his head, and like a fog burned away by the bright sun, he could suddenly see the horror all around. Sym’s soldiers had been hacked and burned by Medophae’s rampage. And Mirolah—
“Gods!” He leapt forward, but before he could take a step, something hard hit him in the back of the head. He crashed to his knees.
He looked up. Stavark sobbed, holding Mirolah’s bloody hand.
A loud twang sounded from the gallery above, and a giant crossbow bolt slammed into Stavark’s calf. He screamed as it drove through flesh and into the stone, pinning him to the floor. He transformed, but the silver flash just glimmered around the bolt, unable to remove it. Then Stavark reformed, his chest pumping like a bellows, face-first on the stones, teeth clenched in pain.
A soldier stepped forward and hit him in the side of the head with a war mallet. The quicksilver crumpled into a heap, and he didn’t get up.
Mershayn roared and surged to his feet, but soldiers swarmed him, hitting him, kicking him. His sword clanged to the ground.
Boots rammed into him until he fell onto his back. He groaned, grasping for his sword, and someone stepped on his hand. The last thing he saw was a boot poised over his face. It descended, and Mershayn saw nothing else.
He opened his eyes, and the first thing he could feel was the throbbing in his face. His cheek, lips, and nose felt two times too large. Gradually, his vision came into focus. Grendis Sym crouched before him, smiling.
“Well, bastard,” Sym said. “How do you feel?”
Mershayn looked for any sign of Mirolah or Stavark. The quicksilver was gone, but Mirolah’s body still lay in a pool of her own blood in the center of the throne room. She wasn’t moving. Her skin was pasty white. Her eyes stared at nothing.
“Gods, no...” he sobbed.
Sym followed his gaze, then looked back at him. “And here I thought she was Captain Medophae’s woman.” He gave Mershayn a smile. “But wait, I forgot. You don’t pay attention to such distinctions, do you?”
The GodSpill: Threadweavers, Book 2 Page 31
