Threads of Amarion

by Todd Fahnestock

  “I don’t like those.” She gestured at his sword.

  The hilt was torn from his grip, and the sword hovered in mid-air as the scabbard rose to join it. The blade slid home with a clang, spun, and clacked on the table. The monster dog gave a short growl, as though approving.

  This was surreal. Mirolah stood there before him, but everything about it was wrong. She shouldn’t be naked. She should be reaching for something to cover herself. And those eyes...

  Mershayn’s instincts screamed at him to get away from her, to go find Bands or Silasa and bring them here. This was supernatural. He needed them to help him navigate it.

  Instead, he took Master Debarc’s advice, and “cut off his own head.” His legs wanted to go to her. His arms wanted to protect. He strode forward and wrapped his cloak around her bare shoulders.

  She watched him like a cat watches water. Neither her face nor her rainbow eyes gave any indication what she was feeling. He stepped back. She made no move to fix the clasp. It was freezing in the room, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s cold.... Are you... Are you cold?”

  “Am I cold?” she repeated, not seeming to understand the words.

  “It’s freezing outside, and you have no...clothes.” His fingers itched to close that cloak.

  She shook her head. “I am not cold.”

  “Would you like to sit?” he asked.

  She frowned as he took her elbow, then allowed herself to be led to the padded bench. As he sat her down, he managed to wrap her more snugly in the cloak. The monster dog whined, then lay down on the floor and put his giant head between his giant paws.

  “Yes,” she said to the dog. “I think he can.”

  Mershayn looked to the dog, then back to Mirolah. “Did you just talk to it?” he said.

  “Sniff said I should come here.”

  Sniff. The dog. The dog was talking to her, and she was talking to the dog. Mershayn stepped back, trying to come up with words. Nothing was going to sound right, so he just started talking. “You’re...” He let out a breath. “Well...by Thalius, you’re alive.”

  “Who is Thalius?” she asked. “Do I know him?”

  “Mirolah, I need to know what happened to you. You were dead. I saw you stabbed. Am I...am I dreaming?”

  “Perhaps we are both dreaming.”

  “They threw you out a window.”

  The big dog whined.

  “Sniff says I died,” Mirolah said.

  Mershayn opened his mouth, then closed it. “But you’re...here....”

  “If I’m talking, does that mean I am alive?” she asked.

  Mershayn licked dry lips. He thought of Silasa. “Of course it does,” he said slowly, but not very convincingly.

  Those unnerving rainbow eyes narrowed. “You do not believe your own words.”

  He let out a little laugh, and realized he wanted to laugh again. He wanted to just keep laughing and laughing. Dragons and vampires and demigods and dead threadweavers coming back to life, and he was stuck in the middle, like he could do something about any of this.

  Gods, he wanted to laugh, but he knew that once he started, he would never stop. He choked himself off by swallowing, cutting off the laughter that bubbled up.

  He was out of his depth. He really should call for Bands, and yet...

  She stood up. “Tell me how I died,” she said. “I was stabbed. I was cast out a window. That window?” She pointed. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and piled on the floor.

  Mershayn cleared his throat. “We must get you dressed. Stay there a moment.”

  She watched him without emotion. He went to his wardrobe, pulled out one of his doublets. It was far too large for her, but he wasn’t trying to make a fashion statement tonight. He turned to find her standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

  “Here.” He handed her the doublet. “Put this on.”

  She looked down at her naked body. “I am not cold,” she said.

  “There are other reasons.” He tossed the doublet on the bed, then had an idea. He snapped his fingers. “Or wait. Wait a moment here.” She cocked her head.

  He turned sideways, slipped past her and crossed the sitting room to the room where Sym had kept Ari’cyiane. Collus had mentioned the chests of Tyndiria’s clothes that had not yet been moved, and sure enough, they were still there. Three chests against the wall. He opened one and discovered a pile of dresses. Thank the gods. He pulled the top one out, a yellow dress. He turned and found Mirolah standing in the doorway again.

  “Sniff doesn’t wear clothes,” she said.

  “Sniff is a dog. Dogs don’t wear clothes.”

  “Ah,” she said. “It’s a human thing. And I am human.” She blinked, and the rainbow colors bled from her eyes, revealing a glimpse of their normal brown color. “Modesty,” she said slowly, as though dredging a long-lost memory. “It is shameful to be naked among other humans.”

  “Well...it’s uncomfortable, at least.” He held the dress out to her.

  “But not all of the time.”

  “Yes, all the time. People wear clothes all the time.”

  “Not all the time....” she murmured, blinking with her normal brown eyes. “There was a man with golden hair. It is the only pleasant memory I have.” She frowned, looking at the dress in her hand. “The other memories have fled. They hide from me, and the GodSpill speaks so loudly.” She walked toward him, dropping the dress, and the rainbow colors began to swirl across her brown eyes. “Help me remember. When are clothes not uncomfortable?”

  He held her shoulders as she advanced on him. “I will help you. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “I remember it being pleasant. I need...something pleasant,” she said, and suddenly Mershayn’s arms moved without his command. They pulled her against him, tightened around her. It was like he was a puppet. He eyes swirled with rainbow colors again, the brown vanishing beneath.

  His head craned forward, and she kissed him.

  “Stop...” Mershayn gasped. “Please...”

  Sniff whined nervously, got to his feet.

  Mirolah’s lips came away. She turned her head to the side, regarding the dog.

  “But I am remembering,” she said to him.

  The dog gave a short bark.

  “I do not wish to wait. The GodSpill is going to take me. If I don’t remember, it will rip me away from this body.”

  Sniff emitted a high-pitched, supplicating whine.

  She closed her rainbow-swirling eyes, her brow furrowed in frustration. “Very well,” she said in a monotone.

  The compulsion vanished, and Mershayn could control his own body again. He cried out, staggered away from her, and fell to the floor. He stayed there like a crab, breathing hard.

  Mirolah looked at the yellow dress on the ground. It rose like an invisible person was inside it and went to her. It rose as she lifted her arms, dropped over her head and molded to her, lacing up the back on its own.

  “Very well,” she said. “Then tell me how I met you, how I know you. Tell me everything you remember about my life.”

  Mershayn got to his feet, calming his heart. He smoothed his doublet to let his mind settle, then he went to the table like he was entertaining some foreign noble. He pulled out a chair for her. “Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

  She flicked an annoyed glance at the chair. Sniff whined, and she sighed and sat. Mershayn drew up a chair and sat opposite her.

  “When I first met you,” he began. “You saved my life....”

  15

  Mershayn

  At first, Mershayn thought his story would fall upon the ears of a statue, but Mirolah’s stony expression changed many times during the rise and fall of the related events. By the end of it, Mershayn began to get some idea of the pain Mirolah experienced in every moment. Her reserved demeanor shut away a tremendous turmoil. He talked, and she asked questions until the sun lightened the overcast skies outside the window, and his hangover began to pu
sh into his head.

  A knock came upon the door. It was morning. The king’s life was starting again. No doubt that was Casur, his page, knocking so politely on the door.

  “There are five people outside the door,” Mirolah said. “A young boy, a man with no sword.” Her face darkened. “Two men with swords.” She cocked her head as though listening to a sound far away. “And a woman...who is not really a woman.”

  “A moment, Casur,” Mershayn called. He stood, regarded Mirolah. “I do not know what your return will mean to those who knew of your death. Are you prepared?”

  She shrugged. “How should I prepare?”

  “I don’t know. I just... You’ve been through a lot. Are you sure you want more people asking you questions?”

  “The woman who is not a woman, do I know her?”

  He hesitated. “You, um, you know of her. Everybody knows of her. I...don’t think you’ve ever met her, though.” Mirolah and Medophae had been together before her death. Bands was Medophae’s beloved from every legend he’d ever heard, but from centuries ago. “If anyone could help you, it’s her.”

  Sniff shifted on the rug and gave a brief, lazy yowl. He looked up at his mistress with sleepy eyes and settled his nose between his paws again.

  “I—” Mirolah began. A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips. “Yes, I would like to meet her. But...” She took his hand. “I need something first.”

  A rush of vitality swept into him from her fingertips, power like he had never felt before. His exhaustion burned away as did the beginnings of his hangover. Next, a thousand little hooks pierced every muscle in his body. He hissed, jerking back. But her hand was unbelievably strong. She held him.

  The pain vanished, but the vitality remained, swirling inside him. He felt like he could sprint all the way to Buravar.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “What...what did you do to me?” he asked.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you,” she said. “But I need...” She trailed off. “I need you.”

  “What did you do?” He felt like she had invaded his body with some threadweaver spell, but the feeling of invasion had gone. All that was left was the rush of energy that made him want to grin. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and then kissed him.

  Casur knocked at the door again. “Your Majesty?”

  “Just a moment,” Mershayn said impatiently, then turned back to Mirolah. “How do you need me?”

  “I...connected to you. I have...put a little bit of myself inside you. Like an anchor. So that I don’t...drift away.”

  The thought that she had somehow altered him was frightening, but he mastered himself. He reminded himself that, without her, he would be dead. If she wanted his life, it was hers to take.

  “Good,” he said. “Of course I will help you. My life is yours, if you need it.”

  The rainbow swirls receded a little, revealing her natural brown eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Casur knocked again. “Your Majesty,” he said more urgently. “Are you all right? Lady Bands and Lord Sym await you.”

  Filled with such strength that he felt could snap a tree in two with his bare hands, Mershayn stepped to the door and opened it. Casur stood on the other side, his hands held anxiously at his sides. Behind him, Sym waited with his perpetual frown. Mershayn’s two guards stood on either side of the door, watching Sym carefully.

  Bands lingered just beyond the throng, her green eyes narrowed. She cocked her head questioningly. He’d never seen her make that face before.

  “Good morning, everyone,” he said, and he dismissed the guards and Casur. When only Bands and Sym stood with him, he said. “I have a guest who visited me this morning.” He opened the door wide. Sniff saw Sym and got to his feet. The monstrous dog’s lips pulled back over those crooked teeth, and he growled. Sym’s jaw dropped. He looked back and forth from Mirolah to Sniff, and he backed up into Bands. She put a hand on his shoulder and stopped his retreat.

  “Mirolah...” Bands said.

  The two women studied each other, and the room fell silent. Even Mershayn, who felt perhaps he should try to control the situation, could think of nothing to say.

  “Do I know you?” Mirolah asked.

  “I looked for you myself, but I found no trace,” Bands said. “I couldn’t even sense any threadweaving where you had fallen. How are you...?”

  “My first memories are of Sniff,” Mirolah said. Sniff padded forward, thin eyes focused on Sym. He turned his great head toward Bands, who flicked a glance at him, then returned her gaze to Mirolah. The dog lowered his head, sniffed at her leg, then backed away. He gave a long whine that petered out into a faint growl.

  “Sniff says you smell the same as the quicksilver girl, but you do not look the same.”

  “What quicksilver girl?” Mershayn asked.

  “Elekkena was Stavark and Mirolah’s companion before they met you, Your Majesty,” Bands said.

  “Then you do know me,” Mirolah said.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Very well, but not here.” Bands abruptly turned and left the room. Mirolah narrowed her eyes, then slowly followed into the hallway with Sniff at her heels.

  Bands’s abruptness was out of character. Mershayn knew her well enough to know that she was upset, possibly even scared, though that was impossible to know.

  “Please follow me.” Bands made an elegant gesture, and Mershayn made to go with them, but she held up a hand. “Not you, Mershayn. You stay with Sym.”

  “But I...” He trailed off at her look. It was urgent, and it brooked no argument. He’d never seen her look anything other than calm, but she was rattled.

  “I...yes,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  Mirolah looked back and forth between Bands and Mershayn, sensing the unspoken communication, but unable to decipher it.

  “Please, Mirolah,” Bands said gently. “Come with me.” She led the way down the hall.

  “I will come back,” Mirolah said to Mershayn, then she and Sniff followed.

  Mershayn stood there, thinking about Bands’s look. It was all he could do not to run after her and ask her what it was all about. But he trusted Bands. She had never failed to deliver on her promises, and each had been for the best.

  Threadweavers are her area of expertise, and I’m the king now. I need to trust her to take care of this. If Mirolah is dangerous, Bands is the best equipped to understand that and, if needs be, to deal with that danger.

  Mershayn had to admit that he was relieved. Being with Mirolah was like trying to solve a complicated puzzle that kept changing. Clearing his throat, he turned Sym. “We have a long day ahead of us.”

  “She died.” Sym’s hands were shaking. “She shouldn’t be alive.”

  “Yeah,” Mershayn said, doing his best to sound casual, as if dead women walking around in his room was a normal occurrence. “Those threadweavers do things differently. If you’re afraid of them, Lord Sym, I suggest that you don’t make any more of them your enemies.”

  Sym breathed hard, tense. His eyes darted frequently back to the door.

  “What are you going to do? Run away?” Mershayn asked.

  Sym’s shoulders slumped a little, and his gaze went from the door to his boots.

  “Come on, we have much to do,” Mershayn said.

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “That’s right.”

  Mershayn left the room and headed for the throne room. Petitions would begin soon.

  His seneschal, a thin, impeccably dressed man named Vo’Dula who had been hand-picked by Bands, tracked him down and made him eat breakfast in the antechamber next to the audience hall. Vo’Dula wore the same disdainful half smile all the time. Mershayn couldn’t figure the expression out. The man was competent, obedient, and—if Bands had chosen him—certainly loyal, but he didn’t seem to approve of anything Mersh
ayn said or did. Poking fun at Vo’Dula did nothing to draw out an explanation of his sour expression; the man could verbally spar with the best. Mershayn’s probing jokes always ended up turning back on him.

  After the inevitably unsatisfying banter with Vo’Dula, Mershayn spent the morning wrangling with the Buravaran trade consul. Sym was actually helpful during the talks, giving Mershayn information about previous agreements. It was like the Lord of Buir’tishree had an entire library inside his head, and he could just flip open books to whichever page he wished, whenever he wished.

  Mershayn also listened to a dispute between a merchant and the sailing ship captain who transported his goods. In the late morning, Mershayn argued with Galorman Balis about what to do with the Wave-altered. They did not see eye-to-eye on the subject. Balis didn’t see the Wave-altered as people anymore, but rather creatures that should be chained up in a dungeon like rabid dogs.

  At noon, Vo’Dula reappeared and stood politely at Mershayn’s right until Mershayn acknowledged him. The officious man led Sym and Mershayn to the antechamber to eat lunch and informed him that Lady Bands had put all the other petitioners off until the following day.

  “And where is Lady Bands?”

  “To my knowledge, Your Majesty, she has left the castle grounds. She did not inform me where she was going.”

  “And...was there someone else with her?” he asked.

  “There are quite a few ‘someone elses’ in the castle, Your Majesty.” Vo’Dula said sourly. “Did you have a specific someone else in mind? Or would you like me to decide?” The man somehow managed to sound deferential and snooty at the same time.

  “Specific,” Mershayn said, trying to sound snooty, too. He couldn’t do it as well as Vo’Dula. The man’s nasal voice just naturally dripped with disapproval.

  “She spoke for a short time with a young woman in the garden,” Vo’Dula said. “Then she left the castle. She said she had an errand. Shall I have her trailed?”

  Mershayn narrowed his eyes, not sure whether Vo’Dula was poking fun or not, which was probably the seneschal’s intention. “What about the young woman? Where did she go?”