But now it was over. Ethiel remained, and the little bitch was gone.
She concentrated on her interrupted work and began reforming the siphons on the Fountain that Mirolah had destroyed. It had been a smart play on Mirolah’s part.
The GodSpill rushed into her, and she floated on the euphoria.
She had to return to her throne room immediately. Medophae would need a gentle hand to take him back to where he belonged.
When she was sated on GodSpill, Ethiel turned to go, but she hesitated. Something flickered next to her siphon. She stared with dawning fear as it began to take shape.
Mirolah’s spirit stood next to Ethiel’s siphon. The little bitch had an abstracted look on her face. She stared through Ethiel as though gazing at the stars in the sky. A rainbow of colors roiled inside her, the crashing colors of the Fountain’s core.
Ethiel screamed and tore at Mirolah’s threads, trying to force her back into the Fountain. Why wasn’t she dead?
Mirolah’s brow wrinkled as Ethiel pulled at her threads. She shivered and Ethiel’s invisible fingers slipped off.
Mirolah’s abstracted gaze focused on Ethiel.
“Impossible,” Ethiel hissed. “You entered the Fountain...”
Mirolah cocked her head at Ethiel, then looked at the siphon attached to the leaking crack. She touched it, and it dissolved.
“No!” Ethiel screamed again as her power left her once again.
Mirolah spoke, and the voice came from the crack in the Fountain, rather than from her mouth. It was the roar of an ocean, but her words were crisp and clear over the waves. “You have committed crimes against the lands, Ethiel.”
“Who are you?” Ethiel cringed. “Nobody can do these things!”
“You believe the GodSpill wished to serve only you. Do you know how long it has yearned to be free? Do you know how hard it has tried to break out? It almost had, and you held it here.”
Again, Ethiel attacked Mirolah, but again her “fingers” slipped off Mirolah’s threads.
“It is only GodSpill. It doesn’t think,” Ethiel said.
“You are a poor threadweaver. The GodSpill weeps for this dry land that I grew up in. Its heart is broken.”
Ethiel’s eyes darted left and right. Using most of her reserves, she manipulated the threads around her and vanished.
She reappeared on the far side of the Fountain and constructed her siphon again.
Mirolah appeared next to her.
“No,” Ethiel wailed.
Ethiel vanished again, reappeared again. She just needed a second to—
A cage of rainbow bars formed around her, the same cursed rainbow that swirled inside Mirolah’s spirit.
“Little girl. Little threadweaver,” Ethiel said. “You think you speak for the GodSpill now? You’re nothing!”
“You’ve committed a crime against all of Amarion, Ethiel,” Mirolah intoned, that roaring ocean behind her words. “Do you know how many have suffered because of your selfishness? Do you even care?”
“You think to fool me,” Ethiel said. “This is about Medophae. He belongs to me, but you want him. You’re the selfish one!”
“All you do is speak. You can’t hear anything but your own angry words.”
The rainbow cage rose into the air, began moving slowly toward the crack in the Fountain.
“No!” Ethiel shrieked. “Please...” She modulated her voice, making it calm. “Sweet girl. You have tasted power here, at its source. I see now that you are a force to be reckoned with. I acknowledge you. But you need my wisdom. If you set the GodSpill free, this source will be gone forever. It will be spread thinly over all the lands. Here, you can ensure that—”
“This is not the source of the GodSpill. This is its prison. You’ll see soon. And you’ll learn,” she said. The cage attached itself to the Fountain, growing smaller, shorter and shorter, forcing Ethiel toward the crack, toward the surging maelstrom. “Or you’ll die.”
“No!” Ethiel said. “Sweet girl. Don’t kill me. Don’t!”
Ethiel screamed as the cage pushed her inside.
58
Mirolah
Mirolah let the cage disappear as the GodSpill reclaimed it, and she flowed into the Fountain again, a part of it all, one small piece of an endless whole. She watched to see if Ethiel would learn.
The Red Weaver began to dissolve. She pulled from the power all around her, constructing her defenses as Mirolah had, trying to push back the GodSpill until she could find the way out, but she was spun about. She couldn’t seem to find the crack through which she had entered. She struggled. The GodSpill ate through her defenses, tossed her around, stripped away layer after layer.
She fought, but in the end, she was just a drop in a vast ocean.
In moments, it was done.
Mirolah closed her eyes. Ethiel was gone.
Slowly, the greatness of the GodSpill pushed Mirolah out through one of the cracks. She gasped as the GodSpill reformed her spirit, adding every emotion it had taken, every memory that had been dissolved away. In less than a second, she stood alone outside the Fountain, looking at the crack. GodSpill leaked out, but only a thin stream.
She felt hollowed out. She had been hollowed out, then filled with all of it.
Ethiel was right. If Mirolah claimed the Fountain as her own, used the GodSpill for herself, she would be the most powerful threadweaver in Amarion. She could make whatever she wanted, protect whomever she loved, destroy whomever needed destroying.
But she had made a promise. She’d sworn to help the GodSpill in its quest, to right an ancient wrong. She had promised Orem, too.
She floated around the small room, looking at each of the cracks that Ethiel had patched with her red-threaded handiwork. She contemplated them as the GodSpill surged and crashed against the glass wall.
Then she reached out and kept her promise.
59
Silasa
“The cusp is near,” Ynisaan said, a darker shape against the darkness. “When it happens, you must move quickly.”
Moonlight shone down on Daylan’s Fountain, and both Silasa and Ynisaan waited on sandstone cliff, thirty feet up and a hundred yards away. Silasa’s blood was up. She wanted action. According to Ynisaan, a battle was being waged inside, but from here, everything looked sedate. Not a single lizard scurried across moonlit landscape. The square tower with its four horizontal spikes looked as though no one had touched it in centuries. “Why not retrieve him now?” she asked.
“Now is not the moment,” Ynisaan said.
The enigmatic woman watched the Fountain intently, as though she could see the supposed battle within.
“How will I know?” Silasa asked.
“You will know.”
Silasa narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like being treated like a child, but everything Ynisaan had said so far was true. After two weeks of crossing Amarion with her, Silasa was convinced that Ynisaan could see the future, or parts of it. Of course, she responded to Silasa’s queries guardedly, as if she was protecting information that Silasa must not know.
“He will be weak. You will have to carry him,” Ynisaan said.
“That is not a problem.”
For the first time since they had met, Ynisaan was tense. Ever before, she had always seemed so calm.
“You’re nervous,” Silasa said.
Ynisaan’s midnight lips set in a firm line. “This is the moment,” she said softly. “History pivots here. The future of Amarion will be shaped for good or ill. ”
“Medophae is going to change history,” Silasa said.
“No. You are,” Ynisaan said. “Be ready. He will appear there.” The woman pointed and Silasa fixed her gaze on the nondescript sandstone.
“Appear?”
“Yes. Remember, no matter what you feel, no matter what you see, do not falter.”
“You already told me that.”
“No matter what you feel. No matter what you see.”
“I understan
d.”
“Medophae is what matters.”
“I remember.”
“There is so little time to retrieve him. If you are discovered...” Ynisaan fell silent.
“If I am discovered, then what?”
Ynisaan paused so long it was as if she had turned into a black and gray statue. Finally, she spoke. “Medophae dies. Amarion falls. Avakketh comes... Humans will be erased from the world.”
Silasa was stunned. “I thought we were here to save Medophae...” she whispered. “You didn’t say...”
“He is the wall that keeps the god of dragons away.”
“The god of dragons!” Silasa was so befuddled she couldn’t even form her question. “Because... It’s because of Oedandus, isn’t it?”
“Even weakened and stuffed into Medophae’s body, Oedandus was potent enough to slay Dervon. Avakketh will not risk that. It has kept him in the north for centuries. With Medophae gone, though...”
“Ynisaan—”
“Do your very best,” Ynisaan interjected. “Trust your love for Medophae. Save him.” She glanced at Silasa. Ynisaan’s depthless black gaze held her. “Silasa, there will be so many moments in the future when you can do nothing, when the flows of destiny will move where they will, without our ability to affect them. In those moments, others will make the decisions. But this moment is ours.”
“I trust you,” Silasa said.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“I will meet you at the glade.”
“All right.”
“It begins,” Ynisaan said.
Suddenly, the ground shook. Silasa turned her gaze to the Fountain. A huge crack sliced down the center. It seemed to resist for a brief moment, then the entire Fountain shattered. Great chunks of sandstone flew in every direction.
“Go now! Remember what I said,” Ynisaan said sharply.
Silasa leapt from her perch to the ground thirty feet below her. Her legs took the impact, and she sprinted toward the Fountain.
A force smashed through her, an invisible river that had been unleashed in the ravine. She flew backward and slammed into the cliff wall. Stone debris showered her. The force flowed into her, around her, pushing her against the cliff. The stars overhead burned as if someone had thrown lamp oil on them. The sandstone shimmered like it was made of a million tiny diamonds.
Silasa swelled. She felt as if she could pick up the entire cliff and hurl it to the horizon. She stood there, stunned, unable to assimilate the magnitude of force that pinned her down. It was as though her thoughts had been erased. She couldn’t remember her own name. For a moment, she could not remember why she was here, but Ynisaan’s warning loomed in her mind.
...no matter what you feel, no matter what you see, do not falter...
Medophae. She was here for Medophae.
Silasa shook her head and leaned against the weight of the invisible force. She called upon her undead strength and pushed away from the cliff. The force swirled around her and knocked her down again. She spun and looked for the place where Medophae would appear. The air warped like a mirage, obscuring her vision beyond a dozen feet. There. Over there. That was the spot.
She staggered forward, but the spot was empty. There was no one. Only sand and—
Another soundless surge burst from the Fountain, more powerful than the last. It lifted Silasa from her feet and carried her through the air, all the way back to where she had started. Again, she slammed into the cliff and landed in a heap on the ground.
Dizzy, she rose on one bleeding elbow, shaking her head and getting her bearings. Sparkles danced on the invisible wind. For a moment, she thought she could see colors in the air, but then they were gone.
In the distance, where the Fountain had been, the entire land flickered and wobbled, as if it was just a mirage.
Bodies lay on the sandstone where there had been nothing before. Dead darklings sprawled everywhere as though some giant had thrown them like dice. Silasa rose to her feet and struggled forward against the invisible river, searching everywhere, searching for—
Medophae!
His tanned skin and colorful shirt stood out amidst the dozens of darklings. She fought toward him step by step, as though she was waist-deep in the ocean, trying to run. Closer... Closer...
She reached him, grabbed that mop of blond hair, yanked him into her arms like a baby. She had him!
She spun, and just as the force had impeded her when she struggled against it, now it propelled her as she ran away. She nearly flew across the ravine floor toward the cliff and leapt thirty feet into the air, landing atop the cliff’s edge.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she charged across the flat sandstone to where the forest abruptly started. The pine trees and scrub oak glowed with vitality. She shot into them like an arrow in flight. Branches broke and leaves flew like green birds.
None could catch her. She had Medophae and none could catch her.
60
Zilok Morth
Zilok Morth nearly lost his hold on Oedandus. Severing the barely sentient god’s connection to the Wildmane had taken much of the GodSpill he had stolen, more than he could have anticipated.
But Zilok had succeeded. The god had been cut free. The “head” of Oedandus’s immense body was in his hands. But keeping that “head” was like trying to wrap hands around a sinuous replisark. The feral god thrashed, seeking its focal point, seeking the Wildmane.
Zilok could feel the god’s abject terror. Oedandus feared only one thing: going back to the numb and unthinking energy he had been before Medophae had arrived on Amarion. Medophae had told Zilok the story long ago, when they were both mortal, when they were friends.
Before humans recorded history, Dervon conspired with White Tuana and Zetu the Ancient to attack Oedandus and spread his consciousness over the entire continent, stretching him so thinly that he could barely form a thought. Medophae, because he bore the blood of the god from generations earlier, could house that power. Medophae became the one place where Oedandus could concentrate himself enough to think. Now, the god had lost his avatar.
But Zilok was going to give him a new one.
Zilok grasped the head of the thrashing force, channeling it across the miles that separated the Fountain from Denema’s Valley, using up the last of the GodSpill he had stolen. The room in the little house filled with crackling golden fire. Distantly, Zilok heard Vaerdaro gasp, but he let the sound flow past him. He could not pay any attention to Vaerdaro.
Oedandus was panicked, but he would not stay so for long. The god didn’t know why he had been separated from his avatar, but Oedandus was capable of focusing his meager sentience into a furious purpose when provoked. When the surprise wore off, he would hunt for the Wildmane.
“Gather,” Zilok intoned, pulling GodSpill from the meager threads all around him, and from Sef. Though he had run out of the glut of GodSpill he’d stolen from the Godgate, he couldn’t stop now. Just...a little farther.
He made the rockfire toad to rise in the air. It shifted, uneasy in the grip of levitation.
“Infuse,” he spoke, and he pushed the head of the golden fire, the nearly-conscious rage of Oedandus into the rockfire toad. The creature lowered its rocky head and shot its red fire at Vaerdaro, who screamed and thrashed against his bonds as he and the bed burned. The iron frame got red-hot.
Zilok put the knife to the rockfire toad’s throat and slashed, taking the animal from the lands as he had the lockmouth. Zilok guided Oedandus through the rockfire toad’s head, and the red fire turned gold, shooting into Vaerdaro. Screaming and thrashing, the Sunrider fluttered like a mirage as Oedandus hit him, suffused him and...
...recognized his own blood in Vaerdaro, the blood that had been passed to Vaerdaro from the union of his great grandmother and the Wildmane centuries ago.
Zilok pushed, drawing every last ounce of GodSpill from Denema’s Valley with every last scrap of his willpower.
His consciousness faded
, and the room went dark.
“My master,” Sef intoned.
Zilok opened his blue eyes. If an undead spirit spent too much of himself, he would no longer have the will to resist the Godgate. But Sef, as was his purpose, had anchored him, kept attached to Amarion through the vibrancy of his life and the giant sapphire affixed to the center of his X harness. The sapphire glowed.
Zilok rose, but he didn’t stray far from Sef.
“Let us look at our handiwork, Sef,” Zilok said.
“Yes, my master.”
The tall man went to the burned bed upon which Taerdaro lay, and Zilok shadowed him. The Sunrider was unconscious, his skin burned and blackened, in some places down to the bone. His dark hair had been burned away, and, for a moment Zilok thought the spell had failed, that the Sunrider didn’t survive.
But then he saw the flesh healing, the hair re-growing.
Zilok laughed.
“We have done it,” he said.
“Yes, my master.”
But the task was not finished. There was one last critical detail of this weaving. He barely had the strength to remain alert, but he must risk a final manipulation of the threads. Oedandus would sense the difference in Vaerdaro. He would know he wasn’t with the Wildmane anymore. It might not matter to the debilitated god, but then again, it might. If Oedandus could find and return to the Wildmane, he probably would. So Zilok must make the Wildmane invisible.
Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Page 34
