Zilok floated to the scrying pool and picked up the last component: the flap of human skin. Taking the skin, he hovered over the scrying pool, which had the unconscious form of the Wildmane in it, lying crumpled on the red marble floor of Ethiel’s throne room.
“Bind and shield,” he said, tossing the circular flap of skin on the pool. In his mind, he saw it become part of the picture and charge after the prone form of the Wildmane. The image enabled Zilok to form the construct over the great distance, morphing the threads of the air, the floor, and the walls into this human skin. The flap vanished into the waters, then became part of the picture, a fluttering cloak of skin that wrapped around Medophae, melted into him, shielding his god’s blood from the questing Oedandus. Now when the god looked for his previous avatar, he would not be able to sense the divine blood inside the Wildmane’s body. All he would see was mortal skin.
“No more Wildmane,” Zilok whispered. “You are nothing more than you should have been, Medophae. Now we are equals.”
Zilok’s thoughts wavered and, with an effort of will, he brought himself fiercely back to the task at hand. The weaving was complete, but he needed Medophae in hand. Without Oedandus to protect him, it would not take much to manipulate Medophae’s threads, to cause his body to begin walking to Denema’s Valley. By the time he arrived, Zilok would have had a chance to regain some of his strength, and then he and his old friend would settle accounts. All the times that Medophae had used his power to grind Zilok’s ambitions into the dirt would be paid back in full.
Suddenly, the placid water of the scrying pool rippled. The scene wavered, then vanished in the agitated waves.
Something was wrong. Only a direct attack by another threadweaver could disrupt the scrying pool. Zilok quested into the threads of the pool, trying to calm—
It shattered. Droplets of water and shards of stone flew about the room and tinkled across the floor.
Zilok wove a quick shield around Sef. Was he under attack? Who could possibly have known he was here? He was drained, but Zilok felt the threads for any sign of intrusion. There were no threadweavers nearby...but he felt a vibration, as if some great weaving was being worked far away.
“Master?” Sef asked. He sensed it, too, of course.
What could possibly affect the scrying pool aside from a threadweaver...
“The girl!” he said.
“Master?”
“She has destroyed the Fountain.” It was the only explanation. Yes. Yes, he could feel it now. Like a slight gust at the front of a great storm, it came. The threads around him vibrated. Already, they were soaking up the GodSpill. The rich vibrancy of it flowed into him, and his fatigue began to fade.
“The game board has changed, Sef.”
“Yes, my master.”
“I must act quickly, or we will lose our prize.” The GodSpill would infuse him soon as it splashed back into the threads of the land, but he needed more right now. It was necessary for Zilok to travel to Daylan’s Fountain.
He reached out and drained the life-force from his anchor to the lands. Sef slowly slumped to the floor, unconscious but not dead. Zilok was careful. He only took what was needed. Sef was essential, and Zilok would not risk damaging him.
Left to chance, Medophae was an unbelievably lucky creature. It was almost as if that damned unicorn in the Coreworld was still helping him, but Zilok had seen to her. Was this some other force? An unknown luck that came from bonding with a god for so long?
Zilok was a creature of no physical substance, and while there were certain pleasures denied him because of this, there were advantages as well. Stilling his tumultuous thoughts, he imagined himself a thin stream of red lightning, and surged into the threads of the great tapestry. They vibrated strongly now, and Zilok knew what must be coming: raw GodSpill. If he was not careful, it would consume him.
He followed thread upon thread, navigating his way toward Daylan’s Fountain, racing through the bedrock below the earth.
Then the wave hit him, a blast of GodSpill so strong that he swelled. It spun him around, and he rose up through the rock, the dirt, the grass into the air. Rainbow sparkles lit the trees. Zilok clung to his purpose desperately as the GodSpill tore at him. It nearly washed him away. Weak as he was, he almost lost control.
Then it was past. He paused for a long moment, and he collected himself. The threads still vibrated. Another wave was coming. Zilok cursed his luck, but he stayed where he was. The GodSpill soaked back into the lands like a wave rolling over a desert. The closer Zilok came to the source of the wave, the larger it would be. He must wait.
The agonizing moment stretched long. The threads vibrated more and more. With each passing second, Zilok had horrible visions of Medophae somehow escaping, somehow eluding his wrath again. He banished the thoughts and concentrated on what he must.
The next wave hit him, pushing him, pulling him, trying to dissolve him. It yanked at his memories, at his purpose. He managed to cling to the threads, but when the wave finally passed, he didn’t know who he was or even what he was.
He hovered there, lost and confused.
Finally, like sea foam collecting on the sand as a wave recedes, his name found its way to him.
Morth. I am Zilok Morth.
Slowly, his history returned. Who he was, how he had come to live so long, to become a disembodied spirit. Finally, he knew why he had entered the tapestry. He was traveling to the now-destroyed Fountain. He was racing against time in an effort to capture Medophae, made mortal again after all these years.
Zilok leapt into the threads, switching from one to the other as he raced to the Fountain.
In seconds, he arrived. He left the threads and reformed himself above the desolate landscape. As he had suspected, the grand accomplishment of his great-grandson lay in shards around a shimmering hole in the sandstone.
Zilok’s burning eyes scanned the ravine floor. Dead darklings were scattered close together, but there was nothing else. He rose in the air until he could see the entire area. Medophae was nowhere to be found.
Rage flared in his eyes, bathing the rock in cold blue light. He wanted to go keening through the pine forest like a banshee. Instead, he turned his anger into a roar, let his anger flow out from him.
Enough, he thought, in command of himself once more.
He cooled his anger. All plans changed. The hardest part was done. He had accomplished the impossible, and he must take consolation in that. The Wildmane was no more. Medophae was mortal, and finding one mortal man was a pedestrian task for one like Zilok. He must keep the grand picture in mind. A smart man expended vigor only when vigor was required.
The girl had somehow gathered the power to destroy the most powerful artifact ever created. If Zilok flailed about, drained as he was, and stumbled across this threadweaver in the fullness of her new power, he might find himself overmatched. Too much was unknown about her. He had cajoled her into distracting Ethiel, possibly even hurting the Red Weaver while Zilok completed his plans, but never did Zilok imagine Mirolah would defeat the Red Weaver, let alone destroy the Fountain. He would treat Mirolah of Rith with the respect she had earned, and, as promised, the next time they met would be the last.
For now, he must guard his victory and plan for the future. And rest. He must rest.
Zilok prepared himself to return to Denema’s Valley when something caught his glance. Amidst the swirls of the newly released GodSpill, hidden behind an outcropping of the ravine wall, there was a warm swelling of light. Zilok drifted nearer until he could see it clearly.
Laying on the rock like a careless child’s bauble was a ruby the size of a clam. The closer he came to the gem, the more he could feel its power. A mighty spell had been cast upon it, the likes of which he had never seen. He would hazard the guess that the gem itself was not even of this land. Zilok inspected the weaving carefully. It was brilliant, so sophisticated that even he could not comprehend most of the nuances. But after a moment, one thing became scintil
latingly clear.
This weaving was laid with a trigger spell! What jest were the gods playing at? This was an unfathomable enchantment tied together with a minor threadweaver’s gimmick? It was akin to building the most impregnable fortress in Amarion, yet leaving a secret lever that could bring the entire castle crumbling down. All it would take was the flick of a finger. No. The flick of the right finger. But to what purpose? And what was the trigger?
Suddenly, realization sparked in his mind. Zilok knew what this was, this invaluable prize that had been left discarded on the sandstone.
He laughed. The frivolity captured him such that he formed a visual representation of himself, even though there was no one around to see, and he let his laughter echo in the ravine.
Medophae had escaped.
But he had left his heart behind.
61
Silasa
Silasa laid Medophae gently on the sparse grass of the glade where she and Ynisaan had agreed to meet. The woman stared into the trees, brows furrowed, her black eyes focused on something much farther away. A small breeze blew strands of her white hair across her ebony cheek. Her brow furrowed, then relaxed.
“He is gone. We have succeeded.” She turned to Silasa and smiled. It was the first time she had ever smiled. “That was the first step,” Ynisaan said in her calm voice, nodding gravely to Silasa. “We have moved past the crux. Things will be easier until the next.”
“There are more?”
“They are endless. But your task is finished. You succeeded. I could not see events clearly past the Fountain’s destruction.”
“So you do see the future?”
“Only possible destinies.” Ynisaan paused. “I thought you had guessed days ago.”
“Kind of. You could be a little more forthcoming with what you know. It makes it easier to trust you.”
Ynisaan glanced at the ground. “I imagine it would.” Then she continued with what she had been saying. “So, the future, such that I could see it, had many dark paths that led away from that moment. Almost exclusively dark. Many still are. But there is hope now, like a sliver of light through a shuttered window.” She looked down at Medophae. “At least there is that.”
“How do you see the future?”
Ynisaan shook her head sadly. “That, I cannot tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because that is an even greater risk than allowing Medophae to die this night at the hands of the fiend who calls himself Zilok Morth.”
“Really?”
“Take these questions from your mind. Calm yourself with the knowledge that you have given humanity a chance to survive tonight.”
“So I’m to know nothing?”
“Be glad of that.”
Silasa glanced up at the thick emotion in Ynisaan’s voice. The small woman stared into the trees again.
Finally, Ynisaan turned her gaze upon Silasa. “I have more work to do. A small task, but essential. Many trials await Medophae in the coming days. He will need help.”
“The threadweaver?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“She lives. In truth, she is stronger than she ever was, but she is lost. She wanders the outskirts of these woods in what she believes to be a dream. I will bring her here.”
“I will bring her,” Silasa said.
Ynisaan shook her head. “She cannot see your face. She may describe you to Medophae, and neither she nor he can know about what we have done for them and why.”
Silasa’s lips became a firm line. “Then I am finished. I am to return to my cave?”
“I warned you it would be so.”
“I could stay with Medophae. He and I are longtime friends. I know more about Zilok Morth than this threadweaver.”
“Only a threadweaver can protect him and help him with what must now be done.”
“She’s a child.”
“So were you. So was I, once. She will grow. She must.”
“And what exactly needs to be done?”
“If Medophae does not combat Zilok Morth and win, I foresee an age overtaking the lands that will be darker yet than these last three hundred years. When Zilok Morth is done punishing Medophae, he will turn his attention to Amarion, and nothing will satisfy him. The conquests he attempted in the Age of Awakening will seem like games. Do you believe you could best Zilok Morth by yourself?”
“I could help Medophae fight Zilok. I’ve done it before.”
“Do you know what happened to Medophae tonight?” Ynisaan tipped her head at the unconscious Medophae.
“Zilok attacked him.”
“He has stripped him of Oedandus.”
Silasa couldn’t speak for a moment. The thought of Medophae, not the demigod protector of Amarion, but just as a mortal man... Her mind couldn’t picture him that way. “That’s...impossible,” she said.
“He is now as mortal as any human. It was Zilok’s master spell. A child could slay Medophae right here as he sleeps, and he would never awaken.”
“But Oedandus protects him from attacks that use GodSpill...”
“Not all attacks. Zilok Morth has wrested the god away from Medophae tonight. I do not know how he plans to keep Oedandus contained, but he is Zilok Morth. He has found a way.”
“But...he looks the same. How can you tell Oedandus is gone?”
“It is brisk in these woods tonight. See how he shivers. When have you ever seen Medophae shiver with cold?”
Silasa saw that Ynisaan was right. “Then he needs me even more. If he is vulnerable to physical attack, I can help him.”
“Medophae has a new path now. His physical vulnerability is not his only danger. Medophae’s soul was dying before now. He had tried to kill himself many times, but Oedandus forbid it. Now, he must learn to be mortal again. To walk and talk and think like a mortal. He must find hope in his new predicament, find reasons to live. Your presence will only remind him of what he has lost, and he must forget that for now. He must turn all of his focus onto the present and the near future.”
What she said stung Silasa, but it was the sting of truth. Silasa had seen it in Medophae. Even with all of his power, he’d had an uncaring look in his eyes the last time they spoke, as if nothing interested him anymore. It was dangerously close to despair.
“Will I ever understand all of this?” Silasa asked. “If I listen to you, and leave Medophae to his fate, will I someday understand what I have done here this night?”
Ynisaan looked past Silasa with that far-away gaze she was coming to recognize. After a long moment, Ynisaan faced her again. “I cannot say. If Medophae and Mirolah prevail, then I think you will. But everything is unclear.”
“And if they do not prevail?”
“Then it will not matter.”
Silasa felt helpless. Was this what Medophae felt when he realized he could not free Bands? “Will I see you again?”
“Yes.”
Silasa smiled.
Ynisaan returned one of her own rare smiles. “I am in debt to you, Silasa, daughter of Belshra and blood of Tuana. We will meet again.”
The two women looked at one another in silence for a time, then Silasa knelt quickly beside Medophae.
“Goodbye, my friend.” She kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Farewell wherever you fare.”
Without another word, Silasa turned away and ran into the shadows.
62
Mirolah
Morning broke, spilling light over the plateaus and pine trees, touching the tips of the far mountains. Mirolah looked at the sunrise with a dreamy smile. Her skin shivered at the sparkles in the air, and she noticed she had no clothes. She felt she should be ashamed, but she wasn’t. She felt like she’d just been born, and with her skin against the open air, she could feel every glorious moment.
She moved among the beautiful sandstone rock formations. The uneven rock should have hurt her bare feet, but it didn’t. Every sensation was welcome, was exactly as it should be. Ev
erything was vibrantly alive, even the rock. Loose sand, broken twigs, even the azure sky seemed to sing. Because she was not watching where she was walking, she stumbled into a small copse of scrub oak. She began to extricate herself, but instead sat down in the gnarled, scratchy branches and listened to its joyful song.
A magpie landed nearby, then another, watching her. The branches didn’t scratch, and she wasn’t cold, even exposed as she was. The air stroked her like she was a cat.
She suddenly remembered staring into the raining streets of Rith and imagining what it would be like to have shimmering knights riding their horses two abreast, everything so colorful, everything so hopeful. The lands vibrant and happy. All of her life, she had been a starving woman. They all had been, in the absence of the GodSpill, and they never understood it, or what that meant, until now.
Mirolah rose from the bush and began walking into the nearby pine forest. The magpies launched from the rock and preceded her, landing on the first trees. When she passed them, they took flight again and landed ahead of her, as if they had become her heralds.
A pair of deer appeared. They did not retreat as she walked toward them, but instead waited for her. She touched the first one on the nose, then stroked its soft fur. It nuzzled her hand, as though searching for food. She laughed. The deer stepped away, then both turned and bolted into the trees. She kept walking.
The trees soon became thick, but she picked her path carefully and slowly, and she kept going.
I am dazed. It’s not normal to walk without care through a strange forest, without companions, without clothes or weapons. There are dangers.
But she didn’t feel threatened. Everything was as it should be. The magpies had watched and moved on. The deer had met her, then made way. Even the branches bent away from her, allowing her easier passage. She belonged here. She—
Between the trees a unicorn, as black as ink, waited. It stood expectantly, head high, its pearlescent black horn gleaming in the morning light, its long white mane shimmering. It spun neatly, walked a few paces away, then looked back.
Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Page 35
