Threads of Amarion: Threadweavers, Book 3

by Todd Fahnestock

“I did not want to hurt you,” she said simply.

  “How would truth hurt me?”

  “Because I was Medophae’s beloved for a thousand years. And when I returned, you and he were...together. I thought it best if I did not reveal myself.”

  “Medophae...” she whispered, and Bands could see that his name struck a chord. “I loved him.”

  “Yes.”

  “You would have taken him away.”

  “My presence would have...unbalanced things.”

  “You were hiding from him.”

  “More so than from you, yes.”

  “Why be around him when he could not know who you are?”

  Bands drew a breath and folded her hands in her lap. She hoped that she was going to play this correctly. “Because I love him, and because I have always had a hard time staying away from what I love.”

  Mirolah narrowed her eyes. Bands looked down at her hands for a moment, then back up.

  “You’re lying again,” Mirolah said.

  “No,” Bands said. “I’ve told you one of two reasons.”

  “What is the other?”

  “The dragon god, Avakketh, told me to kill Medophae. I refused. So Avakketh tried to kill me and failed. I escaped, returned to protect Medophae. But I...chose poorly. When faced with two threats to Medophae, I saw Avakketh as the greater and fought his agent in Teni’sia. I left Medophae to face Zilok Morth alone. I underestimated Zilok, which is not something I typically do.”

  “Zilok Morth...” Mirolah whispered. Her head twitched, and the rainbow swirls in her eyes receded a moment, revealing the brown beneath. It happened for a flickering instant, then the rainbow colors slid over her eyes again. “He trapped me. He hurt me.”

  “He...stabbed you.”

  “No, a boy with silver hair stabbed me. I remember that. I remember his curved sword. Over and over.”

  “It wasn’t Stavark,” Bands said.

  “Stavark...” Mirolah said the name slowly, like she was tasting it.

  “Zilok controlled him. He fought against Zilok’s control as hard as you fought Zilok’s trap. Stavark is destroyed with guilt over it. He wants to die.”

  Mirolah’s eyes narrowed. “You are saying that Zilok killed me, not Stavark. That Zilok was using his body like Stavark used the sword.”

  “He... Yes.”

  Mirolah didn’t say anything for a long time.

  “Mirolah,” Bands said. “I want to help you. And we need your help in turn. Avakketh wanted to kill Medophae because of what he can do. Avakketh is afraid because Medophae would have stopped the dragon god from destroying Amarion.”

  Mirolah frowned. “Amarion is a continent.”

  “He wants to kill every human in Amarion.”

  She gave no reaction to that, and instead looked over at Sniff. The dog whined. “Sniff says I should care about this.”

  “You should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re human.”

  Mirolah’s head lowered, but she kept her gaze on Bands. “You’re lying...” she said quietly.

  “Mirolah, you are human. You’re also...something else. I want to help you—”

  “You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you. You’re afraid of me. You want to control me. And you want to use me, but I am done being used. You say you want to tell me the truth, but you stand there in a form that is not your true form. I don’t think I can trust anything you say.”

  “Some masks are necessary to make things right. If I took my true form...”

  “Humans would know you for what you really are. A dragon. And they wouldn’t trust you.”

  “Mirolah—”

  “I don’t think they should trust you. You are full of deception.”

  “Please... There is more to the story than that. It is necessary for you to believe me. Time is so short. It may already be too late.”

  Sniff whined.

  “Someone is coming.” Mirolah raised her head.

  Bands stood up even as Zilok Morth’s burning blue eyes materialized in the garden.

  Dammit! It was falling apart so quickly, and Bands had to get on top of this situation. The last thing she needed was Zilok returning. Zilok would see Mirolah as an advantage to be seized and manipulated.

  In a futile gesture, Bands stepped between Zilok and Mirolah.

  Zilok’s burning blue eyes hovered in the air. This time, a crown with tall, fat crystals hovered where his brow would have been. The Crown of Natra.

  “Back so soon?” Bands asked calmly. She tipped her chin at the crown. “Is that it?”

  “You knew this would happen,” Zilok said.

  Her belly fluttered with butterflies. Ambition stood atop disaster perched on the edge of calamity. This moment was going to give her a stomach ache. Zilok, arguably the most powerful threadweaver in Amarion, had returned with an artifact that could destroy gods. Sitting on a bench next to an absurdly large skin dog was a bundled GodSpill catastrophe waiting to happen. And bearing down on them in a matter of days—or hours—was the dragon god, bent on genocide. This could explode at any moment, swift and horrific.

  Bands did what she always did in such situations: she stayed calm.

  “To what are you referring, exactly?” she asked. “The suddenly warm weather? The new royal baker who nearly burned down the kitchens, or that Mershayn is shaping up to be quite a king?”

  Zilok’s eyes burned brighter. “Did you cause this to happen?”

  “I’ve never been able to control the weather. Mershayn was a hidden gem. And the baker was simply incompetent.”

  “Don’t fence with me,” Zilok hissed.

  “Then get to the point.”

  “You know of what I speak.”

  Bands’s heart dropped as she suddenly realized what he must be talking about. “You’ve been to the north,” she said softly. The attack had begun.

  “You knew the dragons were coming.”

  “I told you,” she said, waiting for Zilok to look beyond her, to see Mirolah, and to have that disaster blossom. Zilok had killed Mirolah. When he noticed her, he’d likely try again. And if she remembered him, she’d save him the trouble of attacking and go for his throat. Bands kept waiting for Mirolah to surge to her feet.

  She didn’t. And Zilok either didn’t notice who she was, or simply didn’t care.

  So Bands continued the charade, feeling like she was walking on a floor of thin glass laid over a chasm.

  “It’s war, then,” Zilok said.

  “What did you see?”

  “Corialis Port is in flames.”

  Bands swallowed. “How many dragons?”

  “Two.”

  That was a relief, if anything could be a relief when hundreds of innocent people had just died. But if only two dragons had come south, then that meant Avakketh hadn’t committed all of his followers just yet.

  “They flew back to the north,” Zilok said. “Why? If he’s invading, why send two dragons and not a hundred?”

  “You know the answer,” she said. “There’s only one reason Avakketh would hesitate to come south. He’s afraid of—”

  “Save your impassioned speech. I’m not giving you Medophae.”

  “Then you’ll watch your homeland burn, you selfish spirit. I almost died trying to protect humankind. What have you done? And what are you willing to do? Where does your allegiance lie?”

  “I have striven for centuries only to lead humans to the place that they rightfully deserve. My plans never came to fruition because your beloved kept stabbing me in the back.”

  Still, Zilok didn’t seem to care that Mirolah was right behind Bands. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Even if he didn’t recognize Mirolah, at the very least he would care that some bystander was overhearing their conversation.

  Was it possible that, somehow, he didn’t see her? The very thought flummoxed her. It wasn’t possible. Mirolah burned like a twisted sun made of bundled threads. Surely he could
see that.

  Bands desperately wanted to look over her shoulder to see if the girl had vanished, but she held herself still.

  “Tell me everything you know about the Crown of Natra,” Zilok said.

  “Give Medophae to me.”

  “Put Medophae from your mind. He belongs to me. But if you help me understand this crown, quickly, I will stand with you against Avakketh.”

  Allying herself with Zilok Morth made her skin crawl, but he followed his own code of honor, as twisted as it was. If she could leverage that, having him in the fight against Avakketh could be advantageous. Zilok had been crucial in the fight against Dervon, and he’d only been a fraction of the threadweaver he now was.

  “I will help you with the crown,” she said.

  “Time is short.”

  “Time is short for all of us, not just you. But we could end this war before it begins. You and I can only annoy Avakketh. In the end, he will win. Medophae could kill him. We need him. You want to know why Avakketh only sent two dragons to attack Corialis Port? It was meant to draw Medophae out into the open. Avakketh knows he has to deal with Medophae before he can have his way with Amarion.”

  Zilok’s eyes flared. “Amarion will burn to ashes before I let Medophae go.”

  “Zilok—”

  “Think well, Bands. I will return soon. If you have no answers for me, then I will leave Amarion to Avakketh and find a new place to haunt. Good luck with your defense, such as it is.”

  Zilok vanished.

  Bands stood there for a long moment. She paid close attention to the flows of GodSpill. When she was certain Zilok was really gone, she turned.

  Mirolah sat on the bench, the skin dog by her side. She hadn’t moved.

  “He didn’t see you,” Bands said.

  “I didn’t want him to see me.” Those kaleidoscope eyes watched her.

  Bands opened her mouth, closed it. Finally, she managed to say the only thing she could think of. “How...?”

  “I willed it.”

  Bands looked away so her reaction didn’t show on her face. The morning light sparkled on the snow. She tried to take some semblance of calm from the beautiful scene, and she tried not to be afraid of the woman who stood behind her.

  Bimeera, the seneschal’s page, suddenly slid around the edge of a hedge row. Her little face was beet-red, and her little chest pumped like a bellows, as if she had run up and down every set of stairs in the castle.

  “Lady...” she huffed, unable to speak she was breathing so hard, “...Bands. There...has...been...”

  “Corialis Port has been attacked by dragons,” Bands said calmly. “Thank you, Bimeera. I will go to the council chambers immediately.” She turned to Mirolah. “Will you accompany us, Lady Mirolah? This may concern you.”

  Bimeera’s mouth went wide at Bands’s foreknowledge of the attack, and stayed open when she saw the rainbow colors dancing in Mirolah’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Mirolah said. “I will go.”

  17

  Mershayn

  They all watched Mershayn enter the council room. Down the hall, the great royal clock ticked on old gears, and he shut the door against the sound, trapping himself with the kingdom’s influential nobility. They were out of time. Every loud click on that clock whispered to him.

  Now. Now. Now... The dragons are coming now.

  It was an oval room with a large oval table set in the exact center. In years and decades past, Teni’sia’s nobles had gathered in this place to discuss threats to the kingdom. No doubt the famous Queen Tyndiria’s parents had sat in this room discussing the final Sunrider invasion. Perhaps they, like him, wondered if this was the end of the world. But this wasn’t just an invading army of savage south men headed their way. These were dragons.

  Mershayn stopped where he was, surveyed the nobles, and wondered crazily what historians would write of his reign.

  An embarrassing side note in Teni’sia’s distinguished history was Mershayn, the Bastard King. He ruled for one week. During that time, he was reviled by most, made catastrophic mistakes, and was burned alive by dragons.

  Wall-mounted lamps lit the big room, illuminating this assortment of scheming nobles, legendary figures, and monsters. The table was large enough to seat fourteen people, and it was full. Each of the important houses were represented, including most of those who didn’t think well of Mershayn. Lord Framden, Lord Balis, Lord Giri’Mar, Lady Ry’lyrio, Lady Mae’lith, Lord Baerst, Lord Mekenest, Lord Bordi’lis, Lord Kuh’ter, Lady Ari’cyiane, Lord Vullieth, and, of course, Lord Sym.

  Bands stood by the window, looking absently at the night sky. Mershayn and his dragon ally had spent the afternoon interviewing Lord Baerst about the dragon attack. A longer conversation followed between just himself and Bands, talking about what must now be done.

  Not for the first time, he wondered who was really running this kingdom, him or her. She deferred to him in public and private alike, but what Bands suggested always came to pass. Mershayn didn’t like leaning on just one person time and again, trusting her implicitly, but Bands had had been right every time. She seemed to know the future.

  Silasa was here, as well. Her long, black hair flowed down her back, unbound. It was almost always fixed into a long braid, and he wondered if there was any significance to that. The vampire waited in her old-fashioned black dress with her even-legged stance, her hands hanging calmly at her sides. The corners of her mouth were turned slightly downward, as usual.

  Lord Vullieth, an imposing man at six and a half feet tall, sat at the far end of the table. Apparently he’d had difficulty walking in the first few days after Sym’s tortures, but he seemed to be recovered now. Orange light danced across his sharp features. His carrot-colored ponytail wound around the side of his neck and onto his shoulder. He watched Mershayn with a quiet intensity. Was that hope or hate in his eyes? It was hard to tell with Vullieth.

  Lord Baerst lingered near the door, studying a coat of arms from some ancient Teni’sian royal family. Baerst’s information was invaluable, and he suddenly seemed friendly to Mershayn—if obnoxious. But Mershayn trusted him less than the hostile nobles who had put Sym on the throne. Even Bands seemed suspicious. The man was acting...oddly.

  Four days ago, Baerst—under the guise of serving as an advance scout for unusual activity in the north—had been banished because of his collusion with Grendis Sym. This afternoon, he returned by ship with the tale that two dragons had destroyed his escort and the entire city of Corialis Port. Mershayn might have considered Baerst’s story a ridiculous lie fabricated to gain himself passage back into the castle, but the crews of two other sailing ships, also newly returned from Corialis Port, had confirmed Baerst’s story. Corialis Port was gone, burned to the ground.

  Still, how Baerst himself had survived when the rest of his escort had died was a tense mystery. Baerst had given an unlikely account that involved hiding from dragons in flight, lying in a rowboat for half a day, and at least two heroic attempts to save his comrades. Only one returned with him. That woman, horribly burnt, lay unconscious in the infirmary. If she lived, they would not get her account for days.

  Mershayn found the story hard to swallow, to say the least. And then there were the changes in his personality to consider. Baerst had always been a taciturn, humorless man. His servants told of how strict he was, quick to find fault and mete out punishment.

  That was not the same man who had returned. This casual, swaggering fellow was quick to laugh and quicker to drink. He carried a flask on his waist constantly now, and he sipped from it when he didn’t have a tankard in his hand, which he currently did. Even Mershayn could see the difference, and he wondered if the shock of seeing a dragon close-up had addled the lord’s brains. The man had smiled more today than in all the months Mershayn had known him.

  Baerst caught Mershayn’s gaze and hooked his thumbs into his wide belt. His smile was all but hidden beneath the thick, curly blond beard which hung almost to his belly.


  Stavark sat cross-legged on the floor not far from Mirolah, looking miserable. His silver gaze either looked at Mirolah or at his own shoes. The gods only knew what he was thinking. When he’d heard that Mirolah had returned this afternoon, he had rushed to the threadweaver’s side and begged her to take his life. Bands said that Mirolah—with no malice on her face—had been about to oblige the quicksilver when Bands stopped her.

  The monstrous skin dog lay at Mirolah’s feet, apparently sleeping. The nobles were all afraid of him, and Mershayn found a comical irony in that. Of the odd characters standing by the wall, the skin dog was the least dangerous. Mershayn wouldn’t want to fight the dog, but he’d certainly rather tangle with it than face Silasa’s unearthly strength, Stavark’s unearthly speed, Mirolah’s ability to change reality, or Bands’s dragon ability to, apparently, destroy entire cities with fire if she wanted.

  Mirolah focused entirely on Mershayn, as though no one else in the room held any interest for her. She flicked that rainbow gaze toward Lord Baerst once, but only briefly. Then she watched Mershayn again. The sight of her sent a quick thrill through him, which he tried to ignore. Like her, his gaze kept wanting to go to her. He felt...bound to her, and he thought of those painful hooks that had turned so sweet afterward. He wanted to touch her, put his hands on her cheek, into her hair, put his lips on hers...

  Mershayn shook his head and looked back at the nobles.

  “I would like to call this urgent meeting to order,” he said.

  He received affirmative noises from the few nobles who supported him. Reluctant nods came from those who had been loyal to Sym, but the fact that they were here, now, was testament to Bands’s wisdom in keeping Sym alive. They might not like Mershayn, but most of them wouldn’t even be here if he had executed Sym.

  Lord Framden, watching Mershayn with narrow eyes, looked like he’d eaten a lemon. Lord Bordi’lis stared incredulously at Mershayn’s companions, as if Mershayn was parading Wave-altered horrors before them just for shock value. Lord Giri’Mar looked like he wanted to draw his sword, keeping an eye on the snoozing Sniff. And of course, Ari’cyiane glared daggers at him. Like Mirolah, Ari’cyiane only had eyes for Mershayn, but they were very different eyes.