Threads of Amarion: Threadweavers, Book 3

by Todd Fahnestock

  “But the fire...”

  “The fires are being tended to, Your Majesty.” Even as she said it, a half dozen people with buckets rounded the corner, pointing.

  “See there?” Deni’tri gestured. “They’ve come. They’ll put out the fire.”

  “There are...other fires....” he said, and his speech slurred this time.

  “We’ve lost much today,” Deni’tri said. “If not for you, we would have lost all. We must get you to safety and rest.”

  “The dragons will return....” he said wearily.

  “Not today. Come.” She led him up the sloped street.

  Mershayn took one step, then slumped against her. His head fell limply against her neck. Deni’tri held him up and motioned to Sym. “Come, my lord. Let’s get our king to the castle.”

  Sym hesitated. With her hands full, he could raise the crossbow. He could finish this job. He’d have to deal with the firefighters who even now threw water upon the burning building, but Sym had handled worse messes.

  She saw his hesitation. Her left hand slipped to rest on her hatchet, and the moment passed. Her hard glance told him that she knew exactly what he was thinking. If he pulled that crossbow, her hatchet would find his skull before he could aim.

  He took his hand off the hidden crossbow and came out from behind the wall. At Deni’tri’s gesture, he picked Mershayn up underneath the shoulders. Deni’tri took the king’s feet.

  They started up the steep cobblestone street. Sym looked at Deni’tri and caught her glance. She looked at his place of concealment, saw the two crossbows he had left by the wall as they passed.

  “You lead, Lord Sym. I’ll be right behind you,” she said. “Every step of the way.”

  35

  Bands

  Night had fallen in Teni’sia—a night of slaughter, but also of hope—and Bands wanted nothing more than to fall over and sleep for a week. She had used as much of her own personal GodSpill as she dared to heal her wounds. It hadn’t been much. The great gashes Dyrfa had given her were barely scabbed over. She couldn’t walk without a limp, and she did her best not to move her left arm.

  She hadn’t even tried healing her wing yet. Fighting the damage done by Saraphazia’s spell would take more energy than she had right now. It might even be impossible, which meant Bands may have flown the winds for the last time. She tried not to think of that. She had enough to deal with.

  Stavark stood gravely beside the bed where Mirolah lay, ashen, unmoving and unbreathing.

  In the battle against Dyrfa’s flight of dragons, the little quicksilver had once again proven himself indispensable. He had joined Lord Baerst’s army against Sytherlakyleriun, the dragon who broke away from the fight with Bands at the very beginning. Syther had tried to reach the castle. Bands wasn’t exactly sure why the castle had been her goal. Perhaps she’d been ordered to find the king and kill him. Knowing Dyrfa, he had probably ordered her to pull the castle down stone by stone, a grand statement that castles were no protection against dragons. That type of fear attack was exactly the kind of thing Avakketh would order his followers to do.

  And Stavark had come through the battle without a scratch, at least on the outside. Inside, Stavark was horribly wounded every time one of his companions fell. He worried over everyone, felt it was his personal mission to keep all of his companions alive. Bands could never repay him for saving her from the waters of the True Ocean, yet he had done it as though it was expected. He’d asked for no thanks and hadn’t mentioned it since.

  And now the concerned quicksilver watched Mirolah, who looked as dead as a three-day-old fish.

  To any normal eyes, Mirolah was a corpse. She had collapsed just after Mershayn fell with the dragon and had been like this since. In addition, Sniff had vanished after the battle. Bands had expected the fearsome skin dog to be right by Mirolah’s side, growling at anyone who tried to touch her. The dog’s absence worried Bands. Mirolah was connected to it, and if Mirolah’s spirit roamed free from this body, Bands suspected the skin dog had tried to follow.

  Bands adjusted her left arm in its sling, wincing. Stavark laid a hand on Mirolah’s forehead, pressed a finger into her neck. “She is dead,” he said.

  Bands hesitated, then said, “No.”

  He glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. “She is cold.”

  “I do not...fully understand it. But she’s not dead. Not like we think of people as dead.”

  “How?”

  “Because Mirolah is something I have never seen before.” In Bands’s threadweaver sight, Mirolah’s body glowed with GodSpill, like a foot-thick shell of light surrounded her. Dead bodies did not do that, no matter how enchanted they had been in life. “For now, I think we must simply wait.”

  Stavark’s brow wrinkled. “Leave her here?”

  The quicksilvers had complicated burial rituals. Life was sacred above all else, and the death of a loved one had to be treated with the utmost respect. To leave a body unconsecrated after death was a heinous crime.

  “She is not dead, Stavark.”

  He frowned. “You said you did not know this thing.”

  “It’s...complicated.” She tried to find the words, but she was so tired her mind was swimming, and there was still much to do before she could rest. “It would be a mistake to do anything at this moment.”

  He was not happy about it, but he nodded. Frowning, he stepped away and walked to the window on the west side of Mirolah’s room.

  “And no one else can know she is here. She must be left alone.”

  “Even Mershayn?” Stavark asked with his normal acuity. So he had seen how Mershayn and Mirolah had become closer. Or he’d heard the story. Apparently, they had kissed before Mershayn went running headlong at the flight of dragons.

  “I will tell Mershayn,” Bands said.

  After a time, she moved around the bed and came to stand behind Stavark. His words and deeds were so noble, his demeanor so serious, that it was easy to forget how young he was. Everyone treated him—and relied on him—like an adult. Certainly he must feel something of the boy he was. Surely this boy must still get frightened. Surely he must still long for the comfort of a mother or father.

  Bands put a gentle hand on his shoulder. His head moved a little, but otherwise he remained still.

  He reached up and closed his pale fingers over hers.

  “Too many.” His usually musical voice was hoarse, on the verge of tears. “The deaths cry out to me, and I cannot stop them all.”

  “No one can,” she whispered. “Not you. Not me. Not even Medophae.”

  “My companions have been taken or killed. Orem first, now Mirolah. Even the Rabasyvihrk. They die, and yet I am still here.”

  “None are lost. Not yet. I will soon turn my full attention upon finding Medophae. When I do, Zilok will try to stop me, and then we will see who is the better threadweaver at last.”

  Stavark’s hand tightened on her own.

  “That saavenvakihrk will twist your mind. He robbed the Rabasyvihrk of his powers once. No doubt he has done this again. How can the Rabasyvihrk possibly best him without his god?”

  “Do not be so quick to give up on Medophae. Before he was a demigod, he was a resourceful, courageous young man. And relentless.” Bands paused, then said, “Much like you, actually. He also always thought first of his friends and his family.”

  Gently, she turned the quicksilver to face her. With a finger, she lifted his pointed ivory chin so that his silver eyes looked into her own.

  “Take heart, noble Stavark. Those around you are lifted up by your goodness. It shines brightly in every action you make. Do not let despair dim that light. We need you.”

  The muscles in his jaw flickered, and his eyes glistened. But he held her gaze. “I also lost Elekkena,” he said softly.

  Bands wanted to break gazes with the earnest quicksilver, but she forced herself to keep looking at him. “I am sorry,” she murmured. “That I deceived you.”

  “Why?”


  “I needed to.”

  “And the real Elekkena is dead?”

  “I do not know. I like to think she is somewhere in the woods with her parents, still alive. I waited in Sylikkayrn for many weeks after I was released from my prison. With Avakketh determined to come south, I needed a way to get close to Medophae without him knowing. Posing as a quicksilver was ideal. Your kind’s inherent flashpowers could camouflage my threadweaving from Mirolah. And I knew that Medophae and Mirolah would come looking for you. If I attached myself to you, then I could naturally be a part of your reunion. So I came to Sylikkayrn. I changed forms many times, listening for a plausible back story. When I heard your father speak of Elekkena and her parents, I made my decision. She seemed a good companion for you, so I imagined what she would look like and I made myself into her.”

  The muscles in his jaw worked again, and he broke eye contact at last, taking her hand from his chin and holding it.

  “She was a good companion,” he said. “I...will miss her.”

  “Stavark—”

  “But she wasn’t real.” He delicately put her hand at her side and let go. He looked up into her eyes again. “You did what was most important, and I, too, must focus on what is most important. You say we cannot fight the dragon god without the Rabasyvihrk, then we must find him.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “We must find him.”

  He smiled up at her, that sadness haunting his face.

  “Stavark...” She reached out to touch his smooth cheek again.

  He became a silent explosion of silver lightning and streaked to the door. He opened it, then looked back at her.

  “I will see if Mershayn is awake,” he said.

  She almost called out to him again, but didn’t. Instead, she did what she often did when there was no right action. She stayed still and let the world move past her. It was important to know when to do that.

  But sometimes it hurt.

  Stavark shut the door quietly.

  36

  Mershayn

  Mershayn awoke slowly. He felt injured in half a dozen places, but someone had bathed him and dressed his wounds. Gingerly propping himself up, he leaned against the headboard and drew deep breaths as the tendrils of sleep pulled away. Gods... How long had he been out?

  He blinked, and the memories hit him like a cup of ale to the face. Fire. Death and fire. Burning buildings. Burning bodies. Screams...

  For a moment, he thought he would be sick, but he held his bile. They were at war. This was a victory. The dragons were dead. Teni’sia had endured.

  Frost gathered against the lead molding of the window, turning diamond panes into round. In another life, this was the type of day he would liked to have spent at a tavern, drinking spiced wine with friends and throwing daggers at a target.

  “They are singing your praises in the city below,” Bands said.

  He jumped. He’d thought he was alone.

  In the shadows beyond the low-flickering fire sat Bands. She was clothed in a green gown as always, but it was different from the high-necked dress she had worn before. Her shoulders were bare, but the gown also had long, dagged sleeves. Thin green laces held the bodice together, offering a modest glimpse of cleavage. The laces continued upward, finally looping around her throat in a cloth choker. The long dress hung down over her crossed knees, revealing a flash of ankles between the hem and the elegant slippers she wore.

  The attire was the current style that many ladies of the Teni’sian court wore. Ari’cyiane had worn gowns like this, but to see it on Bands startled him. On Ari’cyiane, it had seemed normal. On Bands, it seemed risqué. For the first time, it called attention to the slenderness of her neck, the curve of her clavicle, the perfect proportions of her body.

  “I see you have been to a dressmaker.” He cleared his throat.

  “Come now, Mershayn. I make my clothing when I make up my face in the morning. You know that.”

  He gave her a quick point with his finger. “Funny,” he said. “In that way that makes a chill run up my spine.”

  She smiled.

  He suddenly noticed the long white cloth over the arm of the chair in which she sat. That was a sling; she just wasn’t wearing it in the chair. He also saw a bit of white peeking out of the upper edge of her sleeve by her bare shoulder. That was a bandage. That was even more shocking than the dress. Bands had always seemed invincible. To see her bandaged up reinforced just how devastating the battle had been.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Glad that Teni’sia is still standing. Glad that Silasa was right about you. I have heard the stories. All tell that you were magnificent, a hero-king to rival the legends of old.”

  “It was Mirolah. She made me...well...invincible, I think. The dragons couldn’t burn me. Instead of falling to my death, I flew. I’m pretty sure she even shoved me into the mouth of that dragon so I didn’t get chomped in half, and I’d be willing to bet she made sure my sword hit exactly the right mark to kill it with one strike. I would have been dead in the first five seconds if not for her.”

  Bands nodded.

  He tipped his chin at the sling laying over her armrest. “I saw your wing. Are you...?”

  “I am fine. But you collapsed, Deni’tri says.” She turned the question back on him.

  “Bumps and bruises. Mirolah took good care of me.”

  “You look as beat up as I have ever seen you,” she said. “And that’s saying something.”

  “And you look like you’re trying to catch someone’s eye. Why the fetching attire?”

  “I am feeling rebellious today. I dressed the part.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  “No doubt,” she said, but did not offer anything more.

  He waited a moment, then looked down at his royal blanket. “How fares the kingdom?”

  “It stands,” she said. “And your legend grows. You won’t have trouble finding support now. When no one else knew what to do, you stood up and took charge. Your people will follow you through the Godgate now if you ask them to.”

  “Does Lord Baerst survive? He was in charge of the other group.... They attacked the last dragon.”

  She nodded. “The man sails under a lucky star. And Stavark, as usual, was stunning.”

  “Where is Baerst?”

  “Likely passed out in a tavern. He started drinking the moment the battle was done.”

  “He deserves it. This kingdom owes him. Baerst put himself between dragons and Teni’sia. And they’re horrifying.” He paused. “No offense to you. I’m just saying, the man has courage.”

  “I do not take offense,” she said. “They are frightening.”

  “This kingdom owes you as well,” he said. “For organizing us. For preparing us.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But what it really needed was you. You galvanized the men and women of Teni’sia. You commanded Mirolah’s loyalty, and Silasa’s and Stavark’s. When there was nothing but defeat all around you, you saw victory.”

  He shook his head. “I wish I could say that was true. I didn’t see victory. All I saw was my own death. I just kept running at dragons.”

  She smirked. “By the gods, Mershayn, take a bow. I doubt even I would have grasped hold of Kytherflahkin’s tail like that.”

  “Kytherflahkin? You knew him?”

  “I knew of him.”

  “Gods...” He looked down, knotting the blanket in his fists. Slowly, he relaxed and smoothed the wool. “I am sorry, Bands. It must be hard for you, fighting those you’ve known—”

  “I am not sorry,” she interrupted. “They began this war, and they are wrong. Avakketh is wrong. I will give my life to stop him. I’m not sad they died in place of those they came to kill. I am only sad they succeeded in taking so many Teni’sians with them.”

  “But they are your people,” he said.

  Finally, he saw a reaction. She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a quiet voice. “They were. But tell me, did you
cry for the Sunriders who died in the Corialis Mountains when they tried and failed to take Teni’sia a decade ago?”

  “No.”

  “And would you weep for one of them simply because you knew his name?”

  “No.”

  “Then you know some of what I am feeling. They came to murder. They lost. I do not weep for Kytherflahkin.”

  “All right.”

  They watched one another in silence.

  “Well, that’s good,” he said. “Because I made a decision before I passed out, when I knelt in the wreckage of the dragons’ passing.”

  She nodded.

  “If there is another battle, we choose the battleground. We must take the fight to them.”

  “Good,” she said. “Smart. But you know you won’t get to Irgakth, right? At best, it’s only a matter of days before Avakketh comes south. You’ve done the impossible, and he’ll be cautious. He won’t know how you did it, and he’ll move slowly. But he will come. He’s lost too much now. And his primary reasons have only grown stronger. He fears threadweavers, hates that humans have that power. He will assume that is how you stopped his dragons, but he won’t have guessed it was one, lone threadweaver. If he discovers this, he will move to eliminate her. Keep that secret, Mershayn, and you will make the best use of it.”

  “I will.”

  Bands shook her head and looked out the window, pensive. “Mirolah is an unknown quantity. Even I don’t know how she stole the air from six dragons at once, and I’ve been studying her every chance I’ve had. Sucking the air away from a dragon for a few seconds is difficult threadweaving. But depriving six dragons of the power of flight indefinitely?” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen that, not in all my years. I couldn’t do that. Zilok Morth couldn’t do that. The only person who might have had the power to do such a thing is the legendary Daylan Morth. And he created the fountain that almost destroyed Amarion.”

  “She’s special,” Mershayn said.

  “Mmmm.” She turned her emerald gaze back to him. “And dangerous. Be careful with her, Mershayn. I’ve...seen how close you are.”