The GodSpill: Threadweavers, Book 2

by Todd Fahnestock

  Silasa’s problems flew away like paper-thin bits of ash on an updraft. This woman saw so many things, and she bore the burden alone except for Silasa. And Silasa complained about loneliness? At least she could venture within the gates of Teni’sia at night and buy clothing. Ynisaan could not even do that. According to the mysterious woman, each interaction with Silasa might mean death for Ynisaan. Silasa lived in a cave, but Ynisaan’s home was, apparently, filled with creatures that would kill her if they found her.

  “I am sorry,” Silasa said. “I am wallowing in self-pity tonight.” She crouched and leaned her back against the rock wall. Her flowing black skirts draped over the lip of the cave, fluttering in the sea breeze. She dangled one leg over the edge like a child. “I did not mean to burden you with my problems.”

  Ynisaan walked forward and took up a spot on the opposite wall. Studying Silasa’s position for a moment, she sat down, imitating it. It was the first time Ynisaan had ever done something awkward. Her heel slipped, and she sat down hard. For a second, Silasa thought she would topple over the edge of the cliff. With a startled expression, Ynisaan looked up. “I have never done that before.”

  “Sat down?”

  “On the floor of a cave, no.”

  “Well...” Silasa said. “Well done.”

  “I have heard that Tuana’s Children are usually better liars,” Ynisaan said.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “It is okay. There are many things I am not good at.”

  “The only other vampires I’ve known except for myself are horrible,” Silasa admitted.

  “You are unique,” Ynisaan said. “The others of White Tuana’s blood are petty, thieving killers. It is easy to lose compassion for mortals when you possess the blood of a god. Most vampires take the burden of their metamorphosis as an excuse to drop their humanity. And once they forget what it is to be human, it is nearly impossible to return to it.”

  Silasa had felt that compulsion so many times, the need to sink her teeth into someone she hated or loved, the need to destroy. Each time, she asked herself why not? She had no ties to the mortal world. Why shouldn’t she simply give in to it? Why not run from kingdom to kingdom, taking what she wanted?

  “It’s why Medophae is so important to you, isn’t it?” Silasa asked. “Because he’s human still. Angry and sad and impetuous and mixed-up. But human. Oedandus hasn’t claimed him.”

  “He is an example for all of us who have gods’ blood,” she said.

  That surprised Silasa. “You have a god’s blood?”

  “Not like Medophae. Not even to the extent that you do. I cannot summon a sword of fire or heal my wounds. I do not live forever, and I do not have superhuman strength like you. But I can travel to the Coreworld, and I have Vaisha’s vision. I can see...possibilities like she did.”

  “You have blood from Vaisha the Changer?”

  “She was the one who made my kind.” She paused. “It’s hard to...keep from believing we are above mortals, because of the things we do. It’s why I choose to serve. It’s the only way to hold onto the value of all living things.”

  “You think that’s why Medophae does it? Because he believes in the value of all living things?” Silasa had seen Medophae kill his fair share of people and beasts.

  “No. He does it because he’s in love,” Ynisaan said.

  “With Bands? Or Mirolah?”

  “With humankind. Or rather, with the best of humankind. He fights so hard for them. Even in his attempt to detach from the human lands, even when he lived in a cave close to your home kingdom, he couldn’t stop himself from saving Orem. He wants us to become better. Medophae is what the other gods should aspire to be.”

  “The gods don’t care about mortals,” Silasa said. “And they don’t listen to Medophae, even if he would try talking to them. They don’t see him as one of them.”

  Ynisaan paused, and her voice was barely audible. As a vampire, however, Silasa had exceptional hearing. “They fear him, though,,” Ynisaan murmured.

  They sat in silence after that, until Silasa said. “So what happens next with Mershayn? Did he die?”

  “No. He lives.”

  “He walked straight into an ambush.”

  “For his brother, but not for him. They did not expect him to arrive. He swayed the battle.”

  “All by himself?”

  “He had help.”

  Silasa raised an eyebrow. “Your doing?”

  Ynisaan smiled. “Some things happen all by themselves. No, Mershayn is a resourceful man. He has made some friends in the castle of Teni’sia.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He and his allies are hidden in the village at the foot of the castle, within the walls of Teni’sia. As is the king.”

  “The king lives?” Silasa asked incredulously.

  “He will not survive the night. There is no future for him that leads away from Teni’sia.”

  “And Mershayn?”

  “Will also die tonight, most likely,” Ynisaan said.

  “Most likely?”

  “Grendis Sym is tracking them. In a few hours, they will be found. They will fight bravely, but they will lose, unless you go to them.”

  Silasa said, “Zilok Morth is in Teni’sia. He almost caught Mershayn and me when we escaped the dungeons. You didn’t tell me he was here.”

  “You did well.”

  “A warning would be nice.”

  “I cannot see Zilok. He isn’t alive, and so is difficult to predict. He has no cracks in the Coreworld, no flows that might predict his destiny. But he can alter them. If he had caught you, I would not have been able to save you.”

  “Good thing he didn’t.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Medophae?”

  “He is coming. But there are...many possible paths for him. Avakketh will lay traps for him.”

  “If you can see these traps, let’s spring them before Medophae reaches them.”

  Ynisaan looked down. “We could. But every time we nudge events, it is a risk. If Avakketh discovers me and, through me, the Coreworld...he would use it to destroy this world Natra built. Every life form would be doomed, save dragons. Even Saraphazia, goddess of whales, could not fight Avakketh if he controlled the Coreworld. The more we allow events to unfold naturally, nudging only where we must, the more it seems natural, and the less attention it draws.”

  Silasa paused. “So Mershayn, then? For now?” She grabbed the hem of her skirts and gathered them, stood up, and tucked them into her belt. Her pale legs shone in the moonlight.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He and his friends have hidden themselves in a run-down bait shop in The Barnacles.”

  The Barnacles was the wharf-side shantytown near the wharves of Teni’sia. “What is it called?”

  “The Gutted Fish.”

  Silasa wrinkled her nose. “Pleasant.” She crouched at the edge of the cave, preparing to climb down.

  “Silasa,” Ynisaan said.

  Silasa stopped.

  “Tonight, the kingdom will divide into two separate camps. Grendis Sym will make his move, and few will oppose him. Of those who do, even fewer will live, and those few are important. But these friends of Mershayn’s will not be friendly to you. Everyone is suspicious. They will think you an enemy first.”

  “They always do,” she said.

  “Use Medophae’s name. He still carries great influence in Teni’sia.”

  “Medophae carries great influence everywhere,” she said, and began the climb down.

  33

  Mirolah

  They all stopped and stared into the darkened trees. It was afternoon, but within the forest, it was as though night had fallen. Sniff whined, moving forward toward the forest, then back. Obviously, the trail went in, but the dog balked. The threads of the ground, the trees, the air of this place were tainted, darkened as though they had been soaked in tar. The trees drooped and the grasses bent over in d
ecay. Winter was coming, but this forest had not died because of a turn of the seasons. It had been transformed by powerful GodSpill.

  They had been on the road for nearly four days, following Sniff’s nose. For the last day they’d been traveling fairly swiftly across grasslands, but this was where they ended. Medophae said they were within a few hours of the ruins of Belshra, where his vampire friend hailed from.

  Sniff whined and paced back and forth in front of the group. The horses flared their nostrils and neighed.

  Medophae got off their horse and peered into the gloom. The sun hung low on the horizon, and twilight was not far off. Greasy mist swirled between the soft trunks of the trees. Mirolah dismounted as well and tethered the horse.

  Elekkena hopped down from her horse and Stavark followed.

  “This place is vakehk,” Stavark said, and it sounded like he was spitting. His fists were clenched.

  Medophae shook his head. “This wasn’t here before,” he said.

  “This malevolence?” Mirolah asked.

  “This forest. Not here before. I took this route to Denema’s Valley when I came looking for Orem. By the gods, I’ve ridden this way a hundred times in my life. There was never a forest. I think there was a village near this place, but no forest. This happened with the Wave.”

  “You think this was created when we released the GodSpill?” Mirolah asked.

  “GodSpill,” Sniff whined. “Bad GodSpill.” He paced back and forth, then sneezed, shaking his great head. “Trail goes in.”

  “Zilok went in there,” Mirolah said. “This is his new lair.” The thought of the freed GodSpill creating something so vile made Mirolah’s stomach turn. The voice that spoke to her from the GodSpill seemed insistent, but not...malevolent. This had to be something Zilok created specifically for his own needs.

  Stavark followed, unsheathing his curved sword. Sniff whined, pacing back and forth.

  “Yes,” Medophae said, unsheathing his own sword. A flicker of golden fire ran from his fist up the blade. “I think you’re right.”

  The two of them moved into the trees with Mirolah and Elekkena behind. Sniff loped ahead of them, head down and looking around every tree.

  The mist thickened. The air outside had been crisp, late fall awaiting winter. But inside the trees, it clung to Mirolah’s skin like hot breath. She followed Elekkena, just able to see Stavark and Medophae ahead. The godsword crackled in his hand and lit the way.

  “Let’s stay close,” Medophae said.

  Mirolah’s toe bumped into something, and she looked down at the ground. She recoiled. It was a dead squirrel, except it wasn’t quite a squirrel anymore. Its head was three times the normal size, and its eyes bulged from their sockets. Its neck was a thin thread that connected the overlarge head to its shoulders, and yet it appeared to have grown that way. A ribbon of dried blood trailed from its mouth onto the grass.

  Mirolah reached out to its threads to try to see what had happened to the poor creature, but the mist obscured her threadweaver vision. She fought through it and touched the wretched creature’s threads. Some of the squirrel’s threads had gaps in them, some were shredded, and the frayed ends turned into mismatched colors.

  Was this some aberration that had happened when the GodSpill had been released back into the lands? So many wondrous things had manifested since she tore down Daylan’s Fountain, but there might be other effects, not so benevolent.

  “You aren’t happy with your creation?”

  Zilok Morth’s oozing presence soaked into her threads just as he spoke.

  “No!” She jerked upright, ejecting his insidious influence, pushing the black color from her threads. “He’s here!” She spun about—

  But Sniff was no longer beside her. Elekkena was not in front of her. Medophae and Stavark were nowhere in sight. She heard someone calling her name, and she heard Sniff’s howl.

  “I’m here,” she yelled. She tried to see them, but the greasy mist had thickened to an impenetrable fog. Now it blocked her regular vision as well as her threadweaver sight.

  Zilok Morth materialized in the fog, and he bowed low. He wore the same tight black vest, the same white, high-collared shirt. He rubbed at his goatee.

  “They can’t hear you. These mists are an interesting creation. It took me an hour of studying them to discover how to manipulate the threads in this place while I was waiting for you.”

  “You didn’t make this forest,” she said.

  “Please,” he said. “Why would I?” He shook his head. “No, this is part of your great creation, Lady Rith. Did you think the GodSpill was some benevolent force in the world?”

  “It’s—” she began, but cut herself off. Zilok looked amused.

  “No, Lady Rith, the GodSpill is not benevolent. It would as soon morph you into a tree as love you, whichever it chooses in that instant. This is the force of creation used by the gods. It cares nothing for the desires of mortals. It caresses and stabs at will. It is wild. You released something unpredictable into the lands. Where we stand, this used to be a village. There was no forest here.”

  She felt through the threads, but the fog was blocking her ability. The threads were faded, barely perceptible, but as she touched them, they grew brighter.

  “You’re lying,” she said, trying to stall him until she, too, could figure out how to threadweave in this cursed place.

  “I never lie to those who are about to die,” Zilok said.

  She felt the shiver in the threads a second before the air shoved her backward. It was a simple spell, meant to throw her off balance, but she kept her feet—

  Something stabbed through the back of her thigh. Her thighbone snapped, and she screamed, falling onto her knees.

  Fiery pain tore through her, and Zilok winnowed into her mind, infecting her threads with his oily tar.

  She tried to shut him out, but the pain of the wound distracted her, and, in seconds, he had dominated her. It was just like Ethiel, all over again, except Zilok was far better at this.

  “History never remembers,” he whispered inside her head. “How kind I am. How many chances I give to my enemies. You could have lived, Lady Rith. But you will get no more chances from me.”

  A dozen new branches came at her from the tree behind her. They punctured her neck, her chest, her legs and arms. She gasped as blood flowed from the wounds.

  She could heal herself. She could...

  But Zilok held her mind, preventing her from doing anything. He waited, letting her blood flow, letting her life ebb. Her vision began to go blurry, and in the mist, she saw golden light flashing.

  Medophae, she thought, but Zilok prevented her mouth from calling out to him.

  “This is what happens to those who do not accept my generosity,” Zilok whispered.

  She let out a long last breath.

  “Die, Lady Rith.”

  The greasy mists lifted and Mirolah could hear the voices of her friends once again. But she had no voice. She had no strength. Her body was cold, and she couldn’t raise her arms. She slumped, held aloft by the branches that impaled her. Her vision turned dark. She looked down at her punctured body, wicked branches sticking out of it, pinning her to the ground.

  Her spirit began floating upward toward that swirling gray maw overhead.

  34

  Stavark

  When the mist thickened so abruptly, Stavark knew the attack would come.

  The greasy mist was an offense. It was nature turned inside out. With every step, he longed to put an end to the forces that had twisted the trees and grasses. He looked back and saw the calm determination in Elekkena’s eyes as well, that same revulsion that he felt. She glanced at him and, for a quick moment, Stavark saw inside her head. He saw her thoughts. Such a connection happened among syvihrk sometimes. According to the wisest of his people, it could only happen between two people who knew their heart’s desire and followed it with clarity. It was called kihrkakis, or “the soul glimpse” in human. For that brief
moment, Stavark was her and she was him.

  Elekkena worried for Medophae, but she was not afraid. Her serenity was not a facade; it stretched far back into her soul. She would follow Medophae, Stavark, and Mirolah into any peril. She would never waver, but there was more. She had another reason for being here. She—

  Elekkena shook her head and the kihrkakis ended. Stavark stared at her and slowed to a stop. She looked up at him with calm silver eyes. He tried to see inside her again, but the connection was gone.

  “You...” Stavark started to say, but he could not put his thoughts into words. “You are more than you seem,” he said in the language of the syvihrk.

  “Everyone is more than they seem,” she replied.

  “How did you...” Again, words failed him.

  Elekkena paused for a moment, as though deciding whether she would tell him or not. Finally, she said, “Much happened to me during my two-year journey, Stavark. More than I have told you. I will explain later, but now is not the time for this story.”

  “But how could you know these things that you know—” He cut himself off. “Where is the Maehka vik Kalik?” he said.

  Elekkena spun around. The Maehka vik Kalik was gone.

  “Rabasyvihrk,” Stavark called, but the mists had swallowed the big man.

  He could enter the silverland. In an instant, he could move forward and back, but he had taken his eyes off the Maehka vik Kalik and the Rabasyvihrk for a moment, and they were gone. It would be a mistake to lose Elekkena the same way.

  “The Rabasyvihrk will be fine,” Elekkena said, glancing back where they had come from. “We follow the Maehka vik Kalik.” She flipped her silver hair over one shoulder and started back the way they had come, picking her way carefully.

  The sickly mist closed in about them.

  “Take my hand,” Elekkena said, and Stavark grabbed it. Even then, it seemed as if the mist tugged at them, trying to pull them apart. At times, it was difficult to see his hand in front of his face, or the path at his feet, but Elekkena stepped with confidence, as though she could see what he could not. She called out for Mirolah, but the mist swallowed the shouts.