Threads of Amarion

by Todd Fahnestock

  Bad luck, friend.

  She closed on them.

  The tall guard spun just as her hand closed on his neck. His eyes went wide, and he choked, scrabbling against her arm.

  She snatched the squat guard’s neck next, then picked them both up. The short guard, obviously the more experienced, ignored her death grip and drew his sword. She pulled him close, fast, as he swung. His arm wrapped around her, the weapon thumping harmlessly against her back.

  She plunged her teeth into his neck. Blood splashed on her chin. She drank deeply and quickly. The squat guard gave a thrash like a hooked trout, then went limp. She drained him, pulling his hot life into herself. Tuana’s power surged through her, bringing vitality to her frozen limbs.

  She dropped the ghastly corpse, its lips shrunken, its face white, and its fingers curled into thin claws.

  The tall guard went wild, flinging himself like an animal caught in a snare. He tried to wrap his legs around her arm and pry her grip free, but he couldn’t match her strength, not with both arms, both legs, and another three men to help him. His struggles became feeble as he ran out of breath.

  She choked him unconscious and left him by the body of his partner. Sparing him reminded her of who she was, reminded her not to give in to her bloodlust. It was White Tuana’s desire to kill, not hers. Never hers.

  Silasa wiped her chin, headed south on the walkway, and entered the archway of the Northern Walk’s guard house. Two of the three guards inside were awake. One of them saw her, drew a dagger, and threw it remarkably fast.

  It sank deep into Silasa’s chest, and it hurt. Rage flared inside her, and the power she had just drunk burst through her, moving her arms and legs. She leapt onto the guard, tearing open his neck and feeding hungrily. A red haze covered her vision, and the movements of the other guards seemed slow-and-quick, mismatched flashes from a frantic dream. A sword came at her, missed, sparked on the stones. A man leapt at her, trying to tackle her. Her fingernails sank into his soft flesh. Her teeth sank into his neck. Another sword sliced her leg, drawing her blood. She hit him in the chest, fingers like nails, and she felt his bones break. Her teeth sank into another warm neck.

  Then it was over. Her right arm was bloody to the elbow, and she felt sticky wetness on her chin and chest, quickly growing cold. She stood over three drained corpses, and she vibrated with power, feeling like she could leap straight upward and burst through the roof twenty feet above her.

  Stop it. Stop it....

  On the other side of the guardhouse was a courtyard open to the night sky with extensive gardens covered in snow. She ran across the open ground, moving fast, and leaving bloody footprints. The double doors of the castle proper stood on the far side, protected by two more guards. One of them, an exceptionally alert woman, shouted before Silasa slammed into her. The woman smashed into the wall, dropped like a bag of sand, and lay unmoving. Silasa grabbed the second guard by the neck before he could yell. She moderated her strength and choked him into unconsciousness.

  That was sloppy. The woman’s shout would alert other guards, especially if there were more behind the door—

  A huge shadow passed over her.

  Silasa crouched, her gaze darting upward.

  There was nothing there. She melted into the shadow of the wall and stood still for a long moment, listening. Thin clouds slid across the moon. Had it been a cloud?

  She grabbed the keys from one of the fallen guards, snapping his belt like a piece of kelp, and fit the key into the door. The lock clicked, and she swung the door wide.

  There were no guards on the other side. She entered, turned the corner, ready for another attack.

  A crossbowman hid halfway behind a short wall, but he didn’t shoot. Silasa waited, ready to leap into action. The man had to see her, but still he didn’t shoot. She narrowed her eyes.

  He was slumped against the wall like he had fallen asleep on his bow. Another guard lay stretched out farther down the hall as though he had turned to run for help, but then decided to take a nap.

  A chill ran through her. That was a threadweaver’s work.

  Her first reaction was to turn and sprint away as fast as she could go. Zilok Morth was the resident threadweaver in Teni’sia right now, and there wasn’t a damned thing Silasa could do against a being like Zilok. Her speed and strength was nothing to him. Morth would take her mind, make her dance like a puppet.

  She froze.

  Think. Don’t do the first thing. Do the smart thing. Zilok had no reason to put Sym’s guards to sleep. Why would he—

  “Were you simply going to kill them all?” a woman’s voice came from down the hall, a voice Silasa would know anywhere, a voice she hadn’t heard in a century.

  Bands’s dove-blond hair and emerald eyes shone in the darkness, glowing with their own inner light. She stepped forward, and the shadows parted like a cloak. She wore a sleeveless green gown, floor length, as though she was going to a ball.

  Silasa’s voice caught in her throat. Her first instinct was to run to her friend, to wrap her up in a hug. Ynisaan had said Bands had returned....

  Silasa’s thoughts curdled like souring milk, and she felt icy fear in her gut.

  This was exactly the kind of mind game Zilok would play. She hadn’t felt him enter her mind, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t. Certainly, he wouldn’t put his own guards to sleep unless it was part of a larger plan. Impersonating Bands to “befriend” Silasa was exactly the kind of thing Zilok would do.

  Silasa backed up a step, trying to push down her fear.

  Of course. It was Zilok all along. He took control of Silasa’s mind before the battle. He projected Ynisaan’s likeness into Silasa’s mind. That was how he got Silasa out of the way before the battle. After all, which was really more likely? That Ynisaan, a creature who had proven to be dedicated to stopping Morth, had suddenly lied to Silasa to make sure Medophae failed...

  ...or that Zilok had crafted an elaborate trap, impersonating Ynisaan and manipulating Silasa like a marionette so she couldn’t help Medophae?

  She bared her teeth. “I see you, Morth,” she said. “You fooled me. But you won’t do it twice.”

  Bands stopped walking, her head cocked to the side, then she nodded. Her face softened into a compassionate half smile, that same smile Silasa knew so well, her best friend’s smile. The expression hit Silasa like a punch to the chest. It was so perfect, so...Bands. How many times had Bands looked at Silasa like that when they were talking late into the night?

  “The gods curse you....” Silasa said. Her stomach churned at the vile imitation, at how much Zilok knew, at how casually he could ravage Silasa’s emotions. She took another step back.

  “I am not Zilok,” Bands said softly.

  “Why not just kill me?” Silasa asked, but she knew the answer. It was amusement. Torture the poor, lonely vampire girl by taking Medophae away, then dangle a phantom of her best friend in front of her.

  “Silasa...”

  Silasa bared her fangs. “Do it, then. If this is the end, finish it. Stop this charade.”

  “Silasa,” Bands repeated, like she was speaking to an unruly child who wouldn’t listen. “When Ethiel captured Medophae, whose counsel did I seek?”

  “Bands is inside Ethiel’s gem. She wasn’t around when Ethiel captured Medophae.”

  “Ah. My mistake. I’m not talking about his recent capture. I meant the other one. The earlier one. The first time Ethiel caged Medophae, in the Age of Ascendance, 1152. Whose counsel did I seek?”

  “Do you think your knowledge of history will sway me?” Silasa asked. “Whatever it is you want from me, whatever fruit this is meant to bear, I’ll make you choke on it.”

  “I did not ask you how I should go about freeing Medophae,” Bands continued, unruffled. “Do you remember what I asked you?”

  “I’ll never tell you.”

  “I asked you if I should kill Ethiel,” Bands said. “I knew I could get Medophae back. I knew I could beat her.
What I didn’t know was if that deluded woman deserved to die. Do you remember?”

  Silasa’s scathing retort died on her lips. That had happened. Bands had asked her that question. Silasa remembered it vividly. How could Morth know that? No one else had been there. Had Zilok spied on them?

  “Medophae stayed in that cage for a day longer than he needed to,” Bands continued. “Because you and I talked. We talked all night. Do you remember what you told me?”

  “I remember.” Silasa’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “You told me to kill her. You said that an ordinary woman deserved mercy, but Ethiel wasn’t ordinary anymore. She was a force, too powerful to simple chide and turn my back on. You said she deserved the same pity I should give a rabid dog, destroyed for her own good and the good of everyone else.”

  Bands glanced down at her hand, turned it over. It was flawless. Long, slender fingers, perfectly cut nails. It always would be, of course, because Bands’s human body was a construction of her imagination. “Do you remember what I said in response?” She cocked her head, looking back into Silasa’s eyes.

  “You didn’t want to,” Silasa whispered. “I argued with you.”

  “For an hour, you argued. And you were right.” A tear welled at the corner of those emerald eyes with their cat’s pupils. “And I paid the price for my mistake. A long and terrible price.”

  “Oh gods...” Silasa whispered. “Bands?”

  “Yes.”

  Silasa ran forward and threw her arms around the dragon woman, and Bands clasped her tight.

  “By the gods,” Silasa said.

  Bands released her and looked down at her. Silasa had forgotten how tall the woman was. “We have many stories to tell,” Bands said, smiling that half smile. “First, we save a kingdom, eh? And then Medophae, again, from the looks of it.”

  Silasa laughed through tears, holding onto her friend’s arms, afraid that if she let go, Bands might vanish. But no, she was here. She was solid and real. Everything was going to be all right.

  “Teni’sia cannot be in turmoil,” Bands said. “There is a danger greater even than Zilok Morth poised over Amarion, and we must meet it head-on.”

  “Worse than Morth?”

  “Worse than Amarion has yet known. We must move quickly or we’ll have no chance at all.” Then she changed the subject. “Your friend, the one called Mershayn. He is alive.”

  Relief flowed through her. “I didn’t dare to hope.”

  “He is in the western tower. Do you know what happened here two nights ago?”

  “Medophae and his friends went to trigger Zilok’s trap and remove the usurper Sym. That’s all I know. It seems reasonable to think Zilok took them.”

  “And Grendis Sym now rules.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe the kingdom would be better off with Mershayn as king?” Bands asked.

  “You’re looking for the strongest king?”

  “We will need a strong king in the days to come.”

  Silasa hesitated, trying to arrange her thoughts. Bands never wasted words. If she asked questions, they were important. “Sym is a killer and a schemer,” Silasa said. “But he obviously knows how to take and hold power. If you need a strong king... Well, he might serve. I don’t know what you’re asking. Do you want a ruthless king?”

  “I need strength. I need the kingdom to be unified. What about Mershayn?”

  “Mershayn...” Silasa began. “I...I like him, but...” Silasa held up her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. I’m not a kingmaker, Bands.”

  “You are tonight. What is Mershayn like?”

  “Vain, cocky, self-absorbed, thick-headed, stubborn. He’s a rogue and a philanderer, and too clever by half. He has no moral code, except...” Silasa trailed off.

  “Except what?”

  “Except he really did love his brother. He fought like a wild beast to save him. He would not be stopped nor reasoned with. I pulled Mershayn out of the dungeons, gave him the freedom to save his own life, but he wouldn’t. He chose to go back for his brother against impossible odds. And he inspired others to help him.”

  “And did they save his brother?”

  “They almost did.”

  “You like him,” Bands said.

  “If I was the sixteen-year-old girl I look like, I’d be head-over-heels for him. He’s charming, good-looking, quick-witted. But maybe that’s all he is. It’s certainly all he does. He takes advantage of women whenever he gets the chance.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He’d probably make a horrible king.”

  “Do you like Sym?” Bands asked.

  “Sym is a power-hungry weasel. But he’d probably make a stronger war king, if that’s what you’re asking. And he knows what he is doing, obviously. He’s a political animal.”

  “Excellent,” Bands said. “I think I understand. Let’s have a conversation with Mershayn. If I agree with you, we’ll put him on the throne.”

  “Agree with me...? But I said Sym would probably be better.”

  “No. You told me you like Mershayn, despite his shortcomings, and that you dislike Sym, despite his strengths.”

  “So we’re going to topple Sym’s regime—what Medophae failed to do—just like that?”

  “Silasa, I can’t afford to slink around hiding, influencing a little bit at a time. We have to move fast, otherwise all of this will be burning rubble.”

  “Rubble?” Silasa asked.

  “In as little as a few days, dragons will be in this city, killing everyone they can.”

  “Why?”

  “Stay close,” Bands said. “Inform me. I’ve been gone a long time. I need your assistance.”

  “Of course. Whatever I can do.”

  “Good. Also, stop killing them,” Bands said.

  Silasa looked back down the dark hallway to the site of her last bloody battle. “I was...angry,” she said softly.

  “I need you, Silasa. Not White Tuana’s vampiric slave. You play with fire every time you take a human life. Every gulp of human blood gives Tuana another foothold inside your soul.”

  Silasa bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Bands said, striding up the hall the way she had come. “Be better,” she called over her shoulder. “Be yourself, not what that twisted goddess made you.”

  Silasa jogged past the sleeping guards, hurrying to catch up. “What about them?” Silasa said.

  “Let them sleep. It may be the last deep sleep they have for a long time.”

  3

  Mershayn

  Mershayn opened his gummed eyes. At least he could see out of both of them this time. The pain in his body thudded rhythmically, his heart pounding out the surges of hurt. It never ended, but he kept his eyes open. Silasa was coming. The vampire had kept her promise, and that meant he had to hang on long enough for her to reach him.

  “Why do you smile?” Stavark asked.

  Mershayn swung his head around. The boy lay exactly as he’d fallen two days ago, but his eyes were open.

  “Thalius! I thought you were dead.” Mershayn let out a breath of sheer relief.

  “I should be dead,” Stavark said, his voice barely audible. “It is the only punishment for what I am now.”

  “Stavark...”

  “I killed the Maehka vik Kalik. I am no syvihrk.”

  “That wasn’t you,” Mershayn insisted. “It was that thing, Zilok Morth.”

  “I stabbed her, over and over.” Stavark closed his eyes. His voice dropped so that Mershayn could barely hear it. “My hands... My blade...” he whispered.

  “Stavark...” Mershayn began, but trailed off. He understood the boy’s guilt. Mershayn had killed his own brother. Oh, he hadn’t wielded the sword, but he’d been blind to the obvious signs of the coup until it was too late. He’d ignored his one responsibility: protect his brother. If Mershayn hadn’t been more concerned with his own diversions than Collus’s safety, the king would still be
alive.

  Mershayn’s guilt burned like a hot coal next to his heart, a terrible pain that would never go away. Collus was dead because Mershayn refused to shoulder responsibility until it was too late.

  So he knew how Stavark felt. But there was a difference between their two betrayals. Mershayn was actually at fault. Stavark was not.

  Still, Mershayn knew there were no supportive, coddling words that could snap Stavark out of his self-loathing. He didn’t need soft hands; he needed a hard slap. And then he needed a path to vengeance.

  “Your sword killed her,” Mershayn finally said. “But it wasn’t you. That foul spirit took your mind just like he took mine. He used you, raised your hands, made them stab. If you see yourself as the villain, then you’re a fool. The real villain got away. If you take the blame for him, if you let him get away with it after all, then maybe it is your fault.”

  Stavark glared daggers at Mershayn.

  Mershayn saw that the words had burned through Stavark’s self-loathing. Now was the time to give him a path to vengeance. “When we get free—”

  “You’re a fool, human,” Stavark spat. “They will kill us here, just like they killed our friends.”

  The cell grew dark as drifting clouds obscured the moonlight outside. Mershayn shifted, trying to find a comfortable way to sit with the chains binding him. He’d tried to find that position for almost two days now without success.

  “I want them to kill me,” Stavark finally said. “I do not wish to be freed.”

  “Fine,” Mershayn said. “Take the coward’s way.”

  “A human cannot understand,” Stavark snapped. “I cannot kill whomever I choose, as you do, and congratulate myself. I cannot slay the Maehka vik Kalik and still be a syvihrk.”

  “If a syvihrk can’t take a hit get back up again, then fuck the syvihrk,” Mershayn flared.

  Stavark hissed. He turned his head away.

  Something heavy thumped outside. Mershayn twisted. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.