“Did that hurt? Your father dying?” A bit more of the rainbow colors had receded. There was only a fringe around the edges of her brown eyes now.
He cleared his throat. “Yes. It did. He took sick and there was nothing we could do for him. But Collus stepped up, just as he had been trained to do. Our father had prepared him for that. Unfortunately, father hadn’t prepared Collus for what came after. Queen Tyndiria was murdered, and the nobles called for Collus, her nearest relative, to take the throne.” He sighed. “So we came here, and they killed him....”
His voice broke, and he tried get himself under control, but he wanted to cry. He’d never really had a moment to mourn Collus, and there were times Mershayn kept looking for him, expecting Collus to simply walk through the door. “This nest of snakes killed my brother....” he said again. “So I took their country away from them.” He smiled mirthlessly, lifted the decanter, and poured himself another drink. Mirolah watched the gesture, then pushed her empty glass at him. He refilled it, too. “How about that?”
Together, they lifted the glasses. “I took swordsmanship. I took their women. Now I’ve taken their highest title. I win.” They drank.
“I had a brother, too,” she said. “He was small. He was a threadweaver like me. And they killed him, too.”
Mershayn set his glass down, pulling himself out of his self-absorbed reverie. “I’m so sorry....”
“I loved him more than anyone else, like you loved your brother. And I couldn’t stop them from killing him, just like you. Dorn. His name was Dorn. He was innocent. He didn’t know...didn’t realize how dangerous they were. He was trying to impress them. He was trying to delight them. But he didn’t know...that they were so scared of him. So they killed him.” She looked up, and the only color in her eyes was her natural deep brown. He squeezed her hand. “That’s when I told myself I wasn’t going to show anyone that I was a threadweaver. No one would ever know what I could do.”
“And your parents? Where were they?”
“They had already been killed by the Sunriders.”
He swallowed, and squeezed her hand. A tear appeared at the corner of Mirolah’s eye.
“Did you live on your own, then?” Mershayn asked softly.
“I lived with another family...with many sisters. Casra. Locke. Mi’Gan. Lawdon and Tiffienne. In a city called Rith. I stayed there, quiet. I wrote letters. I didn’t let anyone know what I could do. But then a man came.... He was frightening at first, but then... then...he... Orem. His name was Orem.” She gripped his fingers tighter. “Orem taught me. He helped me. He led me to an incredibly powerful place called Daylan’s Fountain. And there I fought a woman, a spirit called the Red Weaver. She tried to kill me, led me into the center of the fountain. She led me... She meant it to kill me.... It was supposed to kill me.... And I... And I...”
Mirolah screamed. Spikes drove into Mershayn’s mind, into his arms and legs and heart. He seized up. It hit so fast, he didn’t even have time to yell. His body spasmed, throwing him backward.
He remembered falling. He remembered the monstrous skin dog leaping to his feet and barking. Then he remembered nothing....
Mershayn awoke to the sound of sobbing. He was sprawled on the floor, a shattered glass of brandy near his head. He was groggy, could barely remember where he was. His whole body hurt, like someone had taken a rake to his insides. He tasted blood in his mouth. For a moment, he thought he was in Buravar with Collus. He had the wisp of a memory that he and Collus had spent the night at Gretienna’s, and he was flat on his back, drunk.
But he was in Teni’sia. Collus was dead.
He shook his head and sat up, looking for who was sobbing. Mirolah knelt before the arched window. Her brown hair shimmered in the half-light, cascading down to cover her face like a veil. She clung to the windowsill with hands like claws. The skin dog towered over her protectively, his head low.
Mershayn’s mind cleared, and he took a sharp breath. Everything came back to him. Mirolah! He blinked, a memory of her leaning toward him, her eyes wild with colors, strands of multi-colored lightning lashing out at him.
She raised her head at his movement, and her gaze found his.
He leapt to his feet, started toward her.
“Stop,” she breathed. An invisible force held him. “Don’t touch me. I’m not safe. I don’t know... I can’t...”
The force released him. He remained where he was, but he ached to go to her. “Mirolah, I want to help.”
“I know,” she said with effort. “You did. You...made me remember. I remembered everything, and I almost killed you because of it.”
The detached monotone of her voice was gone. She sounded like the woman he had met in the caves when she healed him.
“You didn’t almost kill me, I was—”
“The GodSpill tried to rip you apart because you brought me back to myself. I barely stopped it.” Her hand still clutched the windowsill like she needed it to ground her. “It wants me, Mershayn. It doesn’t want me to remember Mirolah. It wants me to join with it, to become one with it. And when I’m Mirolah, I separate from it. It fought me, and I almost vanished completely.”
She watched him warily as he approached and knelt next to her.
“I’m dangerous to you,” she said. “I don’t have control of this thing.”
“I don’t care.”
She began to cry again. “I hurt you. Oh gods, I hurt you. It wanted to kill you. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m okay.”
“You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t try to help me. It could kill you. Why are you helping me?”
“Because you need help,” he said. He didn’t tell her that he needed to be near her, that he could barely control the compulsion..
“I think...I died.” She sounded scared. “I think I’m supposed to be dead. I’ve been telling myself that I brought myself back to life, but I don’t think I did. I think I’m just...holding this body together...”
He put his arms around her. She let go of the windowsill and clung to him. “I cannot be this thing the GodSpill wants me to be,” she murmured into his shoulder. “It wants Mirolah gone. Erased. The only reason it hasn’t taken me is because of Sniff. And...” She looked up at him. “And now you.” Flickers of multicolored light slipped into her eyes.
“Stay with me, Mirolah,” he said. “Stay here with me.”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s going to take me.”
“It’s not. We’re not going to let it.”
“Please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to go.”
“You’re staying right here. Just hold onto me.”
20
Medophae
“He looks dead.” The voice was a woman’s, and the tone suggested she didn’t care whether he was dead or not.
“If he’s not, then maybe I’ll finish him.” A man’s voice this time, enraged.
Medophae coughed, and he heard the angry man draw in a hissing breath. His back and shoulders were on fire, dozens of cuts packed with sand. His stump throbbed, and his head felt two times too big.
“I might thank you for it,” Medophae mumbled. He blinked his eyes, and looked at the assemblage gathered around him. There had to be two dozen people there, villagers from the little bay town.
How had he gotten to shore?
“Don’t touch him,” a third person said, and this time Medophae turned his head to track the voice. A man with weathered skin, blue eyes, and a ponytail as long as his waist—tied in three places—looked at Medophae with narrowed eyes. “He’s touched by the goddess. Give him space.”
“Don’t start your preaching, Sanoen. He’s not touched by the goddess. He stole my boat, sailed it over the reef, and She smashed it to pieces. My ship! He wasn’t on her ocean for two seconds before she tried to kill him.”
“If she wanted to kill him, Dumaelin, he’d be dead,” Sanoen said.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t ignore the signs, Dumael
in. The water carried him to the shore.”
“Others have washed up on shore—”
“You ever seen a man get tumbled in the reef like that and survive? She lifted him up over it. She delivered him to shore. Mark my words. You kill this man, and you’ll incur her wrath. A dozen years of ill favor, my friend.”
Medophae sat up. Dumaelin drew a short sword from his side, leveled it at Medophae. “Maybe she delivered him to me to answer for his crimes.”
“Saraphazia doesn’t care about the crimes of humankind,” Sanoen said sagely.
“Put that sword away, Dumaelin,” the woman said, and Medophae recognized her as the one who had seen him steal the boat. “You’re no killer.”
“If that thief doesn’t stay where he is, you’ll see different. He just destroyed my livelihood.”
“You have another boat.”
“By Oedandus, Londa, why are you taking his side?”
“Maybe we should ask him why he did what he did,” she said.
Medophae couldn’t wait for these people to decide whether or not to kill him. He needed to get away from here, bind his wounds, and figure out what he was going to do next. Saraphazia had spurned him, then attacked him, and his anger burned almost as bad as his wounds.
No arrogant goddess is going to dictate where I stop.
He made a move to stand up, and his back flared in protest. It was as though his entire body was a raw nerve. He gritted his teeth and pushed through it.
The sword tip tickled his chin next to his ear. “Stay where you are, thief,” Dumaelin growled.
“I am sorry about your boat,” Medophae said. “But it was necessary. If I had time to explain, you would understand. Much is at stake, and I cannot remain here.”
“Sit down!” Dumaelin insisted.
“Point your sword elsewhere, friend.”
“You’re going to answer for your—”
Medophae lunged, leaning sideways just enough that the blade whispered past his ear. His fist arced high overhead, and he drove his knuckles into the back of Dumaelin’s hand. The sailor gasped and dropped the sword. Medophae spun in the sand and crouched low, hitting Dumaelin in the back of the knees with his heel. Dumaelin went down. Medophae snatched up the blade and stood. There were a few gasps, and most of the crowd stepped back warily.
Dumaelin was suddenly wide-eyed and fearful, sprawled below Medophae, who now had his weapon. The man seemed unable to find his tongue.
Medophae’s attack had been clumsy and slow, his injuries making him feel like a ninety-year-old man. Each move had hurt. But the woman had been right about Dumaelin. That sailor wasn’t a killer, and he certainly wasn’t a swordsman. This blade might as well have been for show.
Dumaelin’s incompetence allowed Medophae to look more fearsome than he currently was, and he desperately needed that advantage with such a large crowd. He couldn’t fight even one half-decent swordsman in his condition. He’d never be able to fight a mob if they suddenly decided to take him down.
Using his momentary advantage, he walked between them, and they parted. He started up the beach, and nobody tried to follow him. In a few minutes, they might find their courage, might organize and go hunting for him. He had to be as far away as possible by the time that happened.
But each step was a trial, sending flares of pain through his back and legs, and Medophae wasn’t sure how long he’d last. He had to get the wounds washed out. Coral wounds could easily fester. Some stretches of coral were even poisonous to humans. If he didn’t wash these cuts, and soon, his situation could go from bad to worse.
He headed back toward the hut Zilok had initially brought him to. He couldn’t think of anything better to do. There was no other haven for him.
He stumped up the beach, pushing through the agony. One thing living with Oedandus had taught him was how to handle pain far beyond a normal mortal’s capacity. While the god had always healed even the most grievous wounds, he never quelled the pain. Pain that would cause a normal man to pass out only made Medophae grit his teeth.
Still, he was nearly at his limit. His hunger, his exhaustion, his wounds, it was all adding up. And now he’d frightened a flock of villagers. He kept checking over his shoulder, looking for pursuit, but so far he was lucky. Perhaps they’d all decided the prudent course was to leave this one-handed madman alone.
Finally, Medophae reached the stretch of beach with the burnt-out campfire where he’d met the strange blue-haired girl and the ruffians who’d tried to rob him. He turned up the beach and stumbled into the forest.
Uphill was even harder than walking through sand, and his vision began to swim.
Keep going....
After walking between the trees for a few minutes, Medophae thought he had gotten lost. The trees began to blur, and everything looked the same. His back burned like someone had rubbed pepper in his wounds. The coral... It was the coral. Poison... He was poisoned. A memory from his childhood returned in a flash. A single cut from the poisoned coral around the isle of Dandere could make you sick as if you had the flu. And Medophae had dozens of lacerations.
His vision continued to blur. It was getting worse, and his muscles were weakening.
Miraculously, he stumbled into the clearing with the hut. He tripped, lost his balance and almost fell, but he managed to stagger forward and reach the steps.
But that was as far as he could go. He put one foot on the first step and fell to his knees on the second step.
Get up....
But he didn’t have the energy to stand up again. He tried once and almost fell off the steps.
Come on. Focus....
He forced his trembling muscles to work and pushed up onto all fours. One limb at a time, he got up the remaining stairs and crawled into the hut, pushing the door open with his head.
The waterbox seemed a mile away. He held his stump against his chest so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it, and crawled like a turtle to the basin. He managed to get upright, leaning against it. With his hand shaking, he stripped out of his bloody clothes and filled the bowl.
The poison is in me.
He could feel it like slimy water in his veins. Meticulously, he poured water over his back, shoulders, and legs until the groove in the stone floor carried pink water toward the door. He turned back to the waterbox, but now there were two of them. He shook his head to clear his vision, and the basin resolved into one again for a moment, then doubled again and started to tip sideways.
No. The basin isn’t falling sideways. I am.
The bowl clattered to the stones, and his head hit the floor.
Get up....
But his muscles wouldn't respond this time. All he managed to do was lift his good hand, then he passed out.
The fever dream took him instantly. Colors raced past him, roaring like lions. Then he was falling through misty white clouds. He waited to hit the ground, but it never came. Instead, the clouds resolved into the shape of a dragon.
Medophae clenched his teeth, thinking that Avakketh was sending him another dream, but then the clouds formed into a whale.
Am I doing this? Am I cataloging the gods who have attacked me?
But then the clouds formed into a horse next, and he definitely hadn’t thought of that. Next, the mist became a squat tree. The base of the trunk had to be ten feet around, and the thing only stood twice as tall as Medophae, with long, meandering limbs that looked like spindly, multi-jointed arms with curling leaves fanning out like hands.
Finally, the clouds formed into a female human, with large breasts and wide hips. Cloud became flesh and a flowing gown of many colors. Golds, blues, reds, purples, greens, and oranges all mixed together like paints thrown into a swirling pool. Her face became clear, with bronze skin and rainbow hair that mixed with the gown. She had a beak nose and deep-set eyes as black as the night between the stars. It gave her a predatory look, like she was a giant bird about to swoop down upon Medophae and rip his limbs off.
Then she smiled
, and it was gentle. Suddenly, the hawk nose and intense eyes seemed like those of a mother who would stop at nothing to protect her children, and her smile told him that he was one of them. He felt safer than he’d ever felt in his long life.
“Medophae,” she said.
The clouds continued to rush past him; it still felt like they were both falling through the sky, but it didn’t bother him anymore. The blur of clouds was just the way it was, the way it had always been, it seemed.
“Who are you?”
“You have endured so much suffering,” she said. “More years of suffering than a short-lived human was meant to endure.”
He felt her compassion like a hand pressing against his chest, and he knew instantly she was a goddess. She exuded power like the sun exudes light, like Saraphazia exuded disdain and Avakketh exuded fear.
Being in the presence of a god made everything else seem small, as though you’d never encountered anything important until that moment. This woman felt like that, but he didn’t recognize her. Medophae had met every god there was except Zetu the Ancient. He would bet his life that this wasn’t Zetu, even in disguise, but she certainly wasn’t any of the other gods, either. She didn’t talk like Saraphazia or Avakketh. No matter what form White Tuana took, she always had milky eyes. He supposed this could be Tarithalius. He loved to hide behind a myriad of masks, but this woman seemed serious and compassionate. Thalius was a trickster.
“I...” Medophae said. “Are you a goddess?”
The woman’s gentle smile became a wry smirk, but she didn’t answer. “You have lived so long, for a human, and yet you still strive for more. Despite the suffering. Despite your own despair.”
“I have to.”
Her eyes narrowed, as though she was looking for the truth written on his soul. “I see that you do. Why?”
Threads of Amarion Page 16