“Turning your head from danger does not create safety, only the illusion of safety.” She repeated the words he had spoken to her two years ago when she had first taken power in Teni’sia.
He chuckled. “Crackpot wisdom. Who told you that?”
“Some man I met.”
“Who probably couldn’t be trusted with two copper pennies and an errand to buy bread.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.
It was like the sun’s own warmth, and she laughed.
“Tell me you didn’t give him the coppers,” he said.
“I gave him my body.” She ran her hand over his chest.
He rolled on top of her, kissed her. “Foolish. You realize you’re never getting it back, right?”
“That’s okay,” she murmured as he kissed her throat, her jaw, her ear. “I didn’t want it anyway...”
She told herself she didn’t care that he had steered the conversation away from Bands, away from the tragedy that had cracked his heart. She had made him smile. If nothing else, she had helped him close his eyes and look away from the danger, and maybe that was all she could do. Maybe that was her purpose in his life. Maybe that was enough.
She had stolen her precious season; she bore the two bright marks on her soul. And it was so hard to remember the agony when all she could feel was the ecstasy.
8
Medophae
They die. You live. It’s always the same.
Medophae sat up quietly. Tyndiria slumbered, tangled in her sheets. Her crimson hair spilled across the pillow like a fan. She’d fallen asleep with a smile. Happy for the moment. That was all he could do for her.
He couldn’t save her from death. He couldn’t save any of them. Once, Medophae believed he could. He had tried to be a force for good in the world. He’d tried to save hundreds, thousands at a time. He had stood between kingdoms and the armies of conquerors, only to later watch those same kingdoms turn conquerors themselves, or crumble from disease, or fall into chaos.
But he could protect at least one person. With all of his power, he should be able to do that. If he stayed vigilant, careful, and if he did not attract attention, he could ensure that at least Tyndiria lived a long, happy life.
This was the gift Orem had given to Medophae, bringing him into this tenacious cluster of humanity in Teni’sia. Tyndiria had evoked interest within him, something he’d thought long dead. He found himself caring about her, against his will, because she was what he should be. She was unreasonably hopeful and brave. She was a shining example of goodness. And if he couldn’t manage to be the Wildmane the stories sang about, if he couldn’t exemplify those heroic qualities, at least he could protect someone who did.
He went to the balcony and looked down at the distant, roaring surf. But still, he doubted himself. Did he ever really help at all?
What if I’m the real danger? What if the darkling is here because of me?
Wasn’t this how it began in the first place, lifetimes ago with Zilok Morth and Bands, Vitrio, and Quinn? They conspired to slay a god of horrors, to make the lands safer for humankind, to do good, but their temerity called down the lightning. And when it came...
Vitro and Quinn had died, Zilok was forever scarred, and Bands lay in a coma for months.
And Medophae lived, returned to health, to exactly the way he had been because Oedandus would not let Medophae change or grow old or die. Ever.
Golden fire crackled around Medophae’s body as Oedandus awoke to his anger.
I hate you, Medophae said to the senseless god. You’re the reason I lost everything.
He opened a thick leather pouch, well-worn from the centuries it had spent with him, and upended it. A dusky red gem slipped into his palm. Crimson smoke swirled within, and he could feel its warmth. Did that mean she was still alive?
Because Medophae gave in to his folly, because he played the god, he had brought the lightning, he had drawn all those who longed to challenge power. And finally came the sorceress Ethiel, who fancied herself Medophae’s one true love. No gentle refusals could turn her aside. No forceful rebukes diminished her zeal. And finally, her mind poisoned by insanity, she’d made it her life’s purpose to undo whatever Medophae tried to do, and finally to take Bands away from him.
And somehow...she had succeeded. Ethiel had created a spell so powerful that it captured a dragon and a god and held them inside this mystical red gem, and no matter what Medophae did, he could not free them.
The damning golden fire flared about him, illuminating the balcony as he leapt to the rail and cocked his arm back to throw the gem to the horizon.
He could throw the gem away and leap after it. Certainly even he could not survive if he swam fathoms deep and drowned. And when Oedandus revived him, he would swim deeper and drown again. And again and again until he stayed dead. And if that did not work, he would beg Saraphazia for death. Certainly the goddess of the True Ocean, Oedandus’s sister, could kill him....
Medophae remained that way, struggling against himself, willing himself to do the deed. His biceps trembled as he clenched the stone. His lips pulled back in a soundless snarl.
A low breath escaped him, and he fell to his knees. He couldn’t do it. He was nothing without Bands. In all likelihood, she had died centuries ago, nothing more than a corpse trapped in that jewel, but he couldn’t let her go.
Gingerly, he slipped the stone back into its pouch.
“Medophae...”
He twisted on his knees, then sucked in a breath.
Ethiel’s red hair stood out like a flame in the darkness. She was alive! She was here!
He leapt to his feet. Golden fire raced over his chest, down his arm to his fist. Golden fire elongated and formed into a sword, hissing and spitting flecks of flame.
Tyndiria gasped and stumbled backward.
You are the hand of justice, Oedandus’s dark voice inside told him. Kill her.
Medophae blinked, shook his head.
No. It wasn’t Ethiel. It was Tyndiria. Ethiel was gone. This was Tyndiria’s castle, her bedchambers. She was his lover.
The queen stood, uncertain, in the center of the room, clutching a blue satin sheet to her breast, her dark red ringlets in disarray.
“Tyndiria...” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’m—”
“No don’t...” she said. “Don’t apologize.” She came forward a step, reached out a shaking hand as though she could touch him from ten feet away.
He crossed the distance and took her in his arms. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “I would rather die.”
She hugged him tightly. “I was afraid.” She mumbled into his broad chest. “So afraid for you. You were suddenly a stranger, and I feared what you would do to yourself.”
He cradled her, pushing his memories to the back of his mind where they could not rule him, where they could not make him do something he would regret forever. But they were bright and alive inside him, and he relived that horrible moment when he lost Bands. As he pressed Tyndiria to his chest, holding onto her like she was his last thread of sanity, he saw that moment like it was all happening again:
Medophae drove the godsword through Ethiel’s chest. She gasped, her hands splaying as though she was tossing something invisible at him.
A deep red light swelled behind him. It pulled at him, but Bands hit him like a flying boulder, shoving him out of the way as the portal flashed. Bands and Tarithalius vanished into it like drops into an ocean, and Medophae skidded across the floor. He leapt to his feet, annoyed. Ethiel had scored a point, but there was no cage made of GodSpill that could hold a dragon and a god.
As Ethiel coughed blood on the steps of her own throne, her smile was smug through the pain, like this was all part of the plan. Her laughter echoed in the cavernous room, then she spoke the last words she would ever say, the words that would, over the coming century, crush Medophae into despair.
“Only you can bring them back, hero. Only you.” She coughed, mixing blood with her wor
ds. “Solve the riddle and set her free. Take these words and unwind them, and she is yours: You must give to someone that which you have already given away. And you must cast away what now sustains you. This is my riddle. This is my vengeance upon you for every act of brutality you have visited upon me. But I promise you, this time your rage will avail you nothing.” She coughed, red spilling down her chin. “You can only kill me once, hero. But I...” she coughed again. “I shall stab at you from the grave. Instead of her soft, false skin against you as you sleep, you will feel my blade, thrusting. Again and again and again, forever. Solve the riddle, hero. I hope you do. For it shall not matter...”
Medophae pressed Tyndiria to his chest.
It shall not matter...
9
Mirolah
Mirolah lay awake most of the night, certain that Orem was hovering outside her door. Every time she closed her eyes, visions of Dorn’s death forced their way into her mind’s eye. She heard the angry voices, felt each kick into his tiny ribs as if they were her own. She felt like she was suffocating.
Finally, she crept to the window of the long room she shared with her sleeping sisters and peered out. No one was there, just the empty street, the quiet night. The air was cold and full of that wonderful after-rain smell. Despite herself, she strained to see if the laughing stone was still lying in the mud where she had thrown it. She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she could feel it. Waiting for her.
She returned to her bed and suffered through another hour of tossing and turning before she gave up. Quietly, she climbed out of bed, sneaked downstairs, removed the heavy wooden bar from the door and hurried out into the street. Her bare feet sank into the cold mud, but she squished forward, toward the center of the street, and searched for the stone. Her foot touched something small and solid, and a flash of rainbow light splashed across her leg, She snatched up the muddy stone and hurried inside, barring the door behind her.
She washed up as quietly as she could and stole back to her bed, clenching the stone tightly in her fist. Once safely under the covers, she let the rainbow spirals dance in her hand. They were beautiful, and at the same time she hated them.
But she held it there, and soon, she sank into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning, she pretended that nothing had ever happened, that no man named Orem had visited her, and her family quietly pretended the same. She did her chores like it was a normal morning, then she went to the fountain.
A hint of red from the sunrise lingered in the east as Mirolah set up her writing table. It would be a busy day. A caravan had pulled into town last night from Buravar. A messenger would be by soon with a whole stack of new letters for her to read.
She glanced around the market as she set out her ink and papers. Her conversation last night with Orem had set her on edge. A few weeks ago, she had been content. Then he had burst into her life, and now every stranger looked dangerous. She felt tight from the top of her throat to the bottom of her stomach.
The market square was busy by the time the caravan master’s daughter arrived with the bundle of letters. She was small, with a missing front tooth and dark curls cropped short around her face. In some ways , Mirolah envied the little girl growing up with the caravan, her whole life spent on the road. Mirolah already had half a dozen customers waiting to hear news from afar, so she gave the girl five silver crowns.
The second the girl was gone, Mirolah’s customers clustered around her desk, anxious for news. She quickly flipped through the pile of letters, handing out the letters to those waiting. Some came from the nearby towns of Pindish and Cirienne, one from as far away as Clete. Her anxious fingers froze when she came to the letter at the bottom of the stack. Her chest locked up and refused to breathe. It was addressed to her. She slowly turned the piece of folded parchment over to see the sender’s name on the far side. It bore a wax seal she did not recognize and the name P. Orem.
“What is it, Mirolah?” Taegen, the tea vendor, asked. He was looking over her shoulder hoping for a letter from his brother in Buravar.
“There’s one for me,” Mirolah managed to say.
“Lucky girl,” he said. “Is it from family?”
“No,” Mirolah admitted, still in a daze. “It’s from a man.”
Taegen smiled and nodded his head. “Good for you.” He turned to the customers around her table. “Give the girl some room,” he said, shooing them away. “Let her read in peace.”
Most of them politely retreated, going to look elsewhere around the market. A few stayed, annoyed but not speaking.
Mirolah picked up the small knife from her desk and carefully broke the wax seal. She opened it up to find only a few words inside. She read them twice before refolding the letter and placing it in the pocket of her dress. Rising to her feet, she carefully started packing up her things.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and yelped.
“Where are you going?” one of her customers, a man with a long moustache, asked.
“I have to...” she said. “Please come back tomorrow.”
“What? But I want to hear this now,” he said.
“Are you all right, dear?” Taegen asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I want my letter read,” the moustache man said.
“Oh, a day’s not going to kill you, Ramkin,” Taegen admonished. “Give her some room.”
The man grumbled, but he stepped back.
Mirolah started quickly throwing her things together.
“Is it bad news?” Taegen asked.
“I don’t know,” Mirolah said as she tucked her writing table under her arm and hurried away.
Mirolah went home as quickly as her legs would carry her and hid her desk in the back courtyard, hoping no one would see her and ask difficult questions. Tiffienne came out of the house to toss scraps into a bowl for the cats and nearly saw Mirolah, but she ducked behind a stack of old tiles, not even breathing for fear of being discovered. She couldn’t help feeling like a thief. She’d never run from a day’s work in her life. Tiffienne fussed over the cats for a few minutes before going back inside.
Mirolah sneaked out of the back courtyard and took the long way around the house so she wouldn’t have to walk past the open shop door. She hurried through the streets of Rith, glancing behind herself every few steps to make sure she wasn’t followed.
She soon found herself walking the street through the ruins of Old Rith. She might have been near here once, years ago, collecting tiles from abandoned buildings with Lawdon, but she couldn’t be sure. Most of the buildings were crumbling into the street, and nobody lived there anymore.
The letter had been from Reader Orem, asking her to meet him at the Blue Tower in Old Rith. She had seen the crumbling monument from a distance hundreds of times, but had never actually visited it. Its pale blue walls were visible from most of the city, rising high above everything around it. She had heard that Rith was once full of towers, but this was the only one that remained.
He’d asked her to meet him, and she had no doubt he would want to talk about dangerous things like threadweaving. She considered ignoring him, but she suspected, if she did, he would send her another letter or show up at her house. Or worse, he would come to the fountain. In the end, it was best to meet him alone. He could be a danger to her alone, but he was certainly a danger to her when others were around.
Today, she had to make him understand that she was not interested in him, or his wild conversations about reading and GodSpill. She wanted nothing to do with it whatsoever. That was her task.
She reached the base of the tower. The round spire rose ten stories above her head, yet it was barely more than thirty feet across. The bottom of the pale blue walls were scratched and scarred as if attacked by a hundred axes. Farther up, higher than a man could swing an axe, the remains of a beautiful mosaic rose above the gouges. She saw what looked to be the green wings of a dragon flying toward the setting sun. Most of the image had been destroyed, but
the small part that remained captivated her. The craftsmanship was stunning, the colors vibrant and rich, and the details were lifelike for something made of little pieces of colored stone.
“Do you recognize it?” Orem asked from behind her.
She spun around to find him standing behind her. He looked different in the daylight, younger. Not quite so intimidating. Last night, he had seemed like a wealthy highwayman, charismatic and deadly. Now he seemed like a lesser noble from Buravar, perhaps a court storyteller. He was thin and barely taller than her.
He smiled, and a dimple appeared on his right cheek. He left his hands open at his sides, and stood just far enough away that she did not feel nervous. She tried to meet his gaze, but the heat of embarrassment rose in her cheeks. She looked away. She’d felt the way some men looked at her since she’d become a woman, gazes flickering with desire, thoughts of naked flesh. She understood that kind of gaze, and in some cases even liked it.
Orem wasn’t looking at her like that. This was different.
He does not want my kiss or his hands on my body. He wants something deeper. He wants my secrets, and he cannot have them.
“It is a mosaic of Wildmane when he was just a boy,” Orem continued, moving past the awkward pause as though it hadn’t happened. “You know the legend of Wildmane?”
“Yes.”
“This depicted when he first rode the dragon, Bands. That small bit is one of the few mosaics to survive. The whole city used to be full of mosaics like this. What wasn’t lost in the GodSpill Wars or the Devastation Years was defaced by the Sunriders when they rode through.”
He took a step closer to her. She didn’t retreat, and she stayed wary. Last night he seemed like a complete stranger, but he seemed less so now.
“Why would they destroy something like that?”
“The Sunriders worship Wildmane as a god. And they believe creating an image of someone steals some of their power. They considered this to be sacrilege.”
Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Page 6