Threads of Amarion Read online

  Threads of Amarion

  Threadweavers, Book 3

  Todd Fahnestock

  Contents

  Map of Amarion

  Map Detail

  Mailing List

  Pronunciation Guide

  Prologue

  1. Mershayn

  2. Silasa

  3. Mershayn

  4. Grendis Sym

  5. Mershayn

  6. Mershayn

  7. Medophae

  8. Medophae

  9. Zilok Morth

  10. Medophae

  11. Medophae

  12. Medophae

  13. Bands

  14. Mershayn

  15. Mershayn

  16. Bands

  17. Mershayn

  18. Mershayn

  19. Mershayn

  20. Medophae

  21. Medophae

  22. Medophae

  23. Medophae

  24. Bands

  25. Bands

  26. Bands

  27. Medophae

  28. Mirolah

  29. Mershayn

  30. Mirolah

  31. Bands

  32. Mershayn

  33. Mershayn

  34. Grendis Sym

  35. Bands

  36. Mershayn

  37. Medophae

  Epilogue

  Reader Letter

  About the Author

  Also by Todd Fahnestock

  Copyright © 2018 by Todd Fahnestock

  ISBN: 978-1-941528-72-3

  Parker Hayden Media

  5740 N. Carefree Circle, Ste 120-1

  Colorado Springs, CO 80917

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Art credits:

  Cover design: LB Hayden

  Cover Graphic: © Rashed AlAkroka

  Maps courtesy of Langdon Foss

  For Chris Mandeville, my avatar.

  Mailing List

  If you would like to stay informed about upcoming book releases, giveaways, or enter contests I hold for readers, be sure to subscribe to my mailing list, Todd Fahnestock’s Readers Group.

  Your email will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Main Characters:

  Mirolah — MI-rȯ-lä

  Medophae — ME-dȯ-fā

  Orem — Ȯ-rem

  Stavark — STA-värk

  Zilok Morth — ZĪ-lok Mȯrth

  Other Characters/Places:

  Avakketh – ä-VÄ-keth

  Belshra – BEL-shrə

  Buravar – BYÜ-rä-vär

  Calsinac – KAL-zi-nak

  Casra – KAZ-rä

  Casur – KA-zhər

  Cisly – SIS-lē

  Clete - KLĒT

  Corialis - KȮR-ē-a-lis

  Dandere – DAN-dēr

  Darva – DÄR-və

  Daylan – DĀ-lin

  Dederi – DE-de-rē

  Denema – de-NĒ-mə

  Deni’tri – de-NĒ-trē

  Dervon – DƏR-vän

  Diyah – DĒ-yä

  Ethiel - E-thē-el

  Fillen – FIL-en

  Galden – GÄL-den

  Gnedrin – NED-rin

  Harleath Markin – HÄR-lēth MÄR-kin

  Irgakth – ƏR-gakth

  Keleera – kə-LĒR-ə

  Kikirian – ki-KI-rē-en

  Lawdon – LÄ-dən

  Lo’gan - lȯ-GÄN

  Locke - läk

  Magal Sym – MÄ-gäl SIM

  Mi’Gan – mi-GAN

  Oedandus – ȯ-DAN-dus

  Prinka - PRIŊ-kə

  Rith – RITH

  Saraphazia – se-ruh-FĀ-zhē-ə

  Sef – SEF

  Shera – SHE-rə

  Silasa – si-LÄ-suh

  Tarithalius – ter-i-THAL-ē-us

  Teni’sia – te-NĒ-sē-ä

  Tiffienne – ti-fē-EN

  Tuana – tü-ä-nä

  Tyndiria - tin-DĒR-ē-ä

  Vaerdaro – vär-DÄR-ȯ

  Vaisha – VĪ-shə

  Yehnie – YEN-nē

  Ynisaan – YI-ni-sän

  Zetu – ZE-tü

  Prologue

  The human female body sat facing the ocean with an unblinking gaze, and she was a part of it, looking out from the inside. She felt with its senses, felt the sting as the icy air made crystals at the corners of her eyes, and the snow froze against her in drifts.

  She was also a part of the waves below, rolling and crashing. The water that pushed against the wind, sending spray into the air and crashing into icy rocks.

  She followed the wind, and she was part of that as well. The vigorous storm whipped at the last of the seagulls. He was a huge, stalwart fellow, smarter than the rest, driven to reach her even when his instincts screamed at him to seek shelter.

  The storm would soon kill him, just as impassively as it would freeze the mountain peaks.

  She seeped into the rock underneath this human body. That cold granite slept peacefully, and it enjoyed the storm. It enjoyed just about everything, even as it was slowly worn away, year after year, by the water below.

  She became the falling snow, dancing along with its quiet song, loving to fly, loving to fall. Tiny flakes stuck to each other as they touched the earth. When the storm cleared and the sun rose the following day, most of them would melt away. Even the flakes in the highest reaches of the Corialis Mountains would only last the months of winter. They were all doomed. But the snowflakes were oblivious. They whispered their merry song, intertwining with the rage of the wind.

  Stop it. A voice bubbled up past all of the sensations. I am not these things.

  It was just one more voice in an endless cacophony of voices, and she ignored it, riding the raging wind again. She found the seagull a mile away, pumping his wings fiercely. He was at his breaking point. He—

  The seagull’s wing folded, broken at last, and the wind took him down in a spiral. He crashed against the side of the craggy mountain. His limp body fell to the shore and lay there, unmoving, and the merry snowflakes began to cover it.

  It was the way of things. Life and death. Oceans crashed into the shore only to draw back and crash again. Seagulls were born and seagulls died.

  Stop it!

  She looked down at her naked body, half-buried in swirling snow. Her skin was turning gray. She flexed her hand, and it barely curled. This human body was dying, too. Dying again. Something about that annoyed her.

  Like a cook kicking over a cauldron of hot water, she pulled GodSpill into this body. Her skin healed, filled with a rosy pink color, flush with the vitality of an eighteen-year-old woman.

  She looked away again.

  Yes! Said the voice. That was how it began. Now stop. Stop it!

  Below her, she felt a huge, skinny dog scramble up the rocky cliff. He wanted to reach her, too, and he was determined. He had tracked her all the way from the place of human-made stones and towers.

  He would not make it. He was a strong beast, far stronger than the seagull, but he, too, was at his limit. He had no fur and, like this human body, he was already beginning to freeze. His muscles were stiff and knotted. He could not hang on. Like the seagull, he would fall to his death in a moment.

  She became th
e ocean again, rolling out, crashing in, but the voice pestered her again.

  Help him.

  She frowned, looked down at her skin. It had lost its pink vibrancy already. Frost collected on the hairs of her arms and the crooks of her elbows.

  The skinny dog slipped, and his back legs scrabbled desperately on the snow and rock. But he was too slow, too cold. He went over the edge.

  Help him!

  His paws whipped futilely in the air. He yelped and plummeted—

  She caught him, suspending him in the midst of the howling storm. He quieted immediately.

  Why not? She had let the seagull die. She would let the dog live.

  She brought him back and put him on the ledge next to her. He whined and sat down, shivering in the snow, then went silent, shaking uncontrollably as he watched her.

  She reached out and found the essence of the cold air around the dog. She changed the color of the threads, warming the air. After a moment, the dog stopped shivering.

  “And now what?” she murmured. Her voice sounded deep and ragged compared to the symphony of voices that spoke to her from the sea, the wind, the rock, the snow. The voice of this human body was crude and inept.

  “Mistress?” the dog barked.

  “I am not your mistress,” she rasped. “I do not know who you are.”

  The dog whined miserably.

  She considered letting the cold batter the dog again. She considered throwing him off the cliff, but she didn’t. Something about that seemed wrong. A flicker of identity came and went.

  Why? What is the difference between embracing death and killing? How can I feel this deep need to murder while at the same time feeling it is wrong? Why is it wrong?

  The rocks of the mountain did not long to kill, nor the ocean nor the wind. They simply followed their passion and their purpose.

  What was her passion and purpose?

  “Do you know me?” she rasped to the dog.

  “Yes, mistress,” he barked.

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  “You died,” the dog whined. “They killed you.”

  For the first time, she blinked her eyes and turned this human body to face the dog, looking at him through the lens of human vision. He sat solemnly, watching her. The snow swirled between them. She could barely see him. Even when the snow cleared for an instant, he was blurry.

  She realized her eyes were watering in the wind of the storm, and that was causing the blurriness. Annoyed, she turned her attention to the wind, to the cold, to the snow of the mountain. She changed these threads, changed herself, and a radius of summertime radiated outward from her, enveloping her human body and the dog. The snow melted away underneath her. She rejuvenated her dying skin, muscles, and tissues once more. There. That was better. Now she could see the dog clearly.

  “I am dead,” she mused. “I was this body.”

  The dog whined again and hung his head. “This one does not know. This one licked you, and you were cold like a fallen deer. This one does not know.”

  “Did you kill me?” she asked.

  “No, mistress!”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “This one tried to follow you. They threw you from a window.”

  “They. They who?" Murderous images flashed through her mind. A man with black clothes and bright blue eyes. A boy with silver hair, white skin, and a shiny metal stick. A sword. He’d had a sword.

  “Bad GodSpill. Bad man.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Leave them, mistress. Bad GodSpill. Let us just go,” he whined.

  She contemplated that. “I do not understand.”

  “They will kill you again. Let us go.”

  “I do not think so,” she said. “If I have died, they cannot kill me again.”

  “This one does not know,” the dog whined miserably. He shifted from foot to foot, though he was no longer cold.

  “Where would we go?”

  “Back to the forest. Away from the towers, the bad man, and his bad GodSpill.”

  “Why not stay here then?”

  The dog looked out into the storm that swirled a foot away from his face. “This one does not understand,” he whined. “Not go to the forest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But mistress, there is death here. All around. Too cold.”

  “You are not cold anymore,” she said.

  He shifted on his feet, looked at the blizzard. His tongue lolled out, and he panted. “This one does not know,” he barked.

  “Then we will stay here,” she said.

  “No food. You are not hungry?” he barked.

  “If I am dead, do I eat?” she asked.

  The dog whined, but he did not answer.

  She considered.

  “You need food,” she said.

  “Yes,” he barked.

  “Then we will get you food.”

  The dog stood. His long, bony tail wagged vigorously.

  She pulled the threads. They both rose slowly into the air, floated away from the mountain ledge, and disappeared into the howling storm.

  1

  Mershayn

  Mershayn raised his head as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very. His lank hair hung in his face. Droplets of his sweat dotted the wet stone beneath him, mixing with droplets of red. His nostrils filled with the coppery smell of his own blood and the musky stink of his own fear. He hated himself for that.

  The room was small, no furniture. There was a slit of a window, and in the far corner was the cage that held the limp quicksilver. A storm raged outside.

  Sym’s weasel face leaned close to Mershayn’s. The big torturer next to Sym had taken off his shirt to show his thickly muscled torso and the scars on his arms and chest, like his bulging biceps were going to intimidate Mershayn even further.

  My face feels like chopped meat. Your manliness doesn’t impress me.

  “There’s defiance in his eyes,” Sym said to the big torturer. “You said you’d bleed that out of him.”

  “It’s early.” The torturer flexed again. Mershayn would have rolled his eyes if they didn’t hurt so bad.

  Sym grunted.

  Mershayn tried to straighten, but the pain of his shoulder lanced through his left side. So he tried to ignore it. It flared, and he almost passed out. He thought about giving up, just lying down. That would feel nice. He could stop struggling and join his brother Collus in death. They’d killed Collus. They’d killed Mirolah...

  Lovely Mirolah...

  I’ll see you soon. In the next life, I’m going to kiss you. I’m going to steal a kiss from you....

  Mershayn shook his head, trying to clear it. He wasn’t going to quit. Sym had killed Collus and Mirolah, and Mershayn owed him for that. If Sym killed Mershayn, fine. But if there was even a chance at vengeance, Mershayn wasn’t going to just lie down. He wasn’t going to break. He was going to shove a sword through Sym’s guts.

  He spat at Sym, missed him by a good foot or so.

  Split lip. Messed up my aim.

  The big torturer hit him in the side of the jaw, hard. Mershayn’s head slammed to the side.

  Mershayn had to face the fact that he was on an unparalleled losing streak. He’d lost his freedom, his dignity. He’d lost his sword, his pride, and, finally, lost his brother and Mirolah.

  He spat a tooth at Sym, missed again.

  And that tooth. I lost that, too.

  Sym had a threadweaver of his own, more powerful than Mirolah. Some foul spirit from beyond the grave named Zilok, who was even more powerful than the legendary Captain Medophae, apparently. It had taken control of Mershayn’s mind, had wiped out Medophae’s little army in about thirty seconds. Mershayn couldn’t possibly beat something like that, but he might get the chance to gut Sym. That was all he lived for now.

  “Do you know why I’m doing this?” Sym asked in a conversational tone. He crouched down next to Mershayn, keeping
his boots just out of the pool of sweat and blood.

  “Becss yrr pssa sht....” Mershayn mumbled, his words slurred.

  The big torturer pulled back his fist, but Sym held up a hand.

  “Did you hear that?” Sym said to Gael’ek, who stood by the door with a stoic expression. Mershayn knew Gael’ek. He was a hack swordsman, relied entirely on his strength because he had no grace. Apparently he was Sym’s top thug now. “I think he’s insulting me.”

  Sym nodded, and the torturer stepped forward. Mershayn tried to move his head back, but he was abominably slow, and anything he did seemed to make it worse. The fist slammed down on the side of his ear. He gasped and fell to the stones. Consciousness slipped from him.

  He awoke to a fine view of Sym’s boots. The would-be king was talking, and it appeared as though Mershayn had only been out a second.

  “...enough for today, I think,” Sym told the torturer. “Let us leave him to the sting of his failure.” The toe of Sym's boot slid under Mershayn’s chin and lifted his jaw. Mershayn hoped his blood ruined the leather.

  “Goodbye for now, Lord Mershayn.” Sym’s voice was smug. “I shall see you tomorrow.” He let Mershayn’s head drop back to the stones. The three men left. The door closed, and the massive tumblers clicked into place as they locked him in.

  Lock the doors. Yes. Nice. As if I can even reach the doors....

  Mershayn took stock of himself. After the long, arduous process of sitting up, favoring his tender shoulder, he decided he was intact where it mattered. There were no broken bones, just a lot of pummeled muscles and bruises. He wondered if he should thank the gods for small favors or if Sym was just saving the hard stuff for later. Maybe bone-breaking was tomorrow’s entertainment.