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  She surfaced, taking a deep breath as the current carried her slowly down stream. She shivered as she looked back at him. “It’s so w-warm!” she yelled. “C-Come on!”

  Orem watched her as she went. Mirolah had been such a timid girl in Rith. Now she was a force of nature. She stepped with more confidence every day, and she had a tendency of pulling him along with her. Sighing, he stopped resisting the pull. He kicked his boots off and pulled his tunic over his head.

  If the force of nature said it was time to swim, then it was time to swim.

  28

  Vaerdaro

  Vaerdaro backed up and spat. Blood flecked the dirt. Already, he could feel the side of his face beginning to swell. His twin, Gilgion, had that sad look again. He always wore that look when they fought, even when they were children. It filled Vaerdaro with a white rage.

  But anger led to mistakes, and he could not afford to make mistakes. He pushed down his fire, concentrated on grinding his brother into the dust.

  Gilgion side-stepped closer. He held his hands wide, relaxed, as they had both been taught by their father. The brothers had learned the 200 Steps of the Sun together, learned to fight together. Both had been champions in the Ring of Bare Hands back home. Both could ride a stallion across the Red Desert in three days, the fastest anyone had ever made that ride.

  But Gilgion led their group north. Gilgion called the orders and Vaerdaro obeyed. It was insufferable.

  Vaerdaro circled, keeping just out of range of Gilgion’s lightning-quick hands.

  The rest of the Wind Ring, twenty-seven riders in all, stood as demanded, hands clasping each other’s wrists in a circle, witnessing this moment where Vaerdaro would claim his rightful leadership. None showed any emotion.

  Vaerdaro had questioned Gilgion’s choice to go farther north, to search the barren lands along the Spine Mountains for the Golden King. The trek offered little benefit. There was nothing up there but sandstone. Why inspect a wasteland for a myth when there were human villages to be raided?

  Of course, this entire mission stank like week-old lamb. The Vessel Men whispered that the northerners might reclaim their unholy powers. Vaerdaro’s father, the Speaker for the One Sun, had taken the Vessel Men’s visions as a sign, and he had sent this Wind Ring north to find the truth.

  A sign. Hah! It was a sign that his father was becoming soft, sliding into a weak, paranoid old age. If he began to allow the Vessel Men to lead the Sunriders, what would be next? The Vessel Men told children’s stories. They were not the Speakers for the One Sun.

  Vaerdaro would not have abandoned the war with the northerners until every one of them had been put to the sword. The One Sun had long ago passed judgment on the blasphemers. It would be a mercy to put them to death.

  Now, on this useless quest of the Vessel Men, Vaerdaro was showing true leadership, looking out for the glory of the Sunriders. There was no glory in searching weeds and empty forests. He had tried to be diplomatic with Gilgion, suggesting that they might find more information among the smaller villages, where they could also kill northerners, pillage their belongings, and bring back at least some meager spoils for this wasted trip.

  Gilgion had said no out of hand. No discussion. No consideration. Vaerdaro had pushed, and Gilgion warned him to tread lightly with his counsel. Vaerdaro called him a short-sighted fool. Such an insult could not to be borne by a leader. So, with reluctance, Gilgion offered him the right to fight for leadership by combat. If Vaerdaro could best his twin in the Ring of Bare Hands, he would take control of the Wind Ring. If not, assuming Vaerdaro survived the contest, he must shut his mouth and ride, and he could not challenge Gilgion for another year. This was simply tradition, of course. Losers didn’t survive the Ring of Bare Hands...or they shouldn’t. If a leader was poor enough to be removed by his betters, that leader should die for his failures. If the challenger couldn’t prove himself stronger, he would be dishonored for his hubris, and it would be better to be dead.

  The last thought burned through Vaerdaro like a fresh sword wound. He had questioned his brother’s decision once before, a year ago. They’d faced each other in the Ring of Bare Hands before Father, and Gilgion had won. And he had left Vaerdaro alive to heal from a broken arm.

  That was a concession only offered to an impetuous, headstrong child who had let his anger run away with him, not to a full-grown Sunrider.

  Vaerdaro’s shame was unbearable. His left arm had healed, but it had never been the same. It was weaker than his right, and it ached fiercely when it rained. Once it had healed, Vaerdaro had killed six other riders in the Ring of Bare Hands, each for a specific disrespect they had shown to him. None dared show disrespect now.

  None save Gilgion.

  He dreamed of the joy of killing his brother in the Ring of Bare Hands. He had even dreamed of other arenas where his brother’s blood drained onto the ground. If Vaerdaro could have taken a knife to Gilgion in his sleep, he would have done it. But Gilgion’s men loved him and guarded him well.

  Gilgion snapped forward suddenly, kicking high. Vaerdaro swiveled sideways, avoiding it. He lunged forward with a mighty punch, but Gilgion was not there. A fist hammered into Vaerdaro’s side. Ribs snapped, and stars sweltered in Vaerdaro’s vision. Another fist slammed into the back of his neck. He fell forward onto his knees. Gilgion’s blows had the weight of boulders.

  No...

  Vaerdaro rolled clumsily to his feet. Pain arced up his spine, and his bowels felt scrambled.

  I am losing again. Again.

  Vaerdaro coughed and spat. Blood dotted the ground.

  Gilgion held his hands wide. He circled, his lips pressed together, his brow furrowed sadly. His compassion burned like viper poison in Vaerdaro’s veins.

  Wounded as Vaerdaro was, Gilgion would expect him to hesitate, to recover his strength. Instead, Vaerdaro lunged forward. He feinted high with both hands. Gilgion ducked, as Vaerdaro had anticipated, and he brought a knee up to Gilgion’s face. But Gilgion shifted to the side and the strike only caught him in the chest.

  Gilgion grabbed Vaerdaro’s thigh, taking Vaerdaro’s momentum and adding a powerful throw. Vaerdaro sailed through the air. He made a grab for Gilgion’s long hair, but missed. He hit the dirt hard, and the air blasted from his lungs. Vaerdaro scrambled to his knees, trying to regain his bearings, but a fist smashed into his face, then another. He blocked one, but another hammered into his temple. Another into his jaw. Another to the other side of his head.

  Red lights exploded in Vaerdaro’s vision. He felt the ground hit his back. Gilgion knelt hard onto Vaerdaro’s gut, and his remaining air blasted out of his mouth. Another fist cracked into the side of his head. Two more, quickly.

  Vaerdaro couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t lift his hands. No more blows rained on him. Gilgion’s knee was like an elephant’s foot, crushing him.

  Vaerdaro’s ears rang. He tried to move, but his arms were filled with sand. Gilgion’s knee lifted from his stomach, and Vaerdaro sucked in a weak breath. He rolled onto his stomach, feeling the blood dripping from his nose, chin, and eyebrows. He turned his head and looked at Gilgion through slitted, swelling eyes.

  “Do it,” Vaerdaro demanded through split lips.

  “You will not question my orders again,” Gilgion said simply, as he had said before, and he began to walk away.

  “Gilgion!” Vaerdaro slurred through his ruined mouth. “Coward!” He lurched to his feet, the world swaying, and charged his brother. He swung an elbow at Gilgion from behind. He would break that proud back....

  But Gilgion spun, bringing a knee up under Vaerdaro’s chin, so fast he didn’t even see it. Vaerdaro dropped, and his vision went black for a moment. When he recovered, he looked up to see the Wind Ring dispersing.

  “No...” he said, but the word came out as an unrecognizable grunt.

  Vaerdaro coughed and pushed himself painfully to his knees. The riders walked away, none looking at him. The last time Vaerdaro and Gilgion had
fought, a lone rider had remained to watch Vaerdaro struggle to his feet. Vaerdaro had snapped his leg and strangled him to death.

  With effort, Vaerdaro stumbled back to his tent and fell back against his pallet.

  He yelled for his slave, and the pale-skinned woman Vaerdaro had acquired on their way north pushed aside the tent flap and came quickly inside. She had light brown hair and large eyes. She wore only a thin loincloth, bare breasted, as he had demanded.

  She knelt before him as she had been told to do and waited for his orders. He grabbed her by the throat and picked her up off the ground. The pain of his wounds shot through him, but he ignored them. She writhed and choked, pulling desperately at his huge hand. Her feet kicked, seeking the ground.

  “Get me clean cloth, water, and food,” he said, and flung her away. Her leg twisted as she landed, and she went down with a strangled cry. She lay there for a moment, crying quietly and holding her ankle. Her back quivered like a rabbit’s. He could see her tiny ribs beneath pale skin.

  “Now!” he roared.

  She jumped up as if struck by lightning, clinging to the pole of his tent, and limped out.

  Vaerdaro considered killing her. She was weak, and he didn’t like her anymore. The women of the north were so frail compared to the women of his homeland. But if he killed her, he would have to get his own food tonight. No, her death could wait until he could replace her.

  Ignoring the throbbing pain in his face, he reached over and plucked his sharpening stone from his equipment pack and drew his dagger. With long, slow strokes, he sharpened it. Enough with the Ring of Bare Hands. He would simply kill his brother outright. The Vessel Men said that was how the chieftains of old had taken power.

  “I am meant to lead,” he whispered, inwardly cursing the pain in his split lips.

  A voice broke the quiet of the tent. “Oh, I quite agree.”

  Smoke gathered together before him, forming into a northlander, short and pale-skinned. As with many northlanders, this man had a stripling’s beard—nothing more than a pointed tuft on his chin. The hair of his head was short and black. He wore tight-fitting black clothing over his entire body, and a thin, frail blade at his hip. It was a useless weapon called a rapier that would shatter under the weight of a greatsword.

  Vaerdaro jumped to his feet. His dagger leapt from his right hand to his left, and he snatched up the short sword that lay by his pallet. He flung the sheath across the tent and shoved the blade into the man’s gut—

  The sword passed through him.

  Vaerdaro gasped. He lunged again, stabbing and cutting with sword and dagger. The man watched quietly as the blades swished through him.

  “Foul spirit, begone!” he said. His hands were suddenly clammy. He gripped and re-gripped his weapons, not knowing what to do. This was the foul unholiness for which the northerners had been punished long ago.

  “What are you?” he demanded.

  The northerner smiled. “Someone who wants you to achieve the greatness you so richly deserve.”

  29

  Mirolah

  Mirolah blinked her eyes open. She felt something...nearby. It was just a feeling, like she could sense the sun just before it rose, like it was calling to her before it arrived.

  She sat up and pushed her blankets away. The fire was low. A thin curl of smoke drifted up toward the hole in the roof of the house where they had made their camp. Orem slept soundly on the far side, his chest rising and falling steadily.

  The feeling nagged at her, and she peered around at the stone walls. As with the rest of the destroyed city, moss covered everything. It was as if the table, the chairs, the dressers, and the wardrobe had donned green fur clothing. She rose from her bedroll, pulled on her tunic. She collected her skirt and boots and crept barefoot across the room, then slipped out the doorway. The night was cool and comfortable and the quarter moon illuminated Denema’s Valley with its white touch. The familiar moss-softened shards of the buildings looked friendly in that gentle light.

  She walked twenty paces from the doorway, paused, and put on her skirt. She then pulled on her boots and worked her feet into them. Orem would wake at the slightest noise, and she felt the need to explore this feeling without him watching over her shoulder. Something called to her. Something private. It was as if someone was whispering in her ear.

  Two weeks ago, it would have scared her. Her first thoughts were of knowledge now. She had a compelling need to know the answers for everything, and there was something out here to discover. She could sense it vibrating the threads of the land.

  She started up the street, her feet sinking into the spongy moss with each step. A scuffling noise above her caused her to spin. Stavark stood atop a broken wall behind her.

  He watched her with his silver eyes, and she could read no expression on his angular face. If he spoke even one word, it would wake Orem, but he didn’t. After a moment, he nodded and disappeared down the far side of the wall.

  She hesitated, wondering if he would appear again, insist on accompanying her, but he didn’t, so she wended her way through the city to the library.

  The inside was ghostly. Moonlight shone through the shattered dome, making shadows across the mossy walls and bookstacks. She went to a stretch of books on the northern wall. The shelves rose a dozen feet in the air, each full of books. This was where it came from. This was the source of the hum.

  She pulled down one title, then another, and then began pulling them all down and laying them carelessly on the table behind her—Orem’s favorite reading table. She didn’t look at any of the titles. It wasn’t the books. It was something behind the books.

  Finally, the shelf was bare, a recessed space of polished burgundy hardwood, completely free of moss. She ran her hand along the smooth wood, and her fingers found a small divot. She pushed, and the back panel slid sideways, scraping to a halt only halfway open. It was enough to reveal a cubbyhole containing papers, a tome, and something she didn’t recognize. The humming came from these objects.

  The bright bridge formed, and she saw the auras around the items. She withdrew the tome and the papers and set them on the table amidst the pile of books. She reached back in and took out the last object. It was a sphere of crystal, held in a silver claw that ended in a three-inch spike. The sphere was no bigger than her hand and the silver was scaly—

  No. Those weren’t scales. They were words, engraved unto the silver, but she didn’t know the language.

  She set the sphere aside and splayed her fingers across the massive leather tome, then opened it. She drew in a quick breath at the words on the cover: The Journal of Harleath Markin.

  Harleath Markin. The man Orem said took the GodSpill away from the lands. She opened it and, thankfully, the language was Amarion.

  The threadweaver had filled only a dozen pages, a minute fraction of the huge tome. He had obviously intended to write more.

  “This is a study of how to destroy Daylan Morth’s Fountain...” she read the first lines. Entranced, she sat down and leafed through the pages, absorbing every single word the insane threadweaver had written.

  It talked about his journey from the Seawave Empire, more than half of it smoldering in the wake of the GodSpill Wars, to Denema’s Valley, where he decided he must chronicle his journey before and after his destruction of Daylan’s Fountain.

  “He meant to live,” she murmured. “He thought he would survive the spell he was going to create.” She read on.

  I will save Amarion, he wrote. After weeks of study, my apprentices and I have come up with a plan to undo the mistake made by Daylan Morth more than a century ago. I have the artifact, procured at great expense from the dragon threadweaver, whose name I promised I would not record. It is an artifact of unfathomable power, enough to challenge even Daylan’s construct. The dragon threadweaver assures me it can...

  Harleath went on to describe the artifact, which was the crystal sphere with the claw enclosed with the book, his proposed path, what he intended t
o do with the artifact, and what the final effects should be. His last words were: I’m off. May the gods guide my hand.

  The final entry wasn’t from Harleath himself, but from a Denema’s Valley scribe, a short entry that spoke of the devastation Harleath had wrought. It was signed by the scribe, a self-proclaimed non-threadweaver who dedicated her life in service to them, who said her last service to Harleath was to bring the book back to Denema’s Valley, now a graveyard of dead threadweavers, and hide the book. The scribe said she would now go south to Belshra and the Learned Men there so that they could undo this horrible thing Harleath Markin had done.

  When Mirolah finished this last entry, she shook her head in disbelief. There was a noise and her head snapped up. Orem’s silhouette darkened the great double-door entrance to the library.

  She let out a breath and sank back into the chair. “You frightened me,” she said, looking back down at the book that had stunned her motionless. Orem didn’t move from where he stood.

  “Let’s not even start with me sneaking away. You probably want to lecture, but when I tell you what I found, you’re going to cheer. It’s the journal of Harleath Markin.” She paused for effect, but he didn’t say anything. Okay, he was angry, but he would move past it. She looked back at the book and opened to the passage where it talked about Harleath’s intent. “Look here. You said he wanted to take away the GodSpill. He says he didn’t intend anything of the kind. He wanted to destroy Daylan’s Fountain. He wanted to return Amarion to the way it was during the Age of Awakening, what he considered to be the ‘natural’ world. He never meant to take away the GodSpill. His plan went wrong.”

  “So he wasn’t a villain. He was a fool.” The figure in the doorway spoke. It was not Orem’s voice.