Threads of Amarion: Threadweavers, Book 3 Read online

  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.

  He tried to get his eyes to focus on the far side of the room.

  Stavark lay crumpled in a tiny, pitiful heap inside his cage.

  Earlier today, just after they were hauled here from the audience chamber, two guards had attempted to extricate the quicksilver from the cage and chain him to the wall. They used long, iron hooks to grab a hold of his arms and legs. The first guard who hooked him received a broken wrist for his trouble. The moment the hook encircled his arm, the little quicksilver became a silver blur. Before the guard could react, Stavark yanked the guard’s arm into the cage. In the next instant, the man screamed as his wrist snapped.

  After that, Sym ordered huge buckets of water to be dumped over the quicksilver, one after the other in quick succession. While half-blinded and half-drowned, Stavark didn’t see the blunt end of the metal hook that smashed into his head. He dropped like a stone.

  When awake and moving, Stavark was a force of nature, unstoppable. But curled up like that, he just looked small, a white-skinned boy with silver hair. What the hell was he even doing here? Had Captain Medophae recruited this child for his personal war?

  The wound in Stavark’s calf leaked blood, but it wasn’t gushing. He was still alive, and that injury would mend if they tended it. Mershayn shook his head. Despite Stavark’s skinny appearance, he was the toughest little person Mershayn had ever seen.

  Mershayn tried not to dwell on his recent failures, but like Sym had suggested, all he seemed able to do was take a long hard look at them. The hours dragged by. Hunger gnawed at him, and he had an increasing need to use the privy.

  Soon, nature’s call was like a hammer pounding his bladder. He winced and tried to ignore it. No doubt Sym would like for Mershayn to urinate all over himself, furthering his humiliation.

  As he fought the growing need to relieve himself, Mershayn suddenly realized something odd. They had not taken him and Stavark down to the dungeons. Why? There had to be a reason.

  Maybe Sym didn’t like the idea of descending so many steps to witness the torment of his playthings? It was much easier to pop in for a quick bit of mauling before lunch and dinner. Or perhaps Sym hoped to loosen his prisoners up with the cold of the massive storm outside the thin window.

  Mershayn looked at the whipping snow. It was daytime, and as the hours slid by, he could even guess at the time by how the sky darkened. That was nice. Useful. As a result, he knew it was about nightfall when he finally soiled himself.

  He half-expected Sym to return and beat him some more that night, but the would-be king of Teni’sia didn’t show his face.

  Eventually, Mershayn succumbed to his bone-deep weariness. Even the cold didn’t seem to hurt by the time he slumped in a corner, barely separated from the puddles of water, blood, and urine, and went to sleep.

  At first, Mershayn thought the rusty opening of the lock was part of his desolate dream. When the door slammed against the wall, though, it jolted him to his senses. One of his eyes was gummed shut, but he opened the other as best he could, slowly focusing on an enraged Grendis Sym.

  “Who is he?” Sym growled.

  Two burly guards entered behind Sym. Mershayn recognized neither of them, which either meant his vision was too blurry, or these men came from Sym’s holdings in Buir’tishree.

  “Who?” Mershayn croaked.

  Sym’s boot smashed into the side of Mershayn’s head. He cried out, falling flat to the floor. He hated himself for showing weakness, but gods, that had hurt.

  “Am I going to have to crack your worthless head?” Sym hissed, crouching next to Mershayn. He grabbed Mershayn’s hair and yanked his head up. “I’ve been lenient with you, bastard. Tell me what you know.”

  “Perhaps if you give me a clue...” Mershayn mumbled. “I can help.”

  “Your assassin,” Sym said. “Who is he?”

  Assassin?

  Mershayn swallowed and thought carefully before he answered. “What...sorts of assassinations?” he mumbled.

  Sym growled, and Mershayn prepared himself for another thunderous crack to the head, but it didn’t come.

  “Is he one of my guards still loyal to you?” Sym asked.

  “I don’t...know. What...is he doing?”

  Sym stood up and kicked Mershayn in the ribs. Mershayn rolled with it, taking only part of the blow. It was much better than the hit to the head.

  Sym whirled and left with his guards.

  Mershayn raised his head, looking out the thin window above him. Orange light lit a cloudy sky as the sun set. He chuckled, and it slowly rolled into a full laugh. It hurt his ribs, but he did it anyway. He thought he had run out of allies, but he’d forgotten one. Sym hadn’t said so, but Mershayn would bet his life that this assassin had struck last night.

  Oh Silasa, my monstrous beauty. If you were here, I’d kiss you on your cold lips.

  He kept laughing as the sun fell.

  2

  Silasa

  Silasa opened her eyes. It was night again. Dirt and snow pressed against her face.

  Disgusting.

  She remembered when awakening was a gentle journey from one place to another, with sunlight seeping into her bedroom as dreams evaporated like mist. It took time, a shifting from one fading world to another filled with crisp clarity. As a child, she would blink, letting the dreams fade away, turning her thoughts to getting dressed, to breakfast, to her cousin down the hall, and sneaking away from needlepoint to splash in the ocean.

  It wasn’t like that anymore. Silasa did not dream. One moment she did not exist and the next she did. As far as she knew, she was stone-dead during the day. She would not be surprised if someone told her that her body vanished in the morning and reappeared at nightfall.

  Frozen mud had collected in her mouth, at the corners of her eyes. Her arms, crossed over her chest, were trapped by the weight of earth and snow.

  Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

  She hated this part about traveling. She couldn’t just stop and erect a tent. She had to bury herself or risk immolation. Just a touch of the sunlight’s rays would light her body up like a bonfire.

  She shrugged, pushing her hands apart like she was swimming. Dirt and snow moved around her, and she surged upward, breaking into the open air.

  A blizzard whirled around her. Even with her supernatural senses, she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her. It was as though the weather sensed the conflict in Teni’sia and mirrored it.

  She brushed off her long, black dress—ripped and caked with grime—and fingered the haggard lace decorating the waist. The ruined strip hung to mid-thigh. With a quiet motion, she yanked it free and tried not to think about it. The lace at her cuffs, though grimy, was at least intact.

  She delicately pulled her cuffs to length and let them fall stiffly from the sleeves of her half coat, as they were meant to.

  She realized how pitiful it was, standing in the middle of a blizzard, adjusting lace cuffs of an ensemble that was ruined, but she continued anyway. When she was finished, she smoothed the front of her dress, faced the swirling storm, and picked up the thoughts that had been abruptly cut off when her mind “vanished” during the day.

  She had been betrayed.

  At least that’s what Silasa assumed. She’d rushed north to help Bands and, just about the time the sun was rising, Bands flew overhead, back toward Teni’sia. Ynisaan had sent Silasa north, conspicuously removing her from Medophae’s attack because Bands might die in a fight against another dragon. But the battle had ended before Silasa even arrived.

  Now that Silasa thought on it, Ynisaan had never said “might” before. When she�
��d sent Silasa to rescue Medophae, before Mirolah returned GodSpill to Amarion, Ynisaan had said, “If you don’t help Medophae, he will die.” Ynisaan had sent Silasa like an arrow, sure and precise. There had been no doubt, no “might.” And Ynisaan had practically known what the future would hold, like she’d read it in a book.

  Silasa had breezed right past all the signals of deception because she trusted Ynisaan.

  Silasa leapt down the snowy slope and ran toward Teni’sia with all the speed that her undead legs could muster.

  It took the entire night to run back, through swirling snow and mountainous terrain. She approached from the north, where the cliffs splintered out of the sides of the mountain that eventually became the castle. Mortals would die by the dozens trying to come this way, falling from treacherous ridges, and even if one could climb those unclimbable walls to the Northern Walk, it would only take a pair of Teni’sian archers to pick apart an entire army. With a vigilant guard, no one could attack Teni’sia from the north.

  But Silasa had strength enough in her undead fingers to cling to the smallest cracks and scale that wall. She had the storm at her back, howling against the stone, whipping snow around her.

  With frost on her eyelashes and skin—and a braid that had become an icicle—Silasa climbed the snow-swept walls to the Northern Walk. The nearest guard was bundled in his cloak, shivering. His cowl was drawn so tightly that he didn’t see her as she slipped past him.

  With dawn less than an hour away, she raced through the castle’s lamplit hallways, trying to discover what had happened to Medophae.

  It didn’t take long to realize that Medophae’s invasion had failed. There was no revelry in the quiet palace, no celebration of a successful coup. Instead, guards dressed in Sym’s house colors, green and white, roamed about. Those not freezing on the Northern Walk strode smugly down the hallways.

  Silasa sneaked past them and descended the steps to the dungeons.

  There were two guards on duty there, playing dice in the antechamber between the hallway and the cells.

  They both looked up when they saw her, each making an “O” with their mouths. Silasa imagined she looked like death’s bride with her frozen white skin and angry white eyes.

  They both went for their swords, knocking over benches as they lurched to their feet, yelling. She dodged the first swing and kicked the guard into the wall so hard his ribs broke. He crashed to his knees, dropping his sword and gasping for breath.

  The second guard was quick. Her sword flicked out at Silasa’s stomach, ripping through a fold in her dress. Silasa spun up the woman’s outstretched arm and grabbed her neck.

  “No!” the woman shouted. Silasa tore her throat out, dropped the body, and turned to the gasping man.

  “Who’s in there?” Silasa rasped, suddenly realizing her throat was nearly frozen also. “Tell me, I let you live.”

  “What are you?” the man gasped, holding his side and squinting up at her.

  She lifted him by his neck. “Too late,” she whispered and sank her teeth into him. Hot blood rushed down her throat, and she gulped greedily. The run north had left her famished, so she feasted until there was nothing left, then dropped the corpse.

  New strength rushed through her. She felt alive, voracious, even more hungry than she had just a moment before. The power of White Tuana coursed through her, lifted her up, filled her with thoughts of carnage. She wanted to leap upon the woman’s corpse and tear at her throat, rip at her belly.

  No, Silasa thought. I do what must be done. Only that. Never more.

  She turned her head away and looked at the table. There were two plates of chicken bones, picked clean, where the guards had been playing dice. There were also two cups, two forks and two napkins. She picked up one of the napkins and dabbed at her mouth like she was at a royal ball.

  I’m not a savage. I do not belong to Her. I am the master of my own flesh.

  She stood over the dead woman, staring down at her until the bloodlust calmed.

  Kneeling, she took the keys from the woman’s belt, turned, and opened the doors to the cells. Her ragged dress whispered against the stones as she walked between barred rooms on either side. The last time she’d been here, she had come for only one prisoner, Mershayn. This time, the cells were filled with his soldiers. She could see them clearly in the darkness, recognized a few of them. They couldn’t see her as well. She probably appeared like a black wraith, a shadow slipping through shadows.

  One soldier squinted and moved closer to the bars.

  “Where is Medophae?” she asked.

  He flinched back, finally seeing her and how close she was. “Gone,” he blurted. “To find Sym.”

  “And King Mershayn?”

  “Went with him.”

  “Silasa?” Captain Lo’gan’s voice came from down the row. Silasa went to his cell. He had a cut on his forehead, and his arm was wrapped in a bandage obviously refashioned from someone’s ripped tunic.

  “What happened?” Silasa asked.

  “Trap,” Lo’gan said.

  “We knew it was a trap.”

  “Well, they knew we knew.”

  “What happened to Medophae?”

  “Whatever he tried, it failed. Captain Medophae, the king, the quicksilver, and that threadweaver, they all went to find Sym. That’s the last I saw of them.”

  At a cursory glance, only about two dozen of Mershayn’s soldiers were in these cells. They had started with fifty.

  “Where’re the rest?” she asked.

  “Dead,” he said grimly. “They were waiting for us. A hundred at least.”

  She unlocked Lo’gan’s cell and handed him the keys.

  What is your game, Ynisaan? Why send me away when I could have helped?

  Lo’gan passed the keys to the woman at his right. The woman’s head was shaved, and she had a scar on each cheek and on her forehead. Deni’tri was her name, Silasa recalled. Deni’tri immediately began unlocking doors and the soldiers of Mershayn’s ragtag army emerged into the hall.

  “You know your way around the castle?” Silasa said.

  Lo’gan snorted.

  “Then you’re on your own.” She turned and strode down the hall.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To find Medophae.”

  She sprinted into the guard room and back into the main hallway, taking the stairs down. She searched room after room deep within the castle, but none of them contained her friend. There were a good number of roving guards, though, and she left a trail of bodies in her wake.

  Frustrated, she felt the coming of the sun. No matter where she was, she could always feel it, and this castle was not a safe place for her to spend the day. Sym would redouble his guards. He would search for her. And if they found her while she slept, that would be the end of any help she could give Medophae.

  She found a lower balcony and jumped into the storm, which finally showed some signs of slackening. She waded through the drifts and climbed to a cave that looked like it went deep into the mountain.

  She crouched in its entrance, watching as the storm slowly erased her footprints. The last thing she needed was to have a hunting party follow her straight to her temporary lair.

  When she was satisfied no one could see she had come this way, she ran deep into the cave and found a cramped alcove where she could lie down on the uncomfortable rock.

  Angry, dissatisfied, she settled herself, wishing she could spend time thinking about Ynisaan’s order. She lay in the dark, seething, walking through the castle in her mind, thinking of where her friends might be. The night was such a long time away, but there was nothing to be done for it. If Medophae’s group was still alive, they’d just have to stay that way until—

  Silasa’s consciousness returned. She bared her fangs, rolled out of the thin, horizontal alcove and leapt to her feet. Night had come. It was time to hunt. And this time, she could do it right. She wouldn’t have to spend most of the night running through a
storm.

  She emerged into a world of white mountains sparkling in the moonlight. The sky was clear, and freshly fallen snow covered the landscape.

  She jogged, stepping high back toward Teni’sia. Urgency thrummed through her. Too much could happen during an entire day. She might have missed the chance to help her friends, but by the gods, she was going to try. And if there was nothing else she could do—if Sym had hurt them—she would take a bloody revenge.

  She took the same route up to the Northern Walk as she had last night and, as luck would have it, set foot upon the walk without a guard in sight.

  Moving lightly along the castle’s edge, she stopped as the walk curved around a turret. Her keen ears picked up a low conversation between two guards.

  Their voices were tense, nervous, talking about the mysterious attack on the dungeons last night.

  “...said the assassin broke his neck,” one of the guards was saying. “Twisted like this.” He paused, as though illustrating something. “Like the assassin was as strong as ten men.”

  “He was Wave-altered, you mark my words,” the second man said. It was higher pitched and nervous. “It’s gettin’ unsettling in Teni’sia. The money’s good, but gold ain’t worth nothing if you’re dead. Might be time to look for work elsewhere.”

  “You best not let Sym or Captain Gael’ek hear you talking like that,” the first guard said. “You’ll end up a head shorter.”

  Silasa reached into a pouch at her waist and withdrew a hand-sized rock she’d taken from the mountain. She threw it over the edge, close to where the guards were having their conversation. It clacked against the cliff, then thumped in the snow far below.

  “Did you hear that?” the second guard said.

  The first guard grunted.

  “Well what was it?” the second guard pressed nervously.

  “Don’t get jumpy. Probably some dumb surf dragon trying to climb the cliff.”

  “In the snow?”

  “Shut up.”

  She listened to their footsteps moving toward the rail.