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  Silasa remained perfectly still. It was a feint she had perfected with humans. Most people didn’t know how fast a vampire could move, and she could often take a human by surprise, if that was what this woman was. She had snuck up on Silasa, which was almost impossible. And she projected the same kind of breathless glamour that Medophae exuded. It was the glow of a child of the gods, a subtle, insidious force that made mortals love them or fear them.

  “I need your help,” the woman said, and her depthless eyes caught Silasa, drew her in like she was falling down a well. Within them was a torrent of wild emotions, churning and trying to get out. Silasa held up a hand, shielded herself.

  “Who are you?” she managed to whisper.

  “My name is Ynisaan,” the woman said. “And you must help me, or Medophae will surely die.”

  33

  Orem

  Orem moved through the trees. He set each foot carefully, as he had trained himself to, feeling the ground beneath him. He had spent his entire life roving through one forest or another, and blending with nature came easily.

  He followed the old deer trail, which took him around the brief cliff and up the gradual slope to the meadow that Mirolah liked so well. He saw the break in the trees ahead. The high green grass peeked through the maze of trunks. As he neared the top of the rise, he discovered he wasn’t alone in stalking the young threadweaver.

  Medophae crouched like a great cat behind a boulder at the edge of the trees. Beyond him, Mirolah stood in silent concentration in front of a boulder the size of a house. She’d been trying to move it for three days now.

  She did not know she was being watched by Medophae any more than Medophae knew Orem stood silently behind him.

  Orem was jealous of Medophae. He’d been jealous of Medophae since they’d first met, after the astonishment wore off. The man was superior at everything. He was faster, stronger, better looking, more confident, and overwhelmingly inspiring.

  With Medophae, though, jealousy was a good thing. Orem cultivated it so he wouldn’t fall for Medophae’s godly glamour and became a fawning servant. Mortals fell in love with gods. That’s what they did, because the aura of their power was an aphrodisiac, or a crippling attack, depending on the disposition of the god. You had to love them or fear them.

  Medophae didn’t need another admirer. He needed someone to push him, to hold him accountable to humankind.

  In that way, Orem needed his jealousy, but these past days, it had taken a darker turn, and he tried to fight it. Medophae had not left Mirolah alone since he had arrived, and that twisted in Orem’s gut. It was Medophae’s job to protect her, of course, but Orem didn’t like his gaze on her all the time, like he was obsessed. Did he really need to watch her all the time?

  And, of course, there was the way Mirolah watched Medophae, a maiden in love, heart in her eyes, trying to impress him every chance she got. It was Medophae’s glamour, of course. Orem had expected that. He’d even sketched out scenarios of how to deal with it back when he thought Medophae would join them.

  What he hadn’t expected was how he would come to feel about Mirolah himself. His role—the way he’d always envisioned his role—was to be her mentor, but since she had flown past his teaching, almost on the first day, things had begun to change. He had found himself in awe of her. He was the one following her around, trying to capture some of the knowledge that came to her in a rush. At first, he’d been content to transform from teacher to student. He had prepared for that, at least. She was a threadweaver; he’d known she would eventually surpass his knowledge of the GodSpill. He had invented scenarios for that, too.

  But it all changed during that moment at the lake, when they had swum together, laughing, acting like children, acting like equals. That was when the balance shifted. From that moment, he hadn’t been able to look at her the way he should: a young student. Instead, he’d seen her as a woman in the flush of her power. He’d seen her as a possible lover.

  Ever since, he’d tried to crush the feeling down, and he had been managing it. But since Medophae arrived, the jealousy reared its ugly head in every moment. Orem found himself in an internal struggle most of the time.

  What hurt the most was realizing that Medophae and Mirolah belonged together. They were two demigods in the new world, and he was only a mortal. And with Mirolah having far surpassed Orem’s knowledge about threadweaving already, what did either of them need him for anymore?

  Orem had started this quest. He had imagined himself taking it all the way to its culmination, but that hope seemed to be fading. Could he even keep up anymore? In all his fantasies about finally returning GodSpill to the lands, he’d never seen this possibility, and it hurt. Should he gracefully step aside and let the demigods take it from here? The idea galled him, and that damned jealousy slithered through his guts like a snake.

  Orem purposefully scuffed his boot against the ground. Medophae did not even twitch, but continued watching Mirolah. Orem suddenly wondered if the big man had known he was there all along.

  “She is impressive,” Medophae said quietly. The words burned.

  “She’s made excellent progress,” Orem said.

  Medophae paused, then said thoughtfully. “I watched threadweavers train during the Age of Awakening, before Daylan’s Fountain made it so anyone could create a house just by swishing a hand around. Back then, I saw no threadweavers train like this. Harnessing the GodSpill was hard. Threadweavers spent weeks mastering simple spells through careful study and carefully crafted experiments, like they were coaxing a turtle out of its shell. The way Mirolah practices...it’s as if the GodSpill speaks to her, as though it is coaxing her out of her shell. It wants her to use it, wants to course through her. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What about Bands?” Orem asked, saying her name just to sting Medophae, as he’d stung him before.

  Stop it. It’s petty. You’re better than that.

  “That’s different.” Medophae shrugged, seemingly unperturbed at the mention of his beloved. “Bands was a dragon. A dragon’s threadweaving ability... Well, you may as well have a running contest between a man and a horse.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have done well by her.” Medophae tipped his chin at Mirolah. “Believing you can harness the GodSpill is the most important first step, Bands once told me. You gave Mirolah that.”

  Orem felt a wash of pride, and he pushed it down. Medophae’s approval felt ten times as good as another’s. It was that damned glamour at work, pulling at Orem’s defenses.

  He pulled his gaze away from Medophae. Mirolah held her hands out in front of her, palms facing the boulder some ten feet away.

  “I told her that rock’s too big for her,” Orem said. “It’s been three days. I told her to try something smaller.”

  Medophae shook his head. “She moved it two days ago.”

  She moved it two days ago.... And Orem didn’t know. The pain of that was overwhelming, like a part of him had died inside. He forced himself to breathe a slow breath in before speaking; he made himself sound curious, not gutted and left on the side of the road.

  He cleared his throat. “Then...then what is she doing?”

  “I don’t know. Something. I suppose we will know when she accomplishes it. Or when she gives up.”

  “She won’t give up.”

  Medophae grunted.

  “She has not yet given up on anything she has put her hand to,” Orem insisted.

  “But has she faced a difficult challenge? That’s the real question.”

  Orem snorted. “I doubt even you could pick that boulder up.”

  “I didn’t say she was unimpressive. The GodSpill loves her. It gives to her freely. We can’t possibly know how hard—or easy—any of this is for her. It’s possible she struggles with each accomplishment. But looking at her, I doubt it. I think this is all coming far too easily. What happens when the road turns hard? She’s untested, Orem.”

  “She’s strong enough.
”

  He grunted again. “Bands said that moving objects is the first level of learning, the easiest. To move something from one place to another is a relatively natural event. Objects are moved all the time by the wind, by the rain, by people, or other creatures. Mirolah understands how to change the location of things. That’s good.” He shrugged. “But can she transform one thing into another? Can she create something out of thin air? Can she change someone’s mind?”

  “Do you think mind control will be necessary to destroy the Fountain?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So how can you—”

  “Here’s what I do know. Daylan Morth was the most powerful threadweaver ever.” For the first time, Medophae looked at Orem. His blue eyes shone in the sun-dappled shadows of the grove. “Ever.” He turned back to his vigil. “This thing you’re asking her to do, it’s impossible. So far, at least. Altering Daylan’s Fountain was something the most powerful threadweavers of the Age of Ascendance failed to do. By Natra, it’s something they failed to even understand. Daylan’s superiority was not a matter of opinion. It was not bantered about at court who was the most powerful threadweaver ever to live. Everyone knew. Even Bands did not understand Daylan’s later spells. No one else could have done what Daylan did when he created the Fountain, not even a dragon. Harleath Markin came the closest to understanding, and not only did he die for it, he killed almost everyone else, too.”

  Orem felt the weight of Medophae’s words, and he fought them. “Mirolah is our only hope for a normal world.”

  “And watching her, I dare to have hope, but we still don’t even know what Harleath intended to do. Not really. You’ve seen that artifact she found. I don’t know what it does. You’ve read Harleath’s journal. He was trying to destroy the Fountain, to return the lands to what they were in the Age of Awakening, but I don’t know what he tried. And I don’t know why he failed. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “What if Daylan designed the Fountain to protect itself? What if he made it sentient?”

  “You think the Fountain is sentient?”

  “I don’t know. It snapped Harleath Markin like a twig.”

  “What if Mirolah is stronger than Daylan Morth?” Orem asked.

  Medophae gave a low chuckle. “Then we have nothing to worry about.”

  “You don’t think so.”

  “I know she’s not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I met him. Looking into Daylan’s eyes was like looking at the stars. His mind was adrift in different times and alternate realities, and yet he could always keep up with what you were saying, answer every question you had with the answer you needed and two other bits of wisdom you hadn’t considered. He was just...more. And let’s not forget that his crowning achievement was to restructure an entire continent. So far, Mirolah has moved a boulder.” He held up a hand as Orem opened his mouth to protest. “Look, she shows more promise than any young threadweaver I’ve ever seen. But great threadweavers aren’t made from promise. They’re made when they’re forced to adapt or die. Harleath Markin might have been the most talented threadweaver of his generation. He saw something no one else did, but obviously he couldn’t adapt quickly enough. Mirolah will have to face that wall, just like he did, and when she does, you can’t protect her, and neither can I. And then we’ll see.”

  “You think this is a fool’s errand,” Orem accused him.

  “It is a fool’s errand.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  He shrugged.

  Orem narrowed his eyes. “So then it’s just for revenge,” he spat. “You don’t care whether she lives or dies, whether the lands regain the GodSpill or not. You just want your hands around the throat of whoever sent that bakkaral, and you think Mirolah will lead us to him.”

  “Would you rather I left?”

  “I would rather you believed in us!” Orem hissed, keeping his voice low so that Mirolah would not hear. “How can you stay when you think we have no chance? You mock us!”

  “I am not mocking you.”

  “But you don’t think it will work,” Orem pressed.

  Medophae opened his hands disarmingly. “Anything is possible. We’re all fools to try.” He stood up, towering over Orem. “But we shouldn’t worry so much about being fools. Sometimes all you can do is try.” He gave a reassuring smile, and Orem felt the warm sunshine of Medophae’s attention.

  Orem fought it, hating that Medophae could change the mood that easily.

  “Do not think badly of me, Orem. I may not be here for the reasons you wanted, but I am here. I will protect your young threadweaver with my life. I will walk this path with you, and we will see if we are fools or not when the story’s done.”

  “She needs a hero, not a tourist.”

  Medophae nodded, as if he understood, but Orem doubted it. “I will do my best by you,” Medophae said.

  “I suppose I should be honored,” Orem said sarcastically.

  Medophae put a gentle hand on Orem’s shoulder. “You are a good man, Orem, and I’ve been hard on you. I apologize. I may not share your conviction, but perhaps you could take comfort thinking I could be wrong about Mirolah’s abilities. I have been wrong before.”

  Orem grunted.

  Medophae inclined his head toward the young threadweaver in the center of the field. The house-sized boulder was gone. In its place was a polished stone table large enough to seat twenty. She was grinning.

  “Anything is possible,” Medophae said.

  34

  Mirolah

  Mirolah laughed and stared at what she had just done. She brought one hand up to her head, laughed again, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She hadn’t even realized she was sweating. There it was, the table she had envisioned. Well, almost. It was a bit lopsided. It had five legs and leaned because the legs farthest from her were shorter, and one appeared to be missing. She hadn’t even considered how many legs it might need. Or had she? She couldn’t quite remember. She had concentrated so hard it was almost as if she’d fallen into a trance. Paying attention to that many threads at once was dizzying. It bothered her how she couldn’t remember the entire process.

  A sweeping wind bent the shin-high grass and blew tendrils of Mirolah’s damp hair into her face. Fingering one out of her mouth, she took a step back and stared at her table.

  The moment one exercise became boring, a new vista opened up. Pulling on the threads seemed to move objects in space, but today, she’d changed the color of the threads by willing it, by holding them and imagining her fingers conveying different colors into the bright threads.

  The threads could be twisted, rearranged, perhaps even rewoven. And each tiny alteration or tug did something different. She still had not touched all the threads on the stone; she had recolored and shifted only a few of them. Yet the stone had become a table. A table!

  Her life in Rith seemed to belong to another girl now. She could make the tiles of Lawdon’s livelihood without an oven. She could make them out of granite. She could lift them through the air and assemble them on the roof without touching them, without anyone having to climb a ladder or balance precariously on a roof. She could, literally, do anything she could think of. And most of it was easy.

  Whatever she wanted to know seemed to come to her without effort. For example, she knew that Orem was attracted to her. She didn’t know if he always was, but he certainly was now. He never said anything, never let his gaze linger on her longer than was appropriate, never touched her arm for too long. But she felt his desire, could see it in the air around him like little red butterflies of light. He worked so hard to keep it hidden, but she could see.

  In the last few days, she could also read Stavark like a book. At first, the silver lights that hung around him were confusing, but as she got better at reading everything, she pierced that defense. Stavark was here because of duty. The sparkles represented the power of his flashpowers, but the silver aura was a manif
estation of Stavark’s sense of duty. He saw himself as a normal quicksilver boy who had been gifted with extraordinary flashpowers, so he was obligated to use them to make Amarion better, not only for his people, but also for humans.

  Stavark also longed for home. He missed his mother, his father, and his younger brothers and sisters. Stavark was out of place in the human lands, but she knew he wouldn’t leave. In Stavark’s mind, you didn’t leave friends. You just didn’t.

  Respect hung about Stavark when Orem was around—wonder and hope every time when Stavark was near Mirolah. Every time Medophae was around, Stavark felt rage and love at the same time. He always treated the big man coldly, speaking little if at all, but if Mirolah had to guess, she would say that Medophae was Stavark’s hero, a hero who had let him down.

  She could read Orem and Stavark, but she couldn’t read Medophae at all. That dazzling golden aura was a fortress around him. She could not see through it; she could only see what he chose to show her on his face, which was almost nothing. It drove her crazy that everything else came so easily, but he was an enigma.

  She waited upon those rare moments when he turned to her with some odd question or another. She always countered with her own questions, trying to draw him out of his shell. He usually gave short answers, if he answered at all. It was so frustrating she wanted to pull out her hair.

  She let out a long breath as she thought of Bands, the tall woman with the short blond hair, that memory she had stolen from his head that first night. The legendary woman who was actually a dragon. Mirolah had only seen her for an instant, but that instant told volumes. Bands was poised, vibrant, not to mention breathtakingly beautiful. She had the experience of a hundred lifetimes, was a threadweaver of phenomenal power, and a dragon on top of it all. She was the love of Medophae’s life.