Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Page 3

  He looked at the gray cliffs, the rocky shoreline below, and imagined they were the red sands of Calsinac, back when she had been with him, back when he’d been happy. He started to smile, almost able to see her on that beach, her short blond hair whipping in the wind...

  He shook his head fiercely. Calsinac was gone, a ruin. Anger slid through him like a silk scarf stuck with thorns. His friends, his subjects, even his nearly-immortal lover, had all been destroyed because of him. So many had believed in him, had loved him, and in the end he’d killed them all.

  I killed them all....

  The god Oedandus woke inside Medophae, sensing the anger.

  You are the hand of justice, the god said. Kill them. Kill them all.

  The rail squeaked, and Medophae looked down. He had twisted it, making deep grooves with his fingers. He let go and stepped away.

  “Medophae.”

  He spun and clenched his fist as a woman stepped into the ring of lamplight. She was petite, with delicate features and red hair coiled artfully on her head. Two ringlets trailed down from a light golden crown, framing her pale face. She wore a green dress fringed in gold, tight about her slim waist and upper arms, flared at the wrists. She stood with head high, confident, and her green eyes watched him. Green eyes. Like his beloved.

  This is not Calsinac, he thought to himself. This is a different time.

  But her eyes... His heart felt lighter just looking at them, as though he might touch his beloved again, if only—

  She isn’t Bands, he thought. Say her name.

  It came to him suddenly, like a gasp of air to a drowning man.

  “Queen Tyndiria,” he said.

  Other memories followed then, recent ones. Safer ones. They told him where he was, when he was. He lived in Teni’sia, a northern kingdom nestled in the cliffs by the Inland Ocean. He was captain of the royal guard and protector of Queen Tyndiria. Sweet Tyndiria, the green-eyed girl who became a woman in a time of war. The teenage leader who held up a toppling kingdom.

  The Sunriders had swept through Amarion over the last decade, laying waste to villages, pulling down kingdoms. They had tried to pull down Teni’sia, too, but the steep mountains and the cleverness of Tyndiria’s father had held them at bay. After two years of raids, the horsemen finally moved on. By then, barely half of Teni’sia’s young men returned to tend the cliff gardens and sea nets. Tyndiria lost her father and brother to the battlefield and her mother to a fire. She would have also lost her kingdom and her life if not for Medophae.

  He could still see the tiny, sixteen-year-old Tyndiria standing in front of a towering Magal Sym, strongest of her nobles and the most vocal on the King’s Council. He had demanded that, until Tyndiria came of age, she needed a regent. Tyndiria declared she would take the reins of the kingdom, and that Magal Sym was welcome to advise her in his current capacity, but she would require no regent at this time.

  She hadn’t known that, of her remaining seven nobles, barely half were still loyal to her. She didn’t know that most of her royal guards had been bought, that an assassin waited to claim her a dozen paces down the hall. She was a fledgling sprout, pushing up through the soil, unable to see the boot hovering over her. The coup against her was all but finished, and all that needed doing was a quick stab of the assassin’s knife.

  But Tyndiria didn’t know, and when she spoke, she spoke like a queen, like the kingdom was—and should be—a sane place. Such an act of blind courage ignited the fire inside Medophae, and he had broken his oath. He had interfered in mortal affairs again.

  He followed Tyndiria without her knowledge, found the hidden assassin and eliminated him. He eliminated two others in the next two days, then identified Tyndiria’s treacherous guards and made them disappear. He shadowed her, a silent guardian turning aside any threat to the young queen. Frustrated, Sym finally attacked Tyndiria in force, in broad daylight.

  There could be no more standing in the shadows for Medophae, and he had made himself known. Seventeen soldiers and a power-hungry noble surrounded the young queen in the royal garden. Her two guards, bought by Sym, had backed away, leaving her alone with her ladies in waiting. The injustice infuriated Medophae, and the dark voice of his god rose inside him. And he killed them: seventeen soldiers, two traitorous guards, and a power-hungry noble.

  I killed them all....

  “Medophae?” Tyndiria broke his reminiscence. He shook his head, brought himself back to the study. The queen’s gaze flicked to the mangled rail, to his hands, to the ocean beyond.

  “I am at your service, my queen,” he said.

  “Your queen...” She moved to the balcony, watching the horizon like she was overseeing the sun’s travel. “Do you know where you are, my lord?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Your kingdom. Teni’sia.”

  “Do you know how long you have been standing here?”

  He didn’t know. “An hour, my queen,” he said.

  “Since morning.”

  He glanced at the afternoon sun. “I’m...sorry, my queen. I have neglected my duties.”

  “Stop it,” she said harshly. “Don’t talk to me like you’re one of my subjects.” She ran light fingers over the mangled rail. “I would help you if I could,” she said softly.

  “Your attention must be on your responsibilities.”

  “I think a demigod in our midst qualifies as one of my responsibilities.” She turned and leaned against the rail.

  Her eyes longed for him, and his heart beat faster. She saw the eighteen-year-old boy he had been when he was made immortal, not the tortured, ancient soul he had become.

  And her tone, the way she approached him... Guilt twisted inside him as more memories flooded in... Tyndiria and him... They were lovers.

  He struggled, trying to remember how he had let that happen. The lonely moment in her study. Her approach. Her green eyes, looking up at him. So green. Just like her eyes. Then her lips were on his. He should have pushed her away. He should have ended it, but he wanted her. He hungered for her, and when her lips met his, the pain vanished. He pulled her to him, kissed her like she was Bands. For one sweet moment, he was back in Calsinac—

  “Medophae.” She broke his reverie, putting her fingers on his chest. They were warm through the linen of his shirt. “I can help you.”

  He leaned down, kissed her, and she went soft in his arms. Her fingers slid into his hair. Her affection was salve to his soul. He wanted to live within it, but her touch didn’t heal; it only numbed the pain.

  And he was the bringer of fire and death.

  I’ll bring death to you, he thought. It is inevitable. Not even Bands could escape.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered into her neck, hating his need, hating what it would do to her.

  “You don’t,” she said.

  “Not yet...” he whispered.

  “I made this choice, Medophae. I know who you are, and I made the choice.”

  Hers was the conviction of the young, the invincibility of the ignorant. At eighteen, she believed in herself, in her mighty little sprout of goodness. He wanted to believe in her, too. He wanted to be ignorant, to believe that goodness would prevail in the end.

  He let go and looked away. She would never leave him, because mortals couldn’t make themselves do it. And he wouldn’t leave her because he needed her. Because her goodness eased his agony. Because he was weak.

  She took his chin in her hand and brought his gaze back to her. “I do not ask you to be something you are not.” She leaned her forehead against his. “You make me happy. I want to make you happy. Let me. Tell me why you hurt so much,” she whispered. “Even if I cannot help, let me try. Please.”

  It was like looking at a well-worn path he had walked a hundred times. He knew where it went, knew where it ended. But there was no other path. Every path ended badly.

  He tried to focus on the present, tried to—in this moment at least—be the man he ought to be. Tyndiria wanted answers, wanted mem
ories from his past. Those, at least, he could give.

  “I was...in love,” he said.

  “The Lady Bands,” she said. She knew the legend of their romance, of course. All of Amarion knew the legend of Wildmane and his lady love Bands, but they didn’t know truth. They didn’t know how it ended. They didn’t know that he had killed her.

  “She trusted me,” he said. “Like you trust me now, and—”

  A knock sounded at the door. Tyndiria went stiff. Frustration flashed across her face. She turned to order the offending knocker away when Medophae’s page, Casur, spoke through the door.

  “Captain Medophae. Come quick. Guardsman Galden has been murdered!”

  3

  Medophae

  Wind swept in from the ocean, swirling the white and black sands of the steep beach to the north of Teni’sia. Ten-foot waves rose and crashed, creating a roaring background to the violent scene. Galden’s bloody remains lay upon the sands only ten paces from the northern cliffs. Sand collected in small drifts against the windward side of his body. Galden had been left just as the patrol found him. Medophae would have to commend Lo’gan for that.

  Half a dozen of the Queen’s Guard stood around, waiting for Medophae’s orders. The surf dragons had been a mild problem as long as Teni’sia had stood, but not a deadly one. Of course, they were not true dragons, just serpents with arms and legs that could grasp and cut their prey. Like most predators, they only sought out prey smaller than them, but they could be aggressive when cornered. The worst Medophae had ever heard was a careless young man who had teased a surf dragon and lost a hand for his idiocy. They were a danger to children who swam in the Inland Ocean, but not adults. In the history of Teni’sia, there was only one death from a surf dragon.

  “When did he go on his sweep?” Medophae asked.

  “Noon, sir,” Lo’gan answered.

  Medophae nodded. He knelt in the sand and looked at Galden’s face.

  The entire left side had been ripped open and a small pool of blood stained the sand behind his head. Another slash went from Galden’s shoulder down to his belly. The third and last claw strike went across his throat, but there was little blood, which meant he was dead before that strike.

  He touched the shoulder wound. The cuts were deep, the arm bone shattered. The claw marks on Galden’s face had cracked his skull. That was the wound that killed him, probably instantly. The power behind those strikes was too great for a surf dragon. Surf dragons latched onto their prey with their jaws, raked them to death with their claws. Medophae had seen a surf dragon attack a seal once. The struggle was fierce, but slow, an endurance battle until the seal bled out.

  Galden had died because his head had been smashed and his throat torn out, not because he bled to death. And here he was, lying on the beach, whole except for his wounds. A surf dragon would have eaten the kill.

  His guards wore grim faces at the sight. Medophae wondered what they would think if they knew that he had delivered far worse wounds than this, if they knew he had walked across battlefields where the ground was slick with blood a mile long from carnage he had caused. Medophae remembered little from his rages, only the aftermath. When violence sang in his mind, it was the only song he could hear.

  He snapped out of his reverie, shoving the unhelpful memories down and focusing Galden’s body. He swiveled about and looked at the cliff caves to the north. It was where the surf dragons used to make their nests. There hadn’t been any dragons in those caves for years because of the periodic sweeps the city guards made, but there was something there now. Medophae’s gaze were drawn to a high cave opening in the cliffs. There was something in there. Something—

  “Sir?” Lo’gan interrupted. He followed Medophae’s gaze. “We’ll make a sweep with a hex guard, sir. We’ll find it. We’ll kill it. Don’t worry.” The original architects of Teni’sia had appreciated geometry, and any grouping of soldiers or guards were named based on a geometric shape. It had taken Medophae sometime to get used to that, but Lo’gan was telling him that he would take six guards to search for the creature.

  Medophae paused, shook his head.

  “Sir?”

  “We’ll wait until tomorrow,” Medophae said. “I will accompany the hex.”

  Lo’gan frowned. “Sir, my guards and I can handle it. It would be ill advised for the Captain of the Guard to undertake such a task.”

  Lo’gan saw the same things Medophae saw. Lo’gan knew that, if this had been done by a surf dragon, it was unlike the others. He wished to protect his captain.

  Medophae glanced again at the high cave. The back of his neck tingled in a way he hadn’t felt in years, and it made his stomach queasy. No, he wasn’t taking anyone with him when he hunted this creature. “They can take the body now. Prep it for burial tomorrow.”

  “What will you do now, sir?” Lo’gan asked.

  “We visit Galden’s wife.”

  Medophae was aware of Lo’gan’s curious gaze on him as he hesitated in front of Galden’s house. Medophae felt the emptiness that always filled him when he was forced to do this. How many of these speeches had he made? He never found the right words. One would think after this much time, he could find the right words.

  “Is this the first time, Captain?” Lo’gan asked. Medophae grunted, but didn’t look at Lo’gan. In Lo’gan’s eyes, Medophae was a young, inordinately capable captain. Medophae’s body remained the same age it had been when Oedandus had claimed him. Medophae would always have the physical form of an eighteen-year-old. Of course, because of his commanding presence and experience, Lo’gan probably assumed he was at least twenty-five, simply young-looking.

  “If you would permit me, sir, I will tell her.” Lo’gan said.

  “Thank you,” Medophae said, waving a hand. “I am fine.”

  “Of course, sir. Please forgive me.” Lo’gan stepped back and stood at attention, his eyes focusing straight ahead. Medophae knew there would be no more nervous shifting, no more offers to help. Lo’gan was a soldier’s soldier, and would stand there until the mountains fell into the ocean, or until Medophae gave him another order.

  What are the words, then? What were the words you used after the Deitrus Shelf, when your entire army was slaughtered? What were the words you used to comfort the Duke of Gorros when Baron Shandeer impaled his son on that curved sword? Can you remember? Can you ever remember anything important?

  “Let’s go,” Medophae said. Lo’gan nodded and accompanied him up the walkway.

  It was comprised of old wooden planking, faded and worn by the weather. The planks ended halfway to the small house, replaced by cobblestones. The stones looked new, a project in the making. A project Galden would never finish.

  Galden’s house was small. The stones were old, but the moss had been scraped and polished away. Galden had loved his home and took pride in his station in life. Times were hard in Teni’sia—were hard all over Amarion—but he had spent the effort to make his small piece of the world a little brighter.

  There was a pot of flowers in the front window, open to the breeze and the sunlight. A splash of color on weary lands.

  The woman saw them walking up the path before they reached the door. She stepped out onto the porch, a baby in her arms. A five-year-old boy came out behind her, stood with his hands at his sides, watching them.

  The woman didn’t know she was a widow yet. She recognized them as Teni’sian guards, her husband’s peers, and her smile was warm. She paused a moment, and her smile faltered as she recognized Medophae. She quickly smoothed her hair and tried to find the most dignified way to hold her baby while trying to straighten her dress. A blush turned her cheeks red.

  Medophae paused at the steps. He wanted to smile at her, to make her happy for just one instant before he told her. He could do it. He had that sway over people, but it would be a flame born only to be snuffed. This was not a happy occasion.

  Worry flickered in her eyes, and her embarrassment dissolved.

  “What
, m’lord?” she said, her brow furrowing. “What is it?”

  Medophae took a slow, calm breath and let the words come one more time.

  “Deetra?”

  “Yes, m’lord, I am Deetra. What is it?” Her hands twisted around the baby’s blanket. “Is it Galden? What is it?”

  Medophae nodded.

  “No...” She shook her head. “Nothing is wrong. I saw him this morning.”

  “Deetra, perhaps you should sit for a moment,” he said calmly.

  “No. I want to stand,” she said. “I want to stand. Oh gods...”

  Medophae paused, but he could see that every moment he hesitated was excruciating for her. This never went well. There was never a good way to do it.

  “Deetra, your husband was killed during a sweep of the—”

  “No!” She screamed. Her legs gave way, and she stumbled backward. The baby tumbled from her nerveless fingers. He stepped forward smoothly, catching the baby with one hand and Deetra with the other. The baby began crying. Medophae turned and found Lo’gan at his side. He gave his lieutenant the baby and gently sat Deetra in the chair beside the door.

  She looked at Medophae in horror, shaking her head. Her wide, blue eyes searched his face. “Oh gods...” she said. “Tell me you’re lying. Say it’s a lie.” Her voice was small.

  “Deetra—”

  “You’re lying!” she screamed. She leapt up from the chair, knocking him back. Her fists flew at his face, at his chest. Lo’gan stepped forward to stop her, but Medophae caught his wrist and sent him spinning away. Deetra’s strikes were wild and passionate. Medophae winced as she hit him, but he let the blows fall. After a short time, they became feeble, and the woman slumped against him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. She sobbed into his shoulder.

  “No...” she whispered, her body shuddering. “Please...”