The GodSpill: Threadweavers, Book 2 Page 6

  “There are syvihrk among humans. They are rare, but they are there.”

  “And you do not find syvihrk in Sylikkayrn? Do you not feel it is your debt to serve us?”

  As always when he had these conversations with his mother, Stavark felt his anger rising. “I am serving them by going upon these journeys. I told you the first time that I would help return maehka to the lands. It has returned, and still you doubt me.”

  “Humans lie. They murder their own. They steal. They can only offer that which we do not want: suffering.”

  “And what of Orem?” Stavark asked. He let his anger slip into the threads all around him.

  “Orem is the worst of all,” his mother said. “He spoke gentle lies that anyone would want to believe, and then he stole my son.”

  “The maehka is back because of Orem, his bravery, his persistence—”

  “Humans stole the maehka in the first place! And Orem did not do this thing for us, but for his own selfish purposes. Returning maehka was the very least the humans could do to make up for their hubris and their greed.”

  Stavark waited, feeling for the right within him. Finally, he said, “Orem was my companion. If he is dead, I must know. If he lives, I must help. Now that I am healthy, I can do nothing else and remain in the right.”

  “You people must come first.”

  “This debt was drawn in service to my people,” Stavark said.

  “My heart bleeds as I hear his words come from your mouth.”

  “I chose to go,” Stavark repeated.

  “You had barely completed your test of passing when you left. His seductive words poisoned your mind!” His mother’s anger leaked out, then she fell silent.

  Anger was the cousin of hatred, and hatred was never of the right. Those who did not show serenity in their words did not have clarity within. His mother’s white features pinkened with embarrassment at her outburst.

  “Is that not what the test of passing is for, mother? To choose my own path from that moment forward?” he asked quietly.

  His mother was silent.

  “I only wish that you would understand,” he said.

  When his mother spoke, it was in a cold, distant tone. “Your father awaits you in the garden.”

  That was all. It was over. Stavark wondered how someone could be as blind in their mind as they were in their eyes. And yet he loved her. Perhaps that is why it hurt so much.

  Without another word, he walked quietly past the dais and through the archway that led to the garden.

  7

  Mershayn

  Dark gray clouds slid across the half moon, giving just enough light to climb by. Mershayn’s fingers and toes navigated the grooves between the blocks of gray stone that made up the palace wall. His boots lay across one shoulder, connected together by their buckles. The ocean rumbled far below, withdrawing and crashing. He soaked in all of the sounds and sights—a swordsman was always aware of his surroundings—but his focus was on the wall. One slip and he was a dead man.

  But a climb like this wasn’t as difficult as some Mershayn had attempted. The palace of Teni’sia had stood for centuries against coastal weather. The mortar between the stones had receded, giving easy handholds for a man of his skills. Mershayn reached the Northern Walk of the palace smoothly, and he dropped onto the stones.

  Now he could revel in his victory, so sweet. He turned to look back at the balcony to the south, where he had come from. Ari’cyiane was silhouetted there, her glorious curves wrapped in a thin sheet that rippled in the breeze. She blew him a kiss. She always watched him until he was safe. He surmised it was half because she was worried he would fall, and half because it gave her a thrill to see him do something so dangerous.

  He had already tested himself by climbing to some of the taller towers. The architects of Teni’sia were brilliant. It was as though the palace had naturally grown from the cliff. In some places it was difficult to see where the mountain ended and the castle began.

  Of course, Collus had no idea about Mershayn’s climbing adventures. It would make the king angry to hear that Mershayn had risked his life a half a dozen times already while they had been here. Collus was petrified of being left alone to deal with this kingdom, and Mershayn’s friendship was his only solace.

  And Collus would be especially angry to know that a few of those climbing adventures were to woo the wife of Teni’sia’s most powerful noble. It was a disaster waiting to happen, politically. But personally, Mershayn liked to think that Collus would hide a wry smile and approve. After all, chasing beautiful maidens was what the two of them spent most of their time doing before they came north to this stodgy castle.

  Mershayn undid the buckles connecting his boots and sat down upon the neatly fitted stones of the Northern Walk. The guards on the walk came by every fifteen minutes, and he had it timed perfectly.

  The interval used to be every thirty minutes, according to Captain Lo’gan, but the death of Queen Tyndiria had been a crushing blow to the morale of the royal guard. When Collus arrived, they had already set up a system to redouble their protection.

  As they damn well should.

  As Royal Arms Inspector, a new title that Collus had granted him, Mershayn’s first self-imposed task had been to inspect each and every one of the guard posts. His new title elevated him to the status of a lord and gave him the right to inspect anything having to do with the royal guard or the military. Of course, what it really meant was that he had no obligations other than what he felt like doing, which was the perfect job for him. And, it was fun to see sourpusses like Giri’Mar have to call him lord.

  Not that Mershayn wanted any sort of political power. Erg. He’d rather be chained to a wall than bow and scrape at court. They could have it all. Mershayn only wanted to keep his brother safe. That was the sole reason he was here in Teni’sia.

  When he had arrived, he expected to have his hands full reworking the entire royal guard to suit him. After all, what kind of incompetent guards let an assassin walk right into the queen’s study and brutally murder her?

  Of course, Mershayn still didn’t know exactly what happened there. The official story was that enemies of Teni’sia had murdered her. Nobody believed that one. The other stories were wild and inconsistent. Everyone had a different version. Some said that a supernatural creature had killed her, some bogeyman from legend. This was the version the royal guards told the most. Mershayn supposed it made them feel better about their failure if they could blame it on the supernatural.

  The supernatural... What a bucket of horse dung.

  When the story was told by the common folk in the lower levels of the city, it came out different. Like Mershayn, they thought the queen was killed by her lover. This rogue Medophae person, former Captain of the Royal Guard, had apparently given a tearful speech at Tyndiria’s funeral, then vanished. That was highly suspicious. Mershayn was well acquainted with the blood rage that came over a person at a lover’s betrayal. It took about ten seconds for some men to go from surprise to murder when they found their wife in bed with another man. He had experienced that firsthand on two different occasions. So without any better evidence than Captain Lo’gan’s word, Mershayn had to believe that Tyndiria had been caught with a young man—or maybe a woman—in her bed. This Medophae person had slain them both, hidden the body of the queen’s lover, and made up some story of bakkarals and vampires.

  So Mershayn had gone looking for every flaw in Lo’gan’s guarding strategy. To his disappointment, he found no holes at all. Lo’gan ran a tight ship. When Mershayn questioned him, Lo’gan answered every question succinctly. Also, he claimed no credit for the systems in place, said they were crafted by Captain Medophae. This missing man was also said to be spectacular with a blade. None of the guardsmen had ever bested him on the practice field, and Lo’gan had said that he surmised Medophae had never even unleashed his full skill.

  Damned hero worship. Captain Medophae this. Captain Medophae that. Mershayn would like to
test this Medophae’s mettle for real, see just how “brilliant” with a blade he was. It was more likely he was a dullard with a blade and a genius at drinking. The obviously charismatic man had probably frequently tipped a brew with all of his guards. So because they liked him, they assigned sterling attributes to him.

  But even if it was true, and this Medophae was a peerless swordsman, it made it that much more likely that he was the murderer. The bakkaral they claimed killed the queen had also slain four guards in the royal wing just beforehand. Someone cold-blooded and brilliant with a blade could have pulled that off.

  With his boots firmly back on his feet, Mershayn swung his sword belt off his shoulder and buckled it around his waist. He was only halfway through the motion when a familiar voice startled him.

  “Looking for weaknesses in the guard pattern?”

  The torch flickering over the archway that led into the castle cast deep shadows around the owner of the voice. It was a woman’s voice, but Mershayn could not see her.

  Deni’tri, one of the royal guards, emerged from the dark.

  Mershayn had noted her skill in the practice yard early on. She was a fearsome fighter, and big. She stood nearly six feet tall, about the same height as Mershayn himself, and she was one of the few who had agreed to spar with him when he’d arrived. He had bested her, of course, but she was good. She almost tagged him by capitalizing on the fact that she was ambidextrous. When he’d smacked her right hand with his practice blade, causing her to drop her sword, she had shifted fluidly to her left hand and continued the attack. He’d complimented her on that.

  There weren’t many women in the royal guard, and he had known in the first meeting with her that he should never approach her sexually. There were rumors about the three deep scars that marred her cheeks and forehead. It was said she did those to herself and shaved her head regularly to discourage suitors.

  That was a special kind of crazy, and Mershayn had liked her immediately.

  He wasn’t sure how much he liked her now, though, with her right arm cocked back, a throwing hatchet read to fly. She held a short sword in her left, pointed straight at his head as though marking the spot.

  Mershayn’s hands were still tangled in the buckle of his sword belt. He slowly began to remove them.

  “Leave them, Lord Mershayn,” she said. “I like them where they are.”

  Mershayn had a sense for when people were serious and when there was room to talk. Deni’tri was serious, so he stopped. He smiled and shrugged. “You caught me,” he said simply.

  Her eyes flicked to his hands during his shrug, to make sure it wasn’t a misdirection to free himself up. Mershayn admired the way she thought, and he made a mental note to commend her to Lo’gan for her instincts...as long as she didn’t injure him tonight.

  “The question is, what did I catch you at?” She looked around, and instantly noticed the lighted balcony from which he’d come. Ari’cyiane blew out the lantern, but her curvy silhouette was still visible against the night sky before she vanished inside. Deni’tri turned her eyes back to him, but he could see her thinking. Who lived in those rooms?

  She seemed to come up with the answer, because she slowly eased out of her battle-ready posture. She was no longer on the edge of killing him. She sheathed the short sword. The hatchet came down, and she flipped it lazily in one hand, catching the haft and flipping it again.

  “Can I move now?” Mershayn asked.

  She eyed his hands, caught at the buckle draped over his groin. A flicker of a smile ran across her lips. When she spoke again, her serious tone had gone. “It seems an odd job for two swords,” she said.

  “Clever,” he said. “I never go anywhere without my sword.” He buckled the belt and let his hands rest at his sides. With his sword safely on, he felt far more relaxed. He’d bet on himself every day of the week to be able to pull that weapon quickly enough to block her hatchet, if it came to that.

  “What does Lord Vullieth think about your midnight sword-carrying?” she asked.

  “I doubt he gives it a thought.” He leaned back against the stone wall and studied her. She flipped the hatchet again.

  She looked at the dark balcony. “It is quite a risk for her. I wonder that she would bother with you.”

  “Some women go out of their way for a thrill.”

  “I bet you have a good sense for that.”

  He held his hands helplessly. He changed the subject. “How is the watch tonight?”

  “Quiet, until I found you. I was hoping I’d get to kill someone,” she said.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “It is probably best if I don’t kill the king’s beloved brother.”

  “You have keen political acumen.”

  “But yours is horrible.” She nodded again at the balcony. “Ari’cyiane has much to lose, but you have more. Or rather, the king does.”

  A long silence ensued as she watched him. He didn’t feel relaxed anymore.

  “I have a hard time understanding politics,” he joked.

  “No, you’d just rather play with your sword than shoulder responsibility.”

  That was damned saucy talk for a guard, talking to a lord.

  He was of half a mind to put her in her place, but he didn’t. She was right about him, and when Collus gave Mershayn his lordly title, he’d promised himself he’d never abuse it. By the gods, he’d promised himself he’d never believe he somehow deserved it, unlike the rest of the royal and lordly. In truth, Mershayn didn’t believe in hierarchy. That was why he did things like dally with the wife of a powerful noble. During his entire life, pure-born nobles had rubbed his nose in the fact that he was a bastard. Stealing a night with their wives was his revenge. So, despite the fact that Deni’tri had needled him, Mershayn was going to respect her courage and her honesty.

  “Some things are worth the risk,” he said carefully.

  She pursed her lips. “I think you may actually believe that.”

  He shrugged.

  “In that case, I can’t fault your taste,” she said, and to his surprise, she smiled.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so the fierce warrior facade comes together a little clearer. You prefer to rest your head on a softer chest?”

  “I rest my head wherever I choose. But I wouldn’t kick the Lady Ari’cyiane out of bed.”

  He laughed. “You’re an odd duck, Deni’tri.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from you.”

  He gestured down the Northern Walk. “Shall we keep going?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to make you late for your rounds.”

  They fell in step together.

  “So, do you enjoy the midnight duty, Deni’tri?” he asked.

  She stopped in her tracks, looked at him sharply.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I enjoy all the duties,” she murmured, as if she had said it before. She stowed her hatchet on the hook at her waist and went to the stone rail. “That is chilling,” she said to herself.

  He followed her. That was odd. “What is it?”

  “I’ve marched this walk a thousand times, but this is only the second conversation I’ve ever had here. The last time I was asked the exact same question. Three days later, the queen was dead.” She glanced up at the cloudy sky. Moonlight hit the cliff castle in patches. “I pray it is not an omen.”

  “Who asked you if you liked the night shift? Lo’gan?”

  “Captain Medophae,” she said with the same kind of reverence everyone else did. “He led the royal guard before Tyndiria’s death—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Mershayn wanted to roll his eyes. “It seems like everyone has something to say about Captain Medophae.” He leaned his back against the rail, facing her. “You don’t strike me as the type of person to exaggerate, Deni’tri, so maybe I can get a straight answer out of you. Everyone here holds this Captain Medophae in a kind of awe. I want to know more about him. Truthful things, not exaggerated stories. Did you
know him well?”

  “Not really. I sometimes think that no one really knew him well, except the queen.”

  “And do you revere him as the others do?” Mershayn asked.

  It took a moment before she replied. “We all did,” she murmured. “He was different, unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. He was young, but he had a steadiness. He knew things, saw things that others missed.” She frowned, seemingly disappointed with her description, then tried again. “When he looked at you, he didn’t see another guard, or a chef, or a stable boy, or a bastard from the south. He saw the importance of you. You could feel it. It made you feel as though you were his friend already, that you had been for years, even though it was the first time you’d met him.”

  “And that is what impressed everyone about him?”

  She thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “No. That was what made you like him.”

  “Then what was so impressive?” Mershayn kept his tone light, but he was exasperated. Would anyone ever tell him what was so special about this ghost Captain?

  She smiled. “If you’d met him, you’d know.”

  He snorted. He couldn’t help it. “That’s the kind of answer I was hoping I wouldn’t get from you.”

  “Well, it’s a difficult question to answer,” she said simply. “It would be easier to ask what was not impressive about him. He was amazing with a blade. He was always certain and, frankly, always right. His assessments of everything from guard rotation to swordplay style to the nuances of a fisherman’s net to the economics of the kingdom, all of them were insightful and accurate. It was as though he had been a king himself, sometime before. And a sailor. And anything he seemed to turn his hand to. He had compassion for those beneath his station, and absolutely no fear. Of anything. I’ve never met a man who had no fear. He would happily train with real swords or wooden. He was so confident, it was as though he believed he could not be hurt.”