Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Read online

  She reminded him that the people liked—even needed—to see an immediate reminder of their leader’s strength and authority. It created clarity, promoted reassurance.

  In the end, he had lost the argument, but he had not taken a hat as his symbol. He had an “X” harness made. Tyndiria had snorted and forbade him to use it. It was barbaric, she said. He was born in a barbaric age, he countered. She said it made him look like an ox ready to plow a field. She suggested the vest and a blue silk sash. Medophae decided he could live with that.

  He tied the sash on and gently buckled his sword belt. He paused at the door. Sometimes when he left like this, he felt like a thief stealing away. A one-night lover who used her and moved on.

  He walked softly down the corridor. This entire section of the castle contained Tyndiria’s private quarters. Across from her bedroom was her library. Down the hall was her study. Her chambermaid had a small room adjacent to Tyndiria’s. Behind Medophae, all the way to the end of the hall, was a room that Tyndiria referred to as her “quiet room.” No one entered that room except for her, not even Medophae. He still didn’t know what she did there. When he asked, her only response was, “It is the part of my life that is personal. It is the only part that doesn’t belong to the people.” He had never asked again. He understood the need for privacy.

  This section of the castle was completely removed from the rest. There was only one hallway leading in or out, for obvious reasons of security. Two of Medophae’s guards stood at attention at this entranceway. There were two more hidden in the hallway close by. Besides Lo’gan, Medophae’s second in command, the two visible sentries were the best guards Medophae had. As quiet as he had tried to be, he was sure they had known he was in the hallway the moment he stepped from Tyndiria’s bedroom.

  “Good evening, Aeder, Mik’syn,” he said as he came up to them.

  “Good evening, Captain,” Aeder said.

  Mik’syn nodded and said in his low voice, “Sir.”

  Aeder was typical Teni’sian stock. At six feet, he was still a head shorter than Medophae. He had shoulder-length blond hair and bright blue eyes that betrayed his affability. Aeder was one of the most personable soldiers in the Guard. He had an easy way about him in everything but fighting, and his physical strength was awesome. During a sparring match once, he’d broken Medophae’s blade with a mighty foot stomp. Afterward he had apologized profusely. Aeder had thought the shock of the kick would cause Medophae to drop the sword. Medophae had been laughing too hard to reprimand the unorthodox maneuver.

  Mik’syn, contrary to Aeder, was quiet. He never spoke more than he had to. He was medium height for a Teni’sian, and he was thin. His chin-length brown hair framed blue eyes. Truth to tell, he didn’t look very intimidating. He looked rather like a kid in a guard’s uniform, but he was the second finest swordsman in the kingdom. He was as fast as Aeder was strong. Only Lo’gan could best him on the sparring field. He was what Medophae called “a hidden edge.” That was why he was guarding the queen. He and Aeder made a complementary pair. One had brawn, the other speed, and both had quick, attentive minds.

  “Anything unusual tonight?” Medophae asked.

  “Nothing, sir,” Aeder said. “Quiet as quiet can be.”

  Mik’syn nodded.

  “How are you doing?”

  Aeder smiled. “Just fine, sir.” Mik’syn nodded.

  “How is Fala’si? She is coming close to time, isn’t she?”

  Aeder reddened slightly, but he seemed pleased that Medophae had remembered to ask. “I suppose so, sir. I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”

  “Only how to start it off, hmm?”

  “Yes, sir.” Aeder laughed.

  “You take good care of her. That’s an order. The more little Aeders we have running around the kingdom, the better off Teni’sia is going to be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Medophae gave Mik’syn a nod of camaraderie. He had learned early on that Mik’syn responded better to distant forms of socializing. He wasn’t comfortable answering pleasantries, but nobody liked to be ignored.

  “Good night, gentlemen,” Medophae said, and headed for the ramparts. Though the threat of the southern tribesmen was gone, there were other threats to Teni’sia. Magal Sym was still out there somewhere. There were at least two militarized groups of outlaws in the Coov’rein Forest who would love to loot the wealth of Teni’sia. Of all the kingdoms on The Arm, Teni’sia had come through the Sunrider Wars with the least damage, and so was perceived by surrounding kingdoms as wealthy, a jewel in the midst of ruin.

  Medophae descended the northern stairway as always. Tyndiria shared the upper level of the castle with her tutor, his assistants, and the main library. It was the only level of the castle that peered above the protective walls of Teni’sia. There were fifty-two steps from the Queen’s Landing to the archway that led into the ramparts. Medophae had counted them often enough: fifty-two steps and four solid doors that could be bolted and barred, effectively becoming a part of the thick stone walls. If ever an invasion were to get far enough to threaten the queen, they would have their work cut out for them.

  Medophae stepped out into the crisp night air. Spring was a beautiful season in Teni’sia. He enjoyed something about every season, but if he had to pick a favorite, spring would be it. The smell of newness called to him. He loved the storm clouds that gathered on the horizon every afternoon in Teni’sia. He loved the cool, clear nights like this.

  Deni’tri saw him the moment he stepped from the archway, expected him. Medophae stepped from that arch at roughly the same time every night. She moved toward him with a smile.

  Deni’tri was one of the few women in the Queen’s Guard. She was young and passionate and completely driven to be a fighter. He didn’t know much about her history, but he surmised that something in her early youth had inspired her to be a warrior. Any time one of the other soldiers asked her why she wanted to be in the Queen’s Guard, she asked them why they wanted to be in the Queen’s Guard.

  She was a comely young woman, but large and well-muscled. She was not the best swordsman in the guard, but she was not the worst, either. She also had other assets. For one, she was ambidextrous. She could switch sword hands and suffer no loss of skill. Second, she was a weapon’s master. She carried a small arsenal with her: three different lengths of daggers, a long and short sword, and a throwing hatchet. He didn’t like carrying more metal than he had to, but each fighter had their own style.

  He had worried a little when Deni’tri had signed up. She had no husband, and she didn’t want one. She had undergone a good share of coupling offers in her first few weeks in the guard. He had considered intervening, but decided against it. If she could not make her own place, then there was no place for her. He would not always be around to mediate difficulties between the guards. He let her resolve it, and resolve it she did. One night a guard seeking her attentions had made the comment that she had the smoothest skin in the land, and hair that shone like the golden sun. The following morning, Deni’tri showed up with a shaved head and three deep, symmetrical cuts on her face: one on each cheek and one across her forehead. The wounds still oozed blood as she set about her duties that day.

  Medophae was just as shocked as everyone else, but he said nothing. Her message was clear: “I am dedicated to my profession. Do not distract me with unwanted offers.” Not one of the soldiers approached her sexually after that. He surmised that the men secretly feared her for that gesture. After all, if she was willing to disfigure herself to draw this definite line, what would she do to them if they crossed that line?

  “Good evening, Captain,” Deni’tri said. She gave a relaxed look behind her and down the wall, then casually leaned against it and gave her captain an easy smile. Medophae smiled in return. He liked Deni’tri. When she’d first shorn and scarred herself, he’d wondered if she was a little scrambled in the head, but she wasn’t. She simply knew what she wanted, and there was no artifice in her. Sh
e either stepped with force, or she didn’t step at all.

  “Quiet night?” Medophae asked.

  “Yes and no. There are no Sunrider hordes beating at the gate,” Deni’tri said. “But the crickets are loud tonight. A storm is coming.”

  “A storm.”

  “Yes sir. The crickets.”

  “Can predict a storm?”

  “Every time, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  They both fell silent. Eventually, he asked, “Do you enjoy midnight duty, Deni’tri?”

  “I enjoy all the duties, sir.”

  Medophae nodded. They both stared out over the wall into the ocean. He considered the northeast walk the best post. One could see the northern mountains and the sea as well. The craggy cliffs and the swelling ocean were breathtaking from this vantage.

  “How is the queen tonight?” she asked.

  “She is well. I will tell her you asked after her.”

  She nodded, and the ensuing silence was comfortable. Deni’tri was not the easiest of his guards to talk to.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a personal question, sir.”

  “You may ask.” The corner of Medophae’s mouth turned up in a half smile. Many of the guards speculated about the relationship between their captain and their queen. “I don’t promise to answer.”

  Deni’tri nodded. “How old were you when you first went into a real battle?”

  He hesitated. It was not the question he expected. But the memory of his first battle was as clear as if It had happened yesterday. “I was...eighteen.”

  “You were old, then.”

  He laughed. Deni’tri herself was eighteen.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said.

  Deni’tri sighed. “Sometimes I think I will never see a real battle.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t look for a fight simply for the fight’s sake, Deni’tri. Nothing good comes from that. To be prepared is enough.”

  She broke gazes with him and looked over the water. “That is easy for you to say, sir. You have been tested. You know your own mettle. What if I never have a chance to know? What if Teni’sia remains peaceful for the rest of my life?”

  “Pray that it does. We are here to ensure that it does.”

  “I know, sir. It is simply that...I wonder. What if I am a coward at heart and I never know it?”

  He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. What Deni’tri was saying was serious to her. And it wasn’t an unreasonable question. Medophae had seen hardened veterans break ranks in sudden terror. He had seen green farmers with spears hold their ground against the charge of a dozen Sunriders.

  “One can never truly know such a thing, even having been tested once or a hundred times. It’s a new challenge every time you take up a weapon against another person. If you worry that you are a coward, then consider this: a coward would not ask such a question of herself, at least not aloud. Certainly not in front of her commanding officer.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded. “I will see you at sword practice tomorrow.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He left Deni’tri and continued up the ramparts.

  Is that how you would have done it, Bands? Medophae wondered. Are those the words you would have used to reassure someone under your protection?

  No. You would have simply stood near them. They would have felt better somehow. Was anyone ever uncertain when you were around? Certainly I was not.

  He let out a sigh and increased his pace. The walk from the northeast post to southeast post was entirely too long for a pensive night like this—

  A flash of silver caught Medophae’s eye, and he followed it. Someone pressed themselves into the shadows of the castle wall up ahead.

  Medophae’s sword rang as it slid from its scabbard.

  He stilled himself so he could hear better, his stance wide and his arms relaxed. For the first time that night, he felt utterly calm. His sword point touched the stones between his feet, and he waited for the intruder to make his move.

  The figure stayed where he was, perhaps hoping that Medophae had not seen him.

  “Stand forward and identify yourself,” Medophae said with quiet force. He expected the intruder to run, or to make a desperate attack. Instead, the small figure moved calmly into the moonlight.

  It was a quicksilver.

  He felt a draft of cold air slither across his soul, a whisper of destiny, and his stomach clenched. First a darkling, then a quicksilver. Like the darklings, the quicksilvers had died or fled three hundred years ago with everything else that relied on the GodSpill to survive.

  The boy was young, no more than twelve. His hair flowed to his shoulders, a river of silver split only by his pointed ears. His silver eyes shone like tiny moons in his alabaster face, which was hard with sharp cheekbones and a nearly pointed chin.

  “I am Stavark,” the quicksilver said. His melodious voice hearkened back to Medophae’s past, to a time when quicksilvers were always seen among humans. Laughing. Playing with human children, dazzling them with their speed.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  “You are the Rabasyvihrk?”

  It was what the quicksilvers called him, a word from their twisty language. It meant “Lightning Man of the People Who Love Beauty.”

  Medophae didn’t say anything.

  The boy squinted and cocked his head. “Your hair is short.”

  “I cut it.”

  “Every day?”

  “It doesn’t grow that fast.” Only once a week— Stop! Medophae told himself. Let him think you are someone else. Let him continue on his way.

  “You do not shine,” Stavark said. “The legends say that the light of a furious sky surrounds you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Reader Orem wants to meet with you.”

  Reader Orem. The man garnered the nickname on his travels, flaunting the fear of the people, and he was naive enough to be proud of it. He felt it connected him somehow to the threadweavers of old. If he had known those vain, selfish people, he would not be so proud.

  “Where is he?”

  Stavark’s silver gaze swept over Medophae, his arms, his chest, his hand where it gripped his sword.

  “He said you must come,” Stavark said. “The girl is in danger.”

  “What girl?”

  “Why do you ask questions? You are the Rabasyvihrk. You are the protector.”

  “I don’t jump through hoops for Orem.”

  Stavark’s face soured. “You do not sound like the Rabasyvihrk.”

  “I’m not the Rabasyvihrk!” Medophae growled, butchering the pronunciation of the slippery word. He had never been good at the language of the quicksilvers.

  “Why do you lie?” the boy asked, furrowing his brow, clearly disappointed. “You are the—”

  “Go back and tell him you did not find me.”

  Stavark paused, cocking his head as he watched Medophae. “Orem said you might say no. I did not believe him. But he told me to tell you that you must still come.”

  “Did he?”

  “He said that you owe him.”

  “I owe him? Did he tell you that he would be dead if not for me? How exactly do I owe him?”

  “He told me to tell you: ‘Tyndiria.’ Is that a person?”

  Medophae raised his chin. “Fine,” he said in a low, passionless voice. “I will meet. Where?”

  “In Clete. I will show you,” Stavark said.

  Clete was a two-day ride. One day at a full gallop.

  “Will you come?” Stavark asked.

  Very well, Orem, Medophae thought. “I will come.”

  Medophae strode down the battlement, and the young quicksilver followed silently.

  12

  Tyndiria

  Tyndiria awoke the moment Medophae entered the room. Something was wron
g. She was aware of his routine. Every evening he left her bed to make his rounds, visiting every guard post, giving each guard a smile during their long vigil. He would always return with the sunrise.

  The sun had not yet risen. She sat up in bed as he gently closed the door. Her dark red hair tumbled down to her shoulders in disarray. Only Medophae and her handmaid saw her like this.

  He stood just on the inside of the room, hesitating. He looked grim. She studied him for a long moment. He had changed his clothes. Instead of the plain guard uniform that he insisted on wearing, he now wore a loose but sturdy tunic, riding breeches, and tall riding boots. A thick, black belt wrapped his waist. She had seen him wear this into the field with his men before. He was going somewhere. He was leaving her.

  Neither of them spoke, and the silence confirmed her guess. He was waiting for the right words. He might find them. He was good with words sometimes. But she let the silence drag and let him struggle. She simply looked at him. It was her last chance to memorize every bit of him.

  His golden hair was cut short above his ears. The back of his neck was closely shaved, but his long bangs hung low, and perpetually fell into his eyes. Oh, how she loved to push those bangs away from his beautiful face. He had to cut it that way every week. His hair grew at an alarming rate. She remembered when he’d told her why, after she had guessed him to be Wildmane from the legends. He explained how his hair had been past his shoulders when he became what he was, and how it constantly tried to return to that state. She remembered how his lips moved when he said it. Oh, how she had wanted to kiss him. She had dreamed of it then, those enigmatic lips that bent down slightly at the ends. What would they feel like?

  She knew now. They were soft, energetic, experienced. They tasted sweet, yet somehow salty like tears. There was always a touch of sadness in Medophae’s kisses. She had come to crave the flavor of his sadness. She knew every inch of him. Oh, my eternal boy...