Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Page 9

  How she loved to rub the smooth skin of his cheeks that would never grow a beard. He had the face of an eighteen-year-old boy, all vitality and energy and delicious angles. He had a strong jaw that promised to square off even more profoundly in a few years. Of course, those few years would never come for him.

  His body was young, but his eyes gave him away. They weren’t the eyes of a boy, nor of any grown man she’d ever met. They were the eyes of a stranger, someone who had seen things she couldn’t imagine. They held what she had tasted in his kiss, ocean-blue eyes with an ocean of sadness behind them.

  He moved forward, and she closed her eyes, holding him in her mind, keeping him that way forever.

  He sat on the bed with her, and she opened her eyes again.

  “Tyndiria, I have to leave for a few days.”

  She said nothing, and he continued.

  “Orem sent somebody to ask me to meet with him. He said it was important.” Medophae snorted. “Of course, to Orem, everything is of the utmost importance.” He threw the words into the room as if they meant nothing. He was annoyed, but there was something under the annoyance, something profound. Her heart sank, and her stomach shriveled. It had come. Today, this moment, was the day he left forever.

  Why was it so difficult? She had known it was coming. He did not belong to her. He belonged to the lands. To the gods.

  She’d known she’d only have him for a short time, that she must enjoy him and let him go when it was over. No regrets.

  But her heart was breaking.

  “I see.” She finally managed to say. She was happy to note that her voice came out steady and strong, the voice of a queen.

  “I’ll be back in a few days, no more.”

  “Will you?” she said, and she cursed herself for a fool. It was what an immature young girl would say, trying to hang onto a lover whose heart had already left. But she couldn’t help it. Her longing and anger slammed around inside her like drunken sailors. It was all she could do to keep from crying.

  He looked at her strangely, as if he didn’t understand why she was angry. Finally, he spoke in that unquestionable voice of his, the voice he used to reassure his guards in the face of fear. “Tyndiria, I’m not going away. Is that what you think?”

  She cleared her throat, but she knew she couldn’t speak without her voice quavering, so she said nothing.

  “Don’t,” he said emphatically, and she listened to the passion in his voice. Medophae could convince anyone of anything. “The only reason I’m going is because I owe Orem for bringing me to Teni’sia, for bringing me to you. This is my home now. You are my purpose.”

  She bit her lip. The tears came this time, and she didn’t try to wipe them away. She let them slide down her cheeks and onto the sheet. His face softened with a small, relieved smile. He must think they were tears of joy. He didn’t understand what was happening at this moment.

  Teni’sia was not his place. Of course, he had tried to fit in, and he had convinced himself that he had, but she knew it was a necessary lie, the only thing that protected him from his sadness.

  Wish him well, she told herself. Don’t be an idiot. Smile at him, and wish him well. If you don’t, you will hate yourself when he leaves, and he will think less of you. You cannot hold him. The entire realm could not hold him if he wished to go.

  Tyndiria gave him a smile, even though her tears betrayed her. She acted as if they weren’t streaming down her face.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, smiling as he reached out and brushed the tears away. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  You’re stupid. You’re stupid, and you don’t understand anything, and I love you so much....

  She nodded and gave him another smile. She couldn’t bear to speak.

  He kissed her lightly on the lips and stood. “I have to go. I have a long ride. Lo’gan will see to my duties while I am away. I’ll see you in two or three days.”

  He turned and went to the door. As his hand fell on the handle, she rose. The sheet slipped away, and she stood naked in the room.

  “Medophae,” she said.

  He turned. Again, that quizzical look crossed his features. He sensed something was wrong, but he didn’t know what it was.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. Kiss me.”

  He let go of the handle and crossed the room to hold her. His blue eyes looked deep into hers, and she drank one last drink of him. “Kiss me once,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She felt his lips on hers, his tongue on hers. The kiss lingered beautifully.

  Finally, she ended it. She pulled away.

  “Good luck, Wildmane.” She squeezed him tight, felt the mighty muscles of his arms, his back, his chest. “I love you,” she whispered so that he could not hear.

  When she let go, he grinned down at her.

  “You’ll see me soon. I promise.”

  Oh, Medophae. You do mean it. And the tone of your voice could make anyone believe. I want to believe.

  Then why did she feel like she would never again look at his beautiful face?

  13

  Medophae

  Medophae and Stavark rode through the night and the rest of the next day. They stopped only to water and rest their horses. Medophae was impressed with the young quicksilver’s stamina. Quicksilvers were known for their speed, not their endurance. His thin, white face slowly became drawn and tired, but he didn’t say a word.

  The stretch of land that separated the Inland Ocean from the True Ocean was called the Jaw. There were four small kingdoms on The Jaw: two on Northjaw—Clete and Teni’sia—and two on Southjaw—Nast and Buravar. All of the kingdoms were friendly with each other since the Sunriders had come north. There had been five originally, but the Sunriders had destroyed Diyah. There was nothing left but ruins.

  They kept to the roads mostly, but circumvented the smattering of tiny villages between Teni’sia and Clete.

  The trip continued through the day without incident. Riding, resting, then riding some more. The sun was setting by the time they arrived at Orem’s meeting place, a small clearing outside the tiny town of Deridin.

  Medophae reined his horse in and dismounted. Orem already had a fire burning with plenty of wood for the night to come. Well-prepared. Of course.

  Stavark wearily wrapped his horse’s reins around a nearby tree branch and moved over by the fire.

  Medophae took more time with his horse. He knew that Orem would be anxious to talk, but Medophae was feeling belligerent, so he made Orem wait.

  Medophae stroked his gelding’s lathered neck, removed the saddle, and carefully checked each hoof. Finally, he looked up. Orem had his arms crossed now, backlit by the fire, barely more than a shadow in front of the flaming glow.

  He and Orem had saved each others’ lives. Orem had pulled Medophae back into the land of the living, had brought Medophae from the cave where he had been reduced to something just above an animal to Teni’sia, where Tyndiria stoked the coals of his heart to life again.

  Medophae had literally saved Orem from being ripped to pieces by a pack of skin dogs. Orem had been starving and half-dead from the cold in the Spine Mountains, exploring dangerous places where he had no business going.

  Medophae had been hunting close by when he heard the commotion. A pack of starving skin dogs had hunted Orem for more than a mile, driving him on and wearing him down. The brave scholar-turned-woodsman kept them at bay for a long time. The dogs almost had him when Orem made a desperate jump across a narrow ravine. He bought himself another few precious minutes while the dogs found a way around, but it cost him a sprained ankle.

  Medophae had followed for a short time. He watched the hunt with the dispassionate gaze that he had watched several other hunts of this pack of skin dogs. He knew what he was about to witness, and he perched on top of a boulder to watch Orem’s inevitable end.

  Medophae had been a different man back then. He watched the seasons change, watched the turn of nature:
the growth of the grass, trees, the death of the leaves in autumn. He watched birds feather nests, mice search for food, and the skin dogs hunt deer. He watched it all with equanimity. Life happened, and there was nothing that could—or should—be done.

  That the skin dogs hunted a human this time didn’t concern him at first. Medophae watched Orem—bleeding, cold, and clearly exhausted. Each time the dogs went in for an attack, Medophae thought Orem would go down for good, but each time, he fought his way back to his feet, drove the dogs back. His passion for life evoked something in Medophae, broke a barrier inside himself.

  He’d been almost an animal himself at that point, but suddenly he felt the threads of his old life wrap around him, dress him up as he once had been: a protector. A man who cared about the lands. A man who cared about the lives and deaths of others.

  Medophae had leapt into the midst of the pack and cowed them. The skin dogs knew Medophae, and they deferred to him. He had established his dominance over them many years before.

  He brought Orem back to his cave. He cared for Orem until the man was strong enough to fend for himself. And in that cave, while Orem convalesced, the conversations began.

  How many years ago had that been? Five years? Ten? Medophae could not keep track of the years anymore.

  He let out a low breath and started toward the expectant Orem. The moment Medophae leapt into the midst of those skin dogs was the moment he leapt into the world of humans again. That was how it always started. One action. And the way it always ended was disaster.

  “Medophae,” Orem said.

  “Orem,” Medophae nodded.

  They shook hands firmly.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Your messenger is persuasive.”

  Stavark sat by the fire, gazing unblinkingly into the flames as he chewed solemnly on the meal Orem had prepared. Stew with venison, by the smell.

  “He made it sound like you were calling in a favor,” Medophae said.

  Orem studied Medophae for a moment. “I told him to put it that way only if you forced him to.”

  “If I didn’t immediately dance to your tune, you mean?”

  Orem paused, straightened his shoulders. “Please, Medin.” Orem resorted to the nickname, and Medophae felt his hackles rising. That was what Bands used to call him, and Medophae had incautiously told Orem about it. He’d compounded his mistake by failing to tell Orem to stop. Now, he used it like a club to remind Medophae they had been close. “I don’t want to begin this way. Will you sit by the fire? Are you hungry?”

  Medophae followed Orem to the fire. He handed Medophae bread and a wooden bowl full of the stew. He took a spoonful, chewing slowly. It was tasty. Orem had always been a good cook.

  “I want you to help me,” Orem said.

  “Someone you want protected. A girl, the quicksilver said.”

  Orem hesitated, “Yes.”

  “I’m not a bodyguard.” He paused, realizing that actually, that was precisely what he was. “I’m not a bodyguard for hire. I have a life in Teni’sia, a life you gave to me. My place is there. I’m not interested in your quest.”

  “Your place is Amarion. You are our protector. Not the protector of just one kingdom. History is happening right now, and we have a chance to affect it for good. Look!” He made a gesture at the impossible quicksilver sitting at the fire.

  “That must have been such an encouraging moment for you, finding him. Where was he?”

  “There are many of them, living in the Spine Mountains.”

  “Ah.”

  “Have you seen creatures? Children of Dervon? Those who need GodSpill to live?”

  Medophae hesitated. “No,” he lied. He didn’t mention the darkling. He did not want to give Orem any more sticks for his fire.

  “It’s everywhere. If you try hard enough, you can feel it in the air,” Orem said.

  “If you try hard enough—and you do—you can feel whatever you want to feel.”

  Orem pressed his lips together and sat back, annoyed. “I bring you a quicksilver, and you still refuse to believe.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Well,” Orem said tightly. “Since you’re going to be pig-headed, let me tell you what I know. GodSpill is returning. It’s leaking into the lands, coming from the Fountain, but the only creatures appearing near that place are darklings.”

  “When were you at the Fountain?” Medophae asked, surprised. Nobody went close to the Fountain. In the beginning, those who had gone didn’t return, and if they did return, they were deformed or diseased.

  “This winter. I spent months in the library in Denema’s Valley, researching, gathering information. I know what is happening. The Fountain is breaking down.”

  Medophae’s heart beat faster. If there was GodSpill, then there would be threadweavers, someone to look at the gem...

  He clenched his jaw.

  No.

  He had been down this path before. He had traveled that same road for one hundred and thirty-one years during a time when the most powerful threadweavers in the world were alive. This was a fool’s hope. “It’s not my responsibility,” he said.

  Orem sat back. “Except that it is.”

  “Why?” Medophae shouted, standing abruptly, dropping his bowl and spilling stew into the dirt. “Because you say so?”

  “Because you have the power to do something about it.” Orem stood with him.

  Medophae bared his teeth. “I thought that once, but it’s a lie. Nothing I do matters. Nothing you do matters. It never did, and it never will.” He turned to go to his horse.

  “These darklings, they’re not going to stop.” Orem’s voice chased him. “You’ll find them at the gates of Teni’sia soon.”

  “Then I will fight them when they arrive,” he said, tossing his saddle on his horse and working the cinch.

  “Only then?”

  “That is my place. You are the questor, Orem. Not me. Not anymore. I’ve made that as clear as I can.”

  Orem was silent for a moment. “I want to destroy the Fountain,” he blurted.

  Medophae stopped, turned.

  “If we destroy it, the lands will return to normal. They’ll go back to the way they were in the Age of Awakening. Before Daylan Morth and his Fountain. Amarion will become what the gods originally intended.”

  Medophae looked into Orem’s eyes. There was true conviction. It wasn’t just a line to get Medophae’s attention. Orem was seductive. He believed these things, so much that he made you want to believe, too.

  Medophae shook his head. “You think no one has tried before now? The Fountain is too strong. Daylan Morth was the most powerful threadweaver ever. He was nearly a god himself. The Fountain cannot be undone.”

  “In the beginning, maybe,” Orem said. “But it’s been three centuries. It is breaking on its own. That’s why Stavark can access the powers of his birthright here in Amarion. It’s why darklings roam the land. And who knows what else might have emerged that we don’t even know about? It’s already happening, but we need to make it happen faster.”

  “So you’re going to, what, take a chisel to it? You need a threadweaver. You don’t have one.”

  “I have one.”

  Medophae’s breath caught in his throat. “The girl...” he whispered, putting it together. He turned back to his horse, untied the reins from the tree. “No.”

  “Medophae,” Orem said. “She needs you.”

  Medophae closed his eyes. A threadweaver. A woman. She probably had a name, too. A family. Children maybe. Medophae prayed that Orem didn’t say her name.

  “She hasn’t learned much, but her natural aptitude is astonishing. If she doesn’t learn soon, the GodSpill will begin teaching her by itself. I gave her a laughing stone, and it all but exploded in her hand.”

  “She made it turn a color?” he said in a low voice.

  “Medin, it burst into a rainbow.”

  “A rainbow?” He had never even heard of that.
r />   “This is the welfare of humankind we’re talking about,” Orem said.

  Medophae hesitated. A threadweaver. And he could help. He could protect the girl against anything. Killing darklings was something he could do better than anyone. They could walk right up to the Fountain and tear the thing down. Amarion would go back to what it was...

  Or... He could fail. He could take the curse of his life and throw its shadow over even more people.

  “No. I don’t do that anymore,” he said, lifting the reins over the horse’s head. “The ocean remains the ocean. Make waves or lie still, the ocean will always remain the ocean.”

  “You’re hiding with Tyndiria just like you hid in that cave where I found you,” Orem said. “You’re afraid of trying, afraid you’ll fail.”

  “Yes. That must be it. Goodbye, Orem.” He put a hand on the pommel.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” Orem said.

  Medophae paused. Just get in the saddle and ride away. Don’t wait for Orem to make his mistake....

  “It’s Bands. It’s that wispy hope of a life that is gone. It’s that damned red jewel. Are you seriously going to let others die because of an ancient mistake? She’s gone. You’re not. That’s it. You can’t save her, but you can save—”

  Medophae crossed the distance like a charging bear. He grabbed Orem by the vest and slammed him into a tree. The man gasped. Golden fire crackled about Medophae’s chest and arms as he lifted Orem into the air.

  Stavark vanished from the fire in a silent explosion of silver light. He streaked across the camp and suddenly stood next to Medophae, a knife held high against his throat.

  Medophae ignored the quicksilver. Orem, his eyes watering, stared at Medophae defiantly.

  “You know nothing of which you’ve spoken,” Medophae hissed.

  “I know enough.” He gulped roughly against Medophae’s fist. “She would disapprove of you hiding away—”

  Medophae pressed his fist against Orem’s neck, choking off the words.

  “If you hurt him, I will kill you,” Stavark said, pressing harder. The knife bit, and Medophae felt a wet trickle of blood down his neck.