Threads of Amarion Page 9

  That was why Avakketh had sent those nightmares to Medophae, to threaten Medophae’s loved ones, to force him out of Amarion, and Avakketh had dredged up Medophae’s weakness: Bands. He’d told Medophae that Bands was miraculously free of the gem, that he’d unwittingly solved the riddle by falling in love with Mirolah.

  It was an insidious lie. It was the sweet fiction Medophae longed to believe above all else, the one thing that could throw his mind into chaos. And Avakketh knew it.

  His insidious ploy it had worked its damage. The notion of Bands being free had consumed Medophae’s mind, had thrown his relationship with Mirolah into doubt, and had distracted him when he charged headlong after Zilok Morth.

  Soon after those dreams, Medophae had begun to twist every little thing into a sign that Bands had somehow returned. He started looking for his beloved around every corner. When Stavark’s friend, Elekkena, spoke to Medophae in Denema’s Valley, it was like she was speaking the way Bands had once spoken. When Mirolah revealed that Elekkena was a young threadweaver, Medophae wondered if the girl was somehow Bands in a new form. Then, after Elekkena mysteriously vanished, Mirolah mentioned the quicksilver girl had murmured words while threadweaving. Bands always murmured words in dragon speech when she threadweaved.

  In that moment, the fantasy had grown beyond Medophae’s control. He fought it, didn’t tell anyone his hidden thoughts, but suddenly Elekkena had to be Bands in disguise. She talked like her, threadweaved like her. Choosing to look like an adolescent quicksilver girl would have been easy for Bands.

  Medophae’s heart had ached because his beloved had come and gone, that she had traveled him without revealing herself.

  But it was a lie. Medophae knew that now. That kind of emotional turmoil was exactly what Avakketh wanted. Longing for Bands had been Medophae’s undoing for three hundred years. He gave up on trying to be a hero. He had floated along, nothing more than a powerful ghost, doing only what was well within his vast capability, shying away from anything at which he might fail.

  And at the end of that dark stretch of years, Mirolah had come to him like a light. When he was at his lowest, when Zilok had stolen Oedandus and Bands’s gem, and a mortal fever had taken Medophae, he’d finally given up. He’d lain down to die.

  Mirolah had pulled him out of that despair. She had stoked his identity with a question, had rekindled it.

  “What did you want to be?” she had asked. “When you were my age, what did you want to be?”

  He had been so busy looking into the teeth of his fears, so busy seeing his own flaws, that he’d not thought to look into the past for his missing answers. But Mirolah had been right.

  “I wanted to be an adventurer like my mother,” he had said. “I wanted to do what others thought was impossible.”

  I wanted to do what others thought was impossible...

  He thought back to his first quest, when he went looking for his lost god. Everyone believed it was impossible. But he’d found Oedandus.

  He thought about his second quest, to seek out the god Dervon the Diseased and kill him. Everyone believed it was impossible. Gods couldn’t be killed. And yet, one step at a time, one lucky or destined step at a time, Medophae had marched across Amarion and brought death to the unkillable.

  Medophae called his memories back to him, back from a time when he’d made his choices without hesitation. That second quest had slowly gathered friends, slowly gathered momentum. Medophae had made one possible choice at a time, each one stacking on the last until finally he climbed over that wall of impossibility.

  Medophae stood up. It started with just one step, one lucky or destined step at a time. He looked down the coast, and he pushed Saraphazia’s crushing dismissal from his mind. He stopped thinking about the deadly True Ocean. He thought about only what was in front of him, and he took that first step up the beach.

  There was a real threat to Amarion. Humankind needed him to be the hero of the legends, and he wasn’t going to let them down. Not this time. He wouldn’t allow Avakketh’s mind games, Saraphazia’s intransigence, or a stupid ocean to stand in his way.

  I am still breathing. I can still wield a sword. No arrogant goddess is going to dictate where I stop. There is a way off this island, and I’m going to find it if I have to sail straight into her teeth to do it.

  He started up the beach, cradling his throbbing hand. He walked for an hour, trying to ignore the growing hunger in his belly, before the shore curved inward, creating a placid bay. A seaside village nestled against the curve of the shore—dozens of structures.

  He had grown up on this island, but that had been fourteen centuries ago. Nothing looked the same. He wasn’t even sure where on the island he was. He had no recollection of this bay.

  When Medophae’s father, Jarod Madis Roloiron, was king of Dandere, the capital city was on the south side of the island as was most of Dandene civilization. Based on the position of the sun, this was the north side.

  Huts similar to the one in which he’d awoken lined the shore of the bay, climbing up the slope in a stairstep, replacing the ubiquitous trees. There were also larger houses, built in the same style, with those slender trees cut and shaped to make the vertical slats of the walls, but these houses were more extensive. Many had balconies overlooking the ocean. They had thick, double-built walls and thick glass windows that opened on upward hinges.

  Dandere had seasons even more pronounced than Amarion. In the summer, it was warm enough that one could walk around in little more than a loincloth. Winters were brutally cold. The True Ocean delivered ice storms one after the other. Every few years, even the ocean froze. Waves brought spikes of ice with them, smashing docks not made of stone. Every house had outer shutters that protected the glass and could be shut tight against the storms.

  Medophae glanced at the azure sky and wondered how long it would be before the ice storms came. In Dandere, fall was like a deep breath before a jump. It was short, and fall had to be nearing its end. In Teni’sia, it had just turned to winter. If he was going to get over the ocean, he couldn’t delay.

  He turned his worry away from ice storms and looked at a row of three stone docks sticking out into the quiet bay. The ocean’s waves broke on a distant reef that protected the bay, keeping it placid. Medophae looked at the docked ships bobbing gently.

  He spotted a sailboat on the right-hand dock that was small enough to be manned by one person and large enough to make the trip across the ocean. He started toward it.

  Two people worked on the dock. One old man bent over a basket that looked like it had fish in it. The second, a woman in wide pantaloons, knee-high boots, and a tunic that reached almost all the way to the edge of the boots, paused at a rope she’d been tying, then stood up straight. She put her hands on her hips and regarded his approach. As he came closer, her eyes widened at his missing hand and the blood on his tunic.

  He didn’t make eye contact with her, just kept walking toward the boat. She stepped back in fear.

  He boarded the ship like he owned it.

  Please have water and food.

  There was no point in taking an unsupplied ship. He’d never make it across the entire ocean. He ducked down into the cramped hold.

  Two water kegs were stacked against the starboard bulkhead. Medophae smiled. There were also three fishing rods hanging on the wall. He opened two boxes and found one of them half filled with stale bread in burlap sacks and a basket with dried meats. That was enough. With this to get him started and the fishing rods to supplement it, he could survive. He pulled a twisted strip of meat out and tore a chunk off with his teeth, his mouth immediately filling with saliva. His stomach rumbled, and he strode up the brief stairs to the deck, chewing.

  The old man was still leaning over his basket of fish, but the woman was now far away at the beginning of the dock, talking to three new sailors. She pointed at him just as he threw the lines off the boat.

  “Hey!” one of the men said, running up the dock toward him.
Medophae threw off the second line and kicked away from the pylon. The sailboat drifted out into the water. He went over and released the mainsail. It unfurled, caught the light breeze, and yanked the boat farther away from the dock.

  “That’s my boat!” the running man shouted. “He’s stealing my boat!”

  Medophae tacked, swinging the sailboat out into the bay and angling toward the reef. There was an animated discussion on the dock, but Medophae knew they wouldn’t organize anything quickly enough to catch him.

  He was free to pursue his folly. One possible step at a time.

  He turned the bow toward open ocean, cutting across the placid bay. He had spent a decade sailing the Inland Ocean with Bands, and had become an expert sailor during that time. Doing it with one hand presented problems, but he wasn’t going to stop.

  The moment Avakketh knew Medophae had left Amarion, he would begin his attack. He might even be starting now. Every moment Medophae wasted was another moment the continent of Amarion could be engulfed in dragon flame.

  He hit the waves breaking on the reef head on. The boat climbed, tipped, and raced down the other side. He hit the next wave, hauling on the tiller to cut the water directly, and made it over the second wave. The sea spray hit his face, and Medophae found himself grinning as he bore down on the third wave. He hit it and laughed as he burst through the reef break onto the swells of the True Ocean. His blood rushed, and for a moment he felt like he was eighteen again, when nothing mattered but the adventure.

  Take away my hand. Throw every obstacle in my way. I’m going back to Amarion.

  In moments like this, it didn’t matter what he faced. All that mattered was the struggle, pitting everything he was against the challenge in front of him. He’d felt this way when he first left Dandere on Bands’s back and went searching for his god. He’d felt it when he dared hunt Dervon. He’d felt it when Mirolah pulled him back to life in that little town of Gnedrin’s Post and they’d decided to escape Zilok Morth.

  He felt it now, facing the vast expanse of the True Ocean with two barrels of water and a fishing pole.

  Bring every challenge you can throw. Bring them all.

  The little sailboat passed the danger of the reef and gently climbed and slid down one swell after the other. He checked the wind and the sun, then fixed the sail to send the boat in a southwestern direction. It would be better to sail at night, when he could get a fix on the stars, but for now, southwest would do. Breathing hard and grinning, he put his hand on the gunwale to rest.

  His grin faded as he looked across the ocean.

  A swell the size of a mountain rolled his way. Saraphazia. He glanced back the way he had come. Dandere was now barely a bump on the waterline, roughly the same size as the swell headed his direction. There was no time to get back to the island.

  “Then let’s do this,” he muttered under his breath. There were no clouds in the sky, but Saraphazia didn’t need a storm to make deadly waves.

  He leapt to the rigging and let out both sails to catch all the wind he could. The little boat lurched forward, moving fast toward the swell. At the last second, he cut to port, putting the stern into the swell as it picked him up. Sea spray rushed at his face, but he clung to the tiller and fairly flew down the wave.

  With a shout, he came off the swell and hit the level ocean, instantly cutting to starboard. The timbers creaked, but the ship was nimble and well-built. It held together as he cut a neat semi-circle around the giant swell.

  “You owe me!” Medophae shouted at the swell, knowing that Saraphazia could hear him. “I killed Dervon for you. I do not ask your assistance, but you will let me pass!”

  A wave arced over the rail, slamming into Medophae and taking him off his feet. The ship tipped dangerously, and he slid over the planks like a greased pig. He snatched the rail at the last second with his good hand, dangling into the water as the ship laid on its side. He submerged, and the ship dragged him through the water. He hung on with a death grip.

  Suddenly, the boat tipped the other direction, yanking him out of the ocean. He shouted into the salt spray and hauled himself onto the deck. The boat continued tipping, flopping over to the other side. He slid the other direction and caught the tiller, held himself, then turned to face the wave—

  It crashed down, cracking the middle of the ship and sending Medophae launching straight upward into the wave’s face. He hit it, and it engulfed him. He spun like a twig in a river. Water was everywhere. A splintered piece of the mast shot by him, almost impaling him, and he swirled past it. He struggled to find out which way was up, but he couldn’t. The sea just kept spinning him.

  He looked for light, and saw it below him. His lungs had begun to burn, and he desperately wanted to take a breath.

  Fight for it. Upward. Fight.

  He reoriented himself, putting the light above him and kicking that way, using his good hand to cup and push. He kicked and kicked, but it was too far. The huge wave had taken him deep below the surface, and it felt like it was still pushing him.

  His legs were weak, and his chest felt like it was going to explode. Sunlight dazzled the surface, now overhead, but he was too far down.

  Just as he was about to give one last kick, knives stabbed into his back. He gasped, letting go of what little air he had left and inhaling seawater. The knives raked across him as the waves spun him.

  The reef! The wave had taken him all the way back to the shore.

  The reef shredded his back. He tried to turn, tried to get away from it, but he was helpless. The waves pushed him down, rolled him, then lifted him up again. He broke the surface and gasped, getting half a breath before being tumbled down again. The coral stabbed at him, and this time his head hit, and everything went black.

  13

  Bands

  The royal gardens of Teni’sia were beautiful under the starlit skies. Trees as old as the castle loomed over ivy-covered walls, creating random patterns against the azure sky. The maze of tall shrubs, leafy trees, and subtle flower beds also showed the thoughtful planning of the garden’s architect. It reminded her of Calsinac, and she wondered if the Teni’sian gardens were known in other kingdoms, renowned for their beauty.

  The air smelled crisp and clean after the storm. Bands ran her fingers lightly over the top of a hedge, and the snow clung to her skin, began to melt immediately. She watched the crystals collapse into each other until they were beads of water. The frigid air that came with last week’s storm had mellowed to a mild warmth. Snow still covered green lawns and green trees, but it was melting, bending the leafy limbs with its wet weight. It was a summer garden cloaked in white. Already, superstitious murmurs raced through the kingdom that the storm hadn’t been a normal winter storm. They said it was a product of the unnatural Wave.

  Bands inhaled the beauty around her. Her heart hurt, but this kind of beauty salved her, reminded her of what was important. She could stay her course if she could visit places like this garden, this intertwining of humanity and nature’s grace. It reminded her of her guiding principle, which had made her fall in love with Medophae, which had made her forsake her own people.

  Those with power must sacrifice for those who did not have it.

  Medophae knew it. It was written on his soul, and she loved him for it. People like her, like Medophae, they had to be the protectors of beauty, whether in the smallest human or the largest dragon. There was no other use of power that mattered more.

  Avakketh had forgotten that, if he had ever known it at all. Zilok Morth did not understand that. Bands liked to believe that Natra, the goddess who had created the world, had known it, though. Bands liked to believe that Natra, if she was here, would have agreed.

  Bands drew in another breath of cold air, let it chill the fire burning within her. Since the moment she had returned from her fight with Zynder and found that Medophae had been abducted by Zilok, Bands had wanted to pursue the evil spirit. Since Zilok had found a way to strip Medophae of Oedandus once, he could do it
twice. That meant every instant Medophae lay within Zilok’s clutches was another moment Medophae could be dead.

  Bands had to push that from her mind. She could not cleave to her principles if she put her own needs over the needs of humankind. Avakketh was coming, sooner rather than later. He would know she had slain Zynder soon, if he didn’t already. He would know Medophae was gone soon.

  And once Avakketh knew that, there would be nothing to stop him from coming south and incinerating humankind. Medophae was the only deterrent, the only real protection for humankind. Bands knew what even Medophae probably didn’t: the gods were afraid of him. Aside from the great Natra, Oedandus had been the strongest of the gods. Now Medophae had that power.

  So she needed to get Medophae back. He was the only true hope for Amarion, in the end. Her heart and her mind had been aligned in that, and she’d almost bypassed Teni’sia altogether to throw herself into the hunt for Medophae, but she had looked deeper into the details, searched for those subtleties that immediate action might trample over.

  Finding Medophae could take a long time, and Bands needed to buy that time. What victory if Amarion fell to Avakketh’s dragons while Bands searched for her beloved? And that meant preparing Teni’sia to fight.

  Her first task was accomplished. Mershayn sat the throne. It had taken a full week to do it. It had been, of necessity, ham-handed and crude. It was a miracle, really, that the kingdom hadn’t erupted into chaos in that short time. A week was a shakily short time to transfer kingly power, but a week was all they had. In fact, it was probably seven days more than they really had.

  Happily, it was working. Mershayn was a diamond in the rough. He was unorthodox. His methods were surprising. He was contradictory, sometimes compassionate, and sometimes ruthless. He was utterly charming; it was hard not to like him. He was the kind of person you found yourself rooting for, despite yourself. In the end, his personality and command style was perfectly suited to the chaotic mood of the kingdom.