Voice of war, p.12
Voice of War, page 12
part #1 of Threadlight Series
Elder Violet, skin sagging and wobbling with every motion, nodded her head as she spoke. “You of all people should know how dangerous those beasts can be. This is Corian’s fault for letting you spend so much time at the wolf nursery. Gives you a false sense of reality.”
Laurel wanted to defend herself, to defend her grandfather. All she had done was protect Asher. When someone was in danger, you helped them. It was simple. Why were they being so harsh about it? Was she supposed to just watch as Asher got mauled and killed by the alpha? That’s not the kind of person she wanted to be. Asher was her friend—one of her only friends— and she wasn’t going to lose him.
You of all people. The words infuriated her. They claimed her parents had been killed by chromawolves, but Laurel knew it wasn’t true. They’d covered up the truth and refused to tell her what really happened. She wasn’t as naïve as they believed.
Elder Rowan continued the lecture. “Secondly, there is the matter of why you were a day late in returning home from your last assignment. It was completely inappropriate behavior for someone with such a vital role in our community. And lastly, Laurel, we believe that you’ve become addicted to threadlight and are no longer in a good state of health. We’ve discussed it at length and, effective immediately, you are relieved of all duties pertaining to serving as a messenger to the council.”
The wind flew from her lungs as the words seared into her soul. She felt like she was falling. Her worst nightmare realized in the flicker of a moment. It couldn’t be happening. Everything she’d worked for. Everything she’d cared about. She wanted to scream. Run. Fight. Everything about it seemed unfair. With all her heart she wanted to weave a thread so hard it shattered in an explosion of pure force. She couldn’t breathe.
No longer in a good state of health? Addicted to threadlight? These women were fabricating problems to fit their narrative. They were conspiring against her. She didn’t deserve to be treated this way.
Elder Rosemary leaned forward. “We like you, girl. We really do. But until you learn to rein in whatever it is that’s driving you to such brashness, we can’t trust you with matters of such import.”
Part of her wanted to spit the whole truth about the kidnapping at them—in pure spite—just to prove some point that she knew didn’t need proven. But she also knew that, if she did, the chances of ever becoming a messenger again would be gone. Did she even want that? Did she want to be beholden to the whims of these blasted creatures seated in front of her? They clearly didn’t understand her, or respect her, or even care about her.
No. She realized in that moment that she didn’t want to be a messenger. Gale take them and their rules. If she wanted to visit the grounder city, she was going to visit the grounder city. If she wanted to visit Asher, she was going to visit Asher. If she wanted to go ride on a boat at the ports of Felia, what could they do about it?
“Well?” Elder Rowan piped. “Do you have anything to say?”
Laurel looked at all five of the elders and smiled, though her eyes said otherwise. “It is what it is.” She started to walk out, then turned around before rounding the doorway. “And I hope the Gale takes you all.”
She could hear the shocked gasps of each and every one of the old hags as she walked away feeling invincible. It was horribly rude—a nasty Zeda curse—but they deserved a moment of real honesty from her. After all the lying she had done recently, it was the least she could do. She felt strong. She felt purpose. She was going to go back to the grounder city. She was going to explore and discover and learn. She was going to stand up for herself.
As she exited the lodge, she prepared to drift until she made it to the threadpoles, but realized she had already been weaving. She wondered if she could increase the threshold for her threadsickness like a muscle. Slowly stretch it to its limits, or even reset her body’s expectations of what was normal. What if she could change her natural state to one that was open to threadlight?
Laurel knew exactly what her grandfather would say. “Life is more valuable than threadlight.” Was she going to tell him her new plan? Probably not. He only had a week left to live anyway; no point in ruining those last few days. But she would tell Bay. He would understand. He’d be jealous because he didn’t have the health to join, but he would understand.
She took off down the wooden walkway, kicking up dirt as she drifted along, then launched herself up toward the first of many threadpoles on the path home. People looked up at her with disapproving frowns—which was stupid. For all they knew she was rushing toward an emergency. She was starting to realize how judgmental her people were. Surely the grounders were more open-minded. The thought made her even more excited to learn about their culture and customs.
She reached her home in no time, sweat dripping down her temples from the exertion and the heat. But it felt good. She felt alert and alive.
Her brother, Bay, was in his room reading. He was always reading. It was his way of experiencing the world. For someone who’d never left the treetops, let alone the Fairenwild, he knew more about the grounders than anyone.
She couldn’t help but smile as she approached the room, giving a small knock on the door and peeking her head in. “Hey, little caterpillar. Whatcha reading?”
Bay smiled as he set his book down. “I know that look. You’ve either done something mischievous or have a mind to. Go ahead. Spill it.”
“You know me too well.” She sauntered over to the bed and hopped up next to him. “There is bad news, and there is good news. What do you want to hear first?”
“Bad. Best to get it out of the way.”
“Bad news is that I am no longer employed as a messenger by that pack of old, shriveled beans.”
Bay shook his head rapidly like he was trying to shake something off it. “Wait, what? Are you serious? Laurel! I’m so sorry! I can’t imagine...wait, why did they do it? Is it temporary? Is this about Asher? I can’t believe it. Wait, why are you smiling? What is the good news?”
“I’m going to the grounder city.” She said it proudly, as if it were a divine mission from the Father of All himself.
“You’re what?”
The voice did not belong to Bay.
Behind her stood her grandfather, Corian, concern plastered over his wrinkled face. He walked forward faster than she would have thought possible and loomed over her. She forgot how tall he was when he stood up straight.
“Did I hear you say you’re going to the grounder city? The week before the Gale?” Corian could light a candle with the fire in his eyes. His usual level-headedness gave way to a rage that frightened her. “I can’t have you going off and getting yourself killed by a bunch of miserable grounders. Who is it, Laurel? Who gave you the assignment? Rowan? I’ve a few words to say to her.”
This is exactly what Laurel was hoping to avoid. She looked to Bay, who looked more confused than Corian. Her first instinct was to spin some elaborate story about a secret mission, but she knew Corian would find out the truth. She wished that the Gale was farther out; it would make the situation much less complicated.
She took a deep breath and stood a little taller. “No one. I’m going because I want to go.”
“Out of the question! You know the laws. They’ll have you killed, Laurel. This is not some game. There’s a reason why we stay away from the grounders. The Elder’s take containment very seriously.”
Something about the way he said it made her blood boil. What gave the elders the right to control them all? She had no plans to divulge the location of the Zeda people. Laurel could feel the energy burning hotter in her veins, a hint of blue radiating across her arms. “So, we’re slaves? To a few grumpy, old women? I don’t think so. They can’t stop me any more than you can. The winds take us where they will.”
“You’re as stubborn as your mother. I told her not to go out on the hunt that killed her, but she wouldn’t listen to me. And look what happened! I won’t sit idly by and let that happen again. You’re not leaving this house. I forbid it.”
She choked out of amusement. “You think you can keep me here?”
“I do.” The way he looked at her, she knew he believed it.
Laurel accepted the challenge. She reached deep into her core and pushed against the wall next to her. The weave launched her to the side in a blur. Corian turned and his arms lit up with green. He staggered against the wall.
“Stop it!” Bay screamed. “You’re going to kill him!”
Corian fell to his knees. His hand clutched at his chest. His breathing grew sporadic and irregular. Bay moved to his side. The two of them coughed in concert, a pair of weak, sick men that wanted to control her.
“I’m done being told what I can or can’t do.”
Laurel walked away from her family out onto the hot wooden streets of Zedalum and drifted toward the exit. A warm, dry breeze brushed past her as she ran. Adrenaline coalesced with the hot energy burning in her veins. Each jump from threadpole to threadpole heated her on the inside as the sun heated her from the outside.
Sweaty and angry, she reached the exit. The guard waved to her as she dropped down through the man-made hole in the feytree branches. She pushed down on the wonderstone and floated down to the ground like a leaf in the wind.
The call of the wonderstone was strong. It spoke to her raging soul, urging her to release the energy inside of her in one wild push. But even in her adrenaline-fueled rage, she knew better than to succumb.
One of the first things Zeda messengers learned when they visited the ground was that the wonderstone was dangerous. Every once in a while, someone would return from the ground threadsick, or worse, because they’d succumbed to its seduction. It felt physical, like the wonderstone had its own gravitational pull, drawing her in toward it.
Legend was that the stone could not be broken, but Laurel figured that, if she could push with enough force, it would almost certainly crack. Everything breaks if you push hard enough.
She’d asked her teachers how it was built, or even why it was built, but none of them seemed to know. They gave vague answers like “the Father of All helped them.” But when she asked why, they would say “he loves us” and “to protect us.” Nothing about their answers felt satisfying, or even intelligible. Maybe the grounders knew the truth.
She turned away from the wonderstone, clearing her head of its cloudy enticements. Before heading to the grounder city, she needed to make a quick stop to visit a friend.
A drove of skyflies floated overhead, translucent wings fluttering in the dim light of the photospores. The green, insect-like creatures never surfaced above the treetops, but some people would capture them, bring them up, and sell them as pets. Their thin, coiling bodies were fascinating to watch as they moved through the air.
She took the path she’d taken the previous day and, after a time, found herself at the pond with rocks built up around its edge. There was no sign of the chromawolf pack. Scuff marks painted the ground where the alpha had died. Blood still littered the forest floor where they’d fought. The alpha’s body was no longer there, but there were bloody drag marks to the east. She hoped Asher was still okay. Memory of the alpha swiping down at Asher’s face still gave her anxiety. She was glad the alpha was dead.
The drag marks ended not far to the east near a rock formation. Fascinating. It was a boneyard. Laurel had never heard of such a thing, but surely Cara knew something about it with all the years she’d spent among them. The chromawolves gathered their dead. It seemed such an odd thing for a beast to do. It gave her more respect for them and proved that they were far smarter than most gave them credit for. She’d always sensed it with Asher, the feeling that he understood her when she spoke.
As she walked the chromawolf boneyard, she noticed a collection of fresh prints headed farther east, which she followed for quite some time before finding the pack lounging near a small stream. She set down the photospores she’d been carrying like a lantern and stalked forward, looking for Asher. He was flanked by two females. She pictured the other chromawolves bowing to him after he’d killed the previous alpha, accepting him as their new pack leader.
Among the Zeda people, women were the leaders. It seemed wild to have your leader chosen by physical strength alone when there were other attributes so much more important. The grounder nation to the east was ruled by a man, but that solidified the Zeda perception that they were fools. To the west, a woman ruled. Another reason to visit. Her grandmother used to say that true leadership is not taken by brutish means, but is earned by exemplary service to others. Men have a hard time with the latter. The idea that her culture was different than the chromawolf culture made her feel good about the matriarchy. Sure, life at Zedalum had its issues, but at least they weren’t living like animals.
The trick now was getting Asher’s attention without calling down a pack of chromawolves on herself, some of which were even bigger than her friend. She wondered if some day one of the larger wolves would try to dethrone him, but qualification and aspiration are often at odds, especially in leadership. Maybe she had spent too much time in the chromawolf nursery; she was starting to analyze their political motivations.
She snuck around the perimeter until she was closer to Asher’s position. Then, she nudged him by subtly weaving a rock on the ground in front of him. He looked at it, confused, and then perked his head up excitedly. Without a second thought, she stepped out from the big feytree she was hiding behind and snarled.
Asher seemed like he’d already grown in the time they’d been apart. He ran forward and they leapt at each other, colliding in an explosion of laughter. It felt good to wrestle. Fortunately, the other wolves did not make a movement, and as her eyes met theirs, she could tell that they recognized her. Did they consider her part of their pack?
They tumbled on the ground for a few minutes before they were both panting of exhaustion. “I have to go away for a few days, but I’ll be back. Stay safe. Maybe I’ll bring you back a leg to gnaw on.”
In the far distance to the east, the clear howl of a chromawolf echoed in the twilight. Then another, and another. Asher jumped to his feet and let out his own raucous howl. He looked to Laurel and gestured with his head, as if beckoning her to follow.
Together, they raced toward the sound.
Chapter 12
It was just after high noon and the sun was drifting from its peak, scattered by clouds that danced over the curves of the Everstone Mountains. The white marble of the temple reflected a brilliant light that acted like a beacon for the rest of the city.
Every noise in the night had awoken Chrys, including the constant crying of their newborn when he grew hungry. Even still, he felt refreshed. His family was alive. They might just live through the week. The bad news was twofold. First, they’d had to leave their house for Aydin’s Rite of Revelation day. Second, the Alchean soldiers accompanying them couldn’t watch over them forever. Time was not on his side.
Part of him wanted to storm into Malachus’ office and tell him everything but, without proof, what would Malachus do? Jurius was his most trusted friend for more than thirty years. Would Malachus believe that Jurius was capable of betraying him? Jurius could spin the details to make it look like Chrys was the traitor and, when Jurius had tried to stop him, Chrys had killed four men and manipulated Malachus into providing protection. It would even explain why Chrys had failed to capture any Bloodthieves in the warehouse.
He needed proof, and he needed it fast.
Chrys, Iriel, and Willow traveled up the road toward the temple accompanied by a dozen Alchean soldiers. It was a quiet journey despite the distance. The gentle rumble of the carriage put Aydin to sleep early on. Chrys walked beside the carriage; he needed the walk to distract his mind. Iriel had joined him for a very short time, wanting to stretch her legs without putting undue strain on her body. Threadweavers recovered faster from injury—the threadlight in their blood provided a small amount of healing—but not so much as to nullify childbirth after a day.
They traveled alongside the Jupyter River that ran from the ravine at the base of the Everstone Mountains all the way to Lake Landrian south of the Fairenwild. The trade route followed the river all the way from Alchea to the lake, where it split west toward Felia. It was the best way to get between the countries and, near the border, a favorite spot for bandits.
The grass was bright green against the backdrop of the wide cerulean river water, and it had Chrys wondering about the eye color of his newborn. The Rite of Revelation was such an important event for a parent, but would a parent really love their child less based on the color of their eyes? Love is not a calculated result of features and faults. Love is the unseen thread binding two souls together no matter the externalities.
He found himself at ease knowing that he would love Aydin regardless. While the rest of his life burst into raucous flames, at least he knew that. It sickened him that they were in danger because of him. He would fight the Lightfather himself if it meant they would be safe.
After another mile of walking, they reached the front steps of the temple. Iriel paused halfway up, taking in the architectural masterpiece and catching her breath. Huge columns lined the steps up into the waiting room, where white chairs sat next to old-world mosaics lining the wall. High above the entrance arch was a pale blue stained-glass window that added to the already ethereal ambience. It was also where she’d almost lost the baby.
Chrys looked around to make sure there was nothing suspicious but saw only hills and a few temple workers. He turned to the soldiers. “You may wait out here. We’ll be safe inside. And thank you.”
They hadn’t invited any friends or additional family. Chrys knew that at least one of Iriel’s sisters would be offended, but it was better than adding more risk into the mix.
Iriel’s head propped back in awe at the statuettes lining the high domed ceilings. Some things inspire wonder no matter how frequently they are experienced. A young priest sat at the front desk, eyes closed, yet keenly aware of the visitors. His hair was cut short, and he had the characteristic black robes of a priest of the Order. Beside him sat an older woman.
