Page 38 of Threaded

She’d tried to rest, tried to shut off her mind, but sleep had evaded her. She’d sat up in bed, moonlight filtering in through her bedroom window, and suddenly her attention was drawn to the discarded saddle bags still strewn about her floor. Clothing spilled haphazardly onto the floor, along with a few sheathed throwing knives, a flask of her father’s whiskey …

And there. The book her mother had given her that last night in Andburgh. Mariah slipped out from beneath the thick comforter, padding to the pile on the floor. In a smooth movement, she’d picked up both the book and that flask of whiskey before settling herself on the seat below the window, pulling a heavy gold blanket over her legs.

She’d stared at the book for a long moment, taking a heavy swig of the whiskey. The burn of the liquor settled low in her stomach, dulling the edges of the unusual nervousness that had swept over her the second her fingers touched the smooth leather binding. She’d read that strange word inscribed onto the cover in silver foiling—Ginnelevé—over and over and over until the twists in her gut settled and the whiskey buzzed around her vision.

It was only then that she dared to open the book, to fan through the pages until her fingers caught on a single page. She’d taken another swig of whiskey, and then began to read.

I had a dream last night.

I dreamed of silver and gold flames, of leathery wings, both blazing and shadowed.

I dreamed of that which was feared, saving us all.

And I dreamed that without darkness, we can never experience the light.

She’d sighed. Of course, she should’ve known. Her mother, the airy dreamer she was, would be the one to give her a book filled with nonsensical gibberish. But even as Mariah thought those words, something in her recoiled. Her mother’s words from that night by the fire flashed through her mind for the second time that day.

“If—when—you ever feel lost, truly lost, when you need a reminder of who you are and what you are capable of … that book will tell you everything you need to know.”

Well, she certainly didn’t need a reminder of that at this moment. She was exhausted and shocked, and more than a bit unsettled, but somehow had never felt more like herself than she had in that temple. It startled her, to feel so comfortable in a position she’d only expected to hate.

She took another swig of whiskey and turned the page.

This page…it was very different, but still very much the same. The writing was gibberish still, but even more chaotic, the words scrawled haphazardly across the fine cream paper. They overlapped each other, making it difficult to make out exactly what they said, but as Mariah continued to study it, she suddenly realized with a jolt what it said.

Repeated, over and over again across that page, was the phrase, “Love is my strength.”

Mariah instantly felt sick and slammed the book shut. She tossed it on the ground, far away from her, and had stared at it as feelings of horror and unease sifted through her like sand.

When she’d regained control of the bile that had clawed its way up her throat, when she’d forced her hands to stop shaking and her palms to stop sweating, she’d stood from the bench, picked up the book, and tucked it firmly beneath her mattress before settling herself back into the plush depths of her bed, exhaustion finally nipping at her heels.

As she’d faded into sleep, that familiar voice whispered its familiar mantra, a soothing dictum she was much more comfortable living by:

Love is a weakness.

Suddenly choking on her heaving breath, Mariah was thrust back into the present, the smell of fall leaves burning her nose as she slowed herself to a walk. She’d heard that voice again, just now, as clearly as if someone had whispered into her ear, its sudden reminder ripping her from her memories of the night. Her eyes wandered idly as her mind returned to her body. She took in the woods around her; the sounds and smells and sights were so familiar, reminded her so much of the forest around her family’s cottage it almosthurt.

The palace game park was situated behind the stables, and after a few pointed questions to a young stable hand, Mariah found the trailhead with ease. The woods were nestled in a valley between the western walls of the palace and the great rise of the Attlehon mountains, the ground slowly sloping up as the elevation increased into the foothills. Despite the bustling modernities available in both the palace and in Verith, it was clear to Mariah that the early queens—perhaps even Xara herself—had wanted to keep a small piece of the true wildness of Onita close to their home.

She continued to catch her breath as she walked along the forest trail, losing herself in the sound of birds and the rustle of the light fall breeze through the trees. The weather was cooling rapidly with each passing day, and while Verith was a coastal city, the Attlehon Mountains swept cold weather from their heights down towards the palace and the mountain district. Her run this morning was a bit of an impulse—when her mind had pulled her from sleep, all she’d craved was a chance to release some of the cornered energy starting to fester in her body.

Familiar sounds suddenly filled her ears. It was not the sounds of birds or winds or anything that belonged there in the depths of the woods.

No, it was the sound of warriors training.

Curiosity spurred her feet back into a jog, following the sounds of clashing metal and shouting voices.

Male voices, specifically.

Mariah rounded a corner and found herself standing at the edge of a large clearing, halting abruptly to keep herself concealed within the shadows of the thick tree line. The clearing was outfitted as a training space, complete with racks of dulled training weapons and equipment. A large pit had been dug up in the center of the clearing and filled with packed sand, a ring to practice hand-to-hand combat, and another ring was marked in the grass, clearly for sparring. Targets were arranged in a line across the clearing, more racks of longbows and recurve bows and crossbows ready for target practice. And those male voices she’d heard …

It was her Armature.

All seven of them were there, dressed in training gear. Sebastian and Quentin circled each other in the sand pit, dodging each other expertly, a wild smile on Quentin’s face that matched his fiery hair. Drystan, Matheo, and Trefor were leaning against one of the weapons racks, watching the two in the ring, letting out a shout or a jeer every so often whenever one of the sparring males got close enough to the other to land a blow. Mariah’s gaze continued to idly wander, pulled away from the sand pit to the dueling ring by another clash of steel on steel.

It was there that she found Feran and Andrian, locked in a fierce duel, sweat dripping from their faces. Feran wielded two Kreah shortswords, much like those preferred by Mariah herself, but with blades curved into a wicked sickle shape. Andrian carried a single double-edged longsword, but the way he moved with it …

Mariah was mesmerized as she watched the two men circle each other, their years of training evident in every move. Feran was fierce and fast, his dark skin flushed with exertion and slick with sweat, his skill with the twin blades of his people clear with every swipe and parry.

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