Soul Weave by A. Nybo

Author:A. Nybo [Nybo, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

Going Home

THE LAST weft was completed without fanfare or witness. The weaving of the cloth had changed Lucien’s entire life, and despondency grew as he began the closing.

Just as the nomad had told him, Lucien’s powers had quickened, and he had accomplished in three and a half weeks what he had thought would have taken closer to four months to complete. The impossible had been achieved, and in a few hours, it would be over. Then what would be left to him? Yesterday he was certain of a future with Aquilon, but with his deceitfulness unmasked, Lucien dared not think what other deceptions he had woven.

He had been too enchanted with the majesty of the man to persist with questions relating to the mysterious occurrences. Whenever he had asked or pointed out an oddity, Aquilon had easily sidetracked him, and now here he was, in love with a man of magic. Did he know him at all? The intense emotions that came with the mere memory of the vitality in those crystalline blue eyes made him wince inwardly. To turn away from him now was the most painful thing Lucien would do in his life.

Aquilon’s deceit seemed a bottomless pit, and Lucien was the fool who had seen the chasm but had chosen to walk into it anyway—complicit in the duplicity. He’d known Aquilon had lied to the Tabbrela Elders about needing the bag to present to the Baddaro Matriarch for her daughter’s hand in marriage, and yet he chose to believe he wasn’t lying to Lucien. He was a complete imbecile.

Aquilon hardly needed a clan witch to make a magic bag for him when he possessed a gift potent enough to slay seercats.

With the closing of the cloth only just started, Lucien let the golden filament drop from his fingers. Cold, tired, and miserable, he no longer cared whether a seercat was waiting on the other side of the mangled door, or whether the cloth was ever completed—the overwhelming need to feel the sun on his skin overrode everything.

Rising, he looked at Elder Tarkle, who shivered in his sleep. He went to his room, took the blanket from the bed, and gently tucked it around the elder. The ugly gash that had extended the length of his arm mere hours ago looked like it had been healing for over a week.

Although grateful the elder wasn’t suffering, Lucien needed no more proof of Aquilon’s trickery. He had thought that like most magic balms, he or Ranoolf had traded for it, but now he guessed Aquilon had created it himself.

Not even bothering to take a weapon, Lucien went out onto the veranda and sat in the sun.

The storm’s destructive signature marked the forest. Broken limbs lay beneath trees, blown twigs had crushed wildflowers, and a tree had fallen not far from the cabin. The devastation seemed a reflection of Lucien’s innermost feelings. Recognizing he was a willing victim, he repeatedly cursed his stupidity. He could no longer believe anything Aquilon had either said or implied.

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