58. The Tapestry of Fates #2
Shelves stretched impossibly high, disappearing into misty distances. Books of every size and condition lined them—some bound in leather, others in materials I couldn't identify. The air thrummed with the whispered voices of billions of lives, each book murmuring its story in an endless breeze .
I stood on a mirrored platform that reflected not my image, but fragments of my past—there I was at five, crying over a broken toy; at fifteen, kissing a boy for the first time; at seventeen, when a pod of dolphins found Thatcher and I in Saltcrest’s waters.
Thatcher? I reached out through our bond, relieved when I felt him respond.
I'm here. Different section, I think. This place... His mental voice trailed off, overwhelmed.
Find the center, I told him.
I chose a direction at random, and began walking. The books called to me as I passed, their whispers growing louder when I drew near.
"Would you like to know how you die?" one offered in a voice that scraped against my mind.
"The secret your mother never told you," another promised.
"The name of your first child," a third suggested.
I forced myself to ignore them, though curiosity clawed at my resolve. These were traps, distractions. I needed to find the Tapestry.
The path twisted and turned, stairs appearing where none had been before, corridors reshaping themselves when I wasn't looking. Time felt fluid here—I might have walked for minutes or hours.
Then I heard the scream.
It cut through the whispers, high and terrible. I ran toward it, my footsteps echoing strangely in the vast space.
I found the source three corridors later—a contestant I vaguely recognized writhing on the ground, aging rapidly. His hair went from brown to gray to white, skin wrinkling and sagging as decades passed in heartbeats.
A small, crystalline object rolled away from his convulsing form—a chaos seed, its surface crackling with distorted energy.
I pressed myself against the wall as the aging accelerated. In moments, he was dust, his screams cutting off abruptly. The books around us absorbed his remains, their whispers taking on his voice, adding his story to their endless chorus .
My hands shook as I edged around the chaos seed, giving it a wide berth. Thatcher, I pushed through our bond. See any shiny crystals, don't touch them. They'll turn you to dust in seconds.
His response came immediately. What, you think I make a habit of picking up strange objects in death mazes?
Despite everything, I almost smiled. I think you've done stupider things on less dangerous days.
Fair point. His mental voice carried a grudging amusement that felt achingly familiar.
One contestant down already, and we'd barely begun.
The path opened into a vast circular chamber.
The Tapestry of Fates hung before me. Billions of threads woven through the air in patterns that seemed random until you looked closer and saw the terrible beauty of their design.
Each thread glowed with its own light. Where threads touched, sparks flew, creating moments of connection that rippled outward in waves.
Other contestants had found the chamber too. Marx stood near the edge, her face pale as she searched for her thread among the multitude. Another contestant was already reaching for what must have been his thread, his movements careful and precise.
I forced myself to focus, searching for my own thread. How would I even recognize it among so many?
Then I saw it.
A thread that sparkled with starlight, that carried the echo of the power within me. It wove through the Tapestry in a complex pattern, intersecting with countless others but maintaining its unique luminescence. My destiny, visible and tangible.
But there, intertwined so tightly they seemed almost one, was another thread. This one pulsed with a different energy—organic, primal, speaking of growth and decay and the fundamental forces of life itself. It was a thread woven from the colors of blood and bone.
Thatcher's thread.
Our fates were literally bound together, twisted in violent knots. But what hit me first wasn't the tangle—it was the length. Thatcher's thread stretched on and on.
The thread that Heron had seen cut short now extended into the distance. The relief that flooded me made my knees weak. Our gamble with Morthus—it had worked. Thatcher would live. I reached out with shaking fingers, trying to find a way to separate our threads.
"Tricky, isn't it?"
I spun to find Vance standing behind me, his eyes fixed on our tangled threads. "Yours and your brother's. So tightly bound. Makes you wonder what the Fates were thinking."
"Back off," I warned.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, Morvaren. I'm not here to fight. Just to observe." His smile grew. "Though I do wonder—what happens if those threads can't be separated? Can you complete the trial without your token? Can he?"
He moved on before I could respond, but his words splintered under my skin. I turned back to our threads, studying the knot more carefully. There had to be a way to separate them without triggering whatever consequences came from touching another's fate.
I tried approaching from different angles, looking for a loose point in the tangle. But every potential opening led to another knot, another gnarled twist. My frustration built with each failed attempt.
Then I saw it—following the threads through the room, they eventually separated. But the way they split sent a chill through me. Thatcher's thread veered sharply away from mine, darkening to a deep, unsettling black as it did. I didn't like it. Didn't understand what it meant.
Thais? Thatcher's mental voice cut through my thoughts, tense with urgency. I found our threads. They're ? —
Me too. I found a place where they separate.
I looked across the vast chamber and spotted him on the opposite side. Our eyes met across the distance.
Any ideas? I asked .
Working on it.
I returned to the knot, growing more frustrated with each passing moment. Around us, other contestants were making progress—carefully following their individual threads deeper into the Tapestry, seeking their tokens. But Thatcher and I remained stuck, unable to even begin.
Then my eyes snagged on yet another complication.
A third thread tangled with ours. This one was the color of storm clouds. Gray and strange, it wove through our knot in a way that made no sense. It wasn't another contestant's thread—I could see those clearly enough, each with their own distinct energy and path.
This was something else.
The gray thread seemed to pulse, and I felt a pull deep in my chest—a calling that bypassed thought and went straight to instinct. My hand reached toward it before I'd consciously decided to move.
Thais? Thatcher's concern rippled through our bond. What are you doing?
There's another thread. Tangled with ours. I showed him what I was seeing. But it's not... it doesn't belong to anyone here.
Don't touch it, he warned.
The storm gray thread wove between others, never quite touching them except where it bound with ours. I followed its path through the Tapestry.
I was so focused on following it that I didn't realize where it was leading until I stood before a barrier of pure power.
The inner sanctum.
The thread continued through the barrier, disappearing into whatever lay beyond. Our only hope of untangling it led straight into forbidden territory.
No. I forced myself to turn away. Whatever that thread was, whatever answers it promised, they weren't worth dying for. I needed to find another way.
"Going somewhere?"
I spun to find Vance standing behind me. He smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it.
"Following me?" I asked, taking a step back. "I’m afraid this section is restricted, unfortunately. Now leave me the fuck alone."
"You're right. We can't enter." His smile widened. "But you can."
He moved faster than I could react, shoving me hard.
“Payment for nearly getting me killed in Memorica.”
I stumbled backward, my arms windmilling as I tried to catch my balance.
The barrier was right behind me?—
And then I fell through it.
The last thing I saw was the contestant's satisfied smirk before the barrier solidified into stone.
I was trapped in the one place we'd been warned never to go.