Weave Of A Thousand Lies Paperback Signed

Burning, burning, always burning. Smoke choked the sun and turned the cerulean sky a dark, ashen color. If Lineya could find the cure to the plague ravaging the land, she could stop her people returning to Mother Spinner in the form of ash through the incinerators.
Thick, white cordings hung from her arm. She coughed. Ducking her chin deeper into the cloth covering her face, she climbed the stone steps to the Principal Palace set in the middle of the valley, the focal point of Lynden city. In all her sixteen summers, she’d never smelled such a wretched stench of smoke. She must find the cure and stop the incinerators.
At the top of the stairs, she stopped at the massive metal doors towering overhead—the height of over ten women. The Grand Entrance. No one passed these portals by mortal strength alone. In the Great Siege, the Krashe soldiers failed to open the doors weighing hundreds of stones.
With haste, she tugged the thinner, white cording hanging from her braided Stitchbinding sash and tied the chain for Strength of Mother Spinner. At the end of the series of complicated stitches, she completed it with a finishing knot.
The white cording glowed yellow.
She wrapped it around her arm. Power flowed to the tips of her fingers. The tingling sensation usually made her giggle, but not today.
Grabbing the handle, she tugged. Even with the Strength enhancement, she still strained with her might. With grating of metal on stone, the thick door eased open under her glowing grip. Wind rushed through the slit, rustling the cordings folded over her arm.
Slipping inside to the vestibule, she closed the door behind her, saddened that in other times, the portal was left open. Power drained from her as the knotted cording around her arm dulled to a gray hue. Untying the spent cording, she let it hang from her waist—good only for tying back hair.
She ran her fingers through the cordings of her Stitchbinding sash, letting the soft linen tickle her fingers. Sighing, she shook her head. More cords were gray than white. Gone were the days when she could refresh her sash easily. Without enough workers to harvest linen and to make new cordings, she must conserve their power.
Lineya stiffened her aching shoulders for the work before her. Her mamu, the queen, needed these cordings immediately.
Inside, she removed her face covering and inhaled the scent of lavender, lemon, and other herbal remedies used to wash and clean.
In before times, the large, windowless vestibule had welcomed dignitaries from foreign lands—the Barbaden to the south, Utrica to the north, and the Mori to the east. Now, cots and makeshift pallets, stuffed with chaff, lined the walls. Threads, lit with Glow, offered little light. Linen curtains hung between the sufferers for a modicum of privacy.
In her haste, she tripped on a lump of protruding stone on the floor. A few cordings slipped from her arms. Scutch! She couldn’t tell her mother they were sullied.
“Aren’t princesses supposed to be graceful?”
Lineya spun to see the bearer of the voice.
A young man stood near the rear of the vestibule. Though a head taller than her, he appeared no older than her sixteen summers. Hair the color of tow partially hid his blue eyes. He lowered his quire where he jotted notes and approached her.
She shifted the weight of the cords to the other arm. “Carrying large bundles isn’t covered in my royal training.” She narrowed her eyes, struggling to control the unwieldy bundle. “You could help.” The boy didn’t have the accent of the Lowlands, of Lynden. Yet, he didn’t wear the Highland wool vest. Oh yes. Her mamu required all visitors to burn their native clothing and wear the linen tunic of Lynden.
Keeping his cool gaze on her, he bent and retrieved the fallen cordings. “I do as I’m told in Lynden.” His voice held a sharpness, a bitterness that accentuated his lowered brow. “You command. We obey.”
“Ah, yes.” Lineya eyed him with a hint of pity. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, for a Highlander, if his face hadn’t held such disdain. And that unnerved her. No one in Lynden looked at her like that—blue eyes partially squinted, hatred blazing in his gaze. “You must be one of the delegates from Krashe.” Her mother invited them. Lineya had yet to meet them all. She’d been too busy tending to the ill. Finding the cure to this wretched plague occupied all her free time.
“Indeed.” He tucked the quire under his elbow and bundled the fallen cordings over his arm with a certain air of confidence.
He must be someone of importance. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Kemp.” He brushed back his bangs, but they fell again into his eyes.
“Follow me, Kemp.” She nodded toward the next set of doors leading to the Great Hall.
“No need to introduce yourself,” he said, his voice as salty as the winds from the Deltas of Barbaden.
“What do you mean?” Lineya stopped and faced him.
“Everyone knows who you are.” He lifted his chin. “Your Lowness.” With biting acid in his voice, he bowed, his head nearly touching the stone floor. Then he stood upright, challenging her with his gaze.
Caught off guard, Lineya ducked her chin to mask her smile. If it hadn’t been for his sour expression, his wit would’ve made her laugh. She straightened her spine, speaking with a tone of indifference. “All right then. Come with me.”
Frowning, he lumbered after her through the doors to the Great Hall. Inside, curtains separated the room into compartments, each with a Fallen writhing on a cot.
High above them, tainted daylight poured from the arched windows, leaving faint patterns of tracery on the polished stone floor. Before the illness, women in swirling gowns with layers upon layers of tightly woven fabrics danced with men to stringed instruments and feasted on their harvest.
Lineya yearned for those carefree days. She could almost hear the folk tunes and taste the memories. Those celebrations were far removed from the sickness and moans before her. By royal decree, her mother cancelled all celebrations, including Lineya’s official betrothal announcement. A pain shot through her at the thought. She should’ve been betrothed to Rhett by now.
Halting in her haste to cross the Great Hall, she nodded to a pair of young attendants, dressed in brown tunics, crossing her path. Dull, gray cloth wrapped their clean hair. The two scurried about with a few cordings, ready to stave off pain or to improve the mind.
“Good morning, Princess.” Each one bobbed their head and ran a hand down the Stitchbinding cordings hanging from their woven sashes in greeting.
All the attendants were at least in their fifteenth summer. Those over seventy summers and those under ten summers were too vulnerable. Even the middle-aged suffered terribly. The queen was one of the few people over twenty summers attending the sick, which gave Lineya tremors in her stomach. Should the queen fall ill, who would rule? The thought sent shivers down her spine. Surely, Lineya was too young.
Lineya returned the greeting with a swipe of her own sash. “Good morning, Stay and Staff. Have you been here all night?”
Staff nodded. Bags sagged under her eyes. “You stay longer and help more than we do. Maybe the cordings will work today.”
“Perhaps.” A sting of tears formed in Lineya’s eyes. So far, none of their Stitchbinding healed the illness. A lump formed in her throat. “Let me know of any improvement.” She hoped her voice held more confidence than she felt. So far, Lineya’s experiments had proved fruitless.
Staff and Stay bowed, nodded, and ducked under a linen partition.
At the end of the Great Hall, Lineya opened a door. “This way.”
Kemp followed. “What are these cords for?”
Hesitating at the threshold, Lineya bit her lip against the question. Her mother specifically forbade her from divulging any information about Stitchbinding to the visitors from Krashe. Without being blessed by Mother Spinner, or stook, the Krashe couldn’t chain a small cording with any power. Even so, describing Stitchbinding to outsiders was forbidden.
“Sorry to disturb you, Princess.” Someone tapped her on the shoulder, clad in a gray Collector’s tunic.
“Rhett!” Distracted with the cordings, she hadn’t noticed him. Tight lines crossed his face. Her heart ached for him.
“We have another one.” Scowling at Kemp, he motioned for her to follow him and stalked toward the far side of the hall.
“Thank you. I’ll be right there.” Closing the door, Lineya swallowed hard. Should she take the cordings to her mother or tend to the sick first? Her mother insisted the need was urgent. But the Collectors only sent Lineya the worst cases.
She turned to the Krashe boy, narrowing her eyes. “Kemp, was it?” Would she get into trouble for allowing him to hold the cordings? No one else was nearby. And she didn’t want to lug the cordings in to tend to the sick. What a hassle that would be! Surely, he wouldn’t defile them.
“Will you promise to take care of these?” She raised the bundle, settling them into a chair. Promises were the highest form of respect. Lyndens made promises to Mother Spinner, to partners in business, and to those they loved.
“If you command.” He mocked her with a deep bow.
“It’s not a command. It’s a two-way promise. And I promise no harm will come to you for holding them. Give me your hand.” She held out her fingers.
Raising a brow, he clasped her palm.
At his touch, a buzz went through her. Alarmed, she wrapped a cording around their two hands. “Repeat after me: What we say our word is bond. We are bound by word and cord. We promise to be of one accord.”
He repeated the words.
They unclasped their hands.
With a deep sigh, she handed him the bundle of trussing cordings. It was only for a few minutes. Leaving them unattended would be worse. Desperate people stole them, hoping to use them for loved ones. He was better than nobody. “Do not let them out of your sight. And wait here.” Leaving him by the door, she clutched her Stitchbinding sash and followed Rhett to see what fresh horror awaited her.