Wildmane

by Todd Fahnestock

  Mirolah lurched to her feet, sending the chair over backwards. It thudded against the mossy marble. The voice was young, and the figure stepped into the moonlight.

  He had long yellow hair tied back like Orem wore his. At a glance, she’d mistaken the familiar silhouette, but that was where any similarity to her mentor ended. Orem was of average height, and this was perhaps the tallest man Mirolah had ever seen, taller even than the imposing magistrate in Rith. The stranger’s shoulders were wide and powerful, reminding her of the horrible, muscled Sunriders. But he did not have the beak nose that marked those killers, nor the wide, flat forehead.

  If this man was a threadweaver, he could only be a threat to her. If he was an ally of Orem’s, she would know. She backed, then stopped. No. She stopped her retreat. She wasn’t a mouse anymore. She had changed. She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. The bright bridge formed between her and the strange man...

  ...and she gasped.

  Within her newfound threadweaver’s sight, he was a furnace of golden flame. She had never seen anything like it. Stavark’s aura was a surprising silver with glitters that leapt about him. This new man burned so brightly it was blinding.

  “Gods...” she whispered. He was a threadweaver! Perhaps the one who sent the monster in Rith?

  He looked about the library like he was the ruler of Denema’s Valley, his back strong and straight, his gaze cool.

  She knew she should prepare a spell, should do something to make sure he could not hurt her, but...she didn’t want to. She couldn’t stop looking at his handsome face, that strong chin, smooth skin, those vibrant eyes. He had a presence. He was a good man. He exuded calm.

  She shook her head. That realization was too sudden to be real, to be her own, but...

  The golden fire around him made her squint, and his physicality stunned her. He filled the room, rugged, ready for anything, utterly without fear. She felt like a moth and he the light.

  She found herself looking at his lips, and a heat swelled in her belly. The air brushed soft hands over her skin. She wanted to help him. Whatever he needed, she wanted to help him get it. He opened his mouth to speak, and she unconsciously opened her mouth as well.

  “I am Medophae,” he said.

  30

  Mirolah

  The man’s gaze went to the shadows, but when he realized she was alone, he focused on her. She meant to say something. Her mouth was open to say something, but she couldn’t think of what it should be.

  He smiled like a father would to a scared child, as if he felt her struggles and understood them.

  “Orem invited me,” he said in his soft, powerful voice. “I’ve come to help.”

  “You weren’t... How are you making that...” She clamped her mouth shut, cutting off the idiotic stream of nonsense, which seemed to be all she could manage. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Orem isn’t expecting you,” she managed.

  “No.”

  “You said he invited you.”

  “Yes. I told him no, but I changed my mind.”

  “What are you?” she asked, squinting through the golden glow that surrounded him. His glow was similar to the brightness she created when she stared at something long enough, except a hundred times brighter, almost blinding.

  It was GodSpill. This man was wreathed in GodSpill.

  “You’re the threadweaver,” he said.

  “So are you,” she breathed.

  He chuckled. “No.”

  “But you’re...surrounded by golden fire,” she said.

  “Interesting,” he said, looking at his hand, which would look normal to anyone else, but in her threadweaver vision, he was alight. “You can see that?”

  “I can barely see anything else. It’s all around you.”

  He made a curious grunt, contemplative. “We should talk with Orem first,” he said. “Will you take me to him?”

  “Of course.” She walked past him to the door, but couldn’t stop looking at him. Her thoughts were slow as she led him toward the house where they had made camp. The more she walked, the more normal she felt, and she began to think that maybe she shouldn’t have just taken him at his word, but she was sure he wasn’t here to do her harm. She had never been more certain of anything in her life. He was just one of the strange people that Orem had met during his travels, but not a threadweaver. She couldn’t see how that was possible. What else could he be?

  Stavark was infused with GodSpill; it was part of him. It made his flashpowers, but his aura was nothing like this man’s. What race was he? He did not look like any of the travelers she had seen in Rith. He had an accent. But the only accent she had ever heard was Sunrider and, of course, Stavark’s harsh accent. This was clearly different. It was formal, like this young man was imitating the way some ancient scholar might talk.

  As they approached the doorway, Stavark stepped around the corner of the house and stood in their path. He fixed Medophae with a cold stare.

  “Duhvark qak sihli, vakihrk!” he spat. She gasped as he drew his short, curved sword.

  “No,” she said quickly, holding her hands up. “This is a friend of Orem’s. He came here because Orem asked him to.”

  Stavark shook his head, his eyes still fixed upon Medophae. Mirolah had not seen Stavark like this since that night in the Rith jail. The boy stood ready to move, ready to attack.

  “I understand your anger, but I beg you to let it go,” the man said in his strange accent. Only now did she notice the huge sword buckled at his side, and it was like a dash of cold water. Why hadn’t she even looked at the sword before?

  “Duhvark. Qet sihfir,” Stavark said. He raised his sword in a salute, readying to attack.

  “Stavark!” she said, shocked.

  “No.” The man shook his head. “I won’t fight you. There is more to what happened between Orem and me than you know.”

  “You betrayed trust,” Stavark spat in the human tongue. His quicksilver accent cut his words sharply. “You are dishonorable. In my land it is death to attack one’s host. He treated you as a guest, and you struck him.”

  “You struck Orem?” Mirolah asked. It was a dash of cold water in her face, and the questions bubbled up in her mind. Why was she so sure he wasn’t a threat? Her heart beat faster, and she took a step away from him. Had she been wrong to trust him? No, that wasn’t the right question. The right question was: why had she trusted him in the first place? Had he used GodSpill to sway her mind?

  She looked at him, desperately wanted to please him. She wanted him to look at her with those blue eyes, to speak to her with that compelling voice.

  The man let out a breath. “Stavark—”

  “You may not use my name. That privilege is not yours.”

  The man nodded. “Syvihrk, if you will not listen to me, I beg you ask Orem before you attack me. Will you at least consider that?”

  Stavark showed his teeth like a dog backing away from a larger predator. He sheathed his sword. “Your tongue is honey and your legend is strong, vakihrk. But a man who believes in his own legend is a hollow man. And a hollow man cannot be trusted. I will not see your gentle smile. I will not hear your honey words. These are the tricks of a child of the gods. I believed in your legend when we met at your castle. I do not believe it anymore.”

  “Then you are wise,” Medophae said. “Will you take me to Orem?”

  “No,” Stavark said. “You will stay here.” For the first time since he had arrived, Stavark looked at Mirolah. “Maehka,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  She hesitated. Good sense dictated that she not be left alone with someone she didn’t know, especially after the noble Stavark had called him “dishonorable” and a “hollow man.”

  She found herself shaking her head. “No. I’ll stay. He means us no harm.”

  “Maehka,” Stavark said. “He has wrapped his voice and his smile around you, but he is faithless. He is the volcano with no friends, only those he burns and those he does not.”

>   “Go, Stavark,” she said. “Get Orem quickly. He will know what to do.”

  The boy seemed torn. It was his duty to protect Mirolah, but he couldn’t force her to go when she would not. He paused.

  Then, in a silent silver flash, he was gone, and the street was silent. She turned to Medophae.

  “He hates you,” she said.

  He grunted. “That happens when you take a person’s hope away.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She frowned. “He said you were one of children of the gods. What did he mean?”

  The man smiled as he looked down at her. He pushed a long lock of golden hair out of his youthful face. “A threadweaver indeed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you ask a lot of questions.”

  “It seems very important, lately, for me to know things.”

  He nodded. “It’s an effect of the GodSpill,” he murmured. “The curse of the threadweaver.”

  “What is that?”

  “It is a saying they have about those who work with the GodSpill. The more you learn, the more you must know. It has driven many a threadweaver insane. Beware of that thirst.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You said you’re not a threadweaver yourself. How do you know so much about it?”

  His blue eyes glittered. It was dark. How could she know they were blue? She couldn’t tell if they actually shined, or if he was simply...clearer than another person would have been. Or was it her threadweaver sight? Could she see things in the dark she couldn’t before?

  “We should wait for Orem,” he said.

  “You should answer my questions.”

  His brow furrowed, and the angry expression struck her like a hand. With Stavark, this man had been gentle and humble, but he suddenly seemed like an angry king.

  He is the volcano... She recalled Stavark’s words, and she took a step back.

  “The young quicksilver has cause to be angry at me,” he said, his voice like iron. “Don’t try to claim a debt owed to another.”

  He looked away from her, back down the street. Orem ran toward them with Stavark padding warily behind. Orem slowed to a stop with his gaze on Medophae.

  “You came,” he said.

  Medophae nodded.

  “Every other time I asked you, I was sure that you would come, and you didn’t. This time I was certain I’d lost you. But you came. What changed your mind?”

  “Tyndiria is dead. Killed by a bakkaral.”

  The wind seemed to go out of Orem. “Oh, no... No...” he whispered. “Medophae, no... I’m so sorry. I never wanted... Why?”

  “It was sent,” Medophae said.

  “By who?”

  “Perhaps the same one who sent your darklings.”

  Orem paused, then said, “You’re here to help us?”

  “I am.”

  “Medin, I’m so sorry about Tyndiria—”

  “Yes.” Medophae cut him off with a wave of his hand, his brows furrowed again.

  Orem cleared his throat. “We will bring the GodSpill back to the lands,” he said with sudden conviction. “Her death won’t be in vain.”

  Medophae shook his head, his face grim, as if he either didn’t believe Orem, or he didn’t care.

  Mirolah was wildly conflicted. She couldn’t tell if this man was a friend or not. Orem seemed excited to have him here. Stavark hated him. And Medophae didn’t seem to like Orem at all. She wished she had a moment alone with Orem to sort it all out.

  “They’ll write of this moment,” Orem said.

  “No doubt.”

  “Do you think they’ll call you Wildmane again?” Orem asked.

  Mirolah snapped her gaze to Orem, and then to Medophae, her mouth open.

  “They always do,” Medophae said quietly. “They always do...”

  31

  Mirolah

  How could they simply go to sleep? How could Orem quietly lay back on his bedroll and close his eyes when a mythical man stood just beyond the doorway, keeping watch?

  Wildmane, the immortal demi-god from the legends, was here. Right here in Denema’s Valley!

  Curiosity leapt inside her like a caged beast. There were so many questions. How long had he actually lived? How much had he seen? Where was his lady love, Bands? Were all of the stories about him true? Could he summon a sword made of a god’s rage? Did the god Oedandus live inside him? Did he fight side by side with the god of humans, Tarithalius? Did he deal the killing blow to Dervon the Dead a thousand years ago?

  What was true? What wasn’t? She had to know.

  Gently pushing her blankets off, she rose and crossed the floor as quietly as she could.

  “You have questions for him,” Orem said. She stopped in the doorway and turned.

  “Wouldn’t you?” It was difficult for her to see his face across the darkened distance, but she saw his colors. Jealousy. “Didn’t you, when you first met him?”

  “I still have questions. And he has answers, probably more than either of us can imagine. But he does not give them easily.” His colors shifted. Jealousy and disappointment.

  “Orem, do you want me to stay away—”

  “No.” He cut her off. She felt emotions radiating from him. Shame. Confusion. Pain. Her curiosity about Medophae was hurting him. She hated that, but she had to know. “Go,” he said. “It’s important that you go to him.”

  She nodded and stepped beyond the doorway. The stars shone around sparse clouds, and the quarter moon illuminated the mossy valley with a low glow. She felt odd, leaving Orem like that. It was as if something had fallen out of place, but that didn’t make her turn around, didn’t make her reconsider. She had experienced wonders in the last few weeks. But it was one thing to harness GodSpill and see the threads of Amarion. It was something else entirely to meet a god.

  Her threadweaver sight picked Medophae out immediately. He was like a bonfire. How could she not have known the truth about him in the first instant? It seemed so obvious now.

  He sat atop a thick, broken wall, facing away, and gazing over the city. She walked toward him, trying to find the way he had climbed up it as she neared. Her toe scuffed a rock, sending it rolling forward, and he turned his gaze upon her.

  She swallowed, and neither of them said anything for a long time.

  “The wall is broken in a stair-step on the other side,” he said, then turned back to look at the sky.

  She looked at the stair-step, then quietly took hold of the threads, lifting herself gracefully in the air and landing on the wall next to him.

  He ignored her feat and kept looking over the city. She felt disappointed that he didn’t even comment on the fact that she had just flown.

  But then, maybe that wasn’t surprising to him. He must have seen everything there was to see in his long lifetime. Yet, still, he looked her own age, a boy of eighteen or nineteen.

  She hesitated a moment, then sat down. The silence went on, painfully. Again, she was struck by how...physical he was. She wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder. But the ease she had felt around him in the library had been replaced by a vague forbidding.

  “You,” she finally said, knowing it was awkward, but also knowing that anything she would say was going to start awkward. This was Wildmane! “You’re Wildmane,” she said, trying to keep the awe out of her voice. “It is hard to believe...” she trailed off.

  “...that the bards would call me something as silly as Wildmane?” he finished for her. He turned his gaze on her, no expression on his face.

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “Well, I was actually teasing myself.”

  “Did you really do all those things? In the legends that I’ve heard?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say yes or no to that question. Too many legends. Some of them are pure lies.”

  “Did you kill a god?”

  “No.”

  That stunned her. “But I thought...”

&n
bsp; “I was there,” he said. “But I may as well have been a passenger clinging for dear life to a wild, galloping horse, for all I did in the battle. Bands did more. And Zilok Morth even more than her. I was...a vessel.”

  “Oedandus,” she whispered.

  “He was the one who killed Dervon. He took control. He just used my body to...focus himself.”

  “What about the threadweaver Andron? Orem told me about the Vampire’s Wager. Tonight, he told of the Quest for Natra...” She lowered her voice as she realized she was babbling, sounding like a little girl.

  “Do you enjoy legends?” he asked.

  “My father told a lot of stories...about you. But they aren’t stories. They’re true.”

  He grunted.

  He has many answers, but he doesn’t give them easily.

  It’s because he’s in pain, she thought. She couldn’t see his aura like she could see Orem’s. His blinding golden fire overwhelmed anything that subtle. But it didn’t take threadweaving to watch his face. Mirolah had seen people in pain before.

  It was a mistake coming here. He deserves his privacy, if that’s what he wants.

  She could only imagine what a hundred lives did to a person. He didn’t want to fulfill the giddy dreams of a girl in search of stories. Why would he?

  She stood up. “I’m sorry. I was wrong to come here.”

  His big hand closed gently about her wrist. “Please forgive my manners,” he said in that strange accent. It sounded...polished, almost like he over-pronounced words. “I am trying to get better. Would you like to stay?”

  She nodded. “If that’s all right.”

  “Please,” he spoke to the night. She reseated herself, and they sat in silence again.

  “I have questions for you,” she finally said.

  A smile curved his lips. “Surprising.”

  She moved past the sarcasm. “How old are you, really?”

  “What year is this now?”

  “1649 of...The New Age.”

  “The New Age,” he murmured. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then said, “That would make me a thousand, four hundred and three. My day of birth passed recently.”