Wildmane

by Todd Fahnestock

  Mirolah longed to look into his head again. What had happened to Bands? Why wasn’t she here now? Mirolah wanted to know so badly it tickled the base of her skull, but she didn’t dare try entering Medophae’s head again. He could sense when she tried to touch his threads. He said he could not see the threads like she did, but he was aware, somehow, when she used them.

  “Impressive,” Medophae said as he finally came out of his concealment. Of course, she’d known he and Orem were there from the beginning, watching her. After all, Medophae was like a giant golden torch to her threadweaving sight. But she’d pretended she was alone. Let them watch. Mirolah actually liked it when they watched.

  Medophae leaned his back against a smaller boulder, his long legs crossed in front of him. He wore a padded, split V-neck vest that revealed his muscled chest and his long, large arms. His hair shone in the afternoon light, flowing down to his shoulders. The name “Wildmane” certainly fit him. Who else had hair like that?

  “Thank you,” she said, a little uncertain. Medophae had a knack for making a compliment sound uncomplimentary.

  He just watched her, so she crossed her arms and watched him back.

  “I’m curious about something,” he said finally said.

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you come out here to practice?”

  “The rocks are bigger out here.”

  He continued watching her, and she felt herself gazing into those sea blue-eyes. He was just so beautiful.

  She realized she was falling under his sway again, so she clenched her teeth and looked at the grass.

  “Why do you sneak away from camp to come here?” he asked.

  “I like to practice alone. It helps me focus.”

  “Why don’t you train yourself to practice with other people around?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to.” She was dying for him to tell her what to do. She wanted to tell him to go soak his head in the river.

  “Orem said there was a darkling. In Rith.”

  She swallowed. “Yes. But there aren’t any here.”

  “No. Not until there are.”

  “If a darkling comes for me again, I’ll show him his mistake,” she said. “Last time, I was helpless. I’m not anymore.”

  “So, really you’re extending a challenge,” he said. “To the darklings.”

  “What?”

  “To come out here, alone. You’re inviting them to attack you. A challenge.”

  “What? No. Look, I don’t want them to attack me. I’m just not afraid anymore. You want to make sure I’m protected. Good. Do I complain that you shadow me and watch me wherever I go? No. That’s why you’re here. But I have power in my own right, and I gain more every day. I am not afraid of monsters anymore.”

  “That’s good. You’ll need that courage in the days to come. You’ve become very aware of your strengths. Also good. But you don’t seem to be aware of your weaknesses.”

  “What weaknesses?”

  He smiled, as though what she said had proven his point. She clenched her teeth. She hated that she always felt like a child when he was around. She wasn’t a child!

  “May I tell you about a friend of mine?” He walked a few paces away, a flicker of golden fire raced down his legs, and he jumped seven feet straight up, landing lightly on top of a nearby boulder.

  She blinked. He was always so reserved, it took her by surprise. But of course, he was arguably the most powerful man in Amarion. Leaping onto a boulder was easy.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “This friend of mine, he was a fighter. A soldier. He had a powerful body, built for fighting: big, strong, quick. He studied swordplay as soon as he could lift a blade and became one of the finest swordsmen I have ever seen by the time he was twenty.” Medophae looked up at the passing clouds.

  “Yes, so?”

  “So he was killed by three children, none more than twelve years old. They shot him with crossbows at fifteen paces. His sword was only halfway out of its scabbard by the time he fell to the ground, dying.”

  He turned his gaze back down to her, let the silence linger. So dramatic. She wanted to throw a stick at him, but she just stared back at him defiantly.

  “My friend was caught in the forest, alone. He was in unknown territory, and he walked into a trap. His enemy wasn’t the children. His enemy was the certainty of his own strength.” He jumped down, came to her, and put a hand on her shoulder. Warm, strong fingers. Butterflies fluttered in her belly. “Help me protect you,” he said. “Trouble is going to find you soon enough. Don’t go looking for it.”

  She wanted to be angry at him, to tell him not to treat her like a child, but his hand on her shoulder felt so good. She wanted him to leave it there, wanted him to scoop her up in his arms like she had dreamed about back in Rith. She wanted to feel his muscles against her back, against the backs of her legs.

  “Mirolah? Will you help me protect you?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Of course I will.”

  35

  Mirolah

  The next day, Medophae asked if she’d like to go for a hike up toward the cliffs near Denema’s Valley. The idea of being alone with him coursed through her like wine. He wanted to show her something from his past, share something.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” he said, and that was that. They packed a lunch, and after a nod and a brittle smile from Orem, she and Medophae set off on their hike.

  He guided her confidently through the forest, navigating around tightly clustered trees, knitted together with moss-covered vines. When the path vanished into undergrowth, he tore branches out of their way. When the way narrowed, he twisted sideways and slipped through the gaps. She watched the play of muscles in his arms, how he shifted so easily between force and grace. She was so engrossed in watching him move that she bumped into him when he abruptly stopped before an archway in the mossy mountainside.

  “Sorry,” she said, backing up. “What is this?”

  “Portal.”

  She almost couldn’t see it, it was so overgrown. But she could make out a shape obviously constructed by human hands, a nine-foot-tall arch that came to a point. It looked like it should have led somewhere, but it didn’t; it recessed into the rock about six inches deep. There were carvings along the edges of it, but most of those were covered over with vines and moss.

  He took hold of the vines and ripped them aside, revealing carved symbols beneath as golden fire danced about his back and arms. The symbols were crude but compelling, appropriate for the wild surroundings. He ran his fingers over them.

  “Behold my attempt at art,” he said.

  “You made this?”

  “Bands did most of it.”

  “Oh...” She didn’t want him to talk about her. She wanted this moment to belong to her and Medophae. “What does it do?”

  “It moves you from one place to another, instantly. This one goes to Calsinac.”

  “There are others?”

  “Yes. They all go to Calsinac. Or more accurate to say, they all come from Calsinac.”

  “Why?”

  “Calsinac was so remote. We needed to be able to communicate easily with other kingdoms. Only the leaders of Denema’s Valley knew of this one. Bands said knowledge of such gates could be dangerous.”

  “Where else did you build these portals?”

  “Seabreak. Belshra. Southrock. Wayland. Buravar. Tiernan. And other cities long since vanished.”

  “I don’t know any of those places except Buravar. Or wait. Actually, I think Orem mentioned Belshra in his story about The Vampire’s Wager.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “That’s the story where you outwitted the evil vampire Darva. She thought herself a queen, stole the princess. She made you face the dramath’s riddle. But you beat it and rescued Princess Silasa, who would otherwise have become an evil vampire like Darva.�
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  “I see.”

  “Please tell me that one is true,” she said. “It’s one of my new favorites.”

  “Orem is a good storyteller.” But his eyes were downcast, and his happy mood vanished.

  Mirolah inwardly cursed herself. She was acting like a vapid little girl again, asking whatever silly questions popped to mind.

  He was facing the vine-covered rock face, and she reached out a hand to touch his shoulder but hesitated. She brought her hand back to her side, cleared her throat. “Where is Southrock?” she managed to ask.

  “Far to the south where the Spine Mountains touch the Sara Sea. It was a cliffside kingdom. The only way to get past it to the north was a small and treacherous road. One threadweaver could hold it against an army of a thousand. Back then, they had never come further north than Southrock. Of course, after the capping of the Fountain, there was no one to hold the pass...”

  She touched his arm, and he turned. The butterflies moved into her throat, and she stood on her toes, took hold of his chin and kissed him. He hesitated, then his hand moved to the small of her back, and he pulled her up, lifting her off her feet. Tingles raced throughout her body.

  Suddenly, he stopped, and he set her down.

  She blinked, lost in a pleasant haze. “Don’t,” she breathed. “Don’t stop.”

  “I can’t do this with you,” he said.

  “I want you to.” She splayed her hand across his chest.

  “No. You don’t.” He took her hand and placed it gently at her side. “You don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand.”

  “Look, I’m trying to help you.”

  “Then kiss me again.” She smirked, sliding her hand along his neck and standing on her toes.

  His hand closed about her wrist. “What you’re feeling isn’t real. The emotions aren’t real. It’s not me you’re attracted to.”

  “Then who am I dying to kiss? I have chills running up my spine.”

  “Because you’re beguiled.”

  She blinked, and her happy haze faded.

  “Do you know what a glamour is?” he asked.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “It like using the GodSpill to manipulate someone’s emotions,” he said. “Except it’s happening all the time. Someone with a glamour is appealing, attractive, even irresistible. They would seem beautiful to you even if they looked like a darkling. That’s what Oedandus’ presence does. It creates a glamour around me. It compels others to be...well-disposed.”

  “You think that’s why I want to kiss you?”

  “I know it is.”

  She turned her hand into a single finger pointing into the center of his chest. “And this glamour makes you want to kiss me, too?”

  “Mirolah, I didn’t—”

  “No, stop,” she interrupted him. “Save your speech. I know it’s going to be about Bands. Orem told me what happened to you.” She stepped away from him. “He says you’re half a man, that you spend your days living in the past, because that’s when you were happy. I understand that. You lost loved ones. It’s horrible, and I’m sorry. But I’ve lost people, too. My entire family, Medophae. I know what it’s like to want to imagine those people aren’t gone. So if you want to live with her in your memory and punish yourself over and over, that is your decision. Tell me you want to mourn for another four hundred years. I will respect that, and I’ll leave you alone. But don’t take me out in the middle of nowhere, tell me stories of your life, kiss me, then jump back and call it a glamour. You wanted that kiss as much as I did.”

  “That’s not... It’s not what you think.”

  By Thalius, he was so beautiful, and even more delicious when he stumbled for words. “No, it’s not what you think,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t seem to find the words.

  She turned and walked into the forest. “See you back at camp.”

  36

  Mirolah

  That night after everyone had gone to sleep in their camp, Mirolah awoke suddenly. The sun had not yet risen. The partially crumbled ceiling of their house let in a little moonlight, and the coals of the fire glowed low within the ring of stones. Stavark and Medophae slept to her left.

  It must be Orem’s turn to guard which means it’s still early in the night.

  Orem always took the first shift. It was odd how peaceful and well-rested she was, like she would expect to feel after an entire night’s rest, instead of just a couple of hours. Something about that wasn’t right....

  Her worry became a little red butterfly in her mind, fluttered in front of her face, then flitted up and away.

  A new thought took shape, swelling and filling her mind with red purpose, until she could think of nothing else: It didn’t matter who was guarding. Guards weren’t important. What was important was that she leave this room quickly, quietly, and she must not wake the others.

  She pushed her blankets aside and stood up. Her skirt, tunic, and cloak lay neatly on a chair a few paces away.

  I should put those on before I go anywhere, she thought, looking down at the white shift she wore at night.

  But those thoughts also became little red butterflies, dancing on the warm air, going up...up...until they were gone.

  She wound her way carefully past Medophae and Stavark, who did not wake, and she left the room. She stepped barefoot onto the cool, moss-covered stones of the street and wended her way through the buildings, following the image in her mind, along this street, down that alley, cut over and keep going...

  Soon, she was in a part of Denema’s Valley she’d never been before, standing in the middle of a wide, cobblestone street with roofless shops lining each side. It was far away from the library and the little alchemist’s shop where they had made their camp. Ahead was a round, cobblestoned confluence of seven streets, all like spokes that led to a broken, moss-covered fountain that had long since tumbled in on itself. She thought briefly of the city circle in Rith, but that thought also flitted up and away.

  A warm breeze blew across her, pushing her hair into her face and raising goosebumps on her bare arms and legs.

  Wait here.... The thought rose in her mind. It didn’t sound like her voice.

  But if it’s not my voice, she thought foggily. Whose voice was it?

  “What am I waiting for?” she asked aloud.

  That question became a little red butterfly and fluttered away, and she was happy again. She looked down at her bare feet. They hurt from the walk here.

  I should have my boots.

  A darkling slunk from the darkness, climbing on top of the tumbled stones of the fountain ahead. Its burning red eyes focused on her. Another slunk around the edge, crouched on the flagstones. It opened its wide, tooth-filled mouth and let out a purring hiss.

  Terror spiked her heart, and she tensed to flee...

  ...but her fear twisted and became a half-dozen red butterflies, fluttering away, and she let out a calm breath.

  A crimson certainty sat down heavily on her mind: They aren’t going to hurt me.

  So Mirolah walked forward one step, then another.

  37

  Medophae

  The noise of a foot moving across the floor almost woke Medophae. It was the footfall of someone trying to be quiet and not quite succeeding. Sneaky people did that, and in the midst of sleep he had the thought that he should wake and find out who was trying to be sneaky. He had that feeling of rising that comes with shaking away slumber, but he was distracted. A swarm of red butterflies flew past him, and his attention was drawn downward, deeper and deeper, back into sleep. The color of the butterflies reminded him of Ethiel, the Red Weaver who had destroyed his life, so he chased the butterflies. Ethiel had taken Bands. Medophae wanted her back. So he went deeper into sleep, so near to catching the red butterflies...

  The dream began, the one he’d lived a thousand times:

  “Through this door?” Medophae turned to Bands. Hi
s breath came quickly now. One step beyond that door, and chaos would burst over them. This was the moment he loved best. Oedandus raged within him, ready.

  “Yes?” Medophae pressed. Bands was at her loveliest under pressure. She never seemed rattled, and her serenity was like a drug to him. She closed her eyes and put her hand on the door. Her short hair slipped forward into her face, white-blond strands creating a curtain over her eyes as she concentrated.

  “This is the door,” she said. “The GodSpill swells around it, but...I can sense nothing beyond.”

  “Is Ethiel in there?”

  Her beautiful brow wrinkled. “I don’t know.”

  The godsword formed in Medophae’s hand, a three-foot sword of golden fire. “We go through,” he said in a low voice.

  Tarithalius, the god of humans, stood behind Bands. He grinned at Medophae, his teeth extra white against his dark skin. It was all a game to him. He liked to watch Medophae and Bands on their adventures, just an annoying spectator who never did anything but watch.

  Bands looked concerned, but she slowly nodded. Medophae leaned over and kissed her fast and passionately. She wrapped an arm around his neck and lost herself in it. Bands was often so serious, but she was like a love-starved young woman when she kissed him, throwing herself into it every time.

  Tarithalius laughed.

  “Are you ready?” Medophae whispered, breaking the kiss. She smiled.

  He’d cut his way through a mountain if her smile was on the other side.

  “You make me ready,” she said.

  “I’ll go first.”

  “I’ll be your shield.”

  It was a combat method they had perfected, fighting threadweavers. Medophae was largely immune to threadweaving because of Oedandus, but some spells could hurt him. Ethiel had been perfecting—and inventing—those kinds of spells for years. Oedandus would protect him from anything normal. Bands would watch for any new twists that Ethiel had added.