Wildmane

by Todd Fahnestock

  “Ahhh...” The voice was closer now, softer. “I wish I was a cruel bluff. A child’s dream, a lack of stuff. But I’m the roach beneath it all. I am the sad land’s bitter gall.”

  She didn’t want to use her threadweaver sight. It would bring back the taste of the red woman, and that would make her vomit all over again. But if this wasn’t insanity—if there really was an invisible person here in the cell—the threads would tell the tale. She closed her eyes, balled her hands into fists and clenched her teeth. She reached out, seeking the bright bridge. It was hard, like it was far away. The same thing had happened in Denema’s Valley with the darklings, right after she’d been forced to come to that intersection.

  But as she held down her bile, she began to feel the power of the GodSpill all around her, the threads of the walls and the floor. She opened her eyes.

  The owner of the voice knelt beside her, pushing imaginary tendrils of hair away from her face. She gasped and lurched away. He was a thin man with a short beard and a long nose. He wore a friendly, crazy smile. His clothes looked as if they had once been fine, but were now torn and threadbare. Red spiders ate at the fabric of his arms. Red rats gnawed at his trousers, trying to get at him, but none had yet bitten his skin. His hands, where they poked out of the lacy cuffs, were smooth and unblemished, as was his face. Mirolah pressed herself against the cold wall.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  His eyes widened. “This cannot be. How can you see? This ghost, this thread, this twist of me?” He pounced on her. She shrieked and lashed out, but her fists passed through him. He settled one transparent hand over her mouth, but she felt nothing. He wasn’t invisible. He was a ghost.

  “Don’t say my name, our special secret. We both will die if you don’t keep it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Ahhh... A fool. A fool. Destiny’s tool. Before the GodSpill warped and died, the six and I went on a ride. I, the dunce all dressed in mail with an imagined tale that was doomed to fail. I aimed my lance right at my foe, with nary a glance for all the woe. And I drank deep from failure’s flagon by charging a cliff I thought a dragon.”

  Mirolah gasped. “You’re Harleath Markin!”

  “My name. My shame. The very same.”

  “You’re a ghost...” she murmured.

  “Would that I were dead instead, a ghostly knife through a ghostly head. And yet my purpose sadly lingers, so I stay pinned by my own stinger. Here inside my place of doom, I thought I’d coax the ’Spill to bloom. But others also heard the call, the strongest weavers of them all. I should have known, by all that’s right, that they would flock to this one site.”

  “We’re inside Daylan’s Fountain?” she asked, incredulous. She hadn’t realized that the fountain had dungeons inside it.

  So she had finally arrived in the place Orem had been trying to take her. As a prisoner. Medophae’s words returned to her now, the story about his friend, so secure in his own power and defeated by surprise. It was as though he had been speaking prophecy.

  She needed more time. She could move little pots and giant stones; she’d even learned to transform them, but she didn’t know how to fight a threadweaver who could overthrow her will.

  She thought of Orem, almost certainly dead now, and she fought down her despair. Orem had embarked on an impossible quest: to return the GodSpill to the lands. He’d had no ability. He’d had no clue where to start; he just started, and piece by piece, he found what he needed. And when he found her, he had held her hand, step by step, and led her up to the edge of the impossible. And, with his help, she had stepped beyond.

  Well, she didn’t have his help now, but she was just going to have to do it anyway.

  She set her jaw and turned to the ghost. “Tell me everything about the Red Weaver.”

  43

  Mirolah

  “Wake up, novice,” Kikirian said.

  Mirolah jolted awake, and for a moment, she forgot she was in a cell. The cold reality returned in a rush as she looked at the red-tinged stone walls, the smooth red flagstones. She had tried to use threadweaving to bend the bars, but they resisted her attempts. After five minutes of trying, the female voice returned inside her head, asking her if she’d like to spend the next several hours licking the floor of her cell instead of making feeble attempts to escape.

  Mirolah had immediately stopped her escape attempt, and instead talked with Harleath Markin until she finally slept, so exhausted that even the cold floor seemed soft and warm.

  “It’s time to meet your new master,” Kikirian said, leaning down so he could see through the doorway. During their journey here, he’d called himself a dramath, which was apparently also a child of Dervon, like the darklings, but with greater intelligence and other special abilities not possessed by their skinny cousins.

  She blinked her eyes and glared up at him.

  “Defiance,” he said. “Good. Keep that up and this will be an entertaining day.” He opened the barred door, the apex of which only came up to his chest when he stood up again. “Come with me or be brought.” The huge dramath began walking up the hall. Reluctantly, she stood up and followed quickly. The idea of being controlled again sent a spike of fear into her heart.

  The perfectly cut stone walls of the hallway had a red tinge to them, just like the cell. Everything seemed to have it.

  She and Kikirian ascended a long spiral staircase. Mirolah looked back the way they had come, searching for another exit. But about twenty paces past her cell door, the hallway became a shifting swirl of smoky red. At first, she wondered if there was some kind of furnace or fire back there, but when she looked at it with her threadweaver sight, she realized with astonishment that this entire hallway, and her cell, was some kind of GodSpill construct. The red haze was where it...ended, as if the Red Weaver had just stopped working on it there. She reached out tentatively with her threadweaver sight and touched the threads of the walls, the stairway, the doors, even the smoky nothingness at the end of the hall.

  Every single bit of it was held together by red-tinged GodSpill.

  The book Mirolah had read in Denema’s Valley said that everything had threads, whether it was alive, had once been alive, or had never been alive. And those threads were made of tinier ones which were made of tinier threads still, and each had their own color and texture and density. In Mirolah’s experience since that day, she’d seen all the colors of the rainbow and a hundred varying shades of each in the threads of life around her. But everything in this palace was comprised of the same red threads. Different shades, different sizes, but all the same color.

  The complexity of the spell overwhelmed her. She smacked a hand against the wall, slid her fingers down and felt the cold rail of the staircase. How did a threadweaver create something like this out of nothing and maintain such solidity? Is that why it was all one color? Because it was a pure construct and would never have existed in the real world?

  “Lost your wits, novice?” Kikirian’s voice startled her.

  She turned, trying to erase the wonder from her face, but Kikirian saw. A cruel smile curved his lips.

  “Impressive, isn’t it? The Red Weaver has power you cannot understand, that you cannot even imagine. During the height of her greatness, it was said she was more powerful and more cunning even than the legendary Zilok Morth. Do you know who Zilok Morth is?”

  “Everyone knows who Zilok Morth is,” she said.

  Kikirian looked back at the smoky red haze. “It’s easy for young threadweavers to believe themselves great,” he said softly. “They taste power, see how far above the mortal flock they fly, and they think they know everything. They used to have a saying, back in the Age of Ascendance, back when there were a hundred conclaves of talented threadweavers. They would congregate and bicker about who was the most powerful. Whenever an original or exceptionally powerful spell was achieved, that threadweaver was said to have ‘reached a peak.’ They would log it down in one of their worthless tomes, and that t
hreadweaver would be famous for a time. Every threadweaver from the Age of Ascendance wanted so badly to be the next Daylan Morth.” The black-eyed giant sneered. “They were fools, all of them. They didn’t have any idea what a real threadweaver was. Tell me, novice, have you ever heard the tale of The Learned Dog?”

  “No,” Mirolah said.

  “There once was a conclave of powerful threadweavers called The Circle of Learned Men, who congregated in the city of Giryath. Their most powerful member, after reaching several “peaks” in a row, went in search of the legendary threadweaver Zilok Morth. This Learned Man from Giryath decided to prove his mettle by cleansing Amarion of the evil spirit.”

  Kikirian smiled down at her.

  “So they fought?” she said.

  “Zilok Morth paid a visit to the city of Giryath a day later and walked into a meeting of the Council of Learned Men. Morth had transformed their emissary, their ‘man of many peaks’, into a hairless dog with its back legs attached upside down and its brain growing outside of its skull. The spirit tossed the pitiful creature onto the rosewood table and said to them: ‘A true threadweaver does not reach a peak. A true threadweaver is the mountain.’ Then he killed them all, everyone in the city of Giryath. He killed the servants within the threadweavers’ manor. He killed the tradesmen—every tea vender and tobacconist, every baker and builder, every clothier and carpet weaver—who provided services to the manor. Then he killed the employees who worked for every tea vender and tobacconist, every baker and builder, every clothier and carpet weaver. Then he burned every house, melted every stone tower and wall. He left the Learned Dog alive, still with the power of human speech, to tell the tale. But as to the rest, not a stone or bone was left to mark the proud city of Giryath. Only threadweavers could still see it. To one with the ‘sight,’ it glows like the sun and stands as a warning to all others who might seek fame by challenging the threadweaver Zilok Morth.”

  Kikirian paused, watching her reaction. She said nothing.

  “So consider this, novice, if you think you are a Learned Woman enough to challenge the Red Weaver, who stood as high as Zilok Morth in the Age of Ascendance. What kind of dog would you look like?” He turned, laughing, and continued up the steps.

  44

  Mirolah

  At the top of the steps, Kikirian opened steel-banded double doors as thick as Mirolah’s waist and as heavy as a house. Like everything else, they had a reddish glow. The giant dramath strode through the tall archway without having to stoop, and Mirolah followed, feeling as small as a mouse.

  When she had walked into the dilapidated library at Denema’s Valley, she hadn’t been able to imagine a larger indoor space, but it was nothing compared to the Red Weaver’s throne room. The walls rose so high that they could have built the Rith tower inside with room to spare. A great battle scene had been painted across the ceiling. Horses reared, knights lowered lances, footmen charged across the muddy ground and speared each other, the victorious with determined grimaces, the victims with open mouths of anguish. In the foreground of the grand painting, impassioned captains pointed and shouted orders. They were so lifelike that Mirolah could almost hear the screams of the dying.

  The floor was made of one impossible piece of polished rose marble, connecting with a wide staircase that led to an empty throne. Mirolah touched it all with her threadweaver sight and found it the same as the walls of the prison. Every bit of it was fabricated by the Red Weaver’s imagination and willpower.

  Along the wall, tall windows stretched all the way to the ceiling, side by side at ten foot intervals, and all of the curtains were drawn. She found this curious until she used her sight to look beyond the curtains. There was nothing there. She longed to look at the outside of Daylan’s Fountain, and she felt a cold creep up her spine because she couldn’t imagine it being large enough to house this grand castle.

  “Welcome, Mirolah,” the Red Weaver said. Mirolah turned to see a voluptuous woman sitting on the throne above her. Crimson hair spilled over her shoulders, and a replete red satin gown flowed down her body, gathering in folds around her feet. She fingered a silver necklace and regarded Mirolah distantly. “I am Ethiel. Some call me the Red Weaver.”

  Bile rose in Mirolah’s throat, and she swallowed it down. That husky voice. That was the voice that had pushed her out of her own head, that had pulled her arms and legs from her control. That was the voice that had used her ruthlessly.

  “You’re very young,” Ethiel said conversationally. “Not surprising. He picks them young, you know.”

  Mirolah looked at Ethiel with her threadweaver sight. Instead of a woman, there was a thick, smoky red cloud curled on the throne with appendages of curling smoke that could have been arms, legs or tentacles. The appendages spilled around the edges of the throne and slithered along the floor.

  “Of course, it seems like we pick him, doesn’t it?” Ethiel said. Her countenance was motherly, as though she felt sorry for Mirolah. “It’s a cruel hook he baits.”

  Mirolah swallowed the acid taste down, managing not to throw up.

  Ethiel narrowed her eyes and looked at Kikirian, who had fallen back to stand a few paces behind Mirolah. “Is she mute, dramath? Did you bring me a mute?”

  “Answer her, novice.” Kikirian put one meaty hand on Mirolah’s shoulder and nudged her forward. She stumbled and barely caught her balance. The dramath was monstrously strong.

  Suddenly, Kikirian grunted in pain. He flew backward as if struck by an invisible hand, hit the marble floor and slid to a stop. With a growl, he rolled to a crouch, unbelievably nimble for his size, and smashed a gauntleted fist into the floor, sending a spiderweb of cracks across the rose marble. He shot a venomous look at Ethiel.

  “Don’t be rude,” she said to him. “Mirolah is our guest.” Ethiel stared the dramath down. The dramath stayed crouched for a moment, then he slowly rose to his feet. He bared his teeth as if he longed to take a bite out of her. “One day you will go too far,” he said in a low voice.

  “Please tell me this is that day, Kikirian.” She stood up from her throne, fingers clenching the edges of the ornate armrests. “Tell me this is the day when your threats become action.”

  His fists clenched so tight that his metal gauntlets squeaked.

  Ethiel’s mouth opened in anticipation, and her green eyes glistened.

  Kikirian forced a brittle smile onto his face and unclenched his fists. He got to his feet and bowed. “I serve you, mistress. As always.”

  “Go back to your kennel, dramath. I will shake your leash when you’re needed.”

  “As my lady wishes,” Kikirian said through his teeth, and he left. The big doors thoomed as they closed behind him.

  “I apologize, Mirolah,” Ethiel said. “Dramaths require tight control. Dervon only respected strength, and they are his children, after all. It’s important to remind Kikirian not to overstep his bounds. Come, sit with me.” She waved her hand. The floor beside her bubbled, faded to a smoky red mist, and swirled upward. Another throne solidified from the mist, complete with comfortable-looking cushions. “Let us talk.”

  Mirolah took the steps one at a time, alternating glances between the empty throne and its creator.

  “I want to know all about you,” Ethiel said as Mirolah sat down. “We are alike, you and I. Tell me where you were born, what brought you to me, and everything in between.”

  “I don’t even know where I am,” Mirolah said.

  “You are inside Daylan’s Fountain.” She gave Mirolah an encouraging smile. “Do you know what the Fountain is, dear?”

  “It’s the nexus of all GodSpill in Amarion, built by Daylan Morth and capped by Harleath Markin.”

  Ethiel narrowed her eyes. “Very good,” she said, impressed. “You have been studying. Perhaps I underestimated you. I thought you a brainless apprentice to a scholar, not a true threadweaver. But that is very good. How did you know about Harleath Markin? Those who even know his name only know that he rode north and
somehow stripped GodSpill from all the lands.”

  “I found his journal,” Mirolah said. “In Denema’s Valley.”

  “And resourceful,” Ethiel said. “My interest is piqued. We will be fast friends, you and I.”

  “So we are actually inside the Fountain?”

  “It seemed the perfect place to build my castle. Of course, an entire castle cannot fit within Daylan’s Fountain.”

  “I...wondered about that.”

  “Have you ever heard of the threadweaver Difinius?”

  “I... No.”

  “He is what we call a threadweaver’s threadweaver. Not well-known, except by others of his specialty. Difinius was a surprise, to say the least. For decades, he did nothing of interest. Then one day he bent space and folded it over and over, like a swordmaker folds the metal of a blade. He discovered that between each fold in the threads, he could create a gap, and these gaps can be stretched, creating room where before there was none. And with that room, you can make...” Ethiel raised her hands, indicating the throne room.

  “Whatever you want,” Mirolah finished for her.

  “There are limits, but you can turn the inside of a walnut into a room the size of a house.” Her green eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  Ethiel narrowed her eyes. “Are you just nodding along, Mirolah? Or have you actually seen the threads?”

  That was interesting. The way she phrased her question implied that not all threadweavers could see the threads. How could a threadweaver even be a threadweaver if they didn’t?

  “No?” Ethiel concluded, taking Mirolah’s silence as confusion about the question. Mirolah saw no reason to correct her. “Well, I’ll teach you.”

  “Your entire castle is inside the Fountain,” Mirolah said. If Ethiel let her guard down, perhaps she could learn more by probing cautiously.