Wildmane

by Todd Fahnestock

“That’s what I said, yes.” Ethiel watched Mirolah like she was an apple that might have gone bad.

  “What do you want from me?” Mirolah asked.

  “I sent my darklings to find Medophae, but they failed me. During my search, I accidentally stumbled across you in Rith. When you escaped my darkling—which impressed me, dear, I’ll admit—I sent more darklings to find you. And what do you know, when I finally tracked you down, who should I find but...Medophae.” She cocked her head. “That seems a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  She seemed to expect Mirolah to say something, but when she didn’t, Ethiel continued. “Do you know what that tells me?”

  “No.”

  “That you’re important, dear, because Medophae is constantly at the center of important events. He is drawn to the site of greatest conflict and greatest change. He can’t help himself.”

  “Why?” Mirolah asked.

  Ethiel raised an eyebrow. “So you do have curiosity. I was beginning to wonder. It is because of his god’s blood, dear.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you know what the gods are?” Ethiel asked.

  “I...well they’re the gods.”

  Ethiel smiled indulgently, like she would to a puppy. “That’s the peasant’s answer, dear. ‘It is because it is.’ Do better.”

  “They’re...they created the world.”

  “Yes. They are unfathomable forces for creation. Together, they formed the horizon, the sky and the sun. Natra pulled trees from stone. She pulled stone from nothing. She formed lifeforms from mud, air, and a spark of fire. She kindled self-awareness in the sentients before there was any. Unfathomable for a mortal. Impossible to comprehend. Except not for us, right? We understand. That’s why we call it GodSpill, because it is the essence of creation, and we can harness it. Who else but the gods can make something from nothing? Who else can reshape the physical world?”

  “Threadweavers.”

  “We understand the gods because we do what they do, only smaller. This world is a tapestry made by them. They can affect the entire fabric, we must assume, but we can shift the threads. Everything we are, everything that has happened since before the beginning of human history, everything that has been created in this world, is because of the gods. And the gods are drawn to every moment of great creation and great destruction. The creation of this world is tied with their very essence. My supposition is this: humans are a sentient cluster of organs, blood and muscle, so the gods are sentient clusters of GodSpill. They are an extension of what made the world. They are enormous parts of this unfathomably large tapestry, irrevocably connected to it, and when something rips it or bunches it or changes large swaths of it, they must go there and witness. Take Tarithalius. He was constantly attending anything interesting that caught his attention. That is why Medophae was always at pivotal moments in history. He can feel those changes in his body because Oedandus can feel them. And that is why, when he arrives at those moments of change, they inevitably become larger. History literally forms in his wake.” She paused. “Do you understand, dear?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you can appreciate my curiosity about you. I search all of Amarion for him, and I find him with you.... And I ask myself. Is history about to be made?”

  “I wasn’t trying to make history,” she said. “I was just trying to learn threadweaving.” She could hear Orem’s words in her mind: If we succeed, we will choose a better course for humanity.

  “And I thought we were going to be friends.” Ethiel asked. “Lies twist the faces of the young. I see through you as if you had no skin. Did Medophae tell you not to reveal the nature of your quest?” She stared at the closed curtains of one of the great windows.

  “Where is Medophae?” Mirolah asked.

  “Ah,” she said. “Now we come to your real question, the one you’ve been dying to ask since you walked through my door.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Of course you do. All young women want to see him. His hooks are already deep within you. Has he had you yet?”

  “Had me—? No!” Mirolah said.

  “You need not lie to me. I know how it feels. If I let you see him, you’d throw yourself at his feet, his happy wanton.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “Medophae is safe.”

  “What about Orem and Stavark?”

  “I presume you mean the human and the quicksilver. They are dead.”

  It was like a punch to the gut. Mirolah leaned over, wanting to vomit again.

  Oh, gods... Orem...

  She tried to fight the tears. The last thing she wanted was to be weak in front of this woman, but they came anyway. “Why...?” She pushed the words out of her constricted throat. “What were they to you? Why kill them?”

  “The darklings were hungry, dear.”

  Black dots blossomed at the edge of Mirolah’s vision. The room swam. “You’re a murderer,” she whispered.

  “The darklings did the work, dear, not I.”

  “You let them.”

  “So did you.”

  “They were my friends!”

  “If you wanted to save them, you could have. But you chose Medophae, didn’t you?”

  Mirolah couldn’t breathe.

  Ethiel’s lips curved into a cruel smile. “If I am a murderer, so are you.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “Don’t be rude, dear.”

  “I hate you!”

  “I suppose you would rather wrap your legs and your loyalty around our noble Medophae.”

  Mirolah turned away, roughly wiping her tears away. She thought of Orem. Of sailing the Inland Ocean. Of swimming in its waters. Of leafing through boring texts under his vigilant gaze. Her tutor, her friend, dead....

  “You think I’m a monster,” Ethiel said softly.

  “What else could you be, killing that noble boy and that wonderful man?”

  “Realistic,” she said. “You want to see a real monster? Read a history about the battle of Deitrus Shelf. Read about Badon and his freemen. Medophae waded through rivers of blood. He has killed more innocents than can be counted. Monsters don’t wear wicked claws and fangs, dear. They wear manes of gold and smiles that melt a girl’s knees. They enthrall their prey with gentle voices and soft caresses and lay them down on the soft ground. And then they steal something we could not know we even possesses until it is gone. Medophae lied to me again and again. Once for each time he lay with me.”

  “You...and Medophae?”

  “Don’t be naïve,” Ethiel said in a bored voice. “He had his way with me then went on to have his way with someone else. I was just another mortal conquest.” She regarded Mirolah thoughtfully. “Tell me. When he took you, did you think you were the only one? It feels as if the land is vibrating only for you, doesn’t it? How many times did he take you?”

  “He didn’t!”

  “As you wish, dear. But when you lie to others, you lie to yourself. Once you start believing your own lies, it is much easier to believe his lies. That’s what he wants.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Mirolah said.

  Ethiel looked again at that same curtained window as if she hadn’t even heard Mirolah. “Did you know we were to be married?” she said softly. Her eyes were distant and unfocused. “I was so happy. Imagine a god descending from the heavens just for you.” She turned her gaze on Mirolah. “Of course, he has played that charade many times. Close your heart to him, dear. You can have anything you want, but you cannot have him.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “No,” Ethiel said like a mother to an unruly child. “For your own safety.”

  Mirolah stood up from her throne and backed away. She saw the red threads all around.

  Mirolah yanked the threads on the throne where she had sat a moment ago. The heavy chair flew toward Ethiel with frightening force. But suddenly, Mirolah’s threadweaver grip slipped. The threads were gone. The chair was
gone.

  Ethiel sighed. “A sumptuous room awaits you, dear. A soft bed, a—”

  Mirolah sought the threads within the dark red cloud that was Ethiel’s true form, but there were none. She struggled with the smoky substance, trying to push it together, trying to get a handhold, and she found she couldn’t. So she pushed it together, forming it into a sphere, something she could grab onto. She would be able to—

  She screamed and staggered back. It felt like someone had stabbed a knife in her head. Her concentration shattered.

  “Mirolah.” Ethiel’s voice was stern. “My patience has a limit. I won’t tolerate a tantrum. You have talent, but you have no idea what you are doing.”

  Mirolah felt the smoky red substance follow the path back to her, filling her nostrils, her eyes, her ears, the very pores of her skin, just as it had before. Everywhere it went, Mirolah lost control.

  “No,” she screamed. “Please, no!”

  “You will learn,” Ethiel said. “And when you do, I shall not have to do this anymore.”

  Mirolah fought against the insidious control, but it was no use. The red mist slipped around her willpower and lodged in the pumping of her blood, the tingling of her skin, the rushing of her lungs, the frantic thoughts in her mind.

  “No...” she whimpered and fell to her knees. No sooner had she slumped to the marble than her body rose again under Ethiel’s command, the hated voice murmuring inside her head. She watched through her own eyes as her legs turned, and her hips swiveled to face the Red Weaver.

  “We will talk later,” Ethiel said. “When you have had a chance to rest. It is difficult to break Medophae’s hold, but I will be diligent. I won’t give up on you. I will be kinder with you than Medophae was with me. You will see.”

  Mirolah wanted to shout, to attack the insane woman-cloud-thing, but her body turned and walked down the hall. She had no choice but to obey.

  And yet amidst her dismal failure to fight Ethiel, Mirolah had seen this time. She had learned, watching carefully as that terrible red cloud invaded her.

  And next time, perhaps there would be a choice.

  45

  Silasa

  “Reconsider,” Ynisaan said. “This city is dangerous to us. So very dangerous.”

  Silasa stood in the shadows of the building in the verdant city of Denema’s Valley. Like all her kind, she was a master of the dark, and anyone who might be looking would never see her. But Ynisaan was so quiet that Silasa had begun to wonder if she was actually there at all. Not for the first time, Silasa wondered if Ynisaan was a hallucination. Silasa yearned for purpose, and suddenly this enigmatic woman appeared with a quest of dire urgency that involved the only person still alive that Silasa cared about. There was a part of her that still waited to “wake up.”

  Ynisaan had told Silasa a little about what was going to happen to Medophae, but only a little. She held back most of the details. Sometimes it felt like she did that because she actually didn’t know, like she was watching waves roll and crash and couldn’t predict when the next wave would hit. But sometimes it seemed as if Ynisaan wanted to keep her uninformed. She was frustratingly cryptic about most of it, but she had said that soon, Zilok Morth was going to try to kill Medophae. At the right moment, and only the right moment, they could act to thwart Zilok’s plan. But that was all she said. Informing Silasa that Zilok was actually in Denema’s Valley had only come moments ago.

  “You should have told me Zilok was here,” Silasa said.

  “I am telling you now.”

  Corpses of darklings littered the street where a battle had been. Black blood covered the stones. It was as sure a sign as any that Medophae had been here.

  Three blocks down from the battle, a young quicksilver lay on the porch of what had once been an herb shop. If Medophae had killed the darklings, why had he abandoned his companion, wounded and dying?

  The quicksilver could not be more than twelve or thirteen. His silver blood leaked slowly from his wounds, taking him closer to death with each moment that passed.

  “I can’t leave him,” Silasa whispered.

  “If Zilok catches us here, everything is undone. Amarion will fall. Humans will be wiped from the world.”

  “He is dying.”

  “He is one. If we fail in our quest to save Medophae, we lose all. Right now, Medophae is the one who matters.”

  “Medophae would be the first to say that everyone matters.” Bloody handprints dotted the bottom of the door where the quicksilver had tried and failed to gain entry to the herb shop.

  Alone, grievously injured, the quicksilver had crawled toward the one door that might help him. She imagined the quicksilver struggling with each breath, hoping to live long enough to draw the next. She imagined his fight with the door, a battle he had lost. She did not know how long he had lain on that porch, but she knew the smell of blood. This battle was at least an hour old.

  Ynisaan must have sensed that Silasa had made up her mind, because she stopped talking.

  In the light of the thin moon, Silasa strode across the street. She reached the quicksilver and gathered him in her arms. His head lolled, exposing his pale neck. She had not yet fed this night, and the smell of him tantalized her. Her cursed blood hungered.

  His eyelids flickered open, and he jolted, feebly trying to get away from her. She held firm.

  The quicksilver’s gaze was fogged with pain, but he sneered, facing his presumed death with defiance.

  “I am here to help you,” she whispered.

  “Help?” he whispered, low and empty as though he did not care.

  “Yes.”

  He whispered something else, but she couldn’t understand it.

  She leaned close, clenching her jaw and trying to close her nose to the coppery aroma of his blood. He was young. His blood was rich and heady. Saliva filled her mouth.

  “Keekiksssss...” he hissed, raising his head. His little breaths pounded quick and ragged, and his head fell. He tried again. “Keekiksisss...” Then she understood. Iron-heart root. The quicksilvers called it Keekiksisa. It could save his life. It could also kill him instantly. Iron heart root sped up healing and thickened the blood in humans. In quicksilvers, it was even stronger.

  “I will look.”

  “H-Hurry...”

  She tried the latch. It was locked, so she pushed. The doorjamb splintered and she moved inside. Only a few shafts of moonlight filtered in through the windows, but Silasa saw everything as if it were daytime. Shelves of jars lined the walls, each containing herbs and medicines from an age gone by.

  Most were dust, but there were a great many sealed jars that had withstood the centuries since the inhabitants of Denema’s Valley had died.

  She knew her herbs and remedies. Living in the woods, she had spent one entire decade identifying every plant for miles around her cave. She quickly located the section where the roots were kept. A moment later, she found the iron-heart root. She paused. He would need something else. If she was any judge of injuries, he might die from the pain as the iron-heart hit him. He needed something to dampen the raw potency.

  She selected a tiny jar of dried leaves from the top shelf and looked at them closely. She hoped that this quicksilver was as strong as he was determined.

  She returned to the porch and knelt beside him. His scent overwhelmed her, and she clenched her teeth so hard that her fangs cut into her lip, and the taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

  Breathing through her nose, she uncapped both jars and picked his head up.

  She took three of the leaves, thought better of it, and stuffed one back in the jar. She put the other two up to his bloody lips. “Chew,” she said.

  He shook his head weakly. “No. Keeksss...”

  “I know. These first. Keekiksisa after. Quickly now.” She put the leaves into his mouth, dipping her hand into the Keekiksisa root and poising it on his lips. He chewed methodically, then swallowed.

  “Now this.” She pushed the iron-heart roo
t into his mouth.

  The leaves would take effect almost as fast as the root. If she dampened his senses too much, he would fall into a sleep, and that would be the end of him.

  But he understood. He chewed the root with ferocity. He swallowed half of it and continued to chew, but his jaws suddenly slowed. His eyes drooped.

  “No! Stay awake.” She shook him. His eyes rolled up into his head, and his mouth hung open. Too late! He had swallowed half the root. Would it be enough?

  She waited. The quicksilver’s rapid, shallow breathing slowed. Finally, it stopped, and he lay still. Please...

  Nothing.

  She lowered her eyes. Damn it...

  His body convulsed, and her eyes snapped open. Yes! He convulsed again, and his hands clawed at the stones of the porch. The remaining half of the root shot from his mouth in a cough. He drew several quick breaths and moaned. She held him firmly as he thrashed, keeping his head from smacking into the stones. His teeth clacked together twice, then stayed shut. His moan became a hum between closed lips. His eyes flew open, and he looked about wildly.

  After a moment, he calmed and his silver gaze came to rest on her. His breathing, still fast, was deeper.

  He coughed, and blood flecked his lips. “More,” he said.

  She fed him another root. He chewed vigorously and swallowed. Again, the jolt rocked his body, but this time he was awake. He had more strength, and he was ready for it. He controlled the convulsion himself this time, then lay quiet, his silver eyes fierce and alive. His bleeding seemed to have stopped completely. The tales of Keekiksisa root and quicksilvers were not exaggerated.

  They sat that way for almost an hour. The quicksilver healing, meditating upon the ravaged parts of his body, the vampire waiting in torture, fighting her own compulsion to tear into his neck and drain his blood.

  Finally, the quicksilver spoke. “Orem?”

  She recognized the name. Medophae’s friend. The one who started the quest. “You were the only one. The rest are darklings. All dead.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry...” she said.

  “Yes,” he returned. He looked up at her, and that same defiance filled his gaze “You healed me.”