Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1 Read online

  “You don’t know when to stop,” Medophae growled to Orem.

  “I will never stop,” he said.

  “I should have left you to the skin dogs.”

  “I know you can kill me. You can kill anyone you choose—”

  Medophae dropped him to his feet and walked back to his horse. Stavark moved to stand between the two of them, his knife up in Medophae’s direction.

  “You could use those powers for good, Medophae,” Orem said. “Instead of for nothing. The darklings are stronger than me, stronger than Stavark. But they’re not stronger than you. We need you. Mirolah needs you.”

  Mirolah. The threadweaver. The girl. That was her name.

  “You belong to Amarion,” Orem said, following him, pushing it. He always had to push it. “Not Teni’sia. You’re angry because Bands would want you to go—”

  Medophae spun and struck Orem across the face.

  Stavark attacked Medophae in a flash of silver light, his curved sword whipping out of his scabbard and arcing down. The blade bit deep into Medophae’s arm, slicing through flesh and lodging into bone. With a growl, Medophae ripped the sword from the boy’s grip.

  Orem stumbled back, tripped, and fell to the grass. He lay there, senseless.

  Medophae yanked the sword from his arm and snapped it across his knee, golden fire crackling around him. Stavark turned to silver light, streaked to Orem in the blink of an eye. He stood over the dazed man, panting. He had his dagger out again, ready to defend Orem with his life.

  Orem just wouldn’t stop. He never stopped. Nothing was sacred to him except his damned quest, and he would ruin as many lives as needed to see it fulfilled.

  Well, Medophae had ruined enough lives already. Orem could pursue his folly alone. Medophae leapt into the saddle and rode away.

  14

  Zilok Morth

  “Sef, who is this Reader Orem?”

  “I do not know, my master.”

  “Who do you suppose gave him such a name? Do you think he chose it for himself?”

  “I do not know, my master.”

  “I suppose he gains satisfaction from it. He likes to think of himself, maybe, as a threadweaver? As a man of learning? But he has no idea what a threadweaver really is.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  “And what of this other, this threadweaver Orem has supposedly found? Could she be at the end of the darkling’s leash?”

  “I do not know, my master.”

  “I always love to see what the latest generation has wrought in the way of threadweavers. All too often they are terrible disappointments. But this is a new century, Sef. The possibilities are limitless. I wonder what she is like.”

  “I do not know, my master.”

  “Young. Gifted. I could teach her, Sef. I could teach her things that even a threadweaver from the Age of Ascendance could not teach her. I could teach her things that even my esteemed great-grandson could not teach her.”

  “Yes, my master. Shall we take her?”

  “And what would I do with an apprentice?”

  “As you say, my master.”

  “Yes. As I say. And what of the Wildmane? He is torn. He feels he should go, but he is afraid. This is...disappointing. He is just a shadow of his former self.”

  “As you say, my master.”

  “Well, that is just...perfect. We will give no leniency to the Wildmane.”

  “No, my master.”

  “This ‘Reader’ Orem tried so valiantly to change his mind.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  “We will show him how one changes a mind.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  “We will illustrate what a real threadweaver is.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  “And we begin our plan for the Wildmane.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  “This ‘Reader’ Orem does have one thing correct. Knowledge is the real power, Sef. GodSpill is incidental. That is the first of the threadweaver secrets. Let us visit this young threadweaver ‘Reader’ Orem has found. Let us see if she knows this secret.”

  “As you say, my master.”

  “Yes. As I say.”

  15

  Mirolah

  Mirolah heard the raven cawing when the sun was high in the azure sky. She remembered the days of the horsemen when the sky had been gray every day from the smoke of destroyed villages and farms, but those days were gone now, and she prayed they would never return.

  A few thin, white clouds drifted across the blue, and the sun warmed her nicely. The svelte raven wheeled and changed course. It swooped in, landed atop a nearby building, and cocked its head at her. Mirolah smiled and turned back to follow her sister, Fillen. The marketplace was busy today. People brushed up against her as they moved about their business, chatting with friends or haggling with vendors. The smell of Katstan’s lamb-on-a-stick hung heavy in the air. Mirolah caught a glimpse of old Glif juggling fruit from his cart. Children gathered around him, rapt with attention. Fillen giggled in delight as they walked amongst the various carts. Mirolah waved at Taegen, the tea vendor. He nodded back and winked even as he continued speaking with his current customer. Fillen didn’t wait for Mirolah to stop and chat, but dragged her onward. Mirolah loved going to the market with any one of her sisters, but with Fillen especially. Everything was a new adventure to her. She didn’t get to leave the house as often as Mirolah, and so the marketplace was still a novelty for her. Mirolah remembered when it was so for herself, but that was long ago. She knew all the vendors by their first names. She knew what they sold. She knew who offered a good price and who did not.

  Fillen stopped at the spice vendor’s tent and began smelling each of the spices. New caravans had come south from The Arm last month, and the spice vendor had set up shop. In all likelihood, Fillen had never seen his wares. She sniffed each over and over again, smiling from ear to ear. Mirolah simply waited. She could wait forever like this. Simply watching the happiness on Fillen’s face was enough. Could she ever grow tired of that?

  After many minutes, Fillen was finished with the spices. She spun around, her dark coal eyes glistening with vigor. “What next?” she asked.

  “I have seen them all,” Mirolah said, grinning. “I will follow you.”

  “The jewelry maker,” Fillen said. It was her favorite. Fillen never tired of caressing the polished stones and tooled silver. Of course, Fillen could not afford anything in the jewelry maker’s tent. Mirolah knew the jewelry maker well, and he trusted Mirolah. Fillen could try on anything she wanted.

  Fillen grabbed Mirolah’s hand and bounced through the throng with her in tow. Mirolah laughed as she jostled people in her sister’s wake.

  “Slow down!” she said, laughing.

  “I can’t. I can’t be slow today! Come on, Mira!”

  They finally managed to squeeze into the jewelry maker’s shop, and Fillen spent an hour trying on bracelets and necklaces. She held earrings up to her ears and pressed anklets against her shins.

  “Ah, if I were wealthy...” Fillen said, “I would dress up with every bit of this and simply sit in front of a mirror all day.”

  “I believe you would.”

  “Do you think I ever shall be, Mirolah?”

  “Wealthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything is possible, as Lawdon is so fond of saying,” Mirolah said, then whispered into Fillen’s ear. “If you bat your eyelashes enough, I think the jewelry maker might take you to wife.” Fillen glanced up at the short, portly jewelry maker. She made a sour face.

  “He’s three times my age, Mira!”

  They both giggled and continued to try on the jewelry.

  The sun had begun to set, and the shadows stretched long across the ground by the time they left the jeweler’s tent. Many vendors were already packing up their goods and striking their tents.

  “We should get home,” Mirolah said. Tiffienne would already have begun supper. Both Mirolah and Fillen should have
been there to help, though Mirolah knew that Tiffienne would be lenient. It was Fillen’s outing for the week. Tiffienne never reprimanded the girls after a day of fun, no matter the transgression. She said there was precious little fun had these days, and there was no point in fixing a bad impression at the end of a good day.

  Still and all, they would get away with dodging supper preparation, but they shouldn’t be late for the eating of it. That would simply be rude.

  “Come on. Let’s hurry,” Mirolah said.

  “Let’s take the short cut home, Mira!” Fillen exclaimed. Grabbing Mirolah’s hand, she started off at a fast walk. Again, Mirolah was dragged behind. They left the market and cut through some of the old, broken-down buildings. They raced through the back streets, passing an occasional villager who was doing the same. Fillen danced lightly up the stair-step formation of a ruined wall and Mirolah followed. They giggled as they rose the first few feet in the air, then became silent in concentration as they traversed the tallest section. Their laughter resumed when they came down the far side and began skipping into the alley.

  “Hurry!” Fillen said, who was several yards ahead of Mirolah. She held out her hand. “It’s getting dark. We won’t be able to see enough to get home if you keep dawdling like that!”

  Mirolah laughed. “I could find my way home from the market in my sleep,” she said. “I could—”

  A cold wind blew through her. She slowed and turned around, but there was no wind.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked Fillen.

  “What?” Fillen giggled and walked back a few paces to stand next to her.

  “The wind.”

  “I don’t know. Why? What’s wrong?” Fillen’s laughter vanished.

  Mirolah rubbed her arms. She was cold. Why was she cold? It was warm out. “There was a wind. Did you feel it?”

  “No,” Fillen said. “Mira, you’re scaring me.”

  The alley stretched out empty behind them. A moment ago, it had been warm and friendly. Now there was nothing but shadows and coldness, and it was deathly quiet. The two girls stood alone. The old walls hunched in the darkness like malevolent beasts.

  Another wind passed through her, just as chilling as the first.

  “Oh gods...” Mirolah said, because she hadn’t felt anything on her arms. “Did you feel it?” she whispered, though she knew what Fillen was going to say. There was no wind for Fillen, because this was something unnatural. Mirolah knew it like she knew the moment before the sun rose.”

  Fillen was looking around fearfully at all the shadows. “I don’t like it here, Mira. Let’s go. Let’s go now.”

  A great flapping of wings surrounded them. Mirolah screamed. Fillen screamed. They both spun about and watched the raven settle on the wall above them. Mirolah would swear it was the same raven she had seen earlier, but this close it was enormous. It grabbed the broken stone with one claw then the other as it settled itself. Once it was adjusted, it cocked its head at them and watched. Mirolah looked closer. The raven had ice-blue eyes. She’d never seen a raven with blue eyes before.

  “Mira, let’s go.” Fillen tugged at her hand, but Mirolah was entranced by the bird. It stared right at her.

  “It’s looking at us, Mira! Let’s go!” Fillen begged.

  “Do you see its eyes?” Mirolah murmured.

  “So come back and look at it in the daytime. Please, Mira!”

  “Ravens don’t even fly at night,” Mirolah murmured.

  Fillen’s voice broke. “Mira, I’m really scared!”

  Mirolah nodded dumbly, stepped backward a couple of paces. The raven hopped along the wall, pacing them. That was enough to break the spell. She turned with Fillen and began running down the alley. Suddenly, that chill wind blew through her again, so cold it hurt. She gasped and stumbled. What was that?

  The raven cawed loudly and took flight, following them.

  Jagged walls blurred past like a giant’s teeth as they ran. They dodged around piles of stones and rotting wood. They could both see the light of the main road ahead. It called to them like a mother’s arms. Mirolah craned her neck to find the raven, but the sky was dark now.

  They burst into the light of the main road, gasping and looking around wildly. A lot of people were coming home from the market themselves. A few pushed carts up the wide, packed earth. Mirolah recognized Jarvik, leading his ancient mule.

  She and Fillen stood there breathing heavily, holding each others’ hands tightly.

  “Where did it go?” Fillen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mirolah said. “I don’t care. Let’s go home. I’ll feel better when we’re inside.”

  They started down the street, and Mirolah began to feel normal again. The main street was lit, and the flickering glow of the torches drove her fears away. Mirolah silently reprimanded herself for being scared of a stupid raven.

  “We’re silly,” Mirolah said to her sister. “Look at us, almost grown and screaming because a bird landed near us in the dark. Lawdon will laugh at us.”

  Fillen giggled nervously. “Well,” she said, “it was a big bird.”

  “Next time, let’s hit it with a big rock.”

  “Yes. No more walking into dark streets without a good bag full of rocks.”

  Mirolah smiled and agreed. Fillen skipped a little and Mirolah followed her.

  “Let’s not tell Lawdon,” Fillen said. “He’ll make fun of us.”

  “Yes—” There was a low thump behind Mirolah, and her reply stuck in her throat. The cold wind blew through her again, fierce and shocking. Her hand clenched Fillen’s as she turned them both around.

  In the alley they had just left, a nightmare crouched low against the corner of the building. Its long, black limbs bent at the elbows and knees, and it held itself above the dirt like a spider. Its head was a tiny ball hunched into its shoulders. Thin eyes glowed red in the darkness, and they stared straight at Mirolah. It opened its mouth and rows of needle-like teeth glowed white in the firelight. Saliva dripped from its open mouth and splatted on the ground as it let out a breathy purr.

  Fillen screamed.

  Mirolah envied her. She wanted to scream, wanted to move, but she was transfixed. That thing wasn’t human. It was a monster from stories written long ago about supernatural creatures who had all died long ago.

  Other people on the street ahead of them heard Fillen’s scream, and they turned. Gasps and another scream filled the air.

  The thing leapt from the darkness and bounded toward Mirolah and Fillen.

  Fillen screamed again. They spun together, stumbling over one another as they tried to run away. Fillen twisted her ankle and went down. In the grips of utter panic, Mirolah leapt past her. Fillen wailed in fear. She jumped to her feet only to gasp and go down again.

  Mirolah kept running. That thing was back there. That thing was coming!

  “Gods, Mira! Don’t leave me!” Fillen’s terrified shriek broke through Mirolah’s panic. She skidded to a stop and turned around.

  The thin, black monster had reached Fillen, crouching like a spider and cocking its head as it looked down at her. An insidious purr rolled out of its throat. Fillen sobbed and pushed herself backward, scrabbling in the dirt to get away.

  Somewhere above, a raven cawed loudly.

  The monster reached out one long-fingered hand for Fillen’s leg.

  “Fillen!” Mirolah screamed. “No!” She wanted to help her sister, but her bowels had turned to ice. She couldn’t force herself nearer the monster.

  It snatched Fillen with one hand and dragged her toward itself. Fillen kicked it in its little head, but it was as if she was hitting leather-covered stone.

  The shouts and screams of the villagers behind Mirolah grew louder as more people clustered close in awe.

  The monster’s claw flashed out and sliced open Fillen’s belly. A little breath popped out of her mouth, and her eyes flew open in disbelief. She screamed raggedly, and others on the street screamed with her.

&n
bsp; “No!” Mirolah shouted.

  She pushed back her fear, pushed back the cold feeling. All she could see was the monster and the dark, shiny slash across Fillen’s middle. The buildings faded and the air between her and the monster became brighter. She sent her hate and rage across that bright bridge. The monster looked up. It opened its mouth to her, exposing needle-like teeth. Its saliva dripped onto Fillen’s thigh.

  Mirolah walked toward it with her hands held out. The bright bridge intensified. The cold feeling inside her turned hot. Her face flushed, and her hands tingled.

  The monster crouched lower to the ground, a dark cluster of shiny sticks. The purr deepened to a growl, and it rocked from side to side. Dark red blood welled up from Fillen’s stomach, soaking her dress and leaking into the dirt. She keened and pulled weakly against the monster’s powerful grip.

  Mirolah struck at the creature across the bright bridge. She imagined a flaming sword slicing it. She imagined a huge boulder bashing it. She imagined fists pummeling it until it let Fillen go.

  The monster flinched and skittered backward, dropping Fillen’s leg. Again, she smote it with her imaginary sword.

  The monster flinched again, but began creeping forward again. This time, it ignored Fillen, its glowing gaze focused on Mirolah.

  She shouted and retreated, pushed at it through the bright bridge between them, trying to hold it, to keep it back.

  It leapt at her.

  “No!” she cried, turning away and throwing up her arms.

  But the claws did not reach her. She turned, breathless, to find the monster struggling mid-air as though caught by an invisible hand. One of the monster’s claws hovered inches from her face, quivering.

  Like a stick marionette, it crashed to the ground in a limp pile, then stood up straight. For the first time, Mirolah realized it looked somewhat like a person; a tall, thin nightmare of a person.

  Cords of thin muscles rippled under the shiny midnight skin as it fought whatever force had taken hold of it. One arm moved shakily across its belly and the other behind the small of its back. The monster growled defiance, but it bent one knee and knelt before her as if she was its queen.