Wildmane: Threadweavers, Book 1

by Todd Fahnestock

  She couldn’t believe her eyes. Behind her, the raven cawed, and that cold shiver went through her. Mirolah whipped her head around. The big black bird perched on a nearby building, watching the monster. It turned its gaze to her.

  The monster dropped to a crouch, in control of itself once more. It considered Mirolah, but did not threaten her or Fillen, who crawled pitifully away, leaving a thick trail of blood. The monster let out a purr, then turned and bounded into an alley.

  Somewhere above, the raven cawed again, but when Mirolah looked for it, it was gone.

  16

  Mirolah

  Mirolah couldn’t hear anything. It felt like time had stopped, and she stood stunned, watching the alley where the monster had gone. Her thoughts hung in her mind like winter breath, unmoving. It couldn’t be real. None of this was real.

  Then she turned and saw her sister lying in a pool of blood.

  Sounds returned in a crashing cacophony: the shouts of the villagers, the movement of frantic bodies, horses whinnying.

  Mirolah wailed and crashed to her knees next to her sister. “Fillen!”

  Fillen had turned on her stomach to crawl away from the monster. Her feet pushed, trying to move her body forward, but she couldn’t. Her lips drained blood onto the street, and she blinked against the dirt. “Mira,” she croaked.

  “Gods, Fillen! Oh no. Oh no. No no...”

  “It hurts, Mira...”

  Mirolah could barely hear her sister’s words over the growing din of the villagers behind her, clustering near.

  “Oh Fillen. Oh gods... I’m so sorry.”

  “I feel it now, Mira. The cold wind. It’s so...” Fillen’s lips stopped moving. The blood stopped coming. Her eyes turned glassy.

  Mirolah couldn’t breathe. She gasped, but she couldn’t get enough air.

  “Please, no. No, no. We’ll fix it,” she sobbed. She grabbed Fillen’s hand and squeezed, rocking back and forth on her knees, crying as the fingers turned cold. “It’ll all be all right...”

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, crying. The crowd thickened around her. Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm and hauled her roughly to her feet. She turned to stare into the gruff and angry countenance of Michin the baker.

  “What did you do?” Michin said. “What kind of nightmare did you bring down on us?”

  She looked at him in a daze. “My-my sister...” She looked at the faces around her. Fear. Shock. Anger. Everyone was glaring at her.

  “The monster did your bidding. How did you do that?”

  What Michin was saying sank in.

  “What? No,” she protested. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “She controlled it!” A woman’s high shriek rose from the din of noises. “It bowed to her. You all saw it bow to her.”

  Mirolah stepped back, but Michin didn’t let her go. He clutched her so hard it hurt. Mirolah looked down at his grip, then up into his face. He was afraid. Afraid of her.

  The throng of villagers pressed closer. Mirolah saw faces she knew, but none were friendly.

  “It bowed to you, like you were its master,” Michin said, shaking her.

  “It wasn’t me,” she cried. “I just... I just tried to stop—”

  “It’s GodSpill,” old Jarvik growled. “Actual, damnable GodSpill. She’s a rot bringer. I knew it. I heard tales of her brother. He was a rot bringer, too. She’s got the same.”

  The woman’s high voice cut in again. “You all saw her!”

  Someone grabbed Mirolah’s other arm and pulled her around. The shrill woman’s face came close to her own.

  “What did you do? You’ve brought an evil down on us.”

  “No!”

  “What should we do?” Michin asked. “If we let her go, what if she just calls it back?”

  “I didn’t bring that thing!” She yanked her arm, but Michin held tight. Mirolah began crying. “That’s my sister!”

  “We’ll take her before the council, and they’ll rope her,” he said.

  Suddenly, Michin gasped as someone cuffed him on the back of the head. His grip faltered on Mirolah’s arms. Lawdon knocked Michin’s hands away, growling as he shoved the baker back into the crowed. Lawdon draped a protective arm around Mirolah’s shoulders.

  “What’s going on here?” His booming voice cut through the din. “You bloodthirsty fools!” The shouting crowd quieted. “This is my daughter...”

  Lawdon’s gaze fell on Fillen’s body. It seemed to knock the wind out of him, but then he turned his fierce gaze back on the crowd. “Call the night watchman,” he demanded as he guided Mirolah through the angry faces.

  The villagers mumbled to themselves. A young man broke from the throng and ran off in the direction of the guardhouse. No one moved to stop Lawdon as he led Mirolah away.

  Neither of them spoke as he brought her back home, which was only a few houses away. All the girls were in the dining room, staring out the two large windows at the crowd in the street. Tiffienne stood nervously by the door. She led Mirolah to the dining table and sat her down.

  Tiffienne’s hands absently wrung an old dishrag as she looked at Lawdon. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  Lawdon’s voice, so powerful and commanding a moment ago, was quiet. “I don’t know. I’m going back to find out. Stay here and don’t let anybody in. There’s madness in the air. Get Mirolah upstairs; get her cleaned up. She’s been through something, though I’ll be damned if I know what. We’ll have that later.”

  He glanced at Mirolah, who sat at the far side of the dinner table, staring unblinkingly at her folded hands. She looked up at him. He was uncertain, maybe even afraid of her like the other villagers. Just like the refugees had been afraid of Dorn.

  She put her head in her hands and cried. She could hear Lawdon talking to Tiffienne.

  “I’m going,” he said gruffly. “Remember what I told you.”

  Tiffienne said nothing, and Mirolah looked up when she heard Tiffienne close the door and bolt it.

  “Come along, Mirolah,” she said, smiling as though it was time to do the laundry. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Mirolah meekly followed her upstairs.

  Tiffienne sat her on the bed. Casra and Locke peered into the doorway of the girls’ shared room, but didn’t say anything.

  Tiffienne continued to speak to Mirolah in quiet, calm tones. Her voice was a mother’s voice, ever patient, ever loving.

  But she hadn’t seen what happened. She hadn’t seen Fillen stiffen in a pool of her own blood. She hadn’t seen the monster. If she had, would she be so gentle with Mirolah? Or would she have the same look that the villagers had, that Lawdon tried so hard not to have?

  “What happened?” Locke asked timidly from the doorway. “Where’s Fillen?”

  “Best you keep your curiosity to yourself,” Tiffienne snapped. “If you’re so bored you can linger in doorways, go put some water on to boil and bring a basin full up here. Quickly now.”

  Locke and Casra flinched like she’d hit them with a whip. They vanished from the doorway.

  Tiffienne turned her attention back to Mirolah. “Give me that shirt, Mira. It’s filthy.”

  Mirolah pulled her tunic over her head.

  “I didn’t do it,” she said meekly as she pulled her hands out of the bloody sleeves. “What they said I did. I didn’t do it.”

  “Well of course you didn’t.” Tiffienne took the tunic and tossed it onto the floor.

  Mirolah closed her eyes and a sob escaped her. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” she whispered.

  The bed creaked as Tiffienne settled herself next to Mirolah. She put her large, warm arm over Mirolah’s bare shoulder and pulled the girl close to her. “I don’t have to see everything you do to know what kind of person you are,” she said. “I’ve not seen you lie yet, Mira. I see no reason to believe you’d start making things up now. I don’t care what happened or what anyone thinks you did. If you say you didn’t do
it, then that’s the truth as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need to know any more than that.”

  Mirolah wished it was that simple. She wished she could take comfort from her words, but Tiffienne didn’t know everything, and despite what she said, Mirolah knew her face would change when she began to hear the accusations. Just like Lawdon’s had. Concern. Fear. How long before those turned to anger? The jump from fear to violence was such a short distance.

  Mirolah’s mind raced. How had she made the monster go away? Was it really her? She didn’t think so. She had felt something when the air lightened between her and the monster. She’d stung the monster, but that was all. She hadn’t made it bow to her. Something else had done that. If Mirolah had to guess, she would say it was the raven somehow. But even as she said that in the quiet of her mind, it sounded stupid. She could only imagine how ridiculous it would sound if she said it aloud.

  Locke and Casra returned with the water, and Tiffienne made Mirolah undress and clean herself up. Soon, she had her nightdress on and felt a little better. Tiffienne told her to lie down and close her eyes. Just as she began to relax, she heard Lawdon’s voice outside. The girls unbolted the front door. It opened and closed quickly, and was bolted just as fast. Lawdon’s heavy boots clumped up the stairs.

  Mirolah sat up. Lawdon’s tall, thin frame filled the doorway. The candlelight played off his grim features, carving deep shadows in the furrowed brow, the tight-lipped mouth.

  “Better get dressed again, Mirolah.”

  “Why?” Tiffienne stood up. “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “They’re bringing the magistrate. They want...” he cut himself off and glanced at Mirolah. “They want her.”

  Mirolah’s heart constricted, and she cringed against the headboard of her little bed.

  “Now, don’t worry,” he said. “They aren’t here yet. That mob’s going to have to go through me and a thick oak cudgel if they want in my house.”

  “By the gods, what’s happened?” Tiffienne finally asked. “What’s it all about?”

  He swallowed, his face drawn and pale. “Damned if I know. People are talking stupid. I told you. Everyone is chattering about some monster.” He paused. “And...”

  “And what?” Tiffienne asked pointedly.

  “Fillen is dead.”

  Tiffienne’s face went white. She started to look at Mirolah, but stopped herself. Stiffly, she stood. “Well...” She swallowed. “We have business. We will mourn the dear child later. Right now, we take care of the others.”

  “Anyway, I think it would be best if we got you ready to leave, just in case,” Lawdon said.

  “Leave?” Mirolah asked in a tiny voice.

  He paused and gave her a tight smile. “No, not with them, girl. I wouldn’t give those fools a broken tile, much less my own daughter. We may have to hide you away somewhere else for a couple of days, until there’s enough time to knock some sense into their heads.”

  Mirolah shuddered in relief and clung to Tiffienne.

  “Don’t you worry, girl,” he continued. “Things will look different tomorrow. People think better in the light of day. We just need to keep them away from you tonight. I don’t know why they’ve latched onto the idea that it’s your fault, but they have. That’ll fade when they have time to think about their own idiocy in the light of day.”

  A great knocking boomed on the downstairs door.

  “That’d be them.” Lawdon said grimly. “Get dressed. Quickly, now.” He left the room.

  Mirolah quickly pulled on a clean tunic and a long skirt. Tiffienne stood nervously between her and the door to the girls’ room. Downstairs, Lawdon had opened the front door and his voice was low as he talked. Mirolah wished she could hear what he was saying.

  She had just reached for her shoes when the voices began to rise. Lawdon almost yelled, something about not setting foot in his house. Two other voices spoke back in harsh tones.

  Clutching her shoes in her hand, Mirolah moved past Tiffienne and stood in the stairway. The stairs slanted downward before her, dark and forbidding for the first time in her life.

  “We have witnesses,” a stranger’s voice said. “Now you let us in to take the girl, and we’ll go peacefully. You stand in our way, and we’ll move you. This is the magistrate, for Thalius’s sake! Don’t make it difficult, Lawdon. It’s the law!”

  “You’re not marching into my house and taking my daughter and calling it law, you pack of mongrels,” Lawdon snarled.

  The talking ceased. Mirolah heard a grunt. The door banged against its casing. A couple of the girls screamed. Lawdon roared, and there was a smacking noise then the sound of someone hitting the floor. Downstairs erupted into chaos, thudding, banging, people hitting one another. Men and girls shouting, crying.

  Tiffienne rushed past her and down the stairs. Mirolah followed slowly, one step at a time. She felt like she was walking through thick honey. She couldn’t make herself go faster. It was as if this was an old story whose end had already been written. There was no haste in her because she knew she was doomed. They had come for her, and, just as they took her brother, they would take her. After what seemed an eternity, she reached the bottom of the stairs and beheld the scene.

  Four men squirmed on top of a struggling Lawdon. His face was battered and bleeding, but he cursed them and spat at them even though they had his legs and hands pinned. Two other men lay sprawled on the floor. One was moving slowly, trying to crawl to his knees and the other lay still across the huge carpet. The dinner table was at a wild angle and the chairs were scattered everywhere, as were her sisters. Yehnie ran past Mirolah and scampered up the steps, crying.

  Locke and Shera stood atop the table as if there were an army of roaches on the floor. Dederi and Cisly cringed against the hearth. Mi’Gan stood in the center of the room, within striking distance of the one man who was still standing, screaming at him to stop hurting her daddy. Her little fists were clenched so hard they were white. Casra emerged from the kitchen with a huge skillet clenched tightly in her hands. Tiffienne’s face was white and drawn, but she kept her composure. She walked calmly up behind Mi’Gan and put gentle hands on her shoulders.

  “Calm down, child. It will be all right,” Tiffienne said in a shaking voice. “Come away now.”

  “Let go of my daddy!” Mi’Gan screamed again.

  “Come away now, Meg,” Tiffienne repeated. With a suspicious scowl at the standing man, Mi’Gan allowed herself to be led away. Lawdon continued struggling, calling them every foul name Mirolah had ever heard and some she’d never heard.

  Mirolah watched as if in a dream. The standing man looked up, and his eyes locked on her. He was the magistrate. Mirolah had seen him before. He was tall and wide in the shoulders. His hands were very large, and they looked like they could bend a horseshoe. He had a square face and a short beard on his chin. The muscles in his jaw were clenched, and his brow was furrowed. He didn’t seem angry, but neither was he afraid. He looked like a man who would be denied nothing.

  That brightness in the air that had connected Mirolah to the monster began to form between her and the magistrate. She could hear his heart beat. She could hear the blood rushing in his veins. Determination radiated out from him, and his gaze went from one sister to the other, but settled on Mirolah with confidence.

  Seeing her foster father beneath the magistrate’s men, seeing what they had done to her house, Mirolah wanted to lash out at the magistrate as she had the monster. Her desire coiled like a snake, and she felt it ready to strike.

  “Are you the girl?” the magistrate asked in a deep voice.

  She readied herself. If they were going to condemn her for this curse she bore, she would let them taste it. If they were going to hurt her family, she would hurt them back.

  The magistrate seemed to feel her rage. His eyes widened a little, and he took an involuntary step back. Mirolah felt fear come from him now.

  She paused. Something within her rebelled, and her rag
e fled. What was she going to do? What did she think she could do? The slap she had delivered the monster had been nothing, had not even slowed it. Even if she could hurt the magistrate, how could she possibly stop all of them? And what would happen to her family if she fought them? Mirolah suddenly realized that the best way to protect her family was to leave with the magistrate. They would have no reason to be here if not for her. They would leave her family alone if she went with them.

  The brightness faded, and she let out a slow breath. The room was silent except for Lawdon’s unceasing struggles. She thought of Fillen, looked at Lawdon being crushed by the four men who held him down.

  I won’t let another one of my family come to harm.

  “Let him go,” she said softly. “And I’ll go with you.”

  17

  Mirolah

  The dark, hard cell leaned in on Mirolah from all sides. Her bed was a board jammed into the wall and held up by two chains bolted into the stone. There was a thin blanket and a sack stuffed with straw for a pillow. Mirolah sat on the cot with her knees curled up to her chin and stared through the bars.

  She didn’t know how late it was. Hours or minutes could have passed since they brought her here, and she wouldn’t know the difference. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep because the guardsmen were talking.

  Talking about Mirolah’s death.

  According to witnesses, she had summoned the blackened, vicious creature from some far-off land or another dimension and made it kill her sister. She would surely hang in the morning as a murderer, a bringer of bad spirits, just as Mad Meekie had hung last year for casting the spell on that pregnant woman who shortly afterward had a miscarriage.

  They knew she could hear them, and they didn’t care. In their minds, she wasn’t a person anymore. She was a thing. A wielder of GodSpill. A rot bringer An enemy of every villager in Rith.