by Sam Bowring
He raised his voice louder.
‘So what will you do, people of Aorn? Will you hide in your houses, waiting for doom to come knocking? Or will you take up arms and fight our foes, be they Warden, or monster, or man, or Unwoven?’
The answering shouts grew in strength and number.
‘We can only come through this as victors if we stand together. So, do we stand together?’
The shouts escalated to a roaring crescendo.
‘Then we fight!’ bellowed Rostigan, raising his sword. ‘By fire and wind, we fight until the world is safe again!’
As his blade directed the roaring heavenwards, Yalenna moved to stand beside him.
‘You didn’t use your gift,’ she said softly.
Rostigan gave a small smile.
‘The message is worthwhile,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have to.’
Yalenna watched the sunset from her room, aggrieved to take note, once again, of the shadowy bruising in the sky as the sun sank away behind the horizon.
After that, she was unsure of what to do with herself. The day’s speechmaking had gone about as well as she had hoped, and she was exhausted after the valleys and peaks of emotion recently traversed. She was, however, too restless for sleep.
She had suggested to Rostigan that they have a drink or five, but he had gone off to be with Tarzi. Otherwise there was a dinner downstairs to commemorate the returning king – not exactly a merry feast, for even Loppolo had the wisdom not to celebrate too lavishly – but she did not in any way want to be there. She went to her quarters in the vague hope that Salarkis would be sitting in an armchair by the window, idly swishing his tail. She thought longingly about Mergan, whose friendship she greatly missed, but he too seemed lost to her.
As night set in, she decided she did not want to be alone in her quarters. They weren’t really hers anyway, just rooms that she had been temporarily allocated. None of the furnishings were to her taste, and the bedspread and curtains were especially hideous. It was someone else’s place, or maybe nobody’s.
She left it.
Making her way downstairs, she could not help but pass the castle dining hall. To her satisfaction, almost relief, there issued forth no raucous laughter, nor even the clink of toasting glasses, but simply the buzz of low conversation. Was Jandryn in there? The thought almost tempted her to poke her head in, but she quickly decided against it.
She nodded to guards as she moved out the castle entrance into the square, in which a few servants still worked clearing up after the crowd. As a tattered piece of paper wafted along the ground, she paused for a moment to admire the particularly pretty breeze that carried it. Its ethereal threads flowed by her like reflected lines of light atop the surface of a river. She cupped a hand and caught them up, sent them twirling peacefully in a new direction. The Priestess of Storms – that was who she had been. Handling the elements was a talent she’d been born with, nothing to do with what she had taken from the Spell, and using it caused no corruption. She should remember that more often, she decided.
She crossed the square and entered the barracks dining hall. Kitchenhands moved along tables clearing up plates, and it seemed like dinner was mostly over. That said, there were still plenty of soldiers about, for two ale barrels stood against the wall and mugs were held in every hand. Most of the soldiers clustered about the fireplace at the far end of the room, listening to Tarzi telling some tale. As their bodies shifted, for a moment Yalenna saw Rostigan seated amidst them, looking constrained at best. The image Yalenna had brought with her, of her and him and maybe Tarzi sitting together sharing a companionable meal and pleasant conversation, faded.
‘Priestess.’
It was Jandryn, coming towards her from the ale barrels. As he spoke, several others noticed her too, and she wished he had been quieter with his greeting. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract Tarzi, and Yalenna found she was pleased to see the captain. He glanced at the brimming mug in his hand, seeming unsure what to do about it.
‘Honestly, Jandryn,’ she said, ‘you look like a puppy caught chewing the rug. Do you think I’d object to you taking a drink?’
‘Er … no, my lady. I just don’t want to be … disrespectful … on this troubled day.’
She quirked an eyebrow. ‘I tell you what I’d find disrespectful – having to stand here much longer without being offered a drink myself.’
He managed somehow to simultaneously start and look relieved.
‘Right away, my lady!’
As he strode off on his new mission, Yalenna took in a few snatches of Tarzi’s story. The minstrel was recounting the battle of Ilduin Fields, which featured Rostigan as the skull-crushing hero. No wonder he appeared so uncomfortable! When he glanced over and spotted Yalenna, evidently she was all the excuse he needed. He rose, trying to be as undisruptive as possible as he worked his way through the listeners. Despite his efforts, everyone, Tarzi included, noted his departure … but she just smiled, and her hand gestures grew more expansive until she held everyone’s attention once more.
‘Let us move away a little,’ he said when he reached her side. ‘I grow tired of hearing my own name spoken.’
He led her to a seat a couple of tables away. She glanced around for Jandryn, who was returning from the barrels with two mugs. When he saw her sitting with Rostigan, there was a slight flicker in his eyes, but it passed quickly. Yalenna held up three fingers and he nodded, turning back to fetch another mug.
‘Are you hungry?’ Rostigan asked, loud enough for a nearby kitchenhand to hear.
‘I am indeed,’ she said gratefully.
Rostigan nodded at the kitchenhand, who bowed.
‘I’ll see what I can rustle up, my lady,’ he said. ‘It might not be anything fancy.’
‘Good,’ said Yalenna.
‘You know,’ said Rostigan, once the man had left, ‘speaking of food, I’ve been meaning to tell you … I found some curltooth a while back.’
‘Really? I heard that it’s very rare these days. Not rare enough, though, as far as Braston’s poisoners go.’
‘A terrible way to use it,’ agreed Rostigan. ‘Yet let us not forget the purpose we most commonly put it to. Remember the feast we had with King Alcrane, before the eight of us left for the Roshous?’
‘Ah.’ She sat back with a sigh, living for a moment in the happy memory.
‘You’re thinking,’ he said, ‘about something you had it mixed with, aren’t you?’
‘Not what you’d expect, I’m sure.’
‘A succulent piece of meat? An apple pie?’
She smiled. ‘Water.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Water, taken fresh from the spring. Imagine that! Imagine the purest, most refreshing glass of water you’ve ever tasted.’
Rostigan chuckled. ‘I’ll take the steak.’
Jandryn arrived with three frothing mugs.
‘Come, good Captain,’ said Rostigan, sliding over on his bench, ‘have a seat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jandryn, sitting next to Rostigan and handing out the mugs. ‘That’s an impressive tale your lady is spinning.’ He cleared his throat and looked a little worried. ‘I mean, recounting.’
‘I’m sure she adds a twirl or two,’ said Rostigan, with a wink.
‘No doubt … but your exploits are well known, of course – they are history and legend in Althala. It is an honour to drink with you.’
Rostigan gave a little nod. ‘Thank you.’
Now that they all sat there together, Yalenna found it difficult to know what to say. There had always been a structure to her and Jandryn’s interactions, and she found the realm of small talk oddly disconcerting.
Apparently Jandryn had the same problem. ‘I have not heard the official count from the recruit’s camp,’ he offered, ‘but on cursory inspection it does not appear that many have deserted.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘I can’t speak for all but, having heard both of you speak today, I
certainly feel that morale is better than it could be.’
‘The fight is still good,’ said Rostigan. ‘That has not changed.’
‘I have been a little bothered by something, however.’
‘Yes?’
‘We know that Forger is heading for Ander, yet we do not march to stop him?’
Rostigan sighed. ‘We would never get there in time.’
‘Hopefully,’ said Yalenna, ‘Galra or Sortree will stand with their neighbour. Forger may be powerful, but that does not mean he can walk over kingdoms wherever he goes.’
‘And if we set forth over such a distance,’ said Rostigan, ‘we run the risk of being too far away if and when the Unwoven spill forth.’
Jandryn looked glum. ‘It was only a few weeks ago that none of these concerns existed. To face so many at once …’ He stared into his mug. ‘Ah, but there’s no point moping about it.’
Yalenna realised she hadn’t had even a sip of the drink she’d been craving all evening, and quickly made up for lost time. When she put the mug down the men across the table looked equally surprised and amused. She had quaffed quite a lot at once, perhaps.
‘Come,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to think about these things for a couple of hours at least.’
The men glanced at each other and nodded.
‘Tell me, Jandryn,’ she said, ‘today you mentioned you were a noble. I had not realised. Who are your family?’
‘Our lands are across the Lumin to the west, some three towns’ worth, and the pastures between. My parents are Lord and Lady Stead, noble on my mother’s side, my father being a soldier – he was with you, Skullrender, when you fought on the Ilduin.’
‘I thank him then.’
‘Unfortunately, he took an injury to the leg, after which he could march no longer. Lucky for him, he’d already met my mother.’ Jandryn smiled, and Yalenna wondered if it was the first time she had seen him do so. ‘They do not often come to court,’ he continued, ‘taking the view, unlike some in their position, that they should be available to the folk who elevate them. As for me, I am here by my father’s will. He believes that too many nobles spend their time drinking wine in the afternoon, while trying to outdo each other’s pithy comments, rather than serve in an actual role. Maybe it is his soldier’s blood, which I am glad to share.’
At this point the kitchenhand returned with a plate of steaming vegetables and a side of meat. Yalenna thanked him and may bugs that bite find other people tastier than you went into him. She did not notice however, for the smell of food was making her aware of just how famished she really was.
‘I haven’t had a meal in weeks!’ she exclaimed, picking up her knife and fork.
Jandryn’s eyebrows shot up. ‘But my lady, we ate together a few nights ago.’ He immediately went red and glanced sideways at Rostigan. ‘Er … I mean, I was present while you were served dinner.’
For his part, Rostigan remained blank. ‘As I’m not a Warden,’ he said, ‘I cannot guess what the Priestess means.’
Yalenna did not feel like explaining that, while time had been frozen, she had been without food for the equivalent of weeks, because she wanted to be eating instead. Luckily Tarzi arrived, her story evidently told, the crowd at the room’s far end now dispersing. Yalenna used the distraction to get a laden forkful into her mouth.
‘How did you go, songbird?’ said Rostigan.
‘Good. You saw me.’
‘I did, I did.’
Tarzi yawned. ‘I’m tired though.’
Yalenna knew she was swallowing too fast, but she could not stop. Since the long night had ended, all she’d had to eat was a single biscuit – that’s right, she remembered, that stupid pink-icing fop of a biscuit, in Loppolo’s chambers the day before! Then, after she and Rostigan had spent a long time planning the speeches, she had collapsed exhausted into bed without any dinner. Why had it taken this long for her to realise how voracious she was? Maybe her hunger had been lying dormant, necessarily forgotten in order for her to keep functioning. It made her think of Mergan – if this was how she felt after mere weeks of deprivation, what kind of appetite had awoken in him after three hundred years?
All too soon the plate was empty and she slumped back with a sigh. Opposite her Jandryn sipped his ale, trying to appear as if he had not been watching. He could not hide, however, a slight tweak at the edge of his mouth.
‘Now I really do believe you haven’t eaten in weeks,’ he said.
‘Where are the others?’ she asked, wiping her mouth, for they were nowhere to be seen.
Jandryn failed to keep back a grin, for a moment looking impossibly boyish. ‘I think you scared them off.’
Yalenna blushed – she had wolfed down her dinner in a very unladylike fashion.
‘Do not fear,’ said Jandryn, ‘I only jest – they were exhausted and left for bed. They did say goodbye, but I don’t think you heard them over the sound of your own gnashing.’
His eyes twinkled, and she laughed.
She eyed the kitchen door – the truth was she could do with a second helping, but she decided not to subject him to that. Instead, she returned to her ale, which she attempted to sip in a more controlled fashion.
She was beginning to feel wide awake. The meal had done her wonders, while everyone else was fading. Even Jandryn seemed tired, his stifled yawns failing to hide a tell-tale darkening under his eyes. She felt the looming threat of solitude, and foresaw herself restlessly wandering the halls of a slumbering castle.
She decided she did not want such a future for herself.
Jandryn gave a small cough. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, my lady? I know you said you didn’t want to talk about important matters …’
‘Go on.’
‘About Rostigan – you took him with you when you went to fight Despirrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I know I’m not a proven hero like him but, well, if ever you wish me to, I would be honoured to fight with you. For you.’
Yalenna smiled. She did not tell him that she could never take a mortal man threadwalking, for that was the lie they had told to explain how Rostigan had accompanied her and Braston to Saphura.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Then; ‘Come, it is late. Let us walk back to the castle together, shall we?’
They were within sight of the castle entrance, passing beneath an ornamental tree that looked a little bent out of shape. Jandryn was chatting away about something, but Yalenna wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about what Rostigan had said to her, about not being afraid to live in the hours that were her own, and also about the dangers lurking ahead. Having died once already she felt drawn towards opportunities she had ignored the last time.
Jandryn wouldn’t object, she was sure. Perhaps he would be surprised, and that was fine … but since he would never initiate anything himself, she guessed, or at least take a thousand years to work up the courage, really it was up to her. Hers to take, if she wished.
So she pulled him into the shadows and kissed him.
THE TRANQUIL DALE
Hidden in the dark of the Spire antechamber, Salarkis put together his disguise.
Having found nothing else of use, he spent the better part of the night working on the only material available to him – himself. It was a tricky and sometimes painful business to rearrange his own pattern, yet it was the best idea he had been able to come up with. Turning his attention and influence inwards – even though the adjustments were small and superficial – was like trying to make a bed while standing on it. Still, he had been good at disguises before the change and his native skills remained.
First he took up multitudes of the infinitesimal threads within his hair – one per strand, a thread within a thread – and stretched them out until his curls were limp and lank. He then proceeded to tighten his skin by drawing it in, constricting it over his muscles and bones to give him the same smooth, gaunt appearance of the Unwoven. Changing his colour required greater fin
esse. He gathered up those threads that gave him pigment, and pulled them back under the surface until he was left a sickly, pallid grey. The inside of his mouth was the worst, which had to be white to complete the effect. He achieved it in the same way as his skin, but his tongue and throat felt scratchy and dry, as if they had been sanded back. All changes he tied to one knot in the centre of his chest, to hold them in place. He felt sure that, at least physically, he could now pass for an Unwoven. Still, he wished he had a mirror, and trying to see his reflection in the dull gleam of a dagger catching scant moonlight through the doorway proved nothing but frustrating.
The final touch was his belt, which he unspun and put together again to create a semblance of ‘pants’, which were, in fact, many thin strands hanging downwards like a kind of tattered skirt. As he fixed it about his waist, he might have found it comical were it not for his dire situation. From what he had seen of the mismatched rags the Unwoven wore, however, the strange garment would not draw attention – in fact, he could probably leave the Spire completely naked if he chose.
He fell to worrying about his daggers – hidden in the top of his skirt, they rubbed against him in dangerous ways, and the thought of carrying them in his hands seemed unnecessarily aggressive. Reluctantly, he discarded them.
Any half-decent threader would be able to detect the alterations he had made, but thankfully there were none among the Unwoven. This was fortunate, for if they scried him out, Salarkis would have a hard time fighting them off. Sheer numbers aside, Regret had created his children to be robust; their patterns were deep and hard to see, harder still to manipulate, with threads that sprang easily back into shape.
Simply walk through, he thought, staring down the length of the Dale – maybe two or three leagues to freedom?
Changing himself had taken longer than he would have liked, and morning light was just creeping into the Dale. He wished he still had the cover of darkness – given the Unwoven were everywhere except inside the Spire, walking out of it in plain view would instantly arouse suspicion. He could wait for the following night, he supposed, but the thought made him even more anxious. His skin prickled uncomfortably, and he was impatient to see if he could get away with his plan.
