by Sam Bowring
Her first thought was that, in her unconsciousness, she’d healed herself against her own will … but that would mean only hours had passed, and she did not recognise any of these faces. Also, the statue of herself loomed overhead, its gaze calmly incinerating all hope of such a simple explanation. The sight of it confounded her, like a dream image she could not make sense of.
One of the bolder acolytes, a young brown-haired woman, came forward. ‘Excuse me, but are you … do you need help?’
‘No,’ said Yalenna. As she rose to her feet there came a murmur of adulation from the crowd. She massaged the cheek she had awoken lying on, trying to focus. ‘Who is in charge here?’
‘I am the … er …’ The girl faltered, her hazel eyes cast downwards for a moment. Then she found her backbone, and stood up straight. ‘I am Priestess Arah.’
Yalenna was surprised. Then again, she supposed, she had been no older herself when she had become Priestess. Even now she probably looked the same age as Arah, as she had done ever since the change.
‘Make way, make way!’
An older man with frizzy hair shoved through the crowd to Arah’s side. He stared in amazement at Yalenna, his eyes flickering from her to the statue behind. Then his gaze narrowed and he reached toward her, his influence closing over her pattern. As it tightened, instinctively she flexed, soundly rejecting his invisible grasp.
‘Harren!’ said Arah. ‘What are you doing?’
‘She must be someone in disguise. And yet,’ his eyes pierced her as if he searched for some hidden truth, ‘she has substantial power, to break free of me so easily.’
‘I am Yalenna,’ she said, bristling at the note of defensiveness that crept into her voice.
‘Did anyone see her arrive?’ demanded Harren, of those gathered. ‘Surely someone must have?’
Heads shook, looks bounced about, but no one replied.
Harren refocused on her. ‘How did you get here?’
Yalenna found she did not like his prodding, his questions … his impudence. In that moment, though, she could not force out the answer.
I do not know. I do not know.
‘I knew it was a sign,’ Harren muttered. ‘When the sky went dark did I not say, it is a sign of things gone wrong?’
That got Yalenna’s full attention. Her eyes must have blazed, for Harren’s fingers gave a twitch in readiness as if he feared she would assail him.
‘What,’ Yalenna said, ‘do you mean by that?’
‘Pardon me?’ said Harren carefully.
‘What happened to the sky?’
Three hundred years.
Yalenna sat quietly reeling from the discovery that she had been … dead? – or simply gone? – for that long.
‘Have you come to …’ Arah paused, managing to look vulnerable in her intimidating large marble seat, ‘to lead us again, my lady?’
They were in an airy chamber at a stone table, beneath a high domed roof. Yalenna remembered the room well; she had given many audiences here herself, and little had changed since. Despite her own worries, the uncertain look on Arah’s face moved her to compassion. The girl must only recently have been made Priestess, and well did Yalenna remember the courage that took. Yet to Arah, it probably seemed like the task she had built herself up for was about to be taken away.
‘I’m not here to supplant you,’ Yalenna said. ‘You were chosen by the elements, were you not?’
‘Yes, my lady. Of course.’
‘Then you are Priestess, as has always been the way.’
Harren, who stood by Arah’s shoulder, looked irritated by the exchange.
‘There is nothing you can tell us,’ he said, ‘about how … why … you have returned?’
His tone implied he considered his question dubious.
‘Nothing but guesswork,’ said Yalenna. ‘My threads should have rejoined the Spell when I sacrificed myself.’ That had been the entire purpose of doing it. ‘Tell me, good Harren, have you heard of anything like this happening before?’
He frowned. ‘Not specifically. Not with individual people, anyway. Some have conjectured about reoccurrence – a plant or animal thought lost to the world has on occasion reappeared, as if the Spell decided its pattern should be reinstated. But we cannot know for sure if that’s what really happened. It may simply be that a thing was not seen for a time, staying hidden in the quieter corners of the world, until it could re-establish itself.’
Yalenna sighed. ‘Tell me, then, about the failing daylight.’
‘It was just as described in the legends of Regret … and the Wardens.’ He eyed her closely, maybe waiting for her to slip up in some way, to reveal some lie. ‘The day fell dark for a few moments, as if a hand had closed over the sun.’
‘So, the corruption persists.’
‘It is hard to say. There are sometimes things about the world that seem … odd. Yet never to the same extent as during the rule of the Wardens.’
‘Braston and I killed the Wardens, including ourselves, in order to give back what we had taken. Did it work at all? Is the Wound closed?’
Harren and Arah glanced at each other.
‘We aren’t sure,’ said Arah. ‘No one gets into the Tranquil Dale and lives to report back.’
‘So the Unwoven still reside there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even after all this time? No one has tried to finish them? Or cure them?’
Harren scoffed, and Arah shook her head.
‘It’s suicide to enter that place. There are occasional rumours that the Wound has been seen, mainly from Plainsfolk foolhardy enough to venture into the Roshous Peaks. If it’s there, it is low enough in the sky to be blocked from outside sight by the surrounding mountains.’
Yalenna felt sick. ‘It was all for nothing. I convinced Braston to end his life for no reason.’
‘I would not say that,’ said Arah. ‘With the Wardens and their magic gone, most of the corruption ceased – the earthquakes, the strange births, the skies.’
‘Yalenna and Braston’s sacrifice,’ said Harren, ‘is remembered as an act of great compassion.’
Yalenna noted the non-committal use of her name.
‘That may be the case,’ she said, ‘but our ultimate aim was to heal the Spell for good. We hoped, when we released our threads, they would go behind the veil and the Wound would close.’
‘Maybe that’s why you’re back?’ said Arah. ‘To finish what you started? The Spell surely wants to be healed. Maybe you’re being given a second chance?’
Yalenna stared at Arah uncertainly. Young she might be, but there was something about her sincerity and innocence that made Yalenna fear her explanation was the truth, or came close to it. The Spell was ever mysterious – who knew what it could do?
‘Let us not run a hundred leagues with this, Priestess,’ Harren said to Arah. ‘We do not know for sure that this is really Yalenna.’
‘Still your tongue,’ said Arah. ‘You examined her yourself and found no trace of disguise.’
Yalenna was glad to see strength in the girl. Perhaps Arah did not recognise it in herself yet but to Yalenna it was clear as day. Harren, for his part, looked momentarily taken aback.
They heard the sound of running feet, and a young man burst through the room’s marble archway. He came up short, blinking around, excited yet also intimidated.
‘Er … pardon my intrusion …’
Harren seemed grateful for someone to snap at. ‘Don’t stand there like a slack-jawed ninny, Kor. What is it?’
‘I … er …’
‘Step forward!’ barked Harren. ‘Speak clearly! Has a message come?’
Kor bobbed his head. ‘Yes, master … my lady … ladies.’ He swallowed. ‘From Althala. It says … it says that Braston has returned!’
‘Braston?’ Yalenna was incredulous. Why hadn’t she thought to ask about the others? Then again, she had suffered quite a shock and did not feel in full command of her faculties. Yet if Braston had come ba
ck, maybe others had too? Cold thoughts froze her, visions of Forger, Stealer, Despirrow and Salarkis birthed again into the world.
Harren, after his initial surprise, advanced on Kor. ‘Are you sure? What were the exact words?’
Kor cringed a little under the scrutiny. ‘“Let it be known,”’ he said, ‘“that this very morning, King Braston returned to Althala from the dead, to reclaim the throne and lead his people once again.”’
Harren rubbed his chin furiously, whispering something to himself. Then he grabbed Kor by the front of his robe. ‘This message – what of its angle, its trajectory? You’re sure it came from Althala?’
‘Yes, master! From the castle itself.’
Harren turned slowly to Yalenna with a look of grave concern.
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I have been reticent to trust but surely you must understand why. Or perhaps this is some strangely elaborate hoax, designed for a purpose I cannot guess at.’
‘I assure you,’ said Yalenna, ‘it is no hoax.’
‘Out, Kor,’ said Harren, waving the young man away. He returned to the table, to sit beside Arah this time, albeit in a much smaller chair.
‘What can it mean?’ said Arah, asking the unanswerable for all of them.
Yalenna barely heard her. ‘What of the other Wardens?’ she asked. ‘Has there been any news of them?’
‘What?’ Arah’s face was pale. ‘No, we’ve heard nothing on that count. The Spell would not punish us with their presence, surely?’
‘What about Mergan or Karrak? At the time of my death, they had both disappeared. Did they ever show themselves again?’
‘No, my lady.’
Dead, she and Braston had decided, after searching for a long time. Neither of those two had been in the habit of vanishing without a trace. Karrak would not simply up and leave his empire, his slave trains, his skies full of crows. And Mergan would not forsake the friendship he had shared with her and Braston. Perhaps they had killed each other – a theory certainly borne by their mutual animosity – but, if they had indeed died, did that mean they were back now too?
‘I must go to Braston.’
Even as she said it, she realised she did not have the strength. She was hungry, tired, and her head felt full of dead leaves. She had intended to threadwalk – a rare skill possessed by only the most powerful of threaders – but did not think she could summon the necessary concentration.
‘What do you need, my lady?’ Harren asked. ‘We could have some of the temple guards accompany you, or –’
‘I need nothing,’ said Yalenna, ‘though I thank you for the offer. I do not think, however, that I can leave this very instant. I should perhaps spend the night, take some food and rest.’
‘You shall have everything you require,’ said Arah. ‘Though if you would like to stay a little longer, maybe even address our acolytes? I know it would mean so much to them – your memory is a great source of pride for the temple.’
‘No, no.’ Yalenna shook her head, Arah’s request making her stomach turn. Earnest faces, looking to her for wisdom? What could I say to them when I’ve no idea what’s going on?
She would not leave Arah with nothing, however, she decided. Although not one to use her powers lightly, she did not think that a little more threading would greatly affect whatever was happening in the wider world. She reached to touch Arah’s hand, and the girl tensed, but did not withdraw. Yalenna shaped a blessing for her, and released it into her pattern.
May you know your own strength.
‘There,’ she said warmly, finding there was still joy in giving. ‘You are blessed, Priestess Arah.’
Harren watched intently, and for a moment his face softened, revealing a certain fondness for his young leader. Yalenna found herself forgiving his reservations – perhaps she would have reacted the same way had some long dead person appeared on her temple floor for no apparent reason.
‘And you, friend Harren,’ she said, blowing him a little something too.
May birds never release their contents on your head.
Harren’s eyebrows shot up – he had no way of knowing what she had given him, but seemed quite pleased nonetheless. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘thank you. But, my lady, I would council you to be judicious in using your magic.’
‘It hardly matters now,’ said Yalenna. ‘I cannot stop the blessings that spring from me. The most I can do is shape them to my choosing.’
Harren nodded. ‘But you are exhausted, my lady. Perhaps it’s time for you to rest?’
‘In good time. First you must tell me more about what has happened in Aorn, in my absence.’
The Temple of Storms was built on the very edge of a vast expanse of desert, where runs of grass sent hopeful expeditions out into the sand. It was as peaceful a place as Yalenna remembered, where threaders who specialised in working with the elements devoted themselves to living in harmony with the Spell. For a moment she looked back at the bulbous white buildings, imagining her life as it might have been had she continued on as Priestess. She would have taught acolytes to wrestle the wind, channel the sun, send rain where it was needed – to work always with the Spell, using its gifts for the betterment of humanity. It would have been a worthwhile existence, and long finished with by now. Instead, Mergan – her old master from the threading school at Althala – had turned up shortly after she’d been made Priestess, and asked her to accompany him in ridding the world of Regret. How things had changed for her that day.
‘I can make my own way from here,’ Yalenna said, turning to her companions.
Arah looked crestfallen, but Harren was more stoic. He had proven a reliable font of recent history, speaking to her well into the previous night – until she’d had to lie down and black out – although it seemed that, on the whole, little had changed while she had been gone.
‘I wish I could stay,’ she told Arah. ‘Really, I do.’ She clasped the girl’s shoulders, and kissed her on the brow.
‘The artisans did a good job,’ said Harren, ‘of capturing your beauty, my lady.’
Yalenna smiled. ‘You know where I travel to,’ she said, ‘if you need to send me word.’
She left them to travel eastwards across the patchwork of sand and grass, towards more fertile land. She wanted to be free of onlookers, and walked until there were trees between her and the temple. Kneeling in the shade, she tried to clear her mind, but struggled to focus. She found herself returning again and again to the same intrusive memory, ancient by the world’s standards, yet vivid to her …
On the roof of Regret’s Spire, the mad lord’s unseeing eyes seemed to watch her as his red mop rustled about his head.
Yalenna could not quite believe that he was dead, though she and the other Wardens, now spread out around her, had fought so hard to make him just that. He had been bent on breaking the world, for lunatic reasons he would take to his grave, and they had stopped him – so why did she feel so despondent in victory?
‘Up, Yalenna,’ came Karrak’s voice. She raised her head to see the raven-haired prince extending a hand towards her, soft concern in his eyes. Above him the Wound was open, its edges red-ragged and pulsing. Exposed beyond lay that which should not be seen, the workings of the Spell itself, like giant multicoloured veins made up of tightly woven smaller threads. Here and there these threads were frayed, akin to the split fibres of a rope, where they had been torn at, and stolen from, by Regret.
How had he mustered such audacity? Even as mad as he had been, surely any mind would tremble, any ego falter, in the face of such monumental thievery?
‘Don’t let his magic fester,’ said Karrak, helping her to her feet. She shook herself, as if she could so easily discard the lingering bleakness Regret had left her with.
A cold wind blew through the great valley, reaching them on the Spire roof. It carried the sound of battle from the southern end, where the Pass between mountains into the Dale was heavily fortified against the armies of Aorn.
‘Someone should t
ell our people,’ Yalenna said, clutching Karrak’s arm to steady herself, ‘that they need not fight anymore. The Unwoven too, for their master is no more.’
‘Regret’s minions may carry his stain for life,’ said Karrak dourly. ‘The best to be hoped for is that they won’t pass it on to their children. Or that they won’t live to have any.’
Yalenna stared out at the distant figures. Had she been naive enough to hope that Regret’s demise would change them back into the folk they had been before?
‘Wardens,’ called Mergan. The grey-haired threader was standing in the centre of the roof, the others scattered about him in varying degrees of dazedness. Salarkis was on his knees, weeping softly. Despirrow stared off at nothing, his once-proud robes now dirty and crumpled. Little Jillan was biting her lip so hard she drew blood. Braston leaned heavily on his sword, as if it were all that kept him standing.
‘Pull yourselves together,’ said Mergan. ‘Our task is not complete. We must attempt to heal the Wound.’
Despirrow shot him a worried look. ‘But how? Only Regret knew how to manipulate the threads of the Great Spell.’
‘We must try as best we can,’ said Mergan. ‘You can see where threads have been torn out – they must be rewoven into their rightful places.’
‘But where,’ said Braston, ‘have they gone?’
Suddenly from Regret’s corpse, a series of strange bundles rose. They were unlike any human threads Yalenna had seen before, and failed to fade away like the rest of Regret had. Spilled loose from his disappeared framework, they drifted outwards, gaining speed.
‘Mergan,’ she gasped, pointing.
Mergan spun about as something like a lattice of string hit him in the head, and flew backwards off his heels. Nearby a blue tentacled thing whizzed along the stones, and Yalenna flinched as it leapt upwards, but it did not leap at her. Instead, it wrapped itself around Jillan’s leg, whose eyes blanked as it sunk in, and she buckled to the ground. Everywhere pieces of pattern whizzed, and Yalenna stumbled as Karrak suddenly pulled away from her.
‘Don’t let them enter you!’ he cried, but a moment later he shuddered as a black curl planted in his chest, worming its way inwards.
