by Sam Bowring
As he leaned against her, she felt for a dagger at her waist. He did not notice her draw it free, not even as she ran it in lightly down the interlocking scales of his chest, until it notched in a crevice between them.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. He blinked at her, and she slipped the blade through his protection, into his heart.
His grip on her shoulders tightened, grinding her bones.
‘You … you …’
‘I love you,’ she said, tears now running thick and fast.
‘You bitch!’ he gasped, and toppled sideways to the ground.
Quickly she set about the messy process of slipping the blade between the scales of his neck, to sever his head. That done, she watched his threads fading, until they passed beyond her perception.
Back to the Spell, she thought, with relief.
Now he sat in a falsely casual posture, horny legs crossed and tail swishing lazily.
‘Lovely view,’ he said, waving at the window. ‘All Braston’s new minions scurrying about. You know what makes a view better, I always find? Tea! Maybe you could tell a servant to bring some?’
‘Salarkis …’
‘I’m serious.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Karrak gave me some curltooth, which lingers in my teeth. Do they still make those fruity ones? Raspberry and whatnot? I warrant that would be delicious.’
‘You’ve seen Karrak?’
‘Or apple,’ he went on. ‘Unless, of course, something has happened to the taste of apples. But then, how could it? Surely everything is set to rights, nothing at all strange going on – not since I died to save Aorn.’
Yalenna sighed. ‘Are you here to take revenge?’
Salarkis leapt to his feet. ‘Do not contrive to sound so bored, Yalenna! After what you did to me, won’t you even accept rebuke? Some modicum of distemper, that you killed me for no reason? That you were wrong – the great and wise, kind and fair Priestess of Storms was wrong? Have the decency to show some humility.’
‘Yes,’ said Yalenna icily, though inwardly she felt the sting of his words. ‘I was wrong. I have sat here, knowing I was wrong, for days, and I certainly don’t need you to clarify it further. Whatever the problem is with the world, it was not solved by killing us all.’
‘By the Spell! She admits it.’
‘What I was not wrong about, however, was killing you.’
Salarkis froze, save for a claw tip-tapping along the edge of a dagger. ‘What?’
‘You are a cowardly murderer, Salarkis. From afar you send blades to find good and decent people, revelling in the misery and tumult that you cause. So don’t come bursting in here expecting an apology, unless you aim to reduce me to laughter with your indignation. You needed stamping out, and I would do it again.’
Salarkis flung the dagger at her face. With a mental flex she thickened the air in its path, slowing the blade until it dropped gently into her hand.
Salarkis sank back into his chair. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said.
‘So,’ said Yalenna, setting the dagger on her armrest, ‘why are you here? Spying for Forger, or do you bring some threatening message?’
‘Neither.’
‘What then?’
‘I told you,’ he said, his expression darkening, ‘I want some damned tea!’
‘Salarkis.’
‘No, I am not here for Forger, or Karrak, or any of you. I’m here for me.’
‘But you are in cahoots with Karrak. You said he gave you curltooth.’
Despite the situation, Yalenna found herself thinking longingly of the herb for a moment.
‘And that means we are bonded allies, does it?’ asked Salarkis. ‘Yes, he gave me curltooth, but you won’t know the reason from my lips. Suffice to say, I am not joining him in some crusade to rule the world.’
‘You are still … conflicted?’
‘Oh, yes, mightily. On the one hand there are urges to kill, to destroy … but, on the other … well …’
‘You still remember who you were?’
‘You didn’t need to do it, you know. I would have come with you, would have listened to you.’
‘I could not take that risk.’
‘You never even asked what Regret’s curse showed me.’
‘I would like to hear it now.’
Salarkis stared at his hands. ‘It was strange. I was alone, getting drunk, in a tavern in Galra. Empty after the invasion, just me and the rats and endless barrels. And there, in the bottom of a mug, I saw what I would have been. Nothing remarkable – a farmer!’
‘You?’
‘Yes. Can you believe it? It was my wife’s idea – or she who would have been my wife. She did not hold with my constant wandering, but knew my love of growing things and doing good. So we bought this big farm together, took on many people to work it happily. I used my talents to make sure the corn grew tall, the strawberries fat. I became mayor of the local town. It was a quiet, peaceful life, but fulfilling. I saw it all at once, living through it in a few moments. Do you know what that does to a person, Yalenna? To remember something that never was?’
‘I do.’
‘You saw something too?’
Yalenna shrugged. ‘A long life as Priestess. Perhaps it did not affect me as it did you, for I knew what I did instead was still worthwhile.’
‘How nice for you,’ Salarkis snarled, ‘to have remained so perfect. Though can you really claim …’ He seemed to catch himself, and grow a little sad. ‘You must excuse me. You were not twisted beyond recognition. I did not choose this.’
‘But you can choose to fight it.’
‘Yes.’
Again Salarkis stood, this time without menace.
‘The blessing you gave,’ he said, ‘did not survive rebirth.’
Yalenna stared at him in surprise. ‘You want it back?’
‘Empathy is what I remember most about my old self, though as a phantom thing I cannot quite grasp hold of. Hurry and put me in reach of it, before I change my mind.’
Yalenna bit her lip. ‘Not so fast.’
‘Don’t pretend you won’t. You know I’ll find it difficult to be malicious, if I feel that way again. You want to bless me.’
‘I think you’ve come a long way on your own.’
‘Yalenna!’
‘I ask something in return.’
His tail thumped the chair behind him impatiently. ‘What?’
‘You say you’ve seen the others.’
‘I will not help you fight them. I no longer care for this conflict.’
‘I’m not asking you to fight them, just tell me where they are.’
Salarkis frowned. ‘That sounds like a good bargain for you. Castrate me and track the others? I don’t think so.’ He flexed a sharp finger. ‘I’ll tell you what – you give me a thing, I’ll give you a thing. That’s fair, isn’t it? I’ll tell you where one of them is.’
Yalenna thought hard. Four great threats – Forger, Karrak, Despirrow and Stealer – all roamed the world. Forger was in Tallahow, that she knew … but the others? Yet she already knew who she would pick.
‘Mergan,’ she said.
‘Of course, Mergan. Your old ally, your leader, in a way – and yet he left you, without word or trace. How that must have stung.’
‘Are you going to tell me where he is, or not?’
‘He never died, you know.’
Yalenna sat up straight. ‘What?’
‘You thought that he and Karrak killed each other? Wrong, I’m afraid.’
‘Where is he?’
‘The blessing first. Come, you know I will fulfil your request once I have it.’
Yalenna dared not argue further. In truth she wanted both things very much – Salarkis defanged and Mergan back. Between her fingers, she concentrated on weaving a potent bundle.
‘You’re ready?’
‘Yes.’
So, as she had done before, she sent Salarkis a blessing. As it sank into him, he went taut, but his soul was prepared
for the effects this time. His eyes took on a faraway look, and she let him have a moment for it all to sink in.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘where’s Mergan?’
Stony as they were, Salarkis’s eyes seemed to glitter. ‘Trapped.’
‘Where?’ she demanded.
‘In Regret’s tomb.’
‘Regret’s tomb?’
‘It’s in the Roshous Peaks. When he first went missing I tried to travel to him, and appeared outside the door. Not inside, thank the Spell, but I know he’s in there.’
‘How?’
‘There are threads about that place the likes of which I’ve never seen. I imagine Mergan thought he could best them, and entered. Instead, they must have enclosed him. When I was reborn, and sought everyone out, using his name took me back there again. He’s still inside.’
Yalenna was horrified. ‘For three hundred years?’
‘For three hundred years,’ said Salarkis, and winced. ‘I only just realised how awful that is.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. Ask him yourself.’ He shook his head. ‘I was going to tell you about this before you killed me. You could have saved him from such long internment, if you’d not been so hasty to stick me.’
Yalenna felt sick. ‘How do I find the tomb?’
‘East of the Spire. There’s a path.’
He began to unravel.
‘Salarkis, wait!’
He cocked what remained of his head. ‘Why?’
She could not think of an answer fast enough, to spit it out before he was gone.
Braston sat on the throne, listening to so-and-so the noble explaining his perceived border issue with such-and-such the neighbouring lord. It was a part of being king which he had somehow forgotten – to actually sit on the throne, and make himself available to a litany of suggestions and complaints. Orchestrating the army’s growth had been his main focus thus far, so the queue of folk wanting his ear had grown quite long.
He barely heard the words being spoken. Rather, he let his vision slide to the realm of threads, to the between-depth where he was most perceptive, of which other threaders were mostly unaware. String-thin bands ran hither and thither between people and away, a glowing network of interconnectedness with every soul at the centre of a hub.
‘Your judgement, your majesty?’
Braston realised the noble had finished speaking, and everyone was watching him intently for a response. He removed the fist he had been resting his bearded chin on, and gave an idle wave.
‘You have already argued this case once before, yes?’ he said to the noble. ‘Loppolo gave you his answer and declared the matter closed. You have chosen, however, to present the case again as if it were fresh. A sneaky ploy indeed.’ He raised his voice for the benefit of all. ‘Hear this – I am not here to countenance opportunists seeking to re-air every grievance they did not enjoy the settling of. Now, does anyone have any real business to attend to?’
He let his gaze travel past the open-mouthed noble. When the man finally realised he was being summarily dismissed, he spun about, trying to pass off the reddening of his cheeks as an outraged huff.
Chortles and whispers rippled around the fountains and paths of the throne-room chamber, an amused susurrous above the trickling water. The stir met another coming from the opposite end of the room, and Braston sat up to see what had caused it. His first thought was that Loppolo had arrived, which always caused a bit of discomfort, but from his raised position, he instead saw Yalenna moving through the court, a sight which made anxiety flutter in his heart.
Although he could not see her connective threads the way he could in others, she may as well have stood in the middle of a rippled, tangled web, for all the complicated emotions she stirred in him. He knew he should not have left it so long to see her, yet he had not been able to muster the courage. He was not angry, exactly, about what she had convinced him to do – her arguments had made sense at the time, and seemed the greatest hope for setting the world right. Certainly, at the least, they had been born of good intentions. More recently, her annoyance over him taking the kingship also resonated – perhaps he had been too hasty and should have resisted temptation – yet her indignation was sullied by what had come before, making it something to be rejected, even when he suspected she was right. He was determined, this time, to be less of a follower and heed his own counsel, though unfortunately his instinct was not to think too hard about anything. Tomorrow, he had told himself every night, I will go to her tomorrow. But tomorrow, it seemed, had come once too often. He was ashamed, and probably rightly so, that he had left her waiting so long.
As she entered the space before the throne, it was hard to read her expression – deliberately mild, which was never a good sign. He noted she had traded her Priestess’s robe for a shirt and trousers, her snowy hair tied back in a long plait. She looked ready to travel, and he wondered if he had alienated her sufficiently that she now meant to leave. The thought inspired a moment of panic and he made up his mind then and there to forgive her, for whatever it was he needed to. Giving up grudges made life easier, and although Braston did not suffer from the delusion that things could ever be simple, at least he preferred them plain.
‘King Braston,’ Yalenna said.
Her formality made him realise he had no wish to constrict her to the niceties of a public arena. He trotted down the steps of the dais, holding out a hand to indicate she should accompany him, and led her around the throne to a place where light spilled through tall windows, which was free of other people.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said immediately. ‘It’s unforgiveable. I should have come to you. It’s just …’
You want to talk about the Spell, he thought. You want to conjure up theories, and wonder what it is we should do, and chastise me, and I’ve no wish for any of those things. I am no better than a child.
‘I know,’ she said, touching his forearm, her tone bereft of the acid he’d expected.
‘You do?’
‘Of course. I don’t blame you for not wanting to see me. If anyone, I blame myself.’
Old, protective habits sprung to the fore. Suddenly it did not matter what Braston believed. It was more important to correct the notion that the two of them were at odds, which was nothing he desired.
Maybe that’s what he had needed time to work out.
‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.
Yalenna laughed bitterly.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘You were just trying to make things right.’
‘Yes,’ she said, folding her arms to stare out the window. ‘Trying.’
‘Well, it worked, in a way. Didn’t it? Without us in the world, by all accounts, the corruption mostly ceased.’
‘Then why did the Spell bring us back?’
Braston shrugged, though he thought about the Wound.
‘At any rate,’ Yalenna said, ‘I haven’t come here to force you into conjecture.’
‘No?’
‘There is something of more immediate concern.’
‘What is it?’
She blinked and Braston suddenly realised she was trying to hold back tears.
‘Yalenna? What’s wrong?’
She dabbed the corner of her eye, and sniffed. ‘It’s Mergan,’ she said.
ENLISTMENT
Every footstep towards the walls of Althala seemed harder to take, heavier. Rostigan still could not quite believe that he approached the city voluntarily. Events seemed to have swept him along a natural course – the good warrior would surely answer the call, and so long had he played the part, he could almost avoid second-guessing himself. But he also could not help but feel that somehow, a joke was being played upon him.
Braston lurked inside the white spires, and Yalenna too, if rumours were true. What would they make of him? Did he care? They were children compared with him – all were children compared to him – but somehow he did not think they would
consider him wise and venerable.
He toyed with the idea of not even making himself known to them. Would they recognise him, after all this time? Of course they would – it had not been ‘all this time’ for them, he reminded himself. They did not have the years behind them to render his face a clouded memory. Neither was it a simple matter of donning a heavy helm, or disappearing into the ranks to become one soldier amongst thousands. His name, false as it was, was well known, and Braston, with his liking for warriors, would no doubt wish to meet the great Rostigan Skullrender. Besides, he had to admit, a part of him was … eager? … to see them. Perhaps they would be impressed with the changes he had wrought in himself. Perhaps they would listen to his story, which he had never told anyone before. Perhaps he had been a man alone too long, teetering on the brink of giving up on a dream, and these two represented the nearest thing to kin that he could ever hope for.
In contrast to his introspection, the mood of the group grew increasingly lively the closer they got to the city. Young people were spreading out along the road, mixing with others who had journeyed that way. Rostigan lost sense of who was with them and who wasn’t, not that it mattered anymore. They would all be absorbed into Braston’s army, and any claim he had over them, for buying them bread and boots with a handful of herbs, was already forgotten. They had never been his army. He had only done as Tarzi asked.
Cedris, perhaps, would remain a visible part of his world. The young man had been keen, ever since they had met him, to ingratiate himself with them both. He looked up to Rostigan, that was plain, but his interest in Tarzi was less clear. Obviously he must know he couldn’t have her, yet that knowledge would probably not diminish her allure. Or perhaps Rostigan diminished her himself, by thinking of her in such simple terms, when actually it was the role she had played – a catalyst who had plucked Cedris from his normal life – that bound him to her. Watching them now – Cedris chattering excitably while Tarzi nodded and smiled – made Rostigan wonder if he had ever been so happy and fresh.
Cedris turned and saw Rostigan looking at them. ‘Almost there!’ he said with a grin.
