The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  He flung out his hands. Threads rippled from him, a web-like network of invisible lines expanding outwards. In a wave people collapsed before him, their bodies wracked by indescribable torment. Forger laughed – he had reached equilibrium, the effort of his outpouring matched by the rewards it garnered. Growing neither stronger nor weaker, he could now maintain as long as he wished.

  A table tipped over as people fell against it, splattering fine food on the floor. He saw folk trying to stagger from the hall, and with a wave slammed shut the distant doors.

  ‘My … lord …’ choked Threver, from the floor. ‘For … what … purpose …’

  Forger ignored him, stepping down to move amongst the prostrate throng.

  ‘But what if,’ he called, ‘someone could take your pain away? What if you never had to feel this, or anything like it, again?’

  He snapped his hands to his chest, recalling all threads. As they retracted to him they brought little bundles, torn from the patterns of every person present. He drew them into himself, squirrelling them away, as the screaming died down.

  ‘I would prefer,’ he said, treading carefully amongst the upwards stares, ‘that those who fight with me do so because they are loyal, because they know the rewards for standing at my side. Save the pain for our enemies, friends, for I have taken yours away!’

  He summoned a carving knife, and flung it into a noblewoman’s arm. She stared at it curiously, unflinching as it dangled from her soft flesh.

  ‘You all had ailments,’ Forger said, ‘as various as your pleasures. You, sir – a bung leg, forever throbbing, never distant from your thoughts. You, miss – an unhappy marriage, but no courage to leave it, for fear of what? Destitution, loss of standing, pain? You, little man.’ He stopped by a child. ‘You were angry, for what reason?’

  ‘Parents,’ the boy murmured.

  ‘His parents, dead!’ crowed Forger. ‘Keeping him up at night, their faces ever in his thoughts! But now, little man, you will sleep soundly. And if your mean old uncle,’ he turned to the noble lying beside the boy, ‘hits you again, will you feel it, will you care?’

  ‘I won’t hit him anymore,’ said the man.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Forger. ‘Why?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps because he no longer reminds you of your beautiful sister, who died giving him life? Who you, in truth, used to share a bed with? And do you care that everyone now knows this?’ He cast his eyes around. ‘Does the guilt of this terrible secret linger, the constant fear that foul incest will be posthumously revealed?’

  The man checked himself, then met the eyes of his peers. ‘No.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Forger. ‘Who cares about her? She’s dead! Life is for the living – and a life lived in pain, in fear, is no life at all. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  People were beginning to rise.

  ‘That’s right!’ said Forger. ‘Get up! Get back to the feast! Eat more than you need, for no rumbling gut will burn your bowels in the middle of the night! Drink all you like, for no sore head will cloud the morning, no unfortunate words spoken in the fug will return to haunt you!’

  People were laughing now, poking at each other experimentally with forks. Forger gave an encouraging whoop of joy and shovelled a handful of meat into his mouth.

  ‘Come, my loves! Let us usher in a new era for our beloved Tallahow. For without pain, there is no fear. And without fear,’ his voice grew stronger, ‘no one can stop us!’

  The next day, despite his words, Forger himself felt quite sore-headed. He must have drunk a lot to not be fully healed. He sat on the throne, fingers to his brow, reflecting that it would be nice if he could take away his own discomfort. However, even if he could have, he knew it would be dangerous to do so. Pain, after all, had its uses, something that those he took it from forgot all too quickly. He would have to watch them closely now, control them well, in case they grew too reckless, or fell to tearing one another apart. But they were his, of that he was sure.

  ‘Lord?’

  He had not heard his advisor enter.

  ‘Good morning, Threver.’

  ‘That was very interesting last night, lord.’

  ‘You enjoyed it?’ Forger peeked from behind his fingers. ‘I hardly had to take anything from you, you know.’

  ‘Remorse is not something that ever burdened me overmuch, lord.’

  ‘You surprise me. Maybe you’re a worthwhile advisor after all.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. I have a question, though.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If Tallahow’s leaders no longer fear you – as I, even now, find myself less guarded in this very conversation – will they obey you?’

  Forger gave a dismissive wave. ‘It’s a tricky thing. I don’t pretend to foresee the exact effects of the gift I’ve granted. I do know, however, that once unfettered by fear, desire comes very much to the fore. Sometimes dark desires, yes, which the person has never dared speak before, let alone acted upon, but everyone is different, aren’t they? If someone becomes a problem, they can always be dealt with. I just hope I can point them towards things they want, and they’ll obey because they desire what’s on offer.’

  ‘I see. It strikes me as similar to what was done to the Unwoven.’

  Forger frowned, not liking the comparison. It was true that Regret had created the Unwoven by taking away pain and fear, amongst other things. And perhaps it was even true that whatever threads Forger had inherited from Regret were the very ones that had allowed him to mete out such transformations himself – but Forger did not turn people into stupid, ugly brutes.

  ‘What they desire,’ he said, ‘is very dark indeed. A person does not forget themselves when I take their pain, Threver. Indeed, the kind may become kinder, or love may become freer. What I am pinning my hopes on,’ he jerked his thumb in the direction of the great hall, ‘is that all of them down there were a bunch of greedy, grasping little weasels in the first place. I find this is normally the case, with leaders.’

  Threver nodded. ‘Can I have anything brought to you? Water, perhaps, if your head is troubling you?’

  ‘Yes! Bring me a lot of water.’

  Threver made some motions at an attendant by the door, who darted out.

  ‘If only Karrak was here …’ muttered Forger.

  ‘I have heard my lord express this wish before. Can I ask why?’

  ‘He has a way with words. Good at getting people to do what he wants, without all the mess.’ He perked up a little. ‘Though admittedly, I like the mess.’ He drummed his fingers along the arm rest. ‘Or Salarkis – why hasn’t that rotten little bird come home to roost? Or Despirrow, or any of them! What I wouldn’t give to know what they’re up to.’

  ‘My lord, there is something that may be of interest to you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It will require a short journey to a lower level.’

  ‘Very well.’

  They made for the double doors just as the attendant returned carrying a pitcher of water.

  ‘Ah! Give me that!’

  Forger wrenched it from the cringing man and upended it all over himself.

  ‘That’s better! Now, lead the way.’

  A trip down a flight of stairs brought them to a quiet corridor, lined by barred doors manned by statuesque guards.

  ‘This looks interesting,’ said Forger. ‘What’s in all these rooms?’

  ‘Treasures, mainly,’ replied Threver. ‘Most of them useless, simply requiring to be kept. But in here …’

  The guards at the door he stopped at parted as he fumbled with some keys. Swinging it open, he stood aside, and Forger had to stoop to enter – had he grown even taller?

  Inside was a cool, empty room, save for a silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall. Hesitantly, Forger went to look at himself – flexed his muscles and inspected his face, which seemed bulgy in an odd kind of way, as if there were rocks under his skin. He looked deep into his own blue eyes, for
a moment lost in the notion that this was him and he was really alive right now.

  ‘Well,’ he said, rounding on Threver, ‘this is all very fascinating, but I trust you did not bring me here for self-reflection.’

  ‘Ah … no, my lord. This mirror is special – part of a set.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. Its siblings are much more elaborate, the frames each carved with a thousand tiny flowers, I’m told.’

  ‘And where are they?’

  ‘Hanging in the corridors of Althala Castle. They were a gift to the Queen of Althala a hundred years ago, from our own Lord Dregan. He gave them under the guise of admiration, but, in truth, his intentions were more underhanded. For while we have long been at peace with Althala, it still pays to garner all possible knowledge. The mirrors are threaded, subtly and skilfully enough to have never been discovered for what they really are – spy-holes, linked to this one, through which we can see.’

  ‘Oho!’ Forger clapped his hands. ‘How delicious.’

  ‘I must warn my lord that we had no control over where Dregan’s gifts were hung, and later moved about. One of them even sits in a store room, covered in a cloth, and therefore shows little.’

  ‘I see. Well, enough of your disavowal. How does it work?’

  ‘I cannot say for sure. Until recently there was a threader stationed here, well versed in their use and watching at all times.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘You killed him.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Still, I expect that one as skilful as my lord can easily figure the trick to it.’

  Forger rubbed his chin as he considered the mirror. This kind of magic was not really his strong point. Yet, like the other Wardens, he retained the native threading ability he had been born with, as something separate from his Spell-given powers. He reached out to the mirror with his finer senses, inspecting its threads.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It is as if this one is the brain, from which branch out the eyes. Ingenious. Now, all I have to do, is prise open the lids …’

  The reflection on the mirror rippled, replaced with a view of an empty corridor, a vase in the foreground filled with slightly wilting flowers. In the opposite wall a flight of steps led upwards, and to the right was a heavy oak door, which was closed.

  ‘That is the chamber,’ said Threver, ‘which Braston now inhabits.’

  ‘Really? Interesting.’

  ‘A mirror hangs inside it too.’

  ‘My goodness.’

  With a mental blink, Forger moved to the next view. It was a well-appointed bedroom, the large bed looking unslept in.

  ‘Well, at least I can watch him slumber,’ scowled Forger. ‘I’m sure that will prove exciting.’

  ‘Try the next one, lord.’

  Now the mirror showed the chamber of indoor streams and high windows that was the throne room. A few harried-looking guards moved through, and a small group of nobles sat by a fountain.

  ‘I can hear the water gurgling!’ said Forger excitedly.

  ‘I cannot, my lord. Must be to do with your gifts.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that the lords and ladies of Tallahow have been eavesdropping on the Althalan throne room for a hundred years, and no one has ever realised?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Dear me. Threaders must have passed this mirror many times!’

  ‘Dregan was adamant that his gifts not be detected for what they really are. The threaders who crafted them knew that if they failed him they would pay a high price.’

  ‘I admire their skill! Next!’

  Forger changed to the next mirror. This one, again in a corridor, looked upon a door hanging from its hinges, across which savage claw-like scrapes showed in the wood. The room beyond was plush and obviously belonged to someone noble … yet the bedding was sprayed with blood, ripped to shreds, and a couple of soldiers were lifting a fat body onto a stretcher. Another noblewoman watched on, dabbing her eyes.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Forger. ‘A murder?’

  He strained his ears as sounds issued strangely from this distant view, somewhat distorted and muted.

  ‘I think I heard someone say something about …’

  A third soldier appeared through the door, dragging a large sack, from which poked a bone wrapped in wafts of silk.

  ‘… silkjaws!’ finished Forger.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Ssh!’ He listened hard. ‘They are talking about a silkjaw attack. Saying there were … hundreds of them. Have we heard anything about this?’

  ‘Not yet, my lord. The day is young, however. I have threaders up high looking out for messages.’

  Forger was a little disturbed.

  ‘If the Althalans have been weakened,’ said Threver, ‘it will only further our cause.’

  ‘Perhaps. Have there been other attacks like this since I’ve been away?’

  ‘There was an incident on the Ilduin some years ago. Since then, the Plainsfolk sometimes complain of silkjaws, but nothing on the scale of hundreds. Are you sure – forgive my impudence – that you heard correctly?’

  ‘I think so.’ Forger rubbed his eyes. ‘On the Ilduin, it was Unwoven and silkjaws attacking together, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Why were they not put down in my absence?’ He was angry with the world for a second. ‘Does no one do anything around here?’

  ‘There has not been a unifying need,’ said Threver. ‘Until recently the Unwoven have mostly kept to themselves, locked up behind the Pass in the Roshous –’

  ‘I know where they are! Think who you are talking to.’

  ‘Apologies, lord.’

  ‘The question is, is their continued existence a symptom of the Spell’s upheaval, or a cause?’ He rounded on Threver. ‘I can’t kill off Braston’s army with impunity if they stand between us and hordes of Regret’s cursed monsters! Piss and fire, why does everything have to be so complicated?’

  ‘There is one more mirror, lord.’

  ‘Oh yes? And what does it show, another empty corridor?’

  Not another corridor, but a large sitting room, in which a group of nobles sat on purple couches, silent as a servant set down a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘Loppolo’s chambers,’ said Threver. ‘The king who Braston supplanted.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Forger. ‘What a hypocrite Braston is. Well, this would be a useful view if Loppolo was still in charge, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed. And maybe still.’

  The servant left, and low conversation begun. Forger strained his ears.

  ‘… is your right, my king,’ a plump, grey-haired man was saying.

  ‘Yes,’ said a young woman. ‘I agree with Tursa. Warden he may be, it does not mean Braston can ignore you.’

  Loppolo stood up, moving over to glower directly into the mirror.

  ‘And how would history remember me,’ he said, ‘if I was the king who killed the Lord of Justice?’

  ‘They speak of felling Braston!’ said Forger. ‘Oho, imagine that – if I need not raise a finger and yet it were so!’

  ‘The threader who watched here witnessed similar meetings,’ said Threver. ‘Those are Loppolo’s closest allies, who urge him to take action.’

  ‘And yet he procrastinates?’ said Forger, staring into the former king’s eyes. ‘Come, Loppolo – take back what is yours!’

  ‘And the people,’ said Loppolo. ‘How could I possibly explain it to them without getting lynched? They love their legendary king, more dismissive of me than I have earned!’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Tursa. ‘How easily they forget that you are a hero too, who rode to battle against the Unwoven! They must be made to remember.’

  ‘We could figure some way to make it look accidental,’ said the woman.

  Loppolo laughed bitterly. ‘Braston is no ordinary man. He does not fall down a flight of stairs and break his neck.’

  ‘But –’

&nb
sp; ‘Enough!’ snapped Loppolo. ‘Who knows the extent of a Warden’s powers? Even now we could be overheard.’

  His allies grumbled, and sipped their tea.

  ‘Hmf,’ said Forger. ‘This Loppolo is a ditherer.’

  He turned away, the mirror rippling back to its normal reflection.

  ‘I thank you for making me aware of this object, Threver. While it is somewhat random in its use, perhaps we shall glean something pertinent from it. Find another threader to watch over it, and report anything of interest to me.’

  ‘It will be done, lord.’

  ‘Now,’ said Forger, ‘I think it’s high time I inspected our army.’

  HAND IN HAND

  ‘Get an axe,’ said a soldier. A moment later he jumped back as the previously immovable dining hall doors flew open, to reveal the Priestess Yalenna looking irritated.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Er …’ His eyes slid past her, to a table lying broken on its side. ‘Everything all right in there, my lady?’

  ‘All is well,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘The king and I simply have need of this room for a while.’

  ‘Ah … well, very good, my lady. We shall … leave you, then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and closed the door.

  She headed back to where Braston and Karrak sat across from each other at an intact table, glowers in full effect. Despite the relatively calm demeanour she had presented to the soldiers at the door, her head was still spinning from learning that Karrak had been alive for the entire time that she had been dead.

  ‘And yet do you see an empire behind me?’ Karrak demanded, stabbing the tabletop with a finger. ‘Do you see how I have crushed the world in your absence, as I could have done, ten times over?’

  Yalenna slid in beside Braston.

  ‘No,’ said Karrak. ‘Though it would have been easy, with no other Wardens to oppose me. I could have run amok, but instead I’ve been leading a peaceful life – before you all decided to come back, of course.’

  ‘We did not decide,’ growled Braston.