The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  ‘The Spell brought us back,’ said Yalenna. ‘Our threads did not return to it in death, and thus the degradation continues.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ said Braston, turning on her angrily. ‘It could be that the damage persists because Karrak here never died! His presence in Aorn has ensured a state of ongoing corruption.’

  ‘I told you not to call me that. Karrak is gone. My name is Rostigan.’

  ‘You cannot escape your past so easily.’

  Rostigan thumped his fist on the table, hard. ‘Now listen to me, you pair of children. Ever since forsaking my empire, I’ve kept my power sealed up tight, sworn an oath never to use it … and never once during that time has the sky turned black, or the ground shaken, or beetles fallen like hail. Yet you have both flaunted your magic from the very moment you awakened, recklessly and with abandon – your blessings like a cloud of toxin Yalenna, and Braston, pulling at the threads of justice, as you call them, deeming to change the natural order by imposing your will upon it, what you think is right. You dare to blame me, you dare esteem yourself higher, better? You do as much damage as Forger, as Despirrow. Even the Unwoven, in all the centuries they have lingered, have had no worse effect on the world than you have brought about in days. The one time,’ he knew he was lying, but did not care, ‘that I used my gift to call down the crows, was to save your city Braston, in exchange for nothing save a few dead eyes – and the thanks I get? To be mindlessly struck down, accused of being the root of it all, by an oaf without the subtlety or patience for comprehension. You think if I wanted to do you harm, I would be sitting here, waiting under your roof, without allies, ready to accept the blows levelled at me? Would I not be off with Forger, plotting your downfall?’

  Yalenna felt herself reeling under the torrent of what she knew to be the truth. She had never tried to deny that she was part of the problem, yet Braston would not talk to her about it, Mergan was mad, and there was no one else. The only one speaking clearly was this man … this Rostigan.

  Braston stared darkly at his hands, clasped on the tabletop. ‘I may have acted brashly,’ he muttered.

  ‘I walked here,’ said Rostigan, ‘on my own two feet, because I know that, despite your flaws, you two will try to do what’s right. In the hope that somehow, together, we can end Regret’s legacy once and for all. Have you not heard of my doings at the Ilduin Fields, where I helped the –’

  ‘All right,’ snapped Braston. ‘You have made your point.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ asked Yalenna quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You disappeared around the same time as Mergan. We came to believe you had destroyed each other, yet evidently this was not the case.’

  ‘No. I do not know what happened to Mergan. Have you seen him?’

  Yalenna gave a small nod, though she did not want to get into it just then. Braston, however, came straight to the point.

  ‘He stayed alive, as you did, though locked in a prison of Regret’s making.’

  Rostigan’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

  ‘We freed him,’ said Braston, ‘but the experience has left him … affected. We do not know where he has gone.’

  ‘He just needs a little time,’ said Yalenna.

  ‘I see.’ Rostigan’s expression softened a little.

  ‘But what of you?’ she pressed. ‘Where did you go?’

  Rostigan sighed. ‘It was troubling for me, you must understand. I was a monster beginning to remember my old self. I had a great need to deny, escape, to turn my back on all I’d done.’

  ‘Forger carried on your work.’

  ‘I know. If I had my time again, I would not have left everything so neatly set up for him.’ He snorted humourlessly. ‘If I had my time again, I would have done everything differently. And I’d be a happier man, long dead.’ He tapped the tabletop. ‘We all are victims of Regret. By the Spell, Salarkis used to sing to children and help farmers grow strawberries. Forger wanted nothing more than to save his family from ruin. Despirrow was your best friend, Braston. If you’d asked any of them then if they wanted this, what would they have said?’

  Yalenna bit her lip. ‘Salarkis remembers himself, somewhat. I do not think he is … well, either the old Salarkis, or the monster anymore, but caught between. I do not know what he intends. I blessed him, again. He came seeking it, actually.’

  ‘Then hopefully,’ said Rostigan, ‘we need not fear him. Nor Stealer.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Braston, sitting up, some of his fire finally returning. ‘Tell us of that! My officer said you claimed to have killed her, but when I thought you a mortal man, I admit I doubted the story.’

  ‘Nay, it is true. Stealer is no more. By sheer luck I was near Silverstone when she took it. I saw her there, fleeing her crime. I was able to act swiftly, before she knew who I was or what I wanted. Snuck up on her in the night – not much more to it than that.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure she’s dead?’

  ‘I split her head in two and burned her to cinders. I am sure.’

  He thought about the other reason why he was sure, but hesitated to share it. Meanwhile he caught Yalenna staring at him.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. You just … you reminded me of the old … of your old self, for a moment. That fretful look – I remember it.’

  ‘If she’s dead,’ said Braston, ‘why hasn’t Silverstone returned?’

  Rostigan sighed. If they were going to be allies, he supposed he should tell them everything.

  ‘I do not think the Spell wants its threads disappearing again,’ he said. ‘Now that it knows the deaths of their possessors do not return them to it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I killed Stealer, it was like on the Spire, after we slew Regret. The threads she had from the Spell left her, did not disperse with the rest of her. Instead they came to me.’

  ‘Came to you?’

  ‘Yes. Became part of my pattern. I house Stealer’s powers now. And she, I think, truly sleeps, having passed her curse to me.’

  The other two were very still.

  ‘I suppose I will have to show you,’ said Rostigan.

  Braston tensed.

  ‘Settle down,’ said Rostigan, ‘I’m not going to rhyme about your underbritches. I shall pick … how about that table?’ He gestured at one Braston had smashed. ‘I daresay losing it will not be a burden.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Now that he was on the spot, all creativity left him.

  ‘What rhymes with table?’

  ‘Rabble?’ suggested Braston.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Yalenna.

  Together they tried to think.

  ‘Able,’ said Yalenna, after a fashion.

  Rostigan nodded, and spoke.

  A sad thing is a broken table

  To hold up food, no longer able

  As he finished, the table faded, and the others gasped. His words began to whisper, very softly, in the air.

  ‘Well may you look at me in horror, Braston,’ said Rostigan. ‘If you had killed me just now, you’d probably have both mine and Stealer’s threads in you – your soul the keeper of the city of Silverstone.’

  That made Braston blanch. ‘What of the others?’ he said. ‘If we kill them …’

  ‘I believe the same will happen.’

  ‘I wish,’ said Yalenna, ‘the Spell could make up its damn mind about what it wants done with its own damn threads! And stop changing the story on us.’

  ‘Maybe the Spell has no control,’ said Rostigan. ‘Maybe it’s the threads themselves, trying different ways of finding their path home.’

  ‘So what way are they trying now? Accumulating in us obviously hasn’t solved their problem.’

  ‘I suspect,’ said Rostigan, ‘since they cannot seem to penetrate the veil, they must be returned to the Wound itself.’

  ‘Is that based on anything?’ asked Braston. ‘Because I, for one, am nervous of tha
t place.’

  Rostigan shrugged. ‘I am open to suggestions.’

  None were forthcoming.

  ‘Whether I am right or wrong,’ said Rostigan, ‘at least we can hunt the others knowing that, when we put an end to them, we can take their threads into us. Use them or, better yet, choose not to use them. We can be the Spell’s goatherds, collecting what it’s missing.’

  He let this sink in.

  ‘I do still hope,’ said Yalenna, ‘that Salarkis and Mergan will join us. That we will not have to collect them.’

  ‘As do I, but what you’ve said of Mergan does not instil me with confidence. I have spent three hundred years becoming a good man. Perhaps he has spent them turning from one.’

  Yalenna flared at his words, and Rostigan spread his palms.

  ‘He was my friend too, remember,’ he said, ‘but I cannot imagine any man going through such an ordeal unscathed.’

  ‘He was not unscathed,’ said Braston, shaking his head sadly. ‘And that’s a meek way of putting it.’

  ‘He will come to us,’ said Yalenna firmly. ‘He will remember he is loved, and come to us.’

  ‘What about Despirrow?’ said Rostigan. ‘Have you any news of his whereabouts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I take it you noted the recent stopping of time?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Your royal threaders haven’t reported anything unusual?’

  ‘There are more unusual things reported every passing day.’

  ‘Anything of his particular smell, though?’

  ‘I shall ask.’

  ‘Good. Make sure you keep an eye on Saphura especially – it always was his favourite place. In the meantime, I have a favour to beg of you both.’

  They looked to him guardedly.

  ‘Nothing too strenuous,’ he assured them. ‘I travel with a woman, a minstrel named Tarzi. She is precious to me, yet she does not know the all of who I am. I wish to keep it that way.’

  ‘Is that fair?’ said Braston. ‘If you love her, why can’t you –’

  Rostigan cut him off. ‘She is the one who dragged me here, singing loud to all who’d listen about rallying against the evil Wardens. How do you think she’d react if she learned my old name?’

  ‘Come, Braston,’ said Yalenna. ‘It is unimportant to grant him this.’

  ‘What will she make, then,’ said Braston, ‘of the attention you receive from us?’

  Rostigan smiled. ‘Oh, she will take it in stride. I am the great Rostigan Skullrender, after all.’

  DESPIRROW

  The tavern was cool and quiet, the sun making scattershot forays in through small windows. Despirrow sat next to such a one, a bar of light glancing off him on its way to explode against an empty table in the middle of the room. The only other patrons present were a pair of sour old drunks, whiling away the hours as the rest of the village went about its daily business.

  He must look out of place, he knew. This was a farmland area, its people stocky and simply clothed. He, in comparison, was pale and thin, and wore a sheer blue shirt that plunged deeply at the neckline to reveal a silver chain resting on his chest. His fingers were adorned with a dazzling collection of rings, clinking together as he raised his mug, drawing attention to themselves and amusingly annoying the drunks. It was not quite the resplendent fashion of his days in court, but he’d had to strip back a little, for, in theory, he was trying to pass unnoticed.

  ‘Can I get you a fresh mug, sir?’

  The barmaid was a healthy auburn-haired girl, the only spark of life in the place. He favoured her with a handsome smile.

  ‘Please, my dear. Thank you very much.’

  He’d had a few mugs already, and was beginning to feel the effects. This home-spun ale was not quite the clear, refreshing wine he thirsted for, but it did the trick.

  As the barmaid moved away, he watched her posterior with some interest.

  ‘So what’re you supposed to be, eh?’

  One of the glaring drunks had finally found the courage to address him, while the other sniggered.

  ‘Just a humble traveller, sir,’ he answered airily. ‘Out and about seeing the world.’

  ‘Look like a wayward lord to me. One who’s lost his king!’

  They laughed, and he gave them a tight smile.

  ‘May be some truth to that,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll bet!’ The drunk slapped the table. ‘I’ll bet!’ Despirrow didn’t want to encourage them too much, lest they become overly familiar. He became very interested in inspecting his nails.

  ‘Sorry about them, sir,’ the returning barmaid said quietly. His eyes flickered over her bosom as she bent to place a mug before him, back up to her face before she had a chance to catch him ogling. She, however, wouldn’t have noticed, for she was, in turn, sneaking a glance at his glittering rings.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ he said. ‘I expect they won’t remember me tomorrow, and I’ll endeavour to return the favour.’

  His wit seemed to pass her by. She gave a little nod, but failed to produce the chuckle he had hoped for. He could tell she was impressed, however, by his garb, and no doubt his good looks.

  ‘What is your name, miss?’

  ‘Veysha,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me then, Veysha – such a pretty name – are there any sights to behold around here? Any crumbling old temples, or maybe a stream between trees that catches the starlight, a good place for a midnight picnic?’

  She reddened a little.

  ‘Not much to see around here, sir,’ she said. ‘My beau and I sometimes take a walk, but once you’ve seen one field, you’ve seen them all.’

  She retreated, and he gave an internal sigh. Mention of a ‘beau’, whether he existed or not, was obviously meant to convey a clear message.

  Had he been too forward?

  There was a time when he’d been better at this. He’d had women aplenty flocking to him, well served by his reputation as a lover. Charming in a way that did not feel forced, as it had done recently – ladies falling over one another for a chance at a ‘midnight picnic’. Life as a court threader, best friend to the king, had been good. Now he could not even pique the interest of this plump farm-grown tavern wench.

  Well, no matter. He had been curious, that was all, to see if he could still cajole interest willingly. The effort bored him quickly, however, and there was always the easier way. One little ‘halt!’ in his mind to stop the passage of time, while he was touching her of course, and he would bring her with him into limbo while the rest of the world went still. Then he could hike up her skirt and bend her over the bar, and she could scream for her stupid imaginary beau all she liked, while he crushed her breasts against the wood, under the dull stare of the drunks …

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  He realised he had been baring his teeth as he imagined the sweat running down her thighs.

  ‘Oh … yes.’ He smoothed his expression. ‘The ale is just a little cool on a sensitive tooth that I happen to have.’

  Perhaps raping her would be easy, yet he managed to control himself. All his life his lust had been great, even before the change. He did not want to leave a trail of breadcrumbs, however, marking his whereabouts for cursed Braston and whoever else. He had already broken his rule, effectively announcing to the other Wardens that he was at large, but this Veysha wasn’t pretty enough to warrant the risk.

  ‘Are there any whores in this backwater?’ he asked, all friendliness gone from his demeanour.

  ‘Er …’ Veysha didn’t like him at all anymore. ‘No, sir … the men round here stay true to their women.’

  Despirrow barked a laugh. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ He chugged the rest of his ale, flung some coins across the table and stalked out of the tavern.

  Outside, the sun hurt his eyes and made him feel woozy. How long had he been sitting in there? How drunk, in fact, was he?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered. As long as he s
tayed out of sight, he could do what he liked. They wouldn’t come after him first, would they? Forger and Karrak were much worse than him. Those two were focused, grandiose in their actions, while he was happy keeping out of everyone’s way. He could always seek his old comrades out later if he needed to. In the meantime, mystified as he was to have returned from the grave, he wasn’t complaining.

  He moved down the packed mud street, levelling contempt at the village’s small dwellings.

  I don’t belong here, he thought. I need a proper town. A city.

  Once outside the village, he found a secluded spot under trees, and sank down in the shade. Time to threadwalk, but where to go?

  Saphura, came the answer.

  Dare he?

  He tried to summon an image of the place, to envisage the line between him and it, but drink made it difficult to hold a steady thought. He was in no state for the complicated process of threadwalking.

  Just close my eyes for a little, he thought.

  When he got to Saphura, there would be wine and whorehouses aplenty. As he leant back against the trunk, he hoped his dreams would be of them …

  ‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ said Braston, as they made their way toward the throne room. ‘I should be marching with the army.’

  Despirrow gave a sympathetic smile. Well did he know the depth of Braston’s desire to be with his people as they journeyed north to the Ilduin Fields. Aorn’s great powers – Althala, Sortree, Galra, Ander, Tallahow and others, had pledged to combine, and throw everything they had at the Pass. It was a desperate plan, and Despirrow foresaw a massive loss of life.

  ‘You know my objections,’ he said, ‘to such a funnelling of forces. It matters not how many of us cooperate, when a handful of Unwoven can defend the Pass against a thousand.’

  Braston frowned. ‘I see no other option – no matter the cost, we simply can’t let Regret continue with his experiments! Truly, I wish there was another way.’

  ‘Why wish it? It is precisely what Mergan offers.’

  Braston got a pained look, which came when his heart was at odds with his head. ‘You really think his plan can work?’