The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  She was proud of him too, extra proud today. Braston himself, and the Priestess Yalenna, had sought him out, impressed by his past deeds – and asked him to accompany them on a dangerous mission to kill Despirrow! They had even taken him threadwalking, which was a strange thing to contemplate. She had never heard of non-threaders being transported that way before, but supposed that Wardens were powerful enough to do fairly much whatever they liked. Half of her had wanted to ask if they would take her too – but when she thought about it again, she realised this was one adventure she would rather avoid. She was well-versed in tales of Despirrow, after all.

  She knew she should be scared for Rostigan, and she was, a little, but somehow she managed not to think about it much. Her warrior would come back to her.

  He always did.

  ‘Rostigan!’

  He paused and waited for Yalenna to catch up. Truth be told, he could use a moment of stillness. He coughed, spitting up more water.

  She arrived at his side and put a hand on his arm. It was an odd sensation – her touch, given freely before the change, was now unexpected and foreign. He was struck by the concern on her face. Concern for him?

  He remembered an instance of her bandaging his shoulder, a day or two into their journey through the Roshous. They had been attacked by a couple of silkjaws, and he had caught a nasty gash from a flailing wingtip. None of the group were overly gifted at healing – an oversight of Mergan’s, perhaps, too concerned had he been with the aggressive side of threading – and yet Yalenna had done what she could to fix him. Her hands had been gentle but firm as she wound the bandage tighter, making some small admonishment about how he should keep his eyes open next time, smiling as she did, for they both knew he had been the one to warn of the danger, and if he hadn’t the outcome could have been much worse …

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, breaking him from reverie.

  ‘I will be.’

  She slipped a hand under his arm for support. ‘We need to get back to Braston.’

  After a few steps, he felt her aid was really more of a hindrance than a help, and subtly retrieved his arm while forcing himself to pick up the pace.

  ‘Lost my sword,’ he murmured, almost embarrassed.

  Not for the first time, came a stirring from the deep place. How many swords had he been through, over the years? Enough so he was not overly sentimental about any of them in particular.

  Down the path, Saphura was abuzz. The murders on the street had shaken the populace, and people gesticulated excitedly as they gave their accounts to the guards. Suddenly the ground shook, and a great crack burst open along the main road, to jag off under storefronts. Yells accompanied sounds of collapse, and several roofs disappeared from the skyline.

  ‘Wind and fire,’ groaned Yalenna.

  ‘The corruption spreads,’ said Rostigan.

  ‘It’s infuriating! Despirrow uses his power so flagrantly. Surely stopping time all over Aorn puts great strain on the Spell – threads that should be moving all stuck in place.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rostigan. ‘Infuriating.’

  ‘And, by the tides, he does not care a wink! Oh, how I wish we had killed him, curse him, the slippery eel!’

  Rostigan did not voice his thought that it was not necessarily Despirrow to blame. He knew Yalenna understood that well enough – she was just frustrated.

  Quick as it had appeared, the crack rumbled and closed, leaving barely a line behind. Little comfort for the owners of collapsed buildings, or anyone who had fallen in.

  In moody silence Rostigan and Yalenna retraced their steps to Braston. They found him slumped against one of the trees whose leaves had cut him so deeply, pale and horribly damaged, with a few concerned people standing around him.

  ‘We need a healer here!’ said a man. ‘Someone fetch a healer!’

  ‘They’re spread all over – more than one person needs healing right now.’

  ‘How is he even still alive?’

  ‘Make way,’ said Yalenna. Despite the softness of her voice, every head turned. Then, in mystified reverence, the people did as she bid. Although they could not have guessed who she was, Rostigan knew how she must look to them – beautiful and angelic, her skin almost seeming to emanate light, her majesty close to tangible. How fond of her he was, again, he realised. Strange, when they had been enemies so long.

  She knelt by Braston, whispering to him. Dried blood across his eyes cracked as he opened them. His mouth quivered, and he seemed to be trying to form a question.

  ‘He got away,’ said Yalenna, delicately stroking his brow. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Braston seemed to deflate, though it might have been the life leaking out of him.

  ‘We have to get him home,’ said Yalenna, as Rostigan crouched beside her.

  ‘I don’t think he can threadwalk.’

  ‘I … can,’ Braston breathed. ‘I must.’ He reached out, though with his arm badly lacerated about the elbow, it was less like reaching and more like flinging out a fishing line. ‘Help me.’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ said Yalenna. ‘I cannot threadwalk for you.’

  ‘Send them away, please.’

  He spoke of the onlookers, and Rostigan understood. He would be very surprised if Braston could manage to threadwalk at all, but getting rid of distractions was a start at least.

  ‘Away with you,’ he told the people, and reflected that, unlike with Yalenna, it was not because of great beauty that they obeyed him.

  Soon they were three hunched figures alone on the silent street, down which the breeze was turning cold.

  ‘You go first, Braston,’ said Rostigan. ‘And Yalenna, start preparing too, for he will need you at the other end. I will remain here in case he cannot do it.’

  ‘Where do you want to try for?’ Yalenna asked Braston.

  ‘The square,’ said Braston. ‘Hopefully no … ’jaw attack … has filled it with people, this time.’

  ‘The square, then.’

  They closed their eyes.

  Rostigan watched their faces. Concentration took them, minutes began to pass. Rostigan’s crouching position was not the best for his injuries, it became apparent, but he held himself steady, daring not to move lest he disrupt them. Sounds came from the surrounding streets – loud talk, feet clomping, and he willed their owners not to turn in this direction.

  Then Yalenna unravelled.

  Braston did not seem to note her departure. He must have gone somewhere very deep inside himself, thought Rostigan, to find a place where he could ignore his pain. His pattern wavered slightly, and Rostigan dared not breathe – and then Braston was gone too.

  Rostigan let out a sigh. He had not enjoyed contemplating the long way back if Braston had not been able to threadwalk. To succeed, in such a state … well, he could not help but admire the man’s constitution.

  Standing up, he stretched a little. Glancing at his hand, he saw how skin was already showing the first hints of growing back. He would have to put his own hurts aside now too, if he was to rejoin his allies in Althala.

  Why did she love him so much, Tarzi wondered? Not because of his bravery, not because he was a hero. That was nice to know, of course, and made him worthy of a woman like her, but ‘hero’ was really just an idea. The person himself was grey, stony, and occasionally Tarzi even thought him apathetic. Yet sometimes a smile would crack his lips, just for her, seeming almost painful for him to give away. Warmth would show through that crack, and in his intermittent humour. He protected her, listened to her, and more often than not deferred to her wishes. His actions showed that he cared, even if the actual words seldom crossed his lips. Besides, she had never found the flamboyant gift-bearing and flowery declarations of the foppish love-makers in her stories personally appealing. Her statue was better than that – ever driven to help, despite himself, when he would much rather sit and stare at a field, pipe smoke wafting around him.

  He was a good man.

  She heard commotion as s
he reached the square, and her step quickened. A figure lay sprawled on the ground amidst a crowd of people.

  Not him, she told herself, against a rising fear, for the man was much too bulky. Closer, and she saw it was Braston – horribly cut, some of his flesh missing in chunks, multiple wounds pulsing. Yalenna was there too, shouting orders, and Braston was loaded onto a stretcher as healers came running. Fear returned to Tarzi quickly, for Rostigan was nowhere to be seen. She pushed through the throng, heart beating fast. Had they left him behind? Where was he?

  ‘Easy, big fellow,’ Yalenna was saying. ‘You’ve been through worse.’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ mumbled Braston through barely open lips.

  ‘Priestess,’ said Tarzi urgently, and for a moment Yalenna glanced at her without recognition.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Tarzi, yes?’

  ‘Is Rostigan with you?’

  She tried to keep her distress contained, though some of it must have slipped out, for Yalenna’s face turned kinder.

  ‘He will be,’ she said. ‘He’s just a little slow to arrive, but he’s on his way.’

  ‘But don’t you have to travel together? He’s not a threader! Doesn’t he need you to, I don’t know, steer him?’

  Tarzi felt that panic was making her stupid, but she couldn’t help it – of course Yalenna knew that Rostigan wasn’t a threader.

  ‘Well,’ said Yalenna, ‘taking normal folk thread-walking … is a tricky process to describe …’ Her eyes flickered past Tarzi’s shoulder, and she broke into a relieved smile. ‘Look, there he is.’

  Tarzi spun and, sure enough, a short distance away Rostigan was forming out of the air. She hurried to him, arriving in time to lend him balance as he stumbled forward.

  ‘Songbird,’ he said – and there was that smile she loved so much. He gave her a squeeze, which also made him wince.

  ‘You’re hurt!’

  She grabbed his wrist, turning his hand to inspect the bloody hole through his palm.

  ‘Settle, girl. Nothing time can’t fix.’

  ‘Did you get Despirrow?’

  He grimaced. ‘No. Now, help me to a seat – or better yet, a bed.’

  He draped an arm over her shoulder, turning her towards the barracks.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said. ‘We need to get you to the infirmary, to a healer!’

  ‘Everyone will be busy with Braston for a while. I prefer to be away from the noise. Please, Tarzi? It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘It looks like there’s a hole in your hand!’

  ‘I just want to lie down.’

  She frowned. She would clean his wound and patch him up – wouldn’t be the first time either – but then, she promised herself, it would be straight into the castle to demand a proper healer, that was certain.

  Sighing, she let him steer her. As they went, she settled into his body, and snuck a look or two upwards at his handsome face.

  Such a good man.

  TO KILL A KING

  Yalenna took a last look over Braston, satisfied she had done all she could. He was installed in his own quarters, thankfully unconscious, with the best healers in Althala fussing over him. They could not click their fingers and make him well, but at least they could speed along the process. She was confident that, with or without their help, Braston would eventually recover. All he really needed was a safe place to convalesce, and his constitution would do the rest.

  She left his rooms feeling tired, her own wound a persistent ache. It had been looked at too, a healer having moved around a few of her threads to facilitate a quicker recovery. The Wardens did not make easy subjects for normal threaders – their patterns were complicated, and stubborn, for the threads stolen from the Spell were impossible to affect. She suspected that she, too, would probably have to rely on time to patch her up completely.

  As her feet led her towards her own quarters, she toyed with the idea of visiting Rostigan. No, she decided, there was nothing urgent to discuss. Despirrow had escaped, and each and every one of them had suffered for the experience. A good night’s sleep was the best thing for everyone.

  She opened her door tentatively, half-expecting to find Salarkis there, but the seat by the window was empty.

  ‘My lady?’

  An attendant was hovering behind her in the corridor.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you like anything? Tea, food, fresh sheets? A fire laid?’

  ‘Some dinner would be welcome.’

  The attendant ducked his head, and off he went.

  Inside she thought about getting changed, decided she couldn’t be bothered, and slumped into an armchair. Through the window she could see the lights of the camp outside the walls, and sighed.

  Why must it always be war?

  Her eyes closed and, for a moment, she may have slept.

  A knock at the door roused her. Begrudgingly she rose, wondering if it was dinner. She wasn’t sure if she was hungry or not, though she knew she should eat. Moving slowly, she opened the door.

  It was Jandryn.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re not food.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, my lady.’

  He seemed more jittery than usual.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ she said, as she retreated. ‘I’m so tired, I don’t even want to look at someone standing up.’

  Obediently he took the armchair opposite as she sank into her own, though he sat on the very edge of the seat, as if still at attention – as if it would be improper to relax. She could not help but smile. Half in dreamland as she was, she found she took pleasure in looking at him. He was a handsome young man, after all, and captain already in his early twenties (through noble birth or bravery? she wondered) about the same age as she looked herself.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘Hmm? Yes, what has brought you to me?’

  ‘I … er … I am torn, my lady, but I feel I must report. I don’t know if it is something, or nothing, but –’

  ‘Spit it out, Jandryn.’

  ‘I …’ He summoned his courage. ‘I have overheard talk, in the … in Loppolo’s chambers. Only a snatch, but it was about Braston. Loppolo retains loyal followers, and they have heard of Braston’s condition. Some of them still support Loppolo as king, and counsel that now may be the right time to attempt removing his … usurper.’

  Yalenna blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘I did not hear Loppolo say so himself, my lady, so it may be nothing …’

  Relaxation evaporated. It should not be a surprise, she supposed, yet somehow she had not considered that Loppolo would go so far as to consider assassination a possibility. Short-sighted of her, maybe?

  ‘That is troubling,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’ve had guards put on Braston’s door,’ said Jandryn. ‘Guards I trust.’

  For once his voice did not quaver, and he seemed sure of himself. Yalenna watched him closely, wondering what she had done to earn him as an ally.

  ‘I thank you for that.’

  ‘Just a precaution,’ he added. ‘Loppolo might listen to bad counsel, but that does not mean he will act upon it. I have seen him swayed by others before, however, and do not feel it is in Althala’s interests to lose one such as Braston. Or you, my lady.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I imagine if Loppolo succeeded in doing something stupid, you would turn your back on us. And that would be tragedy upon tragedy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Yalenna. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think I could escape so easily. I do not stand for Althala, Jandryn, but for the world. One man’s actions will not turn me against all humanity.’

  Perhaps he feared he had offended her, for he was quick to shake his head. ‘Of course not, my lady!’

  ‘Which is not to say I do not care for Althala,’ she added.

  There was another knock at the door.

  Jandryn stood up, hand going to his sword.

  ‘It’s just dinner,’ said Yalenna with a chuc
kle.

  ‘Ah. I should … that is to say, it would be improper for me to be seen at such an hour in a beautiful lady’s chambers.’

  He used the word beautiful matter-of-factly, as if it went without saying that that was what she was. It was nice to hear, for people did not often compliment one as striking as her, as if it wasn’t necessary to point out the obvious.

  ‘I’m sure no one is going to leap to conclusions,’ she said wryly. ‘Unless, of course, it would be prudent that you aren’t seen reporting to me, with the potential of split loyalty in the castle.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘You can go and hide in the bedroom, if you wish.’

  The idea seemed to make Jandryn even more uncomfortable, as he turned quite pink.

  ‘Thank you, my lady. I will touch nothing.’

  She opened the door to the attendant waiting with a tray of food. When she saw the steaming vegetables, and steak, and wine, she knew she was hungry, after all. The attendant set the tray on the table, bowed deeply, and was gone.

  ‘All is well,’ she called into the bedroom. ‘Your presence is not suspected.’

  Jandryn emerged looking sheepish.

  ‘I don’t want to have to keep telling you to sit,’ she said, setting herself down in front of the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Er … no, my lady.’

  ‘I am.’

  She began to heap food onto her plate. As she did, the shoulder of her blouse slipped, revealing the bloodied bandage there. Jandryn stared at it in horror.

  ‘My lady, what has been done to you?’

  ‘What? Oh. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I earned it during my run-in with Despirrow.’

  ‘That dog!’

  His sudden anger was a little over the top for her right then.