The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  ‘He should be flayed alive!’

  ‘I completely agree,’ she said. ‘Flayed alive, boiled in oil, decapitated … it hardly matters as long as he ends up dead.’

  After she had eaten a bit, he cleared his throat.

  ‘My lady, is there something we should be doing?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘About Braston?’

  Yalenna dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I’m not sure. As you describe it, we do not even know if Loppolo seriously entertains what has been suggested to him. I can’t really go storming into his chambers demanding an explanation.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for a start, it may give you away.’

  ‘My lady does not need to worry about me.’

  ‘Oh, but I do. What if I can use you to find out more? It’s doubtful they will speak again in your presence if they suspect you are my agent.’

  ‘I was not really in their presence. I was outside the room – they did not know I was there.’

  ‘You said you put guards on Braston’s door?’

  ‘Yes, but guards on doors are no guarantee of safety. There are other ways into rooms. Windows and … well, I do not know all the secrets of the castle.’

  Yalenna sighed. She found, strangely enough, that again she had an urge to talk to Rostigan.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘the guards should stay inside the room, then.’

  ‘Won’t they disturb the king’s rest?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are they particularly chatty guards?’

  Perhaps she should be taking this more seriously, she thought. Why didn’t she? Maybe she didn’t really believe that Loppolo would attempt such a bold move, or maybe she was simply overtired. But if there was an attempt made on Braston’s life, and she had done nothing to try to avert it, how would she feel then?

  She put down her fork with a sigh.

  ‘All right. Let us go and check on Braston.’

  As they walked the corridors, Yalenna thought Jandryn seemed troubled by what he was doing – his eyes darted left and right, though there were few people about to note their passing. He had been a king’s man, Loppolo’s man, and she had not really thought about how easily she had appropriated his loyalty. She was simply used to having people obey her, and the Wardens – the good ones, anyway – had always found followers easily. Yet, when she thought about it, Jandryn owed her nothing at all, and perhaps he struggled with the choices he had made.

  She found herself curious – this man had spent long enough in her presence to become blessed, but she had never checked the nature of that blessing. She squinted at him now, searching out her influence. It was not as obvious as in those freshly blessed, having had some days to settle into his pattern, yet when she put her mind to it, she could always find what she looked for.

  There.

  She gave an audible intake of breath as she discerned this most singular blessing.

  May you be lucky in love.

  ‘Everything all right, my lady?’ he asked, his brown eyes soft.

  ‘Oh … yes. Lead on please, Jandryn.’

  As they continued, she wondered about the nature of such a powerful blessing. It did not, she knew, mean that he could make people fall in love with him against their will. It was, perhaps, more subtle than that. To be lucky in love … maybe it simply meant that he would do well around the object of his affection? That she would see him at his best, notice his finer qualities.

  Had it affected her in any way, she wondered? Certainly she thought him a handsome fellow, but that was merely passing admiration. Or was it? So long had she served Aorn selflessly that recently a niggling feeling had come, that she wanted something for herself, something out of life.

  She bumped into him, finding him frozen in time.

  Once Despirrow was well away from Saphura, and had really begun to feel the chill of the river, he decided that he considered himself safe. He left the water and walked up the bank, his sodden clothes keeping him in cold’s embrace. As he moved into the trees, he gave a wave, expelling moisture from his garments.

  How had they found him?

  He hadn’t done anything to draw attention. The only one who’d known where he was, could possibly have known, was Salarkis.

  He thought hard about their last exchange. Salarkis had given the appearance of wanting to help, but Despirrow was not foolish enough to take that on face value. Unfortunately, either way, he knew the best thing to do was go to Tallahow, and Forger. His enemies would baulk at pursuing him there, at facing both him and the Lord of Pain together.

  Where, then, in Tallahow, did he remember best? Surely the keep remained – in fact he knew it did, for he’d heard of Forger taking it back. Concentrating hard, he pictured the square in front of it, and soon enough he began to unravel.

  He surprised a couple of soldiers, appearing out of the air on the square’s grey cobbles.

  ‘I am Despirrow,’ he told them. ‘Take me to my old friend, Forger.’

  Pale at his name (how good it felt not to hide it!), they nodded and gestured towards the keep entrance. Under the archway they checked in with a superior, who looked Despirrow over with a mix of fear and caution.

  ‘If I’m not who I say I am,’ said Despirrow coolly, ‘then the mighty Forger will no doubt kill me. What do you care? Take me to him.’

  As they travelled upwards through the keep, the doors he passed returned pleasant memories to him. Many a night he had spent here, taking wine and wenches as he pleased – perhaps coming back here was not so bad after all.

  They reached the throne room, and heard a whimpering coming from within. Without waiting to be announced, Despirrow banged open the door and strode inside.

  At the room’s far end Forger sat on the throne, watching with interest as a burly torturer cut strips from a man chained to the wall. The torturer looked bleary-eyed, as if his efforts wore at him, and there seemed a halting reluctance to his movements. Next to Forger stood a grey-haired old man in a brown robe, reading a scroll.

  ‘Despirrow!’ Forger exclaimed, clapping his hands with delight as he stood and descended from the dais. ‘I was beginning to think I’d done something to offend you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Despirrow, trying to echo Forger’s warmth. ‘I merely wanted to take in some of the world before seeking you out – you know how it is.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

  Forger loomed over him, at least two heads taller – at peak strength, by the look of him. He clasped Despirrow by the shoulders.

  ‘Let me look at you! My, you’re a bit tattered.’

  ‘I had a little run-in.’

  ‘Threver!’

  The old man appeared by Forger’s side.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Organise some quarters and fresh clothes for my friend Despirrow here. Make sure that the clothes are noble – he does enjoy dressing the part.’

  ‘Right away, my lord.’

  The man bowed to each of them, and Despirrow was pleased to have respect accorded to him.

  ‘Now,’ said Forger, rounding on the torturer, ‘Yoj, get out! Despirrow, you must tell me everything.’

  Soon Forger was loping back and forth, covering the room in frighteningly long strides. Despirrow sat watching him from the throne, reclining as if it were his.

  ‘No!’ said Forger furiously. ‘I cannot believe it.’

  Despirrow shrugged. ‘I’m only telling you what I saw with my own two eyes.’

  ‘Karrak would not turn against me!’

  ‘Salarkis visited and told me he had, and then Karrak showed up and tried to kill me. That’s about as much proof as I need.’

  ‘Salarkis! And where has that stony bird been? Appeared to me once, acted all, I don’t know … aloof, unfriendly … and hasn’t bothered to seek me out since!’

  The man chained to the wall gave a low moan.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Forger, and the man jolted as his backbone ripped out, to dangle from his
waist like a bone tail.

  ‘Idle pleasure?’ Despirrow arched an eyebrow towards the quivering corpse. ‘Or foe?’

  ‘A fellow I met in the dungeons,’ said Forger. ‘I released him, and he shot me with a crossbow. Not that I bore him any ill will, for it was just a silly mistake, but he served as well as any to help me stay strong.’ He shook his head. ‘This doesn’t fit. Why would Karrak … why would he …’ He had a thought. ‘Come with me.’

  Despirrow slid off the throne to hasten after the loping Forger. He led them down a level, along a corridor, through a guarded door, and into a room where a threader sat gazing into a mirror.

  ‘You,’ said Forger. ‘Seen anything?’

  ‘Yes, my lord – I was about to send word. Braston is badly injured, back from a failed expedition to kill … er …’ she paused, noticing Despirrow standing by Forger, openly eyeing her off, ‘… Despirrow. There is further talk in Loppolo’s chambers about killing Braston, trying to make it look as if he died of his injuries.’

  ‘Have you seen Karrak?’ demanded Forger, and for a moment she was transfixed by the intensity of his stare.

  ‘I … don’t know what he looks like, lord.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ growled Forger. ‘Run along then.’

  She beat a hasty retreat, and Forger went to look in the mirror.

  ‘What is this thing?’ asked Despirrow, joining him.

  ‘Look into it, and you will see what its friends in Althala Castle see.’

  Despirrow was surprised. ‘How remarkable.’

  ‘Shh. I want to listen.’

  Despirrow stared into the mirror as the view it showed changed. It was as if he looked though a window into another room – and the room was Loppolo’s chamber.

  ‘The people will never stand for it,’ growled Loppolo, his voice somewhat muted. ‘They will storm the castle and have my head on a pole!’

  ‘Braston’s on the brink as it is,’ said a fat, aging fellow. ‘We could have a healer deliver him poison, under the guise of tonic, and it would appear as if he had merely succumbed to his hurts.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Tursa,’ scowled Loppolo. ‘You think you can kill Wardens so easily?’

  ‘Braston used poison on Despirrow,’ said Tursa evenly.

  Ah, that’s right, thought Despirrow. How could I have forgotten? Oh, yes – I didn’t.

  ‘Yes,’ said Loppolo, ‘but that was some kind of special brew, something potent and arcane, and nobody knows exactly what.’

  ‘Some think it could have been a common poison, but laced with curltooth, my lord.’

  Curltooth, thought Despirrow. That makes sense.

  The wine had been sweet, the best he’d ever had – but how it had twisted in his gut, deadened the pathways of his body, and shot pain through his spasmodically beating heart.

  ‘When again,’ Tursa said, ‘will Braston be so weak, I ask? This is the perfect – maybe the only – opportunity to finish him.’

  A door banged somewhere, and the nobles glanced at each other nervously.

  ‘Who’s that?’ called Loppolo.

  A muscular young man emerged into view.

  ‘Ah, Captain Jandryn.’

  ‘You sent for me, lord?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder if you have reported to Yalenna, yet?’

  ‘Not yet, my lord.’

  ‘You have been keeping an eye on her, though?’

  ‘When it is appropriate to do so.’

  ‘Well find an excuse to go and visit her. I want to know all I can about what went on in Saphura.’

  Jandryn nodded. ‘As you wish, lord.’

  When he had gone, Loppolo leaned forward.

  ‘Curltooth, yes,’ he said. ‘I have heard that theory before, but only as the guesswork of storytellers. No one really knows for sure.’

  ‘The minstrels’ tales make sense, lord. Curltooth would enhance the qualities of a poison, bring out its worst, as it were. And even if it did not work, no one would have to know it came from you.’

  ‘This is pointless,’ said Loppolo. ‘We don’t have any curltooth.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tursa, reaching into his pocket. He produced a small vial, inside which clung a few brown specks. ‘But we do.’

  ‘But how? There hasn’t been any in years!’

  ‘It’s very rare, that is certain. This cost me a great sum to procure, but I would gladly sacrifice a pleasant meal to see the kingdom restored to rights.’

  He held out the vial to Loppolo, who took it gingerly.

  ‘I have a man in my employ,’ Tursa continued, ‘blessed with an absence of scruples. He waits outside, and will deliver to Braston, should I ask, a pleasant tonic, looking much like lily water – yet mixed with heartsorrow.’

  Loppolo turned the vial thoughtfully in his hands.

  Forger stirred beside Despirrow. ‘Perhaps this is better than seeing Karrak,’ he murmured.

  ‘Can we find Braston himself with this thing?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The view changed to an expansive bedroom, and there, sure enough, was Braston. He lay half under the sheets, the exposed parts of his body a stitched mess, bandaged in various places, scabby and bleeding, his skin pale and his eyes closed.

  ‘I do enjoy seeing the fruits of my labour,’ said Despirrow.

  ‘You did this to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Impressive. You must tell me the story in great detail.’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t finish him off.’

  Yes, thought Despirrow. Especially now that I know what happens to our powers when we die.

  They watched Braston for a few moments, then the mirror changed views again – Forger was controlling it somehow in a way Despirrow couldn’t quite work out – and they saw some other places around the castle, but nothing of any consequence. Eventually they cycled back to Loppolo’s quarters.

  A man now stood amongst the nobles and ex-king, wearing the robes of a threader. In his hand, a tall cup made popping sounds, as Tursa sprinkled in the curltooth.

  ‘They’ve decided to do it!’ said Forger excitedly. ‘I didn’t think they would, I thought Loppolo too timorous!’

  ‘Succeed in your mission,’ Loppolo said dully, ‘and you will be generously rewarded.’

  The ‘healer’ nodded, and departed with the cup.

  ‘This is miraculous!’ said Forger. ‘They’re actually going to do our work for us!’

  Despirrow’s mind began to tick. If Braston did take the poison, then he would die – Despirrow was sure of it, sure that was what had been done to him. What, then, would happen to Braston’s threads? Who would inherit his Spell-given abilities?

  ‘Look!’ said Forger excitedly. The view changed to the passage outside Braston’s door. Two guards stood there, their eyes turning to a flight of stairs as the ‘healer’ emerged. He approached the door, nodded to the guards.

  ‘I’m here to attend the king,’ he said, and swirled the cup. ‘I bring a healing tonic that will see him back on his feet in no time.’

  The guards apparently did not suspect a thing. They stood aside and one of them even reached to open the door.

  Despirrow knew a moment of agonising indecision – and, as the guard’s fingers touched the doorknob, he stopped time.

  The view in the mirror froze, and it took Forger a moment to realise what had happened.

  ‘What – why did you do that?’ he exclaimed, turning angrily. ‘Yalenna is in the castle, Karrak too, if you’re to be believed. This will give them a chance to notice what’s going on! To save Braston!’

  Despirrow really did not want to tell Forger why he had stopped time, but staring into those blazing eyes, he could not think of any explanation other than the truth.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted to hear the story of what happened in Saphura. Well, here’s one part of it – Karrak has inherited Stealer’s power.’

  ‘What?’

&nbs
p; ‘He killed her, and now he can do what she could.’

  Forger frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t used to be able to make bridges disappear with rhymes. I think the Spell’s threads must be acting again as they did that day on the Spire, when they leapt at us out of Regret.’

  ‘You think Stealer’s threads are in Karrak?’

  ‘Yes. And I think that when Braston dies, his power will go to whichever one of us is closest.’

  Forger’s frown grew deeper. Then he shrugged.

  ‘What of it? I don’t want to be able to see damned injustice wherever I go – nor do you, I daresay. It would probably drive us mad.’

  ‘What about Braston’s monumental strength? Do you really want to see it go to Yalenna, or Karrak? To make our enemies more powerful?’

  ‘I have not decided yet if that’s what Karrak really is.’

  ‘Even so, why take the risk?’

  ‘What are you suggesting then?’

  ‘One of us has to be on hand when Braston is finished.’

  Forger shook his head. ‘There’s no time. We can’t threadwalk while the world is still. And if you start things moving again, it will take too long – Braston will be drinking the poison before we can hope to set off, and heartsorrow works swiftly.’

  ‘Your thinking is limited. Certainly we cannot thread-walk there quickly enough … but we could walk there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No time is ticking by. No Wardens have any of their powers. Braston is sealed in his room, will receive no healing beyond what his own body can muster. And without food or water to fuel his recovery, he will likely lie in torpor for the weeks it will take us to journey on foot to Althala.’

  ‘I don’t know. That is a very long time to hold the world steady, and it will do damage.’

  ‘Don’t be so weak,’ said Despirrow derisively.

  Forger took him by the shirt and hauled him up off his feet.

  ‘I may not have my powers,’ he said, ‘but I’m still bigger than you, Despirrow.’

  ‘Release me,’ snarled Despirrow. Forger let go, and Despirrow tried to make his landing as dignified as possible. He took a moment to straighten out his ruffled collar and smooth his front.

  ‘I can go alone,’ he said, ‘if you do not wish the journey. Once Braston is dead, I can return far more swiftly.’