by Sam Bowring
‘Guards,’ said Jandryn, ‘escort these fine folk to their rooms so they can pack up their belongings. They are to leave the castle today.’
Tursa shook off a guard’s hand. ‘I will walk of my own accord.’
Along with the others, he departed.
‘Nobles,’ said Jandryn, shaking his head. ‘Sometimes I’m ashamed to be one of them.’
Yalenna had never thought of him as a noble, but of course he had to be – he was otherwise too young to be Captain of the Guard.
‘What do we do now, my lady?’ he asked.
‘We must speak to the people,’ said Yalenna. ‘Before they grow too anxious, before too many wild rumours hurtle about. We must also crown Loppolo.’
She glanced at a window – it was afternoon, too late to organise any official proceedings for that day.
‘Can you coordinate the heralds, Jandryn? Tell them the people will be addressed tomorrow morning in the square.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
As he departed, she considered the door to the king’s rooms.
‘Come,’ she muttered to Rostigan. ‘Let us work out what needs to be said.’
Forger slapped his horse on the rump, though it certainly did no good. The beast was struggling under his bulk, with Forger’s legs so long they hung just above the ground. Although he readily absorbed the flickers of pain that issued upwards, the horse was supposed to be a mode of transport rather than a victim, and in that sense it was more annoying than useful. He shoved backwards off the beast and fell easily into stride with another horse that cantered alongside him, upon which Threver sat.
They were riding with the Tallahowan army, which marched across green fields towards Ander. Born for this, Forger reflected, glancing about at the thousands of soldiers glistening in their steel. Tallahowans had always had an imbedded sense of entitlement, and he was glad to be the one to channel it.
‘It has been too long,’ he roared, ‘since we marched in pursuit of conquest – am I right, my friends?’
There came an answering cheer, though perhaps not as many-throated as Forger would have liked. No doubt some of the soldiers were still disturbed by his presence, perhaps even unsure over the rightness of their mission. Luckily, there were also plenty of veterans who knew better than to question a lord, not to mention the nobles with whom he had ‘forged’ allegiance. It was amazing what fat greedy toffs who would never have previously thought to join the rank and file would do once their pain was taken away. The army would find it hard to disobey when most of their leaders rode alongside them, turned into unfeeling monsters. These soldiers should all be very relieved that they were on his side – something he would quickly remind them of if he caught any deserters. Still, he wished that Karrak were here, with his talent for forcing belief into people’s heads, just to sure things up.
To his left rode Yoj, who he had ordered accompany him from the keep. He intended to make use of the pale-skinned torturer, to see if he could discover the man’s limits.
Make him work on a child, he thought. Or a baby!
‘How despicable!’ he chuckled to Yoj. ‘To torture an infant, for no good reason. What can it tell you? Nothing! Why, it cannot even beg you to stop. I wonder how long you could make it mewl?’
For his part, Yoj looked even paler than usual, but tried to force a smile.
Forger turned back to Threver. ‘Where can I get a baby, do you think?’
Threver stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps one of the whores no doubt following in our footsteps will have one?’
‘Excellent. Send someone to see.’
Something silver flashed out of the air, and there was a dull thud as a dagger sank into Threver’s chest. The man jolted backwards in the saddle, and looked down in surprise at the protruding hilt.
‘My … lord?’
Slowly he pitched sideways from his horse.
Rage blazed in Forger, but there was nothing he could do. Threver was dead.
Another blade wheeled in and Forger leapt, reaching with his influence to grasp hold. He was too late, and fell outstretched onto his stomach as the dagger slammed into Yoj.
‘Save him!’ Forger screamed, pummelling the ground with his fists and kicking his legs. ‘Threaders! Healers!’
There was no saving Yoj, however, and he knew it. Salarkis’s daggers always struck true.
What had he been thinking? He should never have told Salarkis the names of anyone he valued! Now, as punishment for his stupidity, he had lost both his favourite new toy, and an advisor whose advice had actually been quite good.
He let his head fall into the grass, pressing it down all the way to the dirt.
RAVENOUS
During Despirrow’s frozen night, Mergan found himself trapped inside a tavern where he had been in the midst of a feast. Alone once again, he had fallen into old habits, and counted things for too long.
At least there was a better view than in his previous confinement. He liked to look upon one young woman in particular, whom he had generously allowed to join him at his table. She had eaten enthusiastically, and Mergan hoped to earn her affection in return. It had been so long since he had thought about sex that it was almost a surprise to remember what it was – to feel urges returning as his body regained strength. He knew he was a crazy old man, but hoped she would somehow see beyond that. Perhaps the great deal such a gift would mean to him would convince her it was worth giving?
As the night continued unabated, he had ample opportunity to inspect her from all angles – the sweep of her hair, the smile on her face. (It had been directed at him, hadn’t it? He sat down again, trying to find his original position, to make sure.) He admired the shape of her bosoms under her blouse, the fine hairs along her arms, the little crumbs of food on her lips. He looked her over until he knew every pit and pore of her. He played guessing games about her name, where she came from, her life story … at least it was a way to pass the time. When he had to relieve himself – for he had been full of food and drink when the freeze snapped in, so his bodily functions persevered for a while – he made sure it was always out of her eyesight. Even so, he feared greatly that that would be the moment when time unstopped, and she would glance over to see him squatting beside the bar. The night, however, had lasted well beyond the complete evacuation of his bowels.
At some point, as Mergan sat slumped against the wall, his mind wandering like a bird caught in stormy skies, he found himself thinking about Yalenna. He remembered her face from when she was younger – a potential new student at the School of Threading in Althala when Mergan had first met her, her hair already changing from pale blonde to white. A shy thing, looking up at him pensively and clutching her hands together as her father rattled on.
‘You’ll take her?’ asked the man, his eyes darting about as if he were uncomfortable, as if he wanted to be away from there. He had a jaunty look to his clothes and a shallowness to his person that Mergan did not care for. ‘Go on, my child,’ he said, ‘show the threader what you can do.’ He gave her a pat on the back that was probably meant to be encouraging, but which held all the tenderness of a slap on the thigh.
Mergan crouched down to the girl’s eye level and smiled kindly. ‘It’s all right, little one.’ He gave his fingers a waggle. ‘Your father tells me you have a great gift.’
Yalenna glanced up at her father, and it broke Mergan’s heart to see her defer to a man who cared for her so little.
‘Look,’ Mergan said, and pointed across his office to his desk, where various bendy sculptures stood, like thin animals with long legs. He reached with his influence to make one move, made it totter clumsily across the desk, and another lurched out of its way. He made them turn and sway their heads, and then between them something like a wildercat sprang up suddenly on the spot. He earned himself a little yelp, and a look of wonder from the girl.
‘Are they alive?’ she whispered.
Mergan chuckled. ‘No, not alive. It was me who made them do those thing
s. Do you want to try?’
Her eyes widened. ‘How?’
‘Can you see into the other place? The one where the patterns swirl, where there are twines and twists inside of things?’
She nodded doubtfully.
‘Then maybe you can reach out and make the wildercat jump. Like this, see?’
He held out his hand, still watching her. She copied his movement, her brow crinkling as she stared at the sculptures. A moment later, a gust of wind blew up out of nowhere and scattered the oddments to the floor. The girl cried out in alarm, and tucked her hands firmly into her armpits. Her father gave a nervous titter.
‘’M sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘No, no,’ said Mergan. ‘My dear, it’s nothing to be afraid of. You have a leaning towards the elements, perhaps? Time will tell.’
He straightened up as her father rested his hands on her shoulders.
‘See?’ said the man, with a false air of pride. ‘She can thread, just like her mother, Spell rest her. You’ll take her on?’
‘We will. You wish her to board with us, is that right?’
‘Aye.’ The man produced a clinking bag. ‘That should cover a year, I understand? I will be back and forth – my business takes me all over Aorn – but I will check on her when I can, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Mergan, wondering if the fellow ever meant to return. ‘Well, I shall alert the matron to our new arrival. It will be good to have you with us, Yalenna. You will find others like yourself here and make good friends, I have no doubt.’
He could see that the girl was putting on a brave face, but there was a glistening in her eyes.
‘You two can say your goodbyes in the courtyard,’ he said. ‘Then Yalenna, come back and find me, and I will make the necessary introductions.’
As they left his office, he tutted quietly, and wondered at men who lacked the capacity for love.
He blinked slowly, coming back to himself in the tavern. The face of the little girl faded away, replaced with her older self, who had been about twenty when she had stopped ageing – her once-innocent expression screwed up in anger – and the fleeting warmth delivered by his memories felt like a cheat. After all he had done for her! Paying her way himself whenever her father failed to show up in time, and afterwards, when he stopped appearing altogether. Yet she had betrayed him so completely. Left him to rot, as he rotted now, again. He rubbed his brow furiously, and the image of her shattered to a thousand pieces.
A thousand and five? Or a thousand and ten?
He rolled over onto his side with a growl.
At one point he looked out of the window, and saw strange ribbons of light in the sky. The world had been unnaturally frozen for so long, that day was now trying to break through.
‘Release us, Despirrow,’ he shouted, many times.
Then, all of a sudden, everything came back at once. Day ripped across the sky like fat, expanding lightning, stuttering light through the window. Mergan spun around to see his dining companion, her mouth hanging open to display the food she had been chewing. It did not matter, he told himself, silently forgiving her – what could have been a moment of ugliness only endeared her to him further.
‘You’re back!’ he exclaimed, as he ran to the table. His appetite was raging, and he picked up a chicken leg to chew on while he stared at her. He had expected to find it steaming hot, as it had been when the freeze had come, and was momentarily taken aback when the meat proved stone cold instead. It seemed that time of day was not the only part of the natural order trying to assert itself.
No one else was eating, for they were dumbfounded by the sunny day taking over outside.
‘Don’t worry about it!’ he told them. ‘Eat, drink, while we can!’ He rounded on the barkeep. ‘Bring more food, this has gone cold! Quickly, quickly.’
The barkeep ignored him, moved around the bar towards a window, and stepped in a pile of defecation. He looked down, his confused expression taking on a note of disgust.
‘Who shat in my tavern?’ he asked, almost offhandedly, as if it were the least of his questions.
‘I did,’ said Mergan, words that instantly haunted him. I did, I did. Why had he gone and told them that? No one would have ever known!
The woman rose from the table.
‘Where are you going?’ he cried. ‘Don’t go, stay! The food still tastes good, no matter it’s gone cold. See?’
He wolfed down the chicken leg, to show her, and reached for another.
The tavern door opened as folk spilled into the light, and she moved to follow.
‘Stay!’ he begged. ‘It’s all right!’
‘Get off me!’ she shouted, and he realised he had grabbed her arm. Roughly she shook him off, and fled.
But I love you, he thought, trailing after.
Not only had Despirrow made Mergan wait forever for his feast, he had ruined its continuation.
I will kill you, Despirrow.
Shielding his eyes against the inexplicable sun, Mergan stepped outside. The tavern stood at the edge of a village in the north of the Plains Kingdom, and everywhere people were emerging from thatched houses.
‘Unwoven!’ someone suddenly shouted.
Sure enough, away across the dry grasses, twenty or so Unwoven sat upon their horses. They seemed distracted by the day, cantering about and pointing upwards. They would have been meaning to approach under the cover of night, Mergan supposed, hoping to surprise their victims. Now that they had been revealed, Mergan imagined they had a decision to make.
‘To arms!’
There was no wall around the village, which Mergan considered remarkably stupid. That said, as soon as the call to arms went up, weapons started to appear in hands. Out on the plain, the Unwoven began to gallop towards them.
Mergan wasn’t sure what to do. He knew he was in danger, for if a normal person’s threads were like silk to his touch, then Unwoven were instead thick, coarse wool. He could deal with a few of them at once, but twenty was maybe too many. Besides, why should he stand and fight? He did not feel particularly sympathetic towards the villagers. He’d had to shit in the corner, he’d had no other choice! And yet, after his kindness and the sharing of his feast, he meant no more to these people than a cloud to an ant.
Well, then, they meant nothing to him either, he decided. That was only fair.
He probably had time to hide and threadwalk somewhere else, but could not think of where to go. He had no kinship left with anyone alive. He was hungry still, but it was an angry hunger, and he did not think more food would sate it. He was eating already anyway, he realised, oafishly gnawing a dripping slab of meat he had unconsciously brought with him from the tavern.
Nowhere to go. Nowhere he belonged.
‘I’m all alone,’ he told a man running past with an axe, but the fellow didn’t respond.
Maybe Mergan had mumbled while his mouth was full.
His mind’s eye returned to his prison of the tomb, to the mountains surrounding, to the Spire where he had been remade. Something about them called to him, and he felt like part of himself was still there, would always live there. Anchored, whether he wished it or not. Why else did he dally within sight of the Roshous? He had the world at his feet, yet had gone no further afield than the Plains Kingdom.
The world is so small, he thought, as a tear formed. He could visit Althala, or Saphura, or Ander, but the idea of each terrified him. How could he relate to anyone, anymore? His heart and mind were riddled with cracks, through which shone only greed and lust. Imagining himself sitting at a table of lords and ladies, making polite conversation as he delicately cut his carrots, set his hair on end – he saw himself harnessing flame from the candles, burning his companions to cinders and laughing.
Someone bumped him, and he blinked.
What terrible thoughts.
‘Get inside, old man!’
Probably a good idea.
He spotted an open door and walked through it. Inside, the little hou
se was empty. There was a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, and two windows in each.
Six windows in total.
He raised his hands and concentrated. Sending his influence into the house’s walls, he took hold of the latticework of threads making up their structure and drew them together like bootlaces pulled too tight. The house quaked as it shrunk, its materials constricting until they were dense enough to be near impenetrable. The windows shrunk and thickened too, though these would remain the most fragile points, so he darkened them into the bargain.
As soon as he was finished, the first screams sounded outside. Blades clashed and horses whinnied – the Unwoven were somewhere close by. Mergan went to one of his smoky little portals and looked out onto the street. Three burly Plainsmen charged past, and he moved to the next window where they appeared again. An Unwoven stood in the street, ferociously swinging her sword in readiness. The villagers split into a semicircle around her, staying back from the long sweeps. The Unwoven gnashed her teeth and stuck out her ghoul-white tongue. Mergan found himself admiring the unflinching Plainsmen – it seemed to him that they must have faced this kind of opponent before.
The Unwoven made a wild jab that was turned aside by one of the Plainsmen, and the other two darted in from different directions. One stabbed deeply into her exposed armpit, while the second swung his blade halfway through her neck. The Unwoven’s grin stretched wider on her head, her lips jostling open as she convulsed to make her seem ridiculously happy. The third Plainsman moved about to strike the neck from the other side, completing the cut, and the Unwoven’s head spun away, glugging blobs of white blood while her body crumpled.
Mergan was impressed – the Plainsmen had been methodical and calculated, done a fast and efficient job in the face of an intimidating foe. Maybe they would beat back the raiders after all.
Two more Unwoven leapt into view and hacked the Plainsmen to pieces.
Mergan realised he was gritting his teeth too hard and tightening his fists. He tried to relax. One of the Unwoven noticed him watching, and came up to the window to squint in at him.