The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  JUSTICE REBORN

  Considered by some to be the greatest city in Aorn, Althala was certainly the biggest and the richest. Streets were paved with white cobblestones, buildings were solid and opulent in design, and everywhere storefronts spilled colourful produce out into thoroughfare displays. People moved in thick streams, happy and nodding to one another as they went about their business. Everything was clean and well presented – drains in the sides of footpaths channelled rain and refuse into underground caverns below the city, and even the occasional beggar was surprisingly well groomed. If it was anything like Yalenna remembered, a beggar would need a special licence from the city, which would only be granted if they were debilitated somehow. Others claiming poverty would be given two choices: leave Althala, or work in city-run farmland on the fertile plains to the east.

  Today, however, it wasn’t the beauty of the place that fuelled the bounce in various steps, as Yalenna quickly learned.

  ‘I hear Loppolo’s steaming,’ she overheard a rotund woman say to a cloth trader.

  ‘I warrant that’s true,’ replied the trader, holding out a length of blue silk for inspection. ‘He knows he’s at risk of falling into Braston’s shadow, and disappearing entirely.’

  The woman chortled as she pawed the silk. ‘Very nice. Oh, but it’s marvellous, isn’t it? I can’t believe it, I still can’t! If you’d told me last week that I’d see the Lord of Justice himself return to life and reclaim the kingship – that I would stand in the castle square and see him wave – I would have thought you mad. And yet!’

  ‘It certainly is amazing,’ said the trader. ‘Now, can I cut you off this much?’

  Yalenna moved on, somewhat troubled. She understood the people’s joy – she was looking forward to seeing Braston herself – but she did not like the news that he’d supplanted the rightful king. How had it happened? Willingly she hoped, akin to Arah’s offer to step aside as Priestess. But even if that were the case, and talk of Loppolo steaming was just idle gossip, Yalenna felt Braston had made a big mistake. While it had been difficult for him to abandon his people – the hardest part of killing himself – he must know, must know, that he simply had no right to pick up where he had left off. Perhaps to him it seemed like no time had passed, but that was no excuse.

  Pausing to eavesdrop on the woman and trader was the only delay Yalenna allowed herself. With the density of the population here, the blessings that seeped from her were finding many homes.

  May you always smell clean.

  May you never catch a cold.

  May you discover hidden talents.

  While there was a time when she would have taken pleasure from this, the bleak truth of it was that her magic constantly damaged the Spell. Without the ability to reign it in, being close to so many people made it all the worse.

  She moved towards Althala Castle, its great white spires visible for leagues around. She navigated the streets easily enough, finding it remarkable how little had changed. She recognised plenty of municipal buildings, and wondered if the School of Threading still stood. That was where she had been placed as a young girl, all but abandoned by her merchant father. Thankfully, Mergan had recognised her great talent, and she had lost herself quickly in her new life. She did not deviate to go looking for the school now, however, her purpose overriding any sentimental urge.

  Soon she came to the immense public square lying in the castle’s shadow, an empty space under high balconies punctuated only by a few ornamental trees. She headed for the castle entrance, where Althalan guards, dressed in silver armour over red garments – something else that had not changed – manned either side of a grand archway.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ said a young man politely – a captain, by the look of his shoulder plumes. ‘May I ask what business you have in the castle?’

  ‘My name is Yalenna,’ she said. ‘I seek my old friend Braston.’

  The captain gaped in surprise and looked her up and down again. She was still dressed in her white robe, her snowy hair flowing freely down her shoulders. It had always been considered an unusual colour, but not so rare that it made her instantly recognisable. Still, coupled with her name, and the robe, and who she asked for, she could see him sorting through the implications.

  ‘Er … the, the Priestess Yalenna? You claim?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The other guards were grouping around, ogling her with various degrees of curiosity and suspicion. The captain glanced sidelong at them – some of them were older and more grizzled than he – and tried to look less flustered.

  ‘How can I trust you’re really her?’ he said.

  Little bundles of threads spilled from her, sinking into the guards. If they could see what she saw, she thought, there would be no doubting her word.

  She tapped the lightning insignia that clasped her robe together. ‘Does this not carry weight in Althala anymore?’

  ‘Forgive me, miss,’ said the captain, ‘but there are other priests and priestesses who bear the same symbol.’

  ‘I have a simple solution,’ said Yalenna brightly. ‘Take me to Braston and he’ll tell you who I am.’

  ‘If you’re really her,’ put in an older guard, ‘why don’t you give us a blessing?’

  ‘I already have.’

  The man frowned. ‘What is it, then?’

  Yalenna shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, good fellow. I do not shape the nature of what I impart, unless I choose to. Would you like me to find out what it is you’ve received?’

  She extended a hand at him, and his went to his sword. She ignored the action, instead searching his pattern for any new insertion. There it was, still wriggling into place.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Anything you plant will blossom and thrive, even in the harshest soil.’

  The man looked bemused, while the others chuckled.

  ‘Off to try your hand at some gardening, Das?’ asked the captain, and chuckles became laughter.

  Blessings, Yalenna reflected, were sometimes wasted.

  ‘What about me?’ asked another guard. ‘What did I get?’

  She found herself growing impatient. ‘I am not here for your amusement!’ she snapped, which made them all jump a little. Forcing her voice back to an even tone, she said, ‘Captain, please, take me to Braston. What is your concern? If I’m not who I say I am, he has nothing to fear from me.’

  The captain thought about that for a moment, muddling through it a little confusedly – then gave up, and nodded. ‘Very well. I will take you to the king.’ He gave a little bow. ‘I am Captain Jandryn. You lot,’ he added, as some of the others made to move with him, ‘stay here.’

  Some of them looked disappointed.

  Jandryn led her, not through the arch, but back into the square, towards other surrounding buildings that were part of the castle complex.

  ‘Where is he?’ said Yalenna.

  ‘Althala jail,’ replied the captain.

  I might have known, she thought.

  Here the stone was not as white as elsewhere in Althala, and there hung a certain smell in the air – sweat, and other unpleasantness resulting from human confinement. Rows of doors with viewing panels lined the corridors, some of them open to reveal empty cells. Some of them looked only recently vacated.

  Ahead Yalenna heard voices, and a hearty laugh that felt like a warm blanket on her soul. Whatever madness it was that had returned her to the world, she was not in it alone. He was here too.

  When Mergan first brought the Wardens together, she had not known Braston well. He had visited the School of Threading once or twice, and she remembered shaking his hand as a nervous young slip of thing. Later, once she had been made Priestess, and ruled in her own right, they had exchanged a missive or two, their interactions always very polite and reasonable. It had not been until they had journeyed together to the Spire, and afterwards spent the better part of a decade hunting and killing the remaining Wardens, that they had grown truly close. After all, they had been all
that stood between Aorn and disaster – especially once Mergan had disappeared – and had needed to constantly support and trust each other.

  Perhaps it was because of that trust that she now felt a little nervous, wondering how pleased he would be to receive her. After all, she had been the one to convince him to take his own life. She had needed to be staunchly adamant and convincing in her arguments even while harbouring her own doubts … which, it now turned out, she had been correct to have, for their deaths had seemingly solved nothing.

  She had persuaded him to kill himself for nothing.

  She rounded a corner and there he was. Muscular enough for two men, his barrel chest stretching wide the V-shaped neckline of his shirt, he stood at least a head above the others in his entourage. Every hair of his golden beard was perfectly in place, and his golden eyes twinkled merrily as he regaled his audience with some tale or joke. As she swished around the bend into his view, however, she ensured they would not hear the end of it.

  ‘Yalenna!’ he exclaimed. His face lit up in a way that assuaged her worries, and it was a release to smile at him fondly. He, on the other hand, was having none of her restraint, and bustled towards her, careful not to knock anyone else over in what for him were tight confines. He seized her under the arms and she laughed as he lifted her up in an enormous hug to swing her about.

  ‘Braston,’ she said giddily, once he set her down, ‘you never did that before!’

  ‘I’m happy to see you!’ he said, beaming. ‘By the Spell, if you weren’t here, I don’t know what I’d do!’

  ‘It looks to me,’ she said wryly, ‘like you know exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘Oh, this …’ he glanced about at the guards, jailer, and nobles who accompanied him, now watching them together in open fascination. One of the guards held a brown-clothed prisoner with chained hands, who looked terrified.

  ‘Just apportioning a little justice,’ said Braston. ‘You would not believe the state of this place!’

  To Yalenna the jail looked cleaner and kinder than some she had seen in other cities, but she held back comment.

  ‘I hear you’re raising an army,’ she said instead, though it came out a little sharper than she intended.

  Braston grunted, and lowered his voice. ‘I’m sure you know we’re not the only Wardens to return. Stealer too, I think, for Silverstone has disappeared without a trace. I’ve also heard of goings-on in the Sunshine Downs that seem to have the mark of Despirrow about them. And if those two are back, and us as well, I can’t see much reason to hope that the others aren’t here. Even now Karrak is probably scheming with Forger, raising up their own forces. We’ll hear about them soon, no doubt, and I do not wish to be slow to react. I wish to pre-empt!’

  Yalenna stared into his earnest eyes. It had always been easier for him, she knew, to face a foe that he could see, could fight. Already he was focused on taking down the others, as he had been all those years ago – yesterday.

  ‘Also,’ he continued, ‘have you heard? The Unwoven have not been dealt with yet. They have begun sending hunting parties out of the –’

  ‘You must realise,’ she interrupted, ‘that what we were trying to achieve when we ended our own lives has failed.’

  Anger flashed across his face, and she forced herself not to look away. He, however, seemed more eager to forget her mistakes than she was, for he smoothed his expression, and took a deep breath.

  ‘But Yalenna,’ he said, ‘they are the more immediate threat.’

  ‘Maybe so. But we cannot –’

  ‘Cannot what?’ He took her hands and squeezed them. ‘Use this time we’ve been granted against all expectation? Do some good while we’re here? Yalenna, I do understand that there must be some mysterious reason for our return – or maybe it’s not mysterious, maybe the Spell simply wants us to exist! But even if it’s something less pleasant than that, we don’t yet know what it is. Am I supposed to stand idle while Karrak rebuilds his empire?’

  ‘Of course not, but we must choose our actions carefully. I have already heard that you deposed the King of Althala.’

  ‘I would not say deposed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Braston grimaced. ‘But the people, Yalenna, they were so glad to receive me! I appeared on the very throne where I died and, after the initial shock, you should have seen how they fell at my feet, how they praised the Spell for such a miracle! They would not have it any other way than I be king again.’

  ‘And you, Braston – would you have it any other way? What if we discover that our purpose lies elsewhere? What if we must perish once more? Do you not think it affects the kingdom to have its rightful ruler cast down? I’m sure the people would still have been glad to see you whether or not you became their actual ruler. Instead you have changed the natural order by assuming control.’

  Braston shook his head. ‘You are too harsh. I made the same sacrifice as you, yet the Spell has brought us back. And certainly I don’t intend to rush to death again, however keen you may be to do so!’

  Yalenna prickled at the accusation, though part of her was strangely thankful that he at least acknowledged the tension between them.

  ‘I should not have abandoned my people in the first place,’ he muttered. ‘I’m simply back where I belong.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘There!’ Braston brightened. ‘At least you’re open to the possibility! Come, will you join me? I should get back to my task.’

  Yalenna knew he needed time to adjust to any idea he did not like, and was especially stubborn when it came to mistakes he had made. Certainly she did not feel in the best position to talk him around immediately, given how wrong she had been herself.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Seeing prisoners.’

  As they returned to the group, the shackled man cringed in the guard’s steady grip.

  ‘Take this fellow, for instance. A murderer who killed a man in a drunken bar brawl. Now look at him.’

  The miserable prisoner stilled as all eyes settled on him.

  ‘The man he killed was his friend,’ said Braston. ‘They knew each other from childhood.’

  Tears began to etch their way down the prisoner’s cheeks.

  ‘Yet I can read his threads,’ said Braston. ‘His sin has cost him greatly, and he’ll never again repeat it.’ He nodded to the jailer. ‘Unchain him.’

  As the jailer lifted his keys, disbelief showed on the prisoner’s face.

  ‘But lord,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t deserve to be released.’

  ‘The words of someone who does,’ said Braston, and the nobles in the group cooed to each other at his wisdom. ‘If you cannot face your friends and family, you are welcome to join my army. Take him away.’

  The man bowed and murmured thanks before a guard ushered him on. Braston smiled at Yalenna, and she tried to return it. She knew they had to be careful about using their gifts, yet Braston’s came as naturally and unstoppably to him as hers did to her. He saw the tapestry of relationships around every person, how they were connected to the world – and if there was injustice there, done to or by the person, he could always sniff it out. Laudable as his intentions were, it made her uncomfortable to see how eagerly he embraced his powers.

  He moved to the next door, where fingers gripped the bars of the panel.

  ‘Let me out too, lord,’ came a plea from within. ‘I’ve atoned for my wrongs, I swear!’

  Braston peered into the cell. ‘A petty thief,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right lord, nothing too bad! I only took a bit of fruit, the odd trinket – got to feed the family, you know how it is.’

  ‘And a liar too,’ said Braston. He slid the panel closed upon a howl of dismay.

  ‘Should have known better than try to deceive the Lord of Justice,’ murmured one noblewoman to another. She glanced curiously at Yalenna, who gave her a slight nod, and she blushed.

  May you derive satisfaction fr
om completing simple tasks.

  ‘Are you really her?’ the noble asked. ‘The Priestess Yalenna?’

  ‘I really am.’

  ‘And have you come to join Braston?’

  Yalenna quirked an eyebrow. ‘I suppose you could put it like that.’

  ‘My goodness. And since you’re here, does that mean that we are blessed?’

  ‘You are.’

  The women glanced at each other in awe.

  ‘By the Spell, my lady, what have you given us?’

  ‘You’ll have to discover that for yourselves.’

  The women excitedly began discussing what unknown gifts they now possessed.

  Yalenna sighed.

  ‘Not sure about that one, lord,’ the jailer said.

  Braston was staring through the panel of the next cell door. ‘Open it.’

  With resignation the jailer obeyed, and Yalenna moved to Braston’s shoulder to look inside.

  The cell was filthy. Excrement smeared the walls around an empty bedpan. Sheets lay in a heap on the floor, the mattress frayed as if someone had been chewing it. The prisoner himself sat in a corner facing away, muttering as he scratched his scabs and ensured there would be new ones. As the door squeaked his head turned to reveal a sallow, unshaven face.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘at all the nice warm goodies.’

  ‘He’s not right in the head, lord,’ said the jailer. ‘Ain’t nothing to be done for him either.’

  Braston stooped to enter the cell, and the man snarled, flecks of spittle dotting thin lips. He did not rise, but twisted to flatten himself against the filthy wall. His eyes darted frantically about the people watching him, finally settling on Yalenna.

  May you always be true to your heart’s desires.

  ‘Such a pretty mouth,’ the prisoner leered. ‘I’d like to use it as a bedpan.’

  The nobles gave exclamations of disgust.

  ‘Mind your tongue!’ barked the jailer, but Braston held up a hand for silence. He studied the man, seeing things that no one else could, and eventually gave a sad sigh.

  ‘He’s committed terrible deeds,’ he muttered, almost to himself.