The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  ‘Yes, lord,’ said the jailer.

  ‘No hope for redemption, either,’ said Braston. ‘Yet to keep him here, like a sick animal, for the rest of his life … isn’t justice. It’s cruelty.’

  He approached the quivering prisoner, one hand held out as if to calm a frightened dog.

  ‘Much better for you,’ said Braston, ‘to know peace.’

  The man gave a squeak and tried to scrabble away, with all the effectiveness of a spider in a jar.

  Braston drew the sword from his belt. ‘I suggest you look away, gentle ladies,’ he spoke over his shoulder. Not bothering to see if they took his suggestion, he raised the sword, and the prisoner let out a panicked shriek.

  ‘Kinder,’ said Braston, and plunged the sword through the man’s breast, pinning him to the wall. The blow was true, and it did not take long for movement to cease. Braston withdrew the blade, letting the body crumple to the floor. He turned and moved out of the cell, everyone backing out of his way, the ladies glancing nervously at his dripping sword.

  ‘Make sure he gets a proper burial,’ he told the jailer.

  ‘May I have a moment?’ said Yalenna.

  He nodded and they stepped aside. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that. Justice is not always –’

  ‘Please, Braston,’ she cut him off, ‘I am not one of your dainty sycophants. The only thing that offends me is what a terrible waste of time this is.’

  Braston frowned. ‘There are people who have been in this place years past their due, one way or another. How can I expect others to follow me if I can’t even keep my own house in order?’

  ‘I hardly believe that the Spell brought us back so you could grant rest to a few ne’er-do-wells.’

  And it’s not your house, she added to herself.

  ‘But I cannot rest,’ Braston said, ‘with this place thrumming on the edge of my thoughts – it’s too close to the castle. So many untidy threads clamouring for attention!’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘I don’t believe that. We are ever and always surrounded by injustice, and you can ignore it when you choose. We have more important –’

  ‘I realise we must talk. I do. Tonight? Once I have carried out my task here?’

  He turned and singled out the captain who had brought her here, loitering with the others.

  ‘You, sir!’ he called, pointing with his blade. ‘Captain Jandryn, is it?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Escort Lady Yalenna to the castle. Make sure she’s appointed fitting chambers, and that her every wish is met.’

  ‘My only wish,’ hissed Yalenna, ‘is to work out what we’re supposed to do!’

  Braston affected not to have heard.

  As she passed through the castle’s archway entrance into a wide blue-stone hall, Yalenna found her annoyance growing. She did not want to sit in some chamber waiting for Braston to decide that he was ready to speak with her – yet she needed him, or, if need was too strong a word, then at the least she very much wanted his help.

  ‘What of Loppolo?’ she said suddenly to Captain Jandryn.

  ‘Pardon, my lady?’

  She couldn’t blame him, she supposed, for not following her train of thought.

  ‘What has happened to the rightful King of Althala?’

  He blinked, obviously uncomfortable with her choice of words.

  ‘Well, he … is probably in the throne room.’

  ‘Oh? Does he still sit on the throne?’

  ‘No. Er.’ The captain glanced about, but there was no one to overhear. ‘In truth, my lady, there is some confusion.’

  ‘I have no doubt. I wonder if you’d take me to him?’

  Uncertainly the captain nodded. ‘As you wish.’

  As they moved down the hall, Yalenna ignored groups of people whispering to each other and drifting along behind her. Word of her arrival, it seemed, had not taken long to spread.

  They arrived in the immense blue marble chamber of the throne room. An interlocking line of diamond-shaped tiles made a path that wended its way towards the distant dais and throne, through a collection of fountains. Artificial streams populated by colourful fish ran here and there, sparkling in the light of high-set windows. Little birds flew about, their chirps magnified as they echoed off walls, and servants moved between scattered courtiers. It was as luxurious and grandiose a place as Yalenna remembered.

  ‘This way, my lady,’ said Jandryn. Everywhere people stared, and there was more than one finger pointing at her. Ahead a sizeable group collected around one of the fountains, all feathers and headdresses, frilled coats and silk slippers. In their centre a man reclined lazily on a bench, eating a piece of cake and looking bored. When someone whispered to him however, he glanced her way and came swiftly to his feet.

  ‘My Lord Loppolo,’ said Jandryn, bowing. ‘May I introduce the Lady Yalenna?’

  Loppolo bowed so deeply that his brown ponytail dangled from the back of his head. He was a pleasant enough looking fellow, beyond middle age but with a softness to his features, who wore many layers of differently toned clothes.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said. ‘Welcome indeed, Priestess, to my … well, to the throne room, I should say.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Loppolo.’

  ‘Such a … well now, I’m not sure if it’s good fortune or not that brings you to our midst?’

  ‘That is a question indeed.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Loppolo wrung his hands, for a moment unsettled. Yalenna realised she was not quite sure herself what she wanted to achieve here. In her peripherals she sensed people coagulating about them, many probably hoping to catch a stray blessing. Some already had, her cloud emanating as abundantly as ever. Some of the smaller bundles even found homes in the birds flitting about, or the fish in the streams.

  May you set achievable goals every day, went to a minnow.

  ‘I understand,’ she lowered her voice, ‘that you were king until recently.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Loppolo. ‘Til very recently, my lady. A good king too, if I may say.’

  His companions, some of whom were more hard-eyed than he was, murmured their agreement. Looking at them now, Yalenna wondered whether Braston’s description of everyone collapsing to their knees when he appeared was entirely truthful. There were plenty of portraits and busts of him about the castle, so she did not think recognition had been a factor – but maybe fear had been. Who would stand against the hero-King of Althala, back from the grave?

  ‘But,’ continued Loppolo carefully, ‘I can’t argue with fate’s deliverance, nor deny Braston his old seat. Not when his return from death must surely have been willed by the Spell itself.’

  Yalenna was careful not to contradict this. Best that she and Braston presented a united front, even if she did not agree with his actions so far.

  ‘So what now?’ she said. ‘It mustn’t be easy for you to remain here in your old throne room.’

  Loppolo nodded thoughtfully. ‘I won’t pretend it is. Going from being the exalted King of Althala, to suddenly … well. Normally succession follows a death, even exile from time to time, and perhaps those would be less perplexing ends.’ He forced a smile. ‘Not that I wish for them, of course. This way, I can remain a lord, and continue serving the people as best I can.’

  The man was obviously struggling to justify what had happened to him, and Yalenna felt a compunction to shape a blessing for him – not randomly this time, but one of her choosing. She was not quite sure, however, what was appropriate. Perhaps it would be easier to see if she agreed with what was already in place? Sending her influence into his pattern, she sought the threads he had received from her – and smiled.

  ‘May you always have happy dreams,’ she said, passing her fingers through the air as if she bestowed the blessing by choice.

  Loppolo looked surprised, then gave another quick bow.

  ‘I thank you, Priestess.’

  ‘And now,’ said Yalenna, ‘I find myself tired. I apprecia
te you speaking with me, Lord Loppolo.’

  ‘Of course. And I hope to see you again soon, my lady.’

  ‘Captain,’ she turned to Jandryn, ‘I would appreciate being shown to my quarters.’

  ‘This way, my lady.’

  Loppolo stood watching them go. Once they were out of earshot, he clicked his tongue thoughtfully.

  ‘And what use,’ he said, ‘have I for dreams, I wonder?’

  Several of his companions sniggered.

  GIVE AND TAKE

  Forger left the cottage the next morning feeling like a new man. He was taller, for a start, almost tall enough to pass for normal. He knew he wouldn’t keep growing at such a rate, that after a while the growth would become more internalised – a growing of power, indeed! – but it was nice to know that no trapdoor spiders were going to burst out of the ground and try to eat him.

  He closed the door on low sobbing. Quite a puppet show he’d performed last night – he the master, the boys his marionettes. Look how they play, Mother, rolling a ball to each other across the floor. Oh dear, it’s rolled into the fire! No little man, don’t reach in after it! Dear oh dear, look missus, how his little hand is scorched, look, right down to the bone. That will teach you to reach into the fire, little man …

  And when the father had eventually come home, well, they had all had dinner together, hadn’t they?

  ‘Pass the salt,’ he chortled, remembering. A boy with knife and fork in hand-and-melted-hand, his mouth dumbly opening and closing, and Forger doing a high-pitched attempt at his voice. ‘Pass the salt, Father, pass the salt. Would you pass the salt please? Father, look at me – would you pass the salt?’

  He spied a large tub of rainwater, and stood over it, splashing blood off himself. He might, he decided, have to dress differently to appear normal. His patchwork leather clothing would probably draw attention, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that yet.

  ‘Not until,’ he muttered, ‘I know what the blazing piss is going on.’

  Three hundred years, he had learned during the night, since he had died. He thought about the very moment of his reawakening – staring up at towering grass was his first new memory, but it held no clue as to why he had been returned to the world.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘First things first.’

  He wanted to get to Tallahow – where he had trained as a threader and which had eventually become the seat of his power – but didn’t think he was strong enough yet to threadwalk. Besides, he contemplated, might be nice to see some of the land – see what has changed!

  Pleased with that merry thought, he turned back to the cottage. He would take some of the father’s clothes, and perhaps there was even some coin lying around.

  There was also the final question.

  Banging through the door, he re-entered the cottage.

  ‘All right, you two. I have one more thing to ask.’

  Bound to a chair by rings of warped metal that had once been a teapot, the woman’s head remained downturned, while at the head of the table the man raised his red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘It’s a question for each of you, and I suggest you think carefully about your answer. Do you understand?’

  The man gave a jerky nod, and the woman whimpered an affirmative. They had learned the price of not responding.

  ‘Very well, here it is: do you wish to die, or,’ he moved towards the woman, who flinched, ‘live with pain,’ he slipped his fingertip under her chin and made her look at him, ‘or live without pain?’

  They were confused, suspicious of a trick. Really, where was the trust these days?

  ‘Decide quickly,’ he said, ‘or I’ll decide for you.’

  ‘Live …’ The man had trouble speaking with his jaw swollen.

  ‘Yes?’ said Forger. ‘With pain? Or without?’

  ‘W … without,’ the man managed.

  The woman began sobbing again.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Forger, ‘it’s a simple question.’

  ‘And for her too,’ said the man.

  ‘All right, Father answers for you both. A shame, really, after building all this. It’s like kicking over a sandcastle, isn’t it? Oh well.’

  He made a motion as if gathering something up, and, just like that, took their pain away. They blinked their last tears as he gestured at their bonds, the metal unclasping to drop away.

  ‘Now,’ said Forger, ‘make sure you clean those cuts and scrapes, else they might turn bad. And get those bodies out of here before they fester.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the woman, rising. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  Forger laughed. ‘Sorry, my dear, I shouldn’t tell you how to keep your own house. In fact, I should really get out of your way, and on mine. Oh, but I need some clothes, and a pack – fetch those for me will you, Father?’

  ‘I think you’d better just leave,’ said the man, glaring around his cottage angrily. ‘You’ve already caused us enough trouble.’

  ‘Oho! Don’t think that just because you no longer feel pain doesn’t mean I can’t give it all back.’

  The man baulked at that, at least. ‘Very well,’ he said dourly. ‘I will get you something. It might be a little big on you, though.’

  ‘Not for long, I hope.’

  Soon Forger was walking away from the cottage, dressed in brown trousers and a loose cloth shirt, whistling cheerfully and leaving behind a couple who no longer cared that their children had died.

  Forger wandered along the road, taking in the lush green landscape. He passed other cottages, and many a field of crop or beast. No doubt there was a township around somewhere, though he did not come across it. Whenever he saw people, he gave them a friendly nod and a tip of his new hat, of which he was very proud.

  Then, all of a sudden, someone was walking beside him who hadn’t been there a moment before.

  ‘Hello, Forger.’

  Forger lit up with pleasure. ‘Salarkis! My goodness, I’d hug you if I didn’t think it would bruise me. I was just wondering if I was the only one.’

  ‘You aren’t.’

  ‘But you seem very serious, my dear. Aren’t you happy to see me? Are you not pleased to live again?’

  Salarkis shot Forger a look which was hard to decipher, given his pebbled eyes. ‘I haven’t come to talk,’ he said. ‘Not yet. I just wanted to see if you were here too.’

  He began to unravel.

  ‘Wait!’ said Forger. ‘Salarkis, don’t go! Which of the others are back? Have you seen Karrak?’

  It was too late. Cursing in frustration, Forger turned back to the road.

  Where had he been on Salarkis’s list? Who had the other Warden visited first?

  As a mortal, Salarkis had never been able to threadwalk.

  In the change, however, he acquired the talent, becoming the best threadwalker Aorn had ever seen. For the other Wardens such fast travel remained a difficult thing that required time and concentration, but for Salarkis it was as easy as flinging fish off a cliff. Not only that, but all he needed in order to find someone was to know their name. And there were other things he could send after names he knew too. Knives, blades of any kind – told a name by him, they would fly in search of its owner, no matter the distance between. He could not harm other Wardens that way, at least – there were strange limitations on what they could and could not do to each other, which Forger found rather tiresome – but he could track them nonetheless. No Warden hid from Salarkis.

  ‘You’re the brightest light in a sea of sparkles,’ he had once told Forger, by way of explanation.

  Forger kicked a stick along the road. ‘Who have you seen, damn you?’ he muttered.

  Why the unfriendly tone in Salarkis’s voice? They had always done well together, hadn’t they? Made for an excellent pair of tricksters!

  Admittedly they had never been as close as Forger and Karrak – dual kings of Tallahow and Ander, their cities twin centres of an ever-expanding empire. How wondrously cruel they had proved together, once they had real
ised their new common interests – how much fun they had had! And then, for no good reason, suddenly and without explanation, Karrak had completely disappeared. Even his crows he’d left behind, circling Ander as they called for their master – and Forger had called for him too, in his heart.

  Forger had, in fact, become obsessed with finding Karrak, and had ranged far and wide but never once caught a whiff of him. Distressingly, Salarkis could not find him either – how Forger had shivered to hear that Karrak’s ‘bright light’ had gone dark. He suspected that Yalenna, Braston or Mergan had killed him, but never figured out which of them it had been. Maybe all of them, together.

  Then Yalenna and Braston had come upon him, that night he’d spent in a little cottage not far from here.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Forger had roared above the howling wind, a thousand shards of broken wood narrowing to points in a swirl around him.

  ‘Nothing!’ shouted Yalenna. Forger suspected a lie, and sent the shard swarm whizzing at her. She had swept her arms forward, channelling the wind to blast them back at him.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Forger said, finally kicking the stick away. ‘Of course I could not see the cottage – we destroyed it to pieces!’

  There came a clip-clopping on the road behind, and he glanced about to see a horse pulling an empty cart, being driven by an old man. The man pushed back his hat, revealing a kindly face and proud moustache, and Forger had fun tipping his own hat in return. He liked the man right away, if only because of the distraction he provided.

  ‘Where you heading?’ the man asked.

  Forger gestured up the road. ‘Tallahow.’

  ‘Me too. Want a ride?’

  Forger grinned. ‘That would be marvellous.’

  ‘Name’s Hanry,’ the old man said, holding out his hand to help Forger up.

  ‘Ah …’ Forger wasn’t good with lies. ‘I’m Hanry too, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I haven’t met another Hanry in a good long while.’

  ‘Well it’s a good strong name, not to be given out lightly, eh?’ Forger winked, and Hanry chuckled. He took up the reins and they rattled onward.