by Sam Bowring
Forger stood over him, a broken length of stone – some of the balcony railing? – in his hands.
‘Ah,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘What do you mean, “ah”?’ snarled Salarkis. ‘So we are foes, after all? Is that what you wanted to show me?’
‘More or less,’ said Forger. ‘People think I don’t pick up on things, but I’m not stupid, you know. Even before we died, we were growing distant from each other. And I’ve heard the stories – didn’t you think I would – about you and Yalenna. About how she blessed you, before killing you. Are you still blessed, Salarkis?’
‘You might call it that.’
‘Besides,’ said Forger, ‘you have such wonderful gifts. I admit I got a little greedy, wanted them for myself.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? I’m going to disappear.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How could you even think there was any point to hitting me like that?’
‘Well, I don’t know!’ said Forger exasperatedly. ‘I just thought maybe, if I could knock you out for a moment, you wouldn’t be able to threadwalk, and I could finish you off in the meantime.’
‘Well, it didn’t work.’
‘I know it didn’t.’ Forger rolled his eyes. ‘I can see that, thank you very much. On the other hand …’
‘What?’
Salarkis waited, itching to be off, but also wanting to hear this last thing Forger had to say.
‘WHAT?’ he shouted.
‘All right, all right. Well, I was just going to say … this one more very important thing, before we part ways …’ Forger smiled. ‘On the other hand, at least I have bought Despirrow some time.’
Salarkis scowled as he unspooled.
As Yalenna burst into the room, the sight that greeted her almost made her reel. She wobbled in place, just managing not to collapse.
Entering after her, Rostigan looked about grimly.
A sword stuck proudly out of Braston’s barrel chest; his head, in a corner, was facing away; there was a smashed cup on the ground; and in another corner a quivering healer held his knees to himself.
He will pay for this. The words began to run repeatedly through her head. He will pay for this, he will pay for this.
Rostigan approached the healer. ‘What happened here?’
The man started to stutter. ‘My … I was … Despirrow … that is …’
‘We don’t have all day for your gibbering,’ said Rostigan.
‘All day,’ echoed Yalenna, staring out the window. The light that shone through it was now constant and strong. Day had taken hold.
‘Tell us what happened,’ said Rostigan, spinning persuasive threads into his words.
The healer blinked, powerless to withhold his secrets. ‘I came to bring King Braston poison,’ he said.
Yalenna spun around. ‘What?’
The healer nodded. ‘On the order of the true King Loppolo. Heartsorrow, mixed with curltooth.’
‘And did he drink it?’
As Yalenna stalked towards him, he swallowed.
‘Answer her,’ said Rostigan.
‘He drank it. Then Despirrow came, and … well … Braston was not able to fight back.’
Yalenna was almost nose to nose with him now. ‘So you killed him together.’
‘Er …’ The healer’s face was full of fear – speaking under Rostigan’s influence seemingly did not change the fact that he knew he was in a lot of trouble.
‘I should bless the skin right off you,’ growled Yalenna.
‘By the Spell!’ This from Jandryn, who had arrived at the door. ‘Lady Yalenna, are you all right?’
‘Take this man,’ she said, thrusting the healer at him with eyes blazing, ‘to the dungeons. He has poisoned King Braston.’
‘Poisoned?’ echoed Jandryn, glancing at the headless body.
‘And send out guards,’ said Rostigan, ‘to search the castle. Despirrow is here, somewhere.’
Jandryn paled. ‘Right away.’
‘We should search for him too,’ said Rostigan. He touched Yalenna’s shoulder, and she started. ‘Yalenna? Don’t you want to find him?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
Salarkis appeared out of the air somewhere between Althala and Tallahow. A quick glance confirmed what he already suspected – he had not made it to Despirrow in time. Either Despirrow was threadwalking himself, or dead.
Sighing, he sat down in the middle of nowhere to consider what he should do next.
Despirrow appeared back in the square outside Tallahow Keep. This time his sudden arrival was hardly noted, as everyone present was pointing at the sky – here, like elsewhere, the middle of the night had fast become day.
He paused to look upon a person or two, to marvel at the new sense he had acquired. He could see a new kind of thread, of which several wavered from each and every individual – not part of their pattern, but part of the pattern. It was something to do with how everything was connected – he didn’t pretend to understand it – but evidently it was how Braston had been able to discover where justice and injustice lay.
He made his way into the keep, feeling so powerful that he almost hoped guards would try to bar his way – yet they simply bowed and let him pass.
Already I am known here, he thought, oddly disappointed.
‘Look at you,’ he said to one of them. ‘Your mother raised you all by herself, and you don’t even visit her anymore! Shame on you.’
The guard blinked in surprise, and Despirrow moved on. Having Braston’s power was going to be fun!
He tracked down Forger to the mirror room. The Lord of Tallahow was staring into the mirror, chortling and rubbing his hands together.
‘Oh, my!’ Forger crowed. ‘You should come and see this, Despirrow! They are running about the castle like little ants, still looking for you … and I have seen, have seen your work!’
Despite his ambivalent feelings towards Forger, it was hard not to glow at such enthusiastic praise.
‘And you have acquired Braston’s powers?’ Forger asked.
‘I have.’
Forger nodded. ‘Well, that is something, at least.’
‘What do you mean, at least?’
‘The prize is won at terrible cost, my dear, you must know this. When the world can’t decide if it’s day or night, that is a bad state of affairs.’
‘It has cleared up now. The day shines true.’
‘Mmm. But who knows what the lasting harm may be? Anyway, I should not be maudlin, for these are exciting developments! Braston dead, and you with his talent.’
‘I’m so glad you approve.’
As he watched the mirror, Forger’s eyes widened. ‘By the Spell!’
‘What is it?’
Forger didn’t shift from whatever he saw. ‘Come, look for yourself!’
Hesitantly Despirrow went to the mirror. He found himself staring at the view into Braston’s room. The door was still open – had in fact been wrenched from the wall – and a healer was supervising Braston’s remains, having his neck wrapped so that it stopped trickling. It warmed Despirrow to see it, though he could not immediately ascertain the source of Forger’s excitement.
‘What am I looking at, precisely?’ he said.
His body jolted, and there came a cold sting in his chest. He looked down to see the point of a blade sticking from his breast. Turning slowly, he found Forger staring intently into his eyes.
‘What …’
Forger punched him hard, sending him staggering.
‘Forger,’ he rasped, grasping for purchase at nothing. ‘Don’t do this.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ said Forger. ‘You are simply too irresponsible to wield such power.’
‘But we are … friends.’
Forger shook his head sadly. ‘No, not really. You only came here when you got scared, not because of any true loyalty. I have
realised, much as it grieves me, that I must stand alone. It’s not the way I’d choose it, but you, Salarkis, Karrak … all have abandoned me.’
Despirrow tensed, trying to take hold of the strength so newly acquired. It was there, he knew it – he reached for Forger, who moved smoothly backwards, and Despirrow pitched forward onto his hands. The strength was there, but he could not rise to use it. He stared down at his splayed fingers, feeling the hopeless spasms of his punctured heart.
‘You … just want … my powers.’
‘Maybe,’ said Forger. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t really enjoy the stopping of time, athough maybe I will when it’s something I control, rather than an inflicted annoyance. I already have strength to match Braston, as you can see.’
Forger’s heel on his back drove Despirrow to the ground, pushing the sword backwards out of him. Forger seized it and pulled it free.
‘It’s a shame,’ he said, ‘that I have no use for the pain I cause another Warden. Good for you though, I suppose, else we could be here a long time.’
Despirrow shakily raised his head and saw Forger with the blade in one hand, a sputtering candle in the other. Where had he got a candle? Despirrow wondered vaguely.
‘But I don’t want to die again,’ he pleaded.
‘Who does?’
Scorching lines leapt from the candle. Despirrow tried to unthread them before they reached him, but he was too enervated. Fire touched him, and he screamed. There was no place to retreat, except maybe …
Desperately, he stopped time. The flames spilling from the candle ceased, and those on his body fell away in hard red shards.
‘You want to prolong this?’ said Forger. ‘Make me hack you to bits instead?’
‘If you kill me now,’ Despirrow forced the words through scalded lips, ‘how can you know that time will ever start again?’
‘Because your threads aren’t frozen,’ said Forger, ‘so they will come to me.’
And he set about Despirrow with his sword.
The story continues …
The Lord of Lies
BOOK 2 in the STRANGE THREADS DUOLOGY
The world is crumbling.
Having joined the Warden Priestess Yalenna, Rostigan must face those Wardens who remain bent on steeping Aorn in ruin and, somehow, heal the world by closing the Wound in the Great Spell.
Standing in his way is a superhuman army commanded by a madman, a sky full of silkjaws and, worst of all, an old friend, once betrayed, whom he must now convince to join him again.
There is only one thing for it – Rostigan must break an ancient oath and use powers he has dared not touch – powers that could tip the balance in favour of the spreading corruption.