The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (18 page)

Chortles and whispers rippled around the fountains and paths of the throne-room chamber, an amused susurrous
above the trickling water. The stir met another coming from the opposite end of the room, and Braston sat up to see what had
caused it. His first thought was that Loppolo had arrived, which always caused a bit of discomfort, but from his raised position,
he instead saw Yalenna moving through the court, a sight which made anxiety flutter in his heart.

Although he could not see her connective threads the way he could in others, she may as well have stood in the middle of a
rippled, tangled web, for all the complicated emotions she stirred in him. He knew he should not have left it so long to see
her, yet he had not been able to muster the courage. He was not angry, exactly, about what she had convinced him to do – her
arguments had made sense at the time, and seemed the greatest hope for setting the world right. Certainly, at the least, they
had been born of good intentions. More recently, her annoyance over him taking the kingship also resonated – perhaps he
had
been too hasty and should have resisted temptation – yet her indignation was sullied by what had come before, making it something
to be rejected, even when he suspected she was right. He was determined, this time, to be less of a follower and heed his
own counsel, though unfortunately his instinct was not to think too hard about anything.
Tomorrow
, he had told himself every night,
I will go to her
tomorrow
. But tomorrow, it seemed, had come once too often. He was ashamed, and probably rightly so, that he had left her waiting
so long.

As she entered the space before the throne, it was hard to read her expression – deliberately mild, which was never a good
sign. He noted she had traded her Priestess’s robe for a shirt and trousers, her snowy hair tied back in a long plait. She
looked ready to travel, and he wondered if he had alienated her sufficiently that she now meant to leave. The thought inspired
a moment of panic and he made up his mind then and there to forgive her, for whatever it was he needed to. Giving up grudges
made life easier, and although Braston did not suffer from the delusion that things could ever be simple, at least he preferred
them plain.

‘King Braston,’ Yalenna said.

Her formality made him realise he had no wish to constrict her to the niceties of a public arena. He trotted down the steps
of the dais, holding out a hand to indicate she should accompany him, and led her around the throne to a place where light
spilled through tall windows, which was free of other people.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said immediately. ‘It’s unforgiveable. I should have come to you. It’s just …’

You want to talk about the Spell
, he thought.
You want to conjure up theories, and wonder what it is we should do, and chastise me, and I’ve no wish for any of those things.
I am no better than a child
.

‘I know,’ she said, touching his forearm, her tone bereft of the acid he’d expected.

‘You do?’

‘Of course. I don’t blame you for not wanting to see me. If anyone, I blame myself.’

Old, protective habits sprung to the fore. Suddenly it did not matter what Braston believed. It was more important to correct
the notion that the two of them were at odds, which was nothing he desired.

Maybe
that’s
what he had needed time to work out.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.

Yalenna laughed bitterly.

‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘You were just trying to make things right.’

‘Yes,’ she said, folding her arms to stare out the window. ‘Trying.’

‘Well, it worked, in a way. Didn’t it? Without us in the world, by all accounts, the corruption mostly ceased.’

‘Then why did the Spell bring us back?’

Braston shrugged, though he thought about the Wound.

‘At any rate,’ Yalenna said, ‘I haven’t come here to force you into conjecture.’

‘No?’

‘There is something of more immediate concern.’

‘What is it?’

She blinked and Braston suddenly realised she was trying to hold back tears.

‘Yalenna? What’s wrong?’

She dabbed the corner of her eye, and sniffed. ‘It’s Mergan,’ she said.

Every footstep towards the walls of Althala seemed harder to take, heavier. Rostigan still could not quite believe that he
approached the city voluntarily. Events seemed to have swept him along a natural course – the good warrior would surely answer
the call, and so long had he played the part, he could almost avoid second-guessing himself. But he also could not help but
feel that somehow, a joke was being played upon him.

Braston lurked inside the white spires, and Yalenna too, if rumours were true. What would they make of him? Did he care? They
were children compared with him –
all
were children compared to him – but somehow he did not think they would consider him wise and venerable.

He toyed with the idea of not even making himself known to them. Would they recognise him, after all this time? Of course
they would – it had not been ‘all this time’ for them, he reminded himself. They did not have the
years behind them to render his face a clouded memory. Neither was it a simple matter of donning a heavy helm, or disappearing
into the ranks to become one soldier amongst thousands. His name, false as it was, was well known, and Braston, with his liking
for warriors, would no doubt wish to meet the great Rostigan Skullrender. Besides, he had to admit, a part of him was … eager?
… to see them. Perhaps they would be impressed with the changes he had wrought in himself. Perhaps they would listen to his
story, which he had never told anyone before. Perhaps he had been a man alone too long, teetering on the brink of giving up
on a dream, and these two represented the nearest thing to kin that he could ever hope for.

In contrast to his introspection, the mood of the group grew increasingly lively the closer they got to the city. Young people
were spreading out along the road, mixing with others who had journeyed that way. Rostigan lost sense of who was with them
and who wasn’t, not that it mattered anymore. They would all be absorbed into Braston’s army, and any claim he had over them,
for buying them bread and boots with a handful of herbs, was already forgotten. They had never been his army. He had only
done as Tarzi asked.

Cedris, perhaps, would remain a visible part of his world. The young man had been keen, ever since they had met him, to ingratiate
himself with them both. He looked up to Rostigan, that was plain, but his interest in Tarzi was less clear. Obviously he must
know he couldn’t have her, yet that knowledge would probably not diminish her allure.
Or perhaps Rostigan diminished her himself, by thinking of her in such simple terms, when actually it was the role she had
played – a catalyst who had plucked Cedris from his normal life – that bound him to her. Watching them now – Cedris chattering
excitably while Tarzi nodded and smiled – made Rostigan wonder if he had ever been so happy and fresh.

Cedris turned and saw Rostigan looking at them. ‘Almost there!’ he said with a grin.

‘Yes,’ said Rostigan, as the great white walls spread wide across his field of vision. ‘I can see that.’

Traffic condensed through the southern gate. Guards seemed to have forsaken their usual habit of demanding to know everybody’s
business, instead calling out instructions for those who came to join the army. From what Rostigan heard, they were all to
report to the castle square, and it was likely they would then be assigned to a camp constructed outside the walls to the
north. How many had come, that the city could not hold them? Did they flock from other directions as thickly as what he saw
here? He was surprised, despite what he had seen on the road, that Braston’s call had proven so effective. Was it the threat
of the Unwoven that stirred people to action? Or were the Wardens really so well remembered that their heroes remained so
appealing, their villains so fear-inspiring?

Tarzi slipped her hand in his, which for some reason startled him. He supposed he had minstrels like her to thank for keeping
their legend alive.

If ‘thank’ was the right word.

‘Here we go,’ she said.

Bumping shoulders in the throng, they made their way into the city. As expected, most people were headed toward the castle
square. Tarzi suddenly seemed as if she wasn’t in a hurry, her eyes darting about at the many taverns and stores that lined
the road. She had wanted to visit Althala for a while, before war had become the motivation, and Rostigan could see her interest
piquing.

‘I find myself wondering,’ he said, ‘what you intend to do now, songbird?’

‘What do you mean?’ she replied, eyeing off a display of crispy-fried lizards on skewers.

‘You are not actually going to join the army yourself, are you?’

‘Why not? You’ve taught me how to handle a sword.’

Rostigan smiled, recalling their play-fighting, two figures sweating as they danced about each other in the wild. Still, while
Tarzi was healthy and fit, there was also a buxomness to her that he could not imagine an opponent being intimidated by.

‘You can strike that look of concern from your face,’ she said, pinching his cheek. ‘Armies aren’t comprised of soldiers alone
– they need entertainment too, for good morale. I can be of service in my own way.’

‘I see. So, once we get to the castle, you shall inform them of the official minstrel position you’ve chosen to fill?’

‘No, I won’t talk to them at all. I shall simply hang about.’

Rostigan chuckled and gave her buttocks a slap. ‘You have it all worked out.’

‘Indeed. Now, hold on a moment – I want to buy a lizard.’

At a leisurely pace they made their way to the square. Here, hordes gathered in the shadow of the castle, many voices clamouring
across the white stones. To the left of the castle was the barracks, a series of connected buildings with fenced-off training
areas. In front of the barracks was a wooden platform, on which stood an officer flanked by soldiers. On either side of the
platform were tables, behind which carts stood heaped with weapons and armour. Long lines ran from the tables, as people waited
to be questioned by the officers manning them. Rostigan watched as farmers and peasants were given equipment, young men and
women who had never before handled a weapon now showing them off to each other, as they were steered by soldiers back out
of the square.

The captain on the stage was speaking, trying to be heard above the tumult.

‘… see the captains for your troop assignment. Anyone who has military training or relevant experience, line up to the right.
If you are a new recruit, please join the left line. You will be given what you need for your training, then report to the
northern camp unless otherwise specified. King Braston is pleased by your willingness to fight those who would destroy our
way of life! We must end the threat of the fallen Wardens, for even now Forger and Karrak build their armies, even now they
plot our downfall! If
you have served previously in any army, please line up to the right. If not, you will be given training. Braston thanks you,
Althala thanks you …’

‘Braston,’ muttered Rostigan, shaking his head.

‘Come on,’ said Tarzi. ‘Let’s line up.’

‘I thought you were just going to hang about.’

‘I need to make sure you don’t undersell yourself. I want a good room in the barracks, as is only befitting a hero. Let these
others sprawl about in the muck.’

Sighing, Rostigan allowed himself to be ushered into the lines.

After hearing several more variations of the officer’s speech, he was about ready to smash the man in the mouth.

‘Surely, the lines should lead
away
from the stage, as a reward for our patience … rather than towards this booming fool.’

‘Mmm,’ said Tarzi. ‘Very well, my statue – let us bypass the rabble.’

‘What?’ he said, as she pulled him from the queue. ‘But we’ll lose our place!’

Three hundred years might have taught him patience, but he did not fancy needlessly starting again from the back.

‘No,’ she said, ‘we will gain it.’

Approaching the tables, she spotted an officer standing apart, supervising some of the regular soldiers, and planted herself
in front of him.

‘Excuse me.’

The officer favoured her with an up-and-down stare, while Rostigan felt a little uncomfortable with her boldness.

‘The officers at the desks can answer your questions, miss.’

‘What kind of hero’s welcome is that?’ Tarzi asked.

The officer frowned. ‘Pardon me?’

‘This,’ said Tarzi, standing aside to ‘reveal’ Rostigan lurking resignedly behind her, ‘is Rostigan Skullrender, champion
of the Ilduin Fields. Do you think it right that the man who turned back the Unwoven, who quite possibly saved this city,
who now offers his services once more, should really be made to wait –’

The officer blinked under her deluge, then held up a hand for quiet. He stared hard at Rostigan.

‘You claim to be Skullrender?’ he asked.

‘Not claim,’ said Rostigan.

‘He does look like the paintings,’ said one of the soldiers.

‘If you speak the truth,’ said the officer, ‘then you are indeed most welcome. But, I am afraid to say, I cannot take your
words at face value.’

‘Summon Loppolo, then,’ said Rostigan. ‘He will remember me.’

‘The king …’ The officer winced. ‘The former king is not mine, or yours, to summon at will. We have heard rumours, however,
of Rostigan being seen on the road from Silverstone … and, even wilder, that he killed Stealer and fought Salarkis!’

‘It’s true,’ said Tarzi.

‘You really did?’ asked a young soldier. ‘You killed her? What happened?’

‘Hush,’ said the officer. ‘Either way, King Braston will wish to meet the one who makes such claims. If they are true, Althala
is indebted to you.’

‘I would myself like to speak with Braston,’ said Rostigan.

‘Unfortunately the king is not presently in the castle.’

‘Oh?’

‘He’s been called away on a grave errand.’

‘What errand?’

‘The king’s business is his own … but, the way I heard it, he won’t be gone overlong.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Tarzi, ‘you should assign us quarters in the barracks against Braston’s return, at which point Skullrender
looks forward to being welcomed by him with open arms.’

The officer gave a slight smile. ‘You are an audacious one, miss.’

‘I’ve been called worse.’

‘Please do not mistake my wariness for disrespect. I hope you are Rostigan, I truly do. These are strange times, however,
and we must all be on our guard. That said, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. To deny you, and be wrong, would be
a greater crime than to believe you and be proved a fool. And
I
have been called worse than that.’

Tarzi gave the man a grin. ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘You have a nice turn of phrase about you.’

‘And, may I ask, who might
you
be, miss?’

‘I am Rostigan’s minstrel, Tarzi.’

A couple of the soldiers sniggered and Tarzi raised an eyebrow at them. The officer, however, gave a serious nod.

‘That fits. My sources tell me he travels with such a one. A beautiful woman, they say.’

‘You have accurate sources,’ said Tarzi.

‘Cease your noise,’ snapped the officer at his soldiers, and they fell silent. ‘You have your orders – see to the new recruits!
We must imbue them with sufficient skill to keep them alive for at least a few moments on the field. Go!’ He waved away his
underlings. ‘And now, if you would like to accompany me, Rostigan and Tarzi, I will show you where you can stay … against
the king’s return.’

‘Against the king’s return,’ echoed Tarzi, and gave a little curtsy.

The officer led them through the crowd towards the barracks. There, sitting on long benches before a fenced-off archery range,
a number of regular soldiers sat regarding the throng with everything from amusement to disdain. Rostigan was glad Tarzi had
shoved him in this direction, for he also found the wide-eyed enthusiasm of the greener recruits misplaced.

‘Getting a lot in,’ he observed.

‘Aye,’ said the officer. ‘We –’

The man froze in mid-step. All noise – the chatter, clanking, footsteps, everything – ceased. Rostigan bumped into someone
ahead of him, who stood as still and solid as a
statue. The jagged crumples in the fellow’s shirt scraped his skin, as hard as iron. Glancing about, Rostigan saw a frozen
Tarzi looking at the archery range, where arrows in flight hung suspended in the air. Everything was motionless.

‘Ah,’ Rostigan growled. ‘Took you long enough, Despirrow.’

He had been wondering when this moment would come, had in fact expected it sooner. Perhaps Despirrow had been trying to delay
confirming his presence absolutely, yet finally it seemed that some need had won out. Across the whole of Aorn it would be
like this, for everyone except Rostigan and the other Wardens, immune as they were to Despirrow’s talent for halting the passage
of time.

Where is he?
Rostigan wondered. It wasn’t a question he could answer – Despirrow could be around the next corner or a hundred leagues
from here, and there was no way to tell. Only one thing was certain – whatever Despirrow’s purpose was, it boded ill.

He started being very careful about where he stepped. With this many people in the square, a lot of dust had been kicked up.
Tiny, unyielding particles hung in the air, capable of cutting through him from stomach to spine should he try to pass through
them. Well did he remember the pain of moving about in frozen timescapes, but as long as he chose his path well, the wounds
would be so small that he could handle them. Consciously he maintained his balance in a way he would not have normally thought
about. A trip
into a frozen dust cloud would be like falling on a thousand fixed needle tips.

‘How long do you need, Despirrow?’

Even when they had been allies, Rostigan had not liked the man. All his charm, his easy smile, the well-groomed, prideful
appearance left over from his days as court threader to Braston, all of it covered an animalistic lust, a mindless baseness
that Karrak had never admired. Despirrow had ridden his and Forger’s coat-tails, desiring nothing more than for life to be
full of food and song and women. Didn’t sound so bad, Rostigan supposed, unless one considered how Despirrow went about acquiring
such things. Did he lie with some poor wench now, exempted from tableau by a strategic touch as the spell was cast?