The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (23 page)

The next day, despite his words, Forger himself felt quite sore-headed. He must have drunk a
lot
to not be fully healed. He sat on the throne, fingers to his brow, reflecting that it would be nice if he could take away
his own discomfort. However, even if he could have, he knew it would be dangerous to do so. Pain, after all, had its uses,
something that those he took it from forgot all too quickly. He would have to watch them closely now, control them well, in
case they grew too reckless, or fell to tearing one another apart. But they were
his
, of that he was sure.

‘Lord?’

He had not heard his advisor enter.

‘Good morning, Threver.’

‘That was very interesting last night, lord.’

‘You enjoyed it?’ Forger peeked from behind his fingers. ‘I hardly had to take anything from you, you know.’

‘Remorse is not something that ever burdened me overmuch, lord.’

‘You surprise me. Maybe you’re a worthwhile advisor after all.’

‘I certainly hope so. I have a question, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘If Tallahow’s leaders no longer fear you – as I, even now,
find myself less guarded in this very conversation – will they obey you?’

Forger gave a dismissive wave. ‘It’s a tricky thing. I don’t pretend to foresee the exact effects of the gift I’ve granted.
I do know, however, that once unfettered by fear,
desire
comes very much to the fore. Sometimes dark desires, yes, which the person has never dared speak before, let alone acted
upon, but everyone is different, aren’t they? If someone becomes a problem, they can always be dealt with. I just hope I can
point them towards things they want, and they’ll obey because they desire what’s on offer.’

‘I see. It strikes me as similar to what was done to the Unwoven.’

Forger frowned, not liking the comparison. It was true that Regret had created the Unwoven by taking away pain and fear, amongst
other things. And perhaps it was even true that whatever threads Forger had inherited from Regret were the very ones that
had allowed him to mete out such transformations himself – but Forger did not turn people into stupid, ugly brutes.

‘What
they
desire,’ he said, ‘is very dark indeed. A person does not forget themselves when I take their pain, Threver. Indeed, the
kind may become kinder, or love may become freer. What I am pinning my hopes on,’ he jerked his thumb in the direction of
the great hall, ‘is that all of them down there were a bunch of greedy, grasping little weasels in the first place. I find
this is normally the case, with leaders.’

Threver nodded. ‘Can I have anything brought to you? Water, perhaps, if your head is troubling you?’

‘Yes! Bring me a lot of water.’

Threver made some motions at an attendant by the door, who darted out.

‘If only Karrak was here …’ muttered Forger.

‘I have heard my lord express this wish before. Can I ask why?’

‘He has a way with words. Good at getting people to do what he wants, without all the mess.’ He perked up a little. ‘Though
admittedly, I
like
the mess.’ He drummed his fingers along the arm rest. ‘Or Salarkis – why hasn’t that rotten little bird come home to roost?
Or Despirrow, or any of them! What I wouldn’t give to know what they’re up to.’

‘My lord, there is something that may be of interest to you.’

‘Oh?’

‘It will require a short journey to a lower level.’

‘Very well.’

They made for the double doors just as the attendant returned carrying a pitcher of water.

‘Ah! Give me that!’

Forger wrenched it from the cringing man and upended it all over himself.

‘That’s better! Now, lead the way.’

A trip down a flight of stairs brought them to a quiet corridor, lined by barred doors manned by statuesque guards.

‘This looks interesting,’ said Forger. ‘What’s in all these rooms?’

‘Treasures, mainly,’ replied Threver. ‘Most of them useless, simply requiring to be kept. But in here …’

The guards at the door he stopped at parted as he fumbled with some keys. Swinging it open, he stood aside, and Forger had
to stoop to enter – had he grown even taller?

Inside was a cool, empty room, save for a silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall. Hesitantly, Forger went to look at himself
– flexed his muscles and inspected his face, which seemed bulgy in an odd kind of way, as if there were rocks under his skin.
He looked deep into his own blue eyes, for a moment lost in the notion that
this was him
and
he was really alive right now
.

‘Well,’ he said, rounding on Threver, ‘this is all very fascinating, but I trust you did not bring me here for self-reflection.’

‘Ah … no, my lord. This mirror is special – part of a set.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. Its siblings are much more elaborate, the frames each carved with a thousand tiny flowers, I’m told.’

‘And where are they?’

‘Hanging in the corridors of Althala Castle. They were a gift to the Queen of Althala a hundred years ago, from our own Lord
Dregan. He gave them under the guise of admiration, but, in truth, his intentions were more underhanded. For while we have
long been at peace with Althala, it still pays to garner all possible knowledge. The
mirrors are threaded, subtly and skilfully enough to have never been discovered for what they really are – spy-holes, linked
to this one, through which we can see.’

‘Oho!’ Forger clapped his hands. ‘How delicious.’

‘I must warn my lord that we had no control over where Dregan’s gifts were hung, and later moved about. One of them even sits
in a store room, covered in a cloth, and therefore shows little.’

‘I see. Well, enough of your disavowal. How does it work?’

‘I cannot say for sure. Until recently there was a threader stationed here, well versed in their use and watching at all times.’

‘Where is he?’

‘You killed him.’

‘Ah.’

‘Still, I expect that one as skilful as my lord can easily figure the trick to it.’

Forger rubbed his chin as he considered the mirror. This kind of magic was not really his strong point. Yet, like the other
Wardens, he retained the native threading ability he had been born with, as something separate from his Spell-given powers.
He reached out to the mirror with his finer senses, inspecting its threads.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It is as if this one is the brain, from which branch out the eyes. Ingenious. Now, all I have to do, is prise
open the lids …’

The reflection on the mirror rippled, replaced with a view of an empty corridor, a vase in the foreground filled
with slightly wilting flowers. In the opposite wall a flight of steps led upwards, and to the right was a heavy oak door,
which was closed.

‘That is the chamber,’ said Threver, ‘which Braston now inhabits.’

‘Really? Interesting.’

‘A mirror hangs inside it too.’

‘My goodness.’

With a mental blink, Forger moved to the next view. It was a well-appointed bedroom, the large bed looking unslept in.

‘Well, at least I can watch him slumber,’ scowled Forger. ‘I’m sure that will prove exciting.’

‘Try the next one, lord.’

Now the mirror showed the chamber of indoor streams and high windows that was the throne room. A few harried-looking guards
moved through, and a small group of nobles sat by a fountain.

‘I can hear the water gurgling!’ said Forger excitedly.

‘I cannot, my lord. Must be to do with your gifts.’

‘You mean to tell me that the lords and ladies of Tallahow have been eavesdropping on the Althalan throne room for a hundred
years, and no one has ever realised?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Dear me. Threaders must have passed this mirror many times!’

‘Dregan was adamant that his gifts not be detected for
what they really are. The threaders who crafted them knew that if they failed him they would pay a high price.’

‘I admire their skill! Next!’

Forger changed to the next mirror. This one, again in a corridor, looked upon a door hanging from its hinges, across which
savage claw-like scrapes showed in the wood. The room beyond was plush and obviously belonged to someone noble … yet the bedding
was sprayed with blood, ripped to shreds, and a couple of soldiers were lifting a fat body onto a stretcher. Another noblewoman
watched on, dabbing her eyes.

‘What’s this?’ said Forger. ‘A murder?’

He strained his ears as sounds issued strangely from this distant view, somewhat distorted and muted.

‘I think I heard someone say something about …’

A third soldier appeared through the door, dragging a large sack, from which poked a bone wrapped in wafts of silk.

‘… silkjaws!’ finished Forger.

‘My lord?’

‘Ssh!’ He listened hard. ‘They are talking about a silkjaw attack. Saying there were … hundreds of them. Have we heard anything
about this?’

‘Not yet, my lord. The day is young, however. I have threaders up high looking out for messages.’

Forger was a little disturbed.

‘If the Althalans have been weakened,’ said Threver, ‘it will only further our cause.’

‘Perhaps. Have there been other attacks like this since I’ve been away?’

‘There was an incident on the Ilduin some years ago. Since then, the Plainsfolk sometimes complain of silkjaws, but nothing
on the scale of hundreds. Are you sure – forgive my impudence – that you heard correctly?’

‘I think so.’ Forger rubbed his eyes. ‘On the Ilduin, it was Unwoven and silkjaws attacking together, is that right?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Why were they not put down in my absence?’ He was angry with the world for a second. ‘Does no one do anything around here?’

‘There has not been a unifying need,’ said Threver. ‘Until recently the Unwoven have mostly kept to themselves, locked up
behind the Pass in the Roshous –’

‘I know where they are! Think who you are talking to.’

‘Apologies, lord.’

‘The question is, is their continued existence a symptom of the Spell’s upheaval, or a cause?’ He rounded on Threver. ‘I can’t
kill off Braston’s army with impunity if they stand between us and hordes of Regret’s cursed monsters! Piss and fire, why
does everything have to be so complicated?’

‘There is one more mirror, lord.’

‘Oh yes? And what does it show, another empty corridor?’

Not another corridor, but a large sitting room, in which a group of nobles sat on purple couches, silent as a servant set
down a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘Loppolo’s chambers,’ said Threver. ‘The king who Braston supplanted.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Forger. ‘What a hypocrite Braston is. Well, this would be a useful view if Loppolo was still in charge, wouldn’t
it?’

‘Indeed. And maybe still.’

The servant left, and low conversation begun. Forger strained his ears.

‘… is your right, my king,’ a plump, grey-haired man was saying.

‘Yes,’ said a young woman. ‘I agree with Tursa. Warden he may be, it does not mean Braston can ignore you.’

Loppolo stood up, moving over to glower directly into the mirror.

‘And how would history remember me,’ he said, ‘if I was the king who killed the Lord of Justice?’

‘They speak of felling Braston!’ said Forger. ‘Oho, imagine that – if I need not raise a finger and yet it were so!’

‘The threader who watched here witnessed similar meetings,’ said Threver. ‘Those are Loppolo’s closest allies, who urge him
to take action.’

‘And yet he procrastinates?’ said Forger, staring into the former king’s eyes. ‘Come, Loppolo – take back what is yours!’

‘And the people,’ said Loppolo. ‘How could I possibly explain it to them without getting lynched? They love their legendary
king, more dismissive of me than I have earned!’

‘That’s right!’ said Tursa. ‘How easily they forget that
you
are a hero too, who rode to battle against the Unwoven! They must be made to remember.’

‘We could figure some way to make it look accidental,’ said the woman.

Loppolo laughed bitterly. ‘Braston is no ordinary man. He does not fall down a flight of stairs and break his neck.’

‘But –’

‘Enough!’ snapped Loppolo. ‘Who knows the extent of a Warden’s powers? Even now we could be overheard.’

His allies grumbled, and sipped their tea.

‘Hmf,’ said Forger. ‘This Loppolo is a ditherer.’

He turned away, the mirror rippling back to its normal reflection.

‘I thank you for making me aware of this object, Threver. While it is somewhat random in its use, perhaps we shall glean something
pertinent from it. Find another threader to watch over it, and report anything of interest to me.’

‘It will be done, lord.’

‘Now,’ said Forger, ‘I think it’s high time I inspected our army.’

‘Get an axe,’ said a soldier. A moment later he jumped back as the previously immovable dining hall doors flew open, to reveal
the Priestess Yalenna looking irritated.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Er …’ His eyes slid past her, to a table lying broken on its side. ‘Everything all right in there, my lady?’

‘All is well,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘The king and I simply have need of this room for a while.’

‘Ah … well, very good, my lady. We shall … leave you, then.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and closed the door.

She headed back to where Braston and Karrak sat across from each other at an intact table, glowers in full effect. Despite
the relatively calm demeanour she had presented to the soldiers at the door, her head was still spinning from learning that
Karrak had been alive for the entire time that she had been dead.

‘And yet do you see an empire behind me?’ Karrak demanded, stabbing the tabletop with a finger. ‘Do you see how I have crushed
the world in your absence, as I could have done, ten times over?’

Yalenna slid in beside Braston.

‘No,’ said Karrak. ‘Though it would have been easy, with no other Wardens to oppose me. I could have run amok, but instead
I’ve been leading a peaceful life – before
you
all decided to come back, of course.’

‘We did not
decide
,’ growled Braston.

‘The Spell brought us back,’ said Yalenna. ‘Our threads did not return to it in death, and thus the degradation continues.’

‘How can you know that?’ said Braston, turning on her angrily. ‘It could be that the damage persists because Karrak here never
died! His presence in Aorn has ensured a state of ongoing corruption.’

‘I told you not to call me that. Karrak is gone. My name is Rostigan.’

‘You cannot escape your past so easily.’

Rostigan thumped his fist on the table, hard. ‘Now listen to me, you pair of
children
. Ever since forsaking my empire, I’ve kept my power sealed up tight, sworn an oath never to use it … and never
once
during that time has the sky turned black, or the ground shaken, or beetles fallen like hail. Yet you have both flaunted
your magic from the very moment you awakened, recklessly and with abandon – your blessings like a cloud of toxin Yalenna,
and Braston, pulling at the
threads of justice, as you call them, deeming to change the natural order by imposing
your
will upon it, what
you
think is right. You
dare
to blame me, you
dare
esteem yourself higher, better? You do as much damage as Forger, as Despirrow. Even the Unwoven, in all the centuries they
have lingered, have had no worse effect on the world than you have brought about in
days
. The one time,’ he knew he was lying, but did not care, ‘that I used my gift to call down the crows, was to save
your
city Braston, in exchange for nothing save a few dead eyes – and the thanks I get? To be mindlessly struck down, accused
of being the root of it all, by an oaf without the subtlety or patience for comprehension. You think if I wanted to do you
harm, I would be sitting here, waiting under your roof, without allies, ready to accept the blows levelled at me? Would I
not be off with Forger, plotting your downfall?’

Yalenna felt herself reeling under the torrent of what she knew to be the truth. She had never tried to deny that she was
part of the problem, yet Braston would not talk to her about it, Mergan was mad, and there was no one else. The only one speaking
clearly was this man … this
Rostigan
.

Braston stared darkly at his hands, clasped on the tabletop. ‘I may have acted brashly,’ he muttered.

‘I
walked
here,’ said Rostigan, ‘on my own two feet, because I know that, despite your flaws, you two will try to do what’s right.
In the hope that somehow, together, we can end Regret’s legacy once and for all. Have you not heard of my doings at the Ilduin
Fields, where I helped the –’

‘All
right
,’ snapped Braston. ‘You have made your point.’

‘Where did you go?’ asked Yalenna quietly.

‘What?’

‘You disappeared around the same time as Mergan. We came to believe you had destroyed each other, yet evidently this was not
the case.’

‘No. I do not know what happened to Mergan. Have you seen him?’

Yalenna gave a small nod, though she did not want to get into it just then. Braston, however, came straight to the point.

‘He stayed alive, as you did, though locked in a prison of Regret’s making.’

Rostigan’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

‘We freed him,’ said Braston, ‘but the experience has left him … affected. We do not know where he has gone.’

‘He just needs a little time,’ said Yalenna.

‘I see.’ Rostigan’s expression softened a little.

‘But what of you?’ she pressed. ‘Where did you go?’

Rostigan sighed. ‘It was troubling for me, you must understand. I was a monster beginning to remember my old self. I had a
great need to deny, escape, to turn my back on all I’d done.’

‘Forger carried on your work.’

‘I know. If I had my time again, I would not have left everything so neatly set up for him.’ He snorted humourlessly. ‘If
I had my time again, I would have done everything differently. And I’d be a happier man, long dead.’
He tapped the tabletop. ‘We all are victims of Regret. By the Spell, Salarkis used to sing to children and help farmers grow
strawberries. Forger wanted nothing more than to save his family from ruin. Despirrow was your best friend, Braston. If you’d
asked any of them then if they wanted this, what would they have said?’

Yalenna bit her lip. ‘Salarkis remembers himself, somewhat. I do not think he is … well, either the old Salarkis, or the monster
anymore, but caught between. I do not know what he intends. I blessed him, again. He came seeking it, actually.’

‘Then hopefully,’ said Rostigan, ‘we need not fear him. Nor Stealer.’

‘Yes!’ said Braston, sitting up, some of his fire finally returning. ‘Tell us of that! My officer said you claimed to have
killed her, but when I thought you a mortal man, I admit I doubted the story.’

‘Nay, it is true. Stealer is no more. By sheer luck I was near Silverstone when she took it. I saw her there, fleeing her
crime. I was able to act swiftly, before she knew who I was or what I wanted. Snuck up on her in the night – not much more
to it than that.’

‘Are you absolutely sure she’s dead?’

‘I split her head in two and burned her to cinders. I am sure.’

He thought about the other reason why he was sure, but hesitated to share it. Meanwhile he caught Yalenna staring at him.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Nothing. You just … you reminded me of the old … of your old self, for a moment. That fretful look – I remember it.’

‘If she’s dead,’ said Braston, ‘why hasn’t Silverstone returned?’

Rostigan sighed. If they were going to be allies, he supposed he should tell them everything.

‘I do not think the Spell wants its threads disappearing again,’ he said. ‘Now that it knows the deaths of their possessors
do not return them to it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I killed Stealer, it was like on the Spire, after we slew Regret. The threads she had from the Spell left her, did not
disperse with the rest of her. Instead they came to me.’

‘Came to you?’

‘Yes. Became part of my pattern.
I
house Stealer’s powers now. And she, I think, truly sleeps, having passed her curse to me.’

The other two were very still.

‘I suppose I will have to show you,’ said Rostigan.

Braston tensed.

‘Settle down,’ said Rostigan, ‘I’m not going to rhyme about your underbritches. I shall pick … how about that table?’ He gestured
at one Braston had smashed. ‘I daresay losing it will not be a burden.’

‘Very well.’

Now that he was on the spot, all creativity left him.

‘What rhymes with table?’

‘Rabble?’ suggested Braston.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Yalenna.

Together they tried to think.

‘Able,’ said Yalenna, after a fashion.

Rostigan nodded, and spoke.

As he finished, the table faded, and the others gasped. His words began to whisper, very softly, in the air.

‘Well may you look at me in horror, Braston,’ said Rostigan. ‘If you had killed me just now, you’d probably have both mine
and
Stealer’s threads in you –
your
soul the keeper of the city of Silverstone.’

That made Braston blanch. ‘What of the others?’ he said. ‘If we kill them …’

‘I believe the same will happen.’

‘I wish,’ said Yalenna, ‘the Spell could make up its damn mind about what it wants done with its own damn threads! And stop
changing the story on us.’

‘Maybe the Spell has no control,’ said Rostigan. ‘Maybe it’s the threads themselves, trying different ways of finding their
path home.’

‘So what way are they trying now? Accumulating in us obviously hasn’t solved their problem.’

‘I suspect,’ said Rostigan, ‘since they cannot seem to penetrate the veil, they must be returned to the Wound itself.’

‘Is that based on anything?’ asked Braston. ‘Because I, for one, am nervous of that place.’

Rostigan shrugged. ‘I am open to suggestions.’

None were forthcoming.

‘Whether I am right or wrong,’ said Rostigan, ‘at least we can hunt the others knowing that, when we put an end to them, we
can take their threads into us. Use them or, better yet, choose not to use them. We can be the Spell’s goatherds, collecting
what it’s missing.’

He let this sink in.

‘I do still hope,’ said Yalenna, ‘that Salarkis and Mergan will join us. That we will not have to
collect
them.’

‘As do I, but what you’ve said of Mergan does not instil me with confidence. I have spent three hundred years becoming a good
man. Perhaps he has spent them turning from one.’

Yalenna flared at his words, and Rostigan spread his palms.

‘He was my friend too, remember,’ he said, ‘but I cannot imagine any man going through such an ordeal unscathed.’

‘He was not unscathed,’ said Braston, shaking his head sadly. ‘And that’s a meek way of putting it.’

‘He will come to us,’ said Yalenna firmly. ‘He will remember he is loved, and come to us.’

‘What about Despirrow?’ said Rostigan. ‘Have you any news of his whereabouts?’

‘No.’

‘I take it you noted the recent stopping of time?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Your royal threaders haven’t reported anything unusual?’

‘There are more unusual things reported every passing day.’

‘Anything of his particular smell, though?’

‘I shall ask.’

‘Good. Make sure you keep an eye on Saphura especially – it always was his favourite place. In the meantime, I have a favour
to beg of you both.’

They looked to him guardedly.

‘Nothing too strenuous,’ he assured them. ‘I travel with a woman, a minstrel named Tarzi. She is precious to me, yet she does
not know the all of who I am. I wish to keep it that way.’

‘Is that fair?’ said Braston. ‘If you love her, why can’t you –’

Rostigan cut him off. ‘She is the one who dragged me here, singing loud to all who’d listen about rallying against the evil
Wardens. How do you think she’d react if she learned my old name?’

‘Come, Braston,’ said Yalenna. ‘It is unimportant to grant him this.’

‘What will she make, then,’ said Braston, ‘of the attention you receive from us?’

Rostigan smiled. ‘Oh, she will take it in stride. I am the great Rostigan Skullrender, after all.’