The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (28 page)

‘I’d say that hurt,’ he said. ‘Hmm. I’ve never stopped time in a river before. I thought it might keep running, since
I’m in it, but evidently not. Actually, I’m quite encased!’ He waggled some fingertips that broke the surface, through which
he could not raise his hand.

If he could find the strength, Rostigan could lop his fool head off.

Despirrow’s eyes went up to where the bridge had been. ‘It just disappeared,’ he said. ‘Only Stealer could do that, and I
daresay I heard your voice just now, speaking some
snatch
of poetry.’

Rostigan wheezed, trying to elbow himself up onto his knees.

‘You killed her, didn’t you? Salarkis told me about it.’

‘I will … kill you too … Despirrow.’

‘I don’t think so. Look at you – you’re all cracked and broken.’

Rostigan made it to kneeling, his quavering hand reaching to his back, for his sword.

‘So you killed her,’ frowned Despirrow, ‘and now, apparently, you have her power. That is
very
interesting.’

Rostigan grunted as he swung the sword, and instantly icy water swallowed him. He plunged, thrashing for purchase, though
it was difficult with most of his limbs damaged. Water flowed through the hole in his hand as he tried to swim, and the current
dragged on his leaden foot. It was all he could do to stay afloat as they were carried through the ravine, out into woodland.
The river gurgled and frothed in his nostrils, choking him as Despirrow swam ahead easily. With a great effort, Rostigan raised
his sword from the water and flung it after him. It hit the water behind Despirrow with a dull slap, and sank.

‘See you soon, Karrak!’ Despirrow hooted.

Rostigan struggled towards the shore, grabbing at reeds he found there to haul himself along. He was too badly hurt for further
pursuit, his lungs too full of water. At the bank he clawed through the mud until he was clear of the water. Downstream, Despirrow
was a bright-blue speck swirling in the crystal flow, racing past curious spectators on boats. The river bent, and he was
carried out of view.

‘Damn you,’ Rostigan muttered, and let his head fall.

Tarzi jigged about the semicircle of recruits, who sat on the grass watching her perform. Cedris was there too, tapping his
foot in time and beaming. Others off amongst the tents paused in their work to cast curious looks towards the music and song.

She strummed the final notes, and the soldiers laughed and jostled each other. It seemed the silliness had taken their minds
off the grim tasks of the previous day. For herself, she was glad to have an audience, for sitting around waiting for Rostigan
to return made her restless. She had said she’d be the army’s minstrel and, as it turned out, she meant it.

‘Storm and sleet, that song made me feel like a drink!’ said Cedris, and a fellow next to him slapped him on the shoulder.

‘You’ll have to wait ’til dinnertime, and then it will be just one mug!’

Cedris screwed up his face in mock disgust. ‘Best you take our minds off this sad fact, minstrel – sing us another!’

‘Another?’ said Tarzi, raising her eyebrows as she ran her fingers over the lute strings. ‘Another, you say?’

‘Another!’ came the happy chorus of voices.

‘Very well – how about the old lady who could not understand why her cow gave no milk?’

There was some hooting from those who already knew the answer, and everyone egged her on. Tarzi adopted an air of grave seriousness
as she began the nonsense song, as if it were a dramatic ballad indeed.

After she finished that one, there were requests for another song, and another after that. Eventually she held up her hands
and protested she could sing no more, a proclamation met with good-natured disappointment. In truth, Tarzi could have kept
going for hours, but she
had noticed that the sun was low in the sky, and Rostigan had expected to be back before dark. Waving goodbye, she promised
that she would return soon – a fairly vague and nonbinding claim as far as she was concerned – and slung her lute over her
shoulder to head towards the edge of camp.

Rostigan. Her feet quickened at the thought of him. She felt a bit silly, and a tinge showed on her cheeks, not that anyone
noticed, or could know what put it there. How long would he do that to her? It was not as if he even tried very hard – certainly
he did not fawn over her, or pay her many compliments. Yet, still and stoic as he was, his thoughts ever withheld and mysterious,
he brooked no threat to her person or honour, and his embrace always felt warm and safe. It used to be her fear such moments
were only borrowed, that one day he would turn around and say, ‘That’s enough, be off with you’, but that day had never come,
and she had gotten out of the habit of worrying about it.

She was proud of him too, extra proud today. Braston himself, and the Priestess Yalenna, had
sought him out
, impressed by his past deeds – and asked him to accompany them on a dangerous mission to kill Despirrow! They had even taken
him threadwalking, which was a strange thing to contemplate. She had never heard of non-threaders being transported that way
before, but supposed that Wardens were powerful enough to do fairly much whatever they liked. Half of her had wanted to ask
if they would take her
too – but when she thought about it again, she realised this was one adventure she would rather avoid. She was well-versed
in tales of Despirrow, after all.

She knew she should be scared for Rostigan, and she was, a little, but somehow she managed not to think about it much. Her
warrior would come back to her.

He always did.

‘Rostigan!’

He paused and waited for Yalenna to catch up. Truth be told, he could use a moment of stillness. He coughed, spitting up more
water.

She arrived at his side and put a hand on his arm. It was an odd sensation – her touch, given freely before the change, was
now unexpected and foreign. He was struck by the concern on her face. Concern for him?

He remembered an instance of her bandaging his shoulder, a day or two into their journey through the Roshous. They had been
attacked by a couple of silkjaws, and he had caught a nasty gash from a flailing wingtip. None of the group were overly gifted
at healing – an oversight of Mergan’s, perhaps, too concerned had he been with the aggressive side of threading – and yet
Yalenna had done what she could to fix him. Her hands had been gentle but firm as she wound the bandage tighter, making some
small admonishment about how he should keep his eyes open next time, smiling as she did, for they both knew he
had been the one to warn of the danger, and if he hadn’t the outcome could have been much worse …

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, breaking him from reverie.

‘I will be.’

She slipped a hand under his arm for support. ‘We need to get back to Braston.’

After a few steps, he felt her aid was really more of a hindrance than a help, and subtly retrieved his arm while forcing
himself to pick up the pace.

‘Lost my sword,’ he murmured, almost embarrassed.

Not for the first time
, came a stirring from the deep place. How many swords had he been through, over the years? Enough so he was not overly sentimental
about any of them in particular.

Down the path, Saphura was abuzz. The murders on the street had shaken the populace, and people gesticulated excitedly as
they gave their accounts to the guards. Suddenly the ground shook, and a great crack burst open along the main road, to jag
off under storefronts. Yells accompanied sounds of collapse, and several roofs disappeared from the skyline.

‘Wind and fire,’ groaned Yalenna.

‘The corruption spreads,’ said Rostigan.

‘It’s infuriating! Despirrow uses his power so flagrantly. Surely stopping time all over Aorn puts great strain on the Spell
– threads that should be moving all stuck in place.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Rostigan. ‘Infuriating.’

‘And, by the tides, he does not care a wink! Oh, how I wish we had killed him, curse him, the slippery eel!’

Rostigan did not voice his thought that it was not necessarily Despirrow to blame. He knew Yalenna understood that well enough
– she was just frustrated.

Quick as it had appeared, the crack rumbled and closed, leaving barely a line behind. Little comfort for the owners of collapsed
buildings, or anyone who had fallen in.

In moody silence Rostigan and Yalenna retraced their steps to Braston. They found him slumped against one of the trees whose
leaves had cut him so deeply, pale and horribly damaged, with a few concerned people standing around him.

‘We need a healer here!’ said a man. ‘Someone fetch a healer!’

‘They’re spread all over – more than one person needs healing right now.’

‘How is he even still alive?’

‘Make way,’ said Yalenna. Despite the softness of her voice, every head turned. Then, in mystified reverence, the people did
as she bid. Although they could not have guessed who she was, Rostigan knew how she must look to them – beautiful and angelic,
her skin almost seeming to emanate light, her majesty close to tangible. How fond of her he was, again, he realised. Strange,
when they had been enemies so long.

She knelt by Braston, whispering to him. Dried blood
across his eyes cracked as he opened them. His mouth quivered, and he seemed to be trying to form a question.

‘He got away,’ said Yalenna, delicately stroking his brow. ‘I’m sorry.’

Braston seemed to deflate, though it might have been the life leaking out of him.

‘We have to get him home,’ said Yalenna, as Rostigan crouched beside her.

‘I don’t think he can threadwalk.’

‘I … can,’ Braston breathed. ‘I must.’ He reached out, though with his arm badly lacerated about the elbow, it was less like
reaching and more like flinging out a fishing line. ‘Help me.’

‘I don’t know how,’ said Yalenna. ‘I cannot threadwalk for you.’

‘Send them away, please.’

He spoke of the onlookers, and Rostigan understood. He would be very surprised if Braston could manage to threadwalk at all,
but getting rid of distractions was a start at least.

‘Away with you,’ he told the people, and reflected that, unlike with Yalenna, it was not because of great beauty that they
obeyed
him
.

Soon they were three hunched figures alone on the silent street, down which the breeze was turning cold.

‘You go first, Braston,’ said Rostigan. ‘And Yalenna, start preparing too, for he will need you at the other end. I will remain
here in case he cannot do it.’

‘Where do you want to try for?’ Yalenna asked Braston.

‘The square,’ said Braston. ‘Hopefully no … ’jaw attack … has filled it with people, this time.’

‘The square, then.’

They closed their eyes.

Rostigan watched their faces. Concentration took them, minutes began to pass. Rostigan’s crouching position was not the best
for his injuries, it became apparent, but he held himself steady, daring not to move lest he disrupt them. Sounds came from
the surrounding streets – loud talk, feet clomping, and he willed their owners not to turn in this direction.

Then Yalenna unravelled.

Braston did not seem to note her departure. He must have gone somewhere very deep inside himself, thought Rostigan, to find
a place where he could ignore his pain. His pattern wavered slightly, and Rostigan dared not breathe – and then Braston was
gone too.

Rostigan let out a sigh. He had not enjoyed contemplating the long way back if Braston had not been able to threadwalk. To
succeed, in such a state … well, he could not help but admire the man’s constitution.

Standing up, he stretched a little. Glancing at his hand, he saw how skin was already showing the first hints of growing back.
He would have to put his own hurts aside now too, if he was to rejoin his allies in Althala.