The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (4 page)

Before he could ponder anything much, the bundle rushed directly towards him. He started raising a hand to ward it off, but
it sped up and slapped against his chest – no, not his chest, the centre of his
being
– worming its way into his pattern. Although the sensation was not quite pain, it was tumultuous nonetheless, as parts of
him disconnected and reconnected to make room for the new addition. He felt lines travelling up inside him toward his mouth,
where his lips began to tingle.

No
, he thought, fearing the splitting of his flesh.

He reasserted himself, concentrating hard on keeping his own threads in place. Rejected from his lips, the lines curved downwards
on themselves to hook into the greater bundle. This itself seemed unable to settle, as stronger, more sedentary structures
refused to budge in its way.

You can’t go where you want, can you?

The bundle spread out into him nonetheless, seeming to make secondary choices. Meanwhile he stood rigid, unable to move or
gasp as he suffered an interior rearrangement of the self, until he might even have blacked out on his feet.

‘Rostigan?’

Tarzi touched his shoulder. How much time had passed? It did not feel like mere moments, yet nothing in her
manner suggested he had been standing there long. She was nervy, but her furtive glances were being directed at Stealer’s
remains.

‘Can we go?’

Rostigan was no longer aware of the new threads moving inside him. Sickeningly, he suspected they had meshed with his own
until they were not sensed as foreign. Did he feel different? He was not sure. When the Wardens had absorbed Regret’s stolen
threads, it had changed them both in ability and personality. Formerly good people have been driven to commit unspeakable
acts of evil, seemingly without reason other than for their own greed and enjoyment. Did
he
now possess some overwhelming need to plunder the world’s beauty, as had been Stealer’s favourite pastime? With relief, he
decided he did not think so. For one thing he had avoided being inflicted with a gruesome dripping mouth, so maybe he had
escaped the rest as well? Patterns were not all the same, and he had denied the bundle seating itself as it had wished.

He struggled to hide his concern as Tarzi led the way out of the clearing.

‘So,’ she said, after a while, seeming happier now that they were away from Stealer, ‘Silverstone should be returned now,
yes?’

Rostigan grunted noncommittally.

‘By the Spell,’ she went on, ‘that was really something. I can’t believe it Rostigan – you actually killed Stealer!’

‘Yes,’ he managed, in a cracked voice.

They spent the night in the clearing by the stream, where the ground was flat and dry. Rostigan lay awake trying to work out
what had happened to him. Perhaps he had just imagined it – perhaps Stealer’s threads had merely wafted his way as they rejoined
the Spell, and it had only
seemed
like they had gone into him, when in fact they’d gone right through him – but no amount of wishing could make him believe
it.

He rose and went to the stream with Stealer’s notebook and quill. As he sat by the water, a lone fish broke the surface, maybe
trying to swim to the bright face in the sky. He frowned, quill poised above paper – he had never been much good at rhymes.
After some thought, and having decided the quality of the verse did not matter, he set down words.

There was a soft
plip
as water rushed in to fill the space left behind as the fish disappeared. The words he had written whispered out of the air,
and his heart fluttered to hear them spoken aloud in his own voice. He glanced at Tarzi but she was sleeping peacefully.

In disgust he threw the notebook and quill into the stream, though he knew it would not make any difference. They were common
objects, nothing special, just a record of Stealer’s trophies. It was to Rostigan the fish’s threads had
come, never travelling through any quill or being captured on any page. He could form the stealing words however he wished
– on paper, sketched in dirt, in his mind.

He almost marvelled that an understanding of Stealer’s talent came to him so naturally. Would have, if he had not been so
repulsed. At the least he was thankful that he felt no satisfaction at the theft.

Morning came, and they made their way back through the wood, out onto the hills. As Tarzi raced up to the crest that overlooked
Silverstone, Rostigan saw hope fall from her face, and guessed the reason why.

The city had not returned.

Yalenna opened her eyes. Her cheek was pressing against white stones, so smooth they almost seemed soft. She ran a finger
over them, beneath the cocoon of her own snowy hair.

She sensed people nearby and, glancing through her tousled strands, saw bare feet going about their business across an open
area. On her other side was a marble statue set into the wall – a young woman with a serene face staring into the distance,
her long tresses spilling freely down her back, wearing a robe clasped at her shoulder with a lightning strike brooch. As
Yalenna saw it, she became aware of something jagged digging into her own shoulder, crushed between it and the floor. She
pushed up on her hands, curling her feet beneath her, and saw the same lightning strike clasping her own robe.

She was awed and perplexed, though her surrounds were familiar – she was in the Temple of Storms – and yet there had never
been a statue of
herself
here.

‘Storm’s end!’ came a voice nearby.

It was a man also in a white robe, who stared from her, back up to the statue, then at her again. Others nearby were stopping
too, men and women in the same temple garb, edging closer and whispering excitedly.

‘She looks just like her!’

‘Wind and fire, it cannot be.’

‘The Spell remembers all patterns. All things are possible to return.’

‘Nay, it must be some ruse, some trick.’

‘I say it is a miracle. I say we are blessed.’

Some of them began to drop to their knees, while others peered on, uncertain.

Yalenna frowned in confusion, not because of the gathering crowd, but because she was finally beginning to wake up.

She should not be here.

She had
died
here.

Years after the Wardens had toppled Regret, and those corrupted by the task had been laid to rest, she and Braston had realised
that they themselves spread the corruption too. Not in the same violent, chaotic way as some of the others, not in a way that
drove them to destroy … yet they destroyed nonetheless, slowly and surely, simply by
being
. The powers granted to them should not have been, and their continued use damaged the very nature of the world. Now she could
feel it happening again.

Blessings began to seep from her. Tiny whorls of bundled threads
breathed
from her, floating off to find people to sink into and entwine with. Perhaps the person blessed would go on to find their
true love, or win at cards, or be visited by fine pigeons every morning for a week. There should have been no harm in spreading
such good, yet she understood too well that it changed things in ways the world had not expected. Maybe the man who found
his true love would abandon his wife, leaving her forever heartbroken. Maybe the loser at cards would grow angry with his
opponent’s run of luck, and drunkenly draw his dagger. Maybe a pigeon’s chicks, unguarded in the nest while their parents
were away, would be carried off by possums. Her blessings, she knew, affected the course of lives. She could not stop them,
however, and did not even choose the nature of their expression unless she put her mind to it.

It had not been easy for her, or Braston, to learn that their gifts were actually harmful. It was with a grim acceptance that
they had decided, for the good of the world, to leave it. Thus, once the other Wardens had been dealt with, her last memory
was of lying down here, her belly full of quiet poison, drifting off peacefully while her worshippers wept around her.

Yet here she was again.

How long had she been gone?

Her first thought was that, in her unconsciousness, she’d healed herself against her own will … but that would mean only hours
had passed, and she did not recognise any of these faces. Also, the statue of herself loomed overhead,
its gaze calmly incinerating all hope of such a simple explanation. The sight of it confounded her, like a dream image she
could not make sense of.

One of the bolder acolytes, a young brown-haired woman, came forward. ‘Excuse me, but are you … do you need help?’

‘No,’ said Yalenna. As she rose to her feet there came a murmur of adulation from the crowd. She massaged the cheek she had
awoken lying on, trying to focus. ‘Who is in charge here?’

‘I am the … er …’ The girl faltered, her hazel eyes cast downwards for a moment. Then she found her backbone, and stood up
straight. ‘I am Priestess Arah.’

Yalenna was surprised. Then again, she supposed, she had been no older herself when she had become Priestess. Even now she
probably looked the same age as Arah, as she had done ever since the change.

‘Make way, make way!’

An older man with frizzy hair shoved through the crowd to Arah’s side. He stared in amazement at Yalenna, his eyes flickering
from her to the statue behind. Then his gaze narrowed and he reached toward her, his influence closing over her pattern. As
it tightened, instinctively she flexed, soundly rejecting his invisible grasp.

‘Harren!’ said Arah. ‘What are you doing?’

‘She must be someone in disguise. And yet,’ his eyes pierced her as if he searched for some hidden truth, ‘she has substantial
power, to break free of me so easily.’

‘I
am
Yalenna,’ she said, bristling at the note of defensiveness that crept into her voice.

‘Did anyone see her arrive?’ demanded Harren, of those gathered. ‘Surely someone must have?’

Heads shook, looks bounced about, but no one replied.

Harren refocused on her. ‘How did you get here?’

Yalenna found she did not like his prodding, his questions … his
impudence
. In that moment, though, she could not force out the answer.

I do not know. I do not know
.

‘I knew it was a sign,’ Harren muttered. ‘When the sky went dark did I not say, it is a sign of things gone wrong?’

That got Yalenna’s full attention. Her eyes must have blazed, for Harren’s fingers gave a twitch in readiness as if he feared
she would assail him.

‘What,’ Yalenna said, ‘do you mean by that?’

‘Pardon me?’ said Harren carefully.

‘What happened to the sky?’

Three hundred years.

Yalenna sat quietly reeling from the discovery that she had been … dead? – or simply gone? – for that long.

‘Have you come to …’ Arah paused, managing to look vulnerable in her intimidating large marble seat, ‘to lead us again, my
lady?’

They were in an airy chamber at a stone table, beneath a high domed roof. Yalenna remembered the room well;
she had given many audiences here herself, and little had changed since. Despite her own worries, the uncertain look on Arah’s
face moved her to compassion. The girl must only recently have been made Priestess, and well did Yalenna remember the courage
that took. Yet to Arah, it probably seemed like the task she had built herself up for was about to be taken away.

‘I’m not here to supplant you,’ Yalenna said. ‘You were chosen by the elements, were you not?’

‘Yes, my lady. Of course.’

‘Then you are Priestess, as has always been the way.’

Harren, who stood by Arah’s shoulder, looked irritated by the exchange.

‘There is nothing you can tell us,’ he said, ‘about how … why … you have returned?’

His tone implied he considered his question dubious.

‘Nothing but guesswork,’ said Yalenna. ‘My threads should have rejoined the Spell when I sacrificed myself.’
That had been the entire purpose of doing it
. ‘Tell me, good Harren, have you heard of anything like this happening before?’

He frowned. ‘Not specifically. Not with individual people, anyway. Some have conjectured about reoccurrence – a plant or animal
thought lost to the world has on occasion reappeared, as if the Spell decided its pattern should be reinstated. But we cannot
know for sure if that’s what really happened. It may simply be that a thing was not seen for a time, staying hidden in the
quieter corners of the world, until it could re-establish itself.’

Yalenna sighed. ‘Tell me, then, about the failing daylight.’

‘It was just as described in the legends of Regret … and the Wardens.’ He eyed her closely, maybe waiting for her to slip
up in some way, to reveal some lie. ‘The day fell dark for a few moments, as if a hand had closed over the sun.’

‘So, the corruption persists.’

‘It is hard to say. There are sometimes things about the world that seem … odd. Yet never to the same extent as during the
rule of the Wardens.’

‘Braston and I
killed
the Wardens, including ourselves, in order to give back what we had taken. Did it work at all? Is the Wound closed?’

Harren and Arah glanced at each other.

‘We aren’t sure,’ said Arah. ‘No one gets into the Tranquil Dale and lives to report back.’

‘So the Unwoven still reside there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even after all this time? No one has tried to finish them? Or cure them?’

Harren scoffed, and Arah shook her head.

‘It’s suicide to enter that place. There are occasional rumours that the Wound has been seen, mainly from Plainsfolk foolhardy
enough to venture into the Roshous Peaks. If it’s there, it is low enough in the sky to be blocked from outside sight by the
surrounding mountains.’

Yalenna felt sick. ‘It was all for nothing. I convinced Braston to end his life for no reason.’

‘I would not say that,’ said Arah. ‘With the Wardens and their magic gone, most of the corruption ceased – the earthquakes,
the strange births, the skies.’

‘Yalenna and Braston’s sacrifice,’ said Harren, ‘is remembered as an act of great compassion.’

Yalenna noted the non-committal use of her name.

‘That may be the case,’ she said, ‘but our ultimate aim was to heal the Spell for good. We hoped, when we released our threads,
they would go behind the veil and the Wound would close.’

‘Maybe that’s why you’re back?’ said Arah. ‘To finish what you started? The Spell surely
wants
to be healed. Maybe you’re being given a second chance?’

Yalenna stared at Arah uncertainly. Young she might be, but there was something about her sincerity and innocence that made
Yalenna fear her explanation was the truth, or came close to it. The Spell was ever mysterious – who knew what it could do?

‘Let us not run a hundred leagues with this, Priestess,’ Harren said to Arah. ‘We do not know for sure that this is really
Yalenna.’

‘Still your tongue,’ said Arah. ‘You examined her yourself and found no trace of disguise.’

Yalenna was glad to see strength in the girl. Perhaps Arah did not recognise it in herself yet but to Yalenna it was clear
as day. Harren, for his part, looked momentarily taken aback.

They heard the sound of running feet, and a young man burst through the room’s marble archway. He came up short, blinking
around, excited yet also intimidated.

‘Er … pardon my intrusion …’

Harren seemed grateful for someone to snap at. ‘Don’t stand there like a slack-jawed ninny, Kor. What is it?’

‘I … er …’

‘Step forward!’ barked Harren. ‘Speak clearly! Has a message come?’

Kor bobbed his head. ‘Yes, master … my lady … ladies.’ He swallowed. ‘From Althala. It says … it says that Braston has returned!’

‘Braston?’ Yalenna was incredulous. Why hadn’t she thought to ask about the others? Then again, she had suffered quite a shock
and did not feel in full command of her faculties. Yet if Braston had come back, maybe others had too? Cold thoughts froze
her, visions of Forger, Stealer, Despirrow and Salarkis birthed again into the world.

Harren, after his initial surprise, advanced on Kor. ‘Are you sure? What were the exact words?’

Kor cringed a little under the scrutiny. ‘“Let it be known,”’ he said, ‘“that this very morning, King Braston returned to
Althala from the dead, to reclaim the throne and lead his people once again.”’

Harren rubbed his chin furiously, whispering something to himself. Then he grabbed Kor by the front of his robe. ‘This message
– what of its angle, its trajectory? You’re sure it came from Althala?’

‘Yes, master! From the castle itself.’

Harren turned slowly to Yalenna with a look of grave concern.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I have been reticent to trust but surely you must understand why. Or perhaps this is some strangely elaborate
hoax, designed for a purpose I cannot guess at.’

‘I assure you,’ said Yalenna, ‘it is no hoax.’

‘Out, Kor,’ said Harren, waving the young man away. He returned to the table, to sit beside Arah this time, albeit in a much
smaller chair.

‘What can it mean?’ said Arah, asking the unanswerable for all of them.

Yalenna barely heard her. ‘What of the other Wardens?’ she asked. ‘Has there been any news of them?’

‘What?’ Arah’s face was pale. ‘No, we’ve heard nothing on that count. The Spell would not punish us with
their
presence, surely?’

‘What about Mergan or Karrak? At the time of my death, they had both disappeared. Did they ever show themselves again?’

‘No, my lady.’

Dead
, she and Braston had decided, after searching for a long time. Neither of those two had been in the habit of vanishing without
a trace. Karrak would not simply up and leave his empire, his slave trains, his skies full of crows. And Mergan would not
forsake the friendship he had shared with her and Braston. Perhaps they had killed each other – a theory certainly borne by
their mutual
animosity – but, if they had indeed died, did that mean they were back now too?