The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (29 page)

Why did she love him so much, Tarzi wondered? Not because of his bravery, not because he was a hero. That was nice to know,
of course, and made him worthy of a woman like her, but ‘hero’ was really just an idea. The person himself was grey, stony,
and occasionally Tarzi even thought him apathetic. Yet sometimes a smile would crack his lips, just for her, seeming almost
painful for him to give away. Warmth would show through that crack, and in his intermittent humour. He protected her, listened
to her, and more often than not deferred to her wishes. His actions showed that he cared, even if the actual words seldom
crossed his lips. Besides, she had never found the flamboyant gift-bearing and flowery declarations of the foppish love-makers
in her stories personally appealing. Her statue was better than that – ever driven to help, despite himself, when he would
much rather sit and stare at a field, pipe smoke wafting around him.

He was a good man.

She heard commotion as she reached the square, and her step quickened. A figure lay sprawled on the ground amidst a crowd
of people.

Not him
, she told herself, against a rising fear, for the man was much too bulky. Closer, and she saw it was Braston – horribly cut,
some of his flesh missing in chunks, multiple wounds pulsing. Yalenna was there too, shouting orders, and Braston was loaded
onto a stretcher as healers came running. Fear returned to Tarzi quickly, for Rostigan was
nowhere to be seen. She pushed through the throng, heart beating fast. Had they left him behind? Where was he?

‘Easy, big fellow,’ Yalenna was saying. ‘You’ve been through worse.’

‘No I haven’t,’ mumbled Braston through barely open lips.

‘Priestess,’ said Tarzi urgently, and for a moment Yalenna glanced at her without recognition.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Tarzi, yes?’

‘Is Rostigan with you?’

She tried to keep her distress contained, though some of it must have slipped out, for Yalenna’s face turned kinder.

‘He will be,’ she said. ‘He’s just a little slow to arrive, but he’s on his way.’

‘But don’t you have to travel together? He’s not a threader! Doesn’t he need you to, I don’t know, steer him?’

Tarzi felt that panic was making her stupid, but she couldn’t help it – of course Yalenna knew that Rostigan wasn’t a threader.

‘Well,’ said Yalenna, ‘taking normal folk thread-walking … is a tricky process to describe …’ Her eyes flickered past Tarzi’s
shoulder, and she broke into a relieved smile. ‘Look, there he is.’

Tarzi spun and, sure enough, a short distance away Rostigan was forming out of the air. She hurried to him, arriving in time
to lend him balance as he stumbled forward.

‘Songbird,’ he said – and there was that smile she loved so much. He gave her a squeeze, which also made him wince.

‘You’re hurt!’

She grabbed his wrist, turning his hand to inspect the bloody hole through his palm.

‘Settle, girl. Nothing time can’t fix.’

‘Did you get Despirrow?’

He grimaced. ‘No. Now, help me to a seat – or better yet, a bed.’

He draped an arm over her shoulder, turning her towards the barracks.

‘Where are you going?’ she said. ‘We need to get you to the infirmary, to a healer!’

‘Everyone will be busy with Braston for a while. I prefer to be away from the noise. Please, Tarzi? It’s not as bad as it
looks.’

‘It looks like there’s a hole in your hand!’

‘I just want to lie down.’

She frowned. She would clean his wound and patch him up – wouldn’t be the first time either – but then, she promised herself,
it would be straight into the castle to demand a proper healer, that was certain.

Sighing, she let him steer her. As they went, she settled into his body, and snuck a look or two upwards at his handsome face.

Such a good man
.

Yalenna took a last look over Braston, satisfied she had done all she could. He was installed in his own quarters, thankfully
unconscious, with the best healers in Althala fussing over him. They could not click their fingers and make him well, but
at least they could speed along the process. She was confident that, with or without their help, Braston would eventually
recover. All he really needed was a safe place to convalesce, and his constitution would do the rest.

She left his rooms feeling tired, her own wound a persistent ache. It had been looked at too, a healer having moved around
a few of her threads to facilitate a quicker recovery. The Wardens did not make easy subjects for normal threaders – their
patterns were complicated, and stubborn, for the threads stolen from the Spell were impossible to affect. She suspected that
she, too, would probably have to rely on time to patch her up completely.

As her feet led her towards her own quarters, she toyed with the idea of visiting Rostigan. No, she decided, there was nothing
urgent to discuss. Despirrow had escaped, and each and every one of them had suffered for the experience. A good night’s sleep
was the best thing for everyone.

She opened her door tentatively, half-expecting to find Salarkis there, but the seat by the window was empty.

‘My lady?’

An attendant was hovering behind her in the corridor.

‘Yes?’

‘Would you like anything? Tea, food, fresh sheets? A fire laid?’

‘Some dinner would be welcome.’

The attendant ducked his head, and off he went.

Inside she thought about getting changed, decided she couldn’t be bothered, and slumped into an armchair. Through the window
she could see the lights of the camp outside the walls, and sighed.

Why must it always be war?

Her eyes closed and, for a moment, she may have slept.

A knock at the door roused her. Begrudgingly she rose, wondering if it was dinner. She wasn’t sure if she was hungry or not,
though she knew she
should
eat. Moving slowly, she opened the door.

It was Jandryn.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re not food.’

‘Sorry to disappoint, my lady.’

He seemed more jittery than usual.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said, as she retreated. ‘I’m so tired, I don’t even want to look at someone standing up.’

Obediently he took the armchair opposite as she sank into her own, though he sat on the very edge of the seat, as if still
at attention – as if it would be improper to relax. She could not help but smile. Half in dreamland as she was, she found
she took pleasure in looking at him. He was a handsome young man, after all, and captain already in his early twenties (through
noble birth or bravery? she wondered) about the same age as she looked herself.

‘My lady?’

‘Hmm? Yes, what has brought you to me?’

‘I … er … I am torn, my lady, but I feel I must report. I don’t know if it is something, or nothing, but –’

‘Spit it out, Jandryn.’

‘I …’ He summoned his courage. ‘I have overheard talk, in the … in Loppolo’s chambers. Only a snatch, but it was about Braston.
Loppolo retains loyal followers, and they have heard of Braston’s condition. Some of them still support Loppolo as king, and
counsel that now may be the right time to attempt removing his … usurper.’

Yalenna blinked. ‘What?’

‘I did not hear Loppolo say so himself, my lady, so it may be nothing …’

Relaxation evaporated. It should not be a surprise, she supposed, yet somehow she had not considered that Loppolo would go
so far as to consider assassination a possibility. Short-sighted of her, maybe?

‘That is troubling,’ she muttered.

‘I’ve had guards put on Braston’s door,’ said Jandryn. ‘Guards I trust.’

For once his voice did not quaver, and he seemed sure of himself. Yalenna watched him closely, wondering what she had done
to earn him as an ally.

‘I thank you for that.’

‘Just a precaution,’ he added. ‘Loppolo might listen to bad counsel, but that does not mean he will act upon it. I have seen
him swayed by others before, however, and do not feel it is in Althala’s interests to lose one such as Braston. Or you, my
lady.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I imagine if Loppolo succeeded in doing something stupid, you would turn your back on us. And that would be tragedy
upon tragedy.’

‘Ah,’ said Yalenna. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think I could escape so easily. I do not stand for Althala, Jandryn,
but for the world. One man’s actions will not turn me against all humanity.’

Perhaps he feared he had offended her, for he was quick to shake his head. ‘Of course not, my lady!’

‘Which is not to say I do not care for Althala,’ she added.

There was another knock at the door.

Jandryn stood up, hand going to his sword.

‘It’s just dinner,’ said Yalenna with a chuckle.

‘Ah. I should … that is to say, it would be improper for me to be seen at such an hour in a beautiful lady’s chambers.’

He used the word
beautiful
matter-of-factly, as if it went without saying that that was what she was. It was nice to hear, for people did not often
compliment one as striking as her, as if it wasn’t necessary to point out the obvious.

‘I’m sure no one is going to leap to conclusions,’ she said wryly. ‘Unless, of course, it would be prudent that you aren’t
seen reporting to me, with the potential of split loyalty in the castle.’

‘Er …’

‘You can go and hide in the bedroom, if you wish.’

The idea seemed to make Jandryn even more uncomfortable, as he turned quite pink.

‘Thank you, my lady. I will touch nothing.’

She opened the door to the attendant waiting with a tray of food. When she saw the steaming vegetables, and steak, and wine,
she knew she
was
hungry, after all. The attendant set the tray on the table, bowed deeply, and was gone.

‘All is well,’ she called into the bedroom. ‘Your presence is not suspected.’

Jandryn emerged looking sheepish.

‘I don’t want to have to keep telling you to sit,’ she said, setting herself down in front of the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Er … no, my lady.’

‘I am.’

She began to heap food onto her plate. As she did, the shoulder of her blouse slipped, revealing the bloodied bandage there.
Jandryn stared at it in horror.

‘My lady, what has been done to you?’

‘What? Oh. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I earned it during my run-in with Despirrow.’

‘That dog!’

His sudden anger was a little over the top for her right then.

‘He should be flayed alive!’

‘I completely agree,’ she said. ‘Flayed alive, boiled in oil, decapitated … it hardly matters as long as he ends up dead.’

After she had eaten a bit, he cleared his throat.

‘My lady, is there something we should be doing?’

‘Hmm?’

‘About Braston?’

Yalenna dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I’m not sure. As you describe it, we do not even know if Loppolo seriously entertains
what has been suggested to him. I can’t really go storming into his chambers demanding an explanation.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start, it may give you away.’

‘My lady does not need to worry about me.’

‘Oh, but I do. What if I can use you to find out more? It’s doubtful they will speak again in your presence if they suspect
you are my agent.’

‘I was not really in their presence. I was outside the room – they did not know I was there.’

‘You said you put guards on Braston’s door?’

‘Yes, but guards on doors are no guarantee of safety.
There are other ways into rooms. Windows and … well, I do not know all the secrets of the castle.’

Yalenna sighed. She found, strangely enough, that again she had an urge to talk to Rostigan.

‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘the guards should stay
inside
the room, then.’

‘Won’t they disturb the king’s rest?’

‘I don’t know. Are they particularly chatty guards?’

Perhaps she should be taking this more seriously, she thought. Why didn’t she? Maybe she didn’t really believe that Loppolo
would attempt such a bold move, or maybe she was simply overtired. But if there
was
an attempt made on Braston’s life, and she had done nothing to try to avert it, how would she feel then?

She put down her fork with a sigh.

‘All right. Let us go and check on Braston.’

As they walked the corridors, Yalenna thought Jandryn seemed troubled by what he was doing – his eyes darted left and right,
though there were few people about to note their passing. He had been a king’s man, Loppolo’s man, and she had not really
thought about how easily she had appropriated his loyalty. She was simply used to having people obey her, and the Wardens
– the good ones, anyway – had always found followers easily. Yet, when she thought about it, Jandryn owed her nothing at all,
and perhaps he struggled with the choices he had made.

She found herself curious – this man had spent long enough in her presence to become blessed, but she had never checked the
nature of that blessing. She squinted at him now, searching out her influence. It was not as obvious as in those freshly blessed,
having had some days to settle into his pattern, yet when she put her mind to it, she could always find what she looked for.

There
.

She gave an audible intake of breath as she discerned this most singular blessing.

May you be lucky in love
.

‘Everything all right, my lady?’ he asked, his brown eyes soft.

‘Oh … yes. Lead on please, Jandryn.’

As they continued, she wondered about the nature of such a powerful blessing. It did not, she knew, mean that he could make
people fall in love with him against their will. It was, perhaps, more subtle than that. To be
lucky
in love … maybe it simply meant that he would do well around the object of his affection? That she would see him at his best,
notice his finer qualities.

Had it affected
her
in any way, she wondered? Certainly she thought him a handsome fellow, but that was merely passing admiration. Or was it?
So long had she served Aorn selflessly that recently a niggling feeling had come, that she wanted something for herself, something
out of
life
.

She bumped into him, finding him frozen in time.

Once Despirrow was well away from Saphura, and had really begun to feel the chill of the river, he decided that he considered
himself safe. He left the water and walked up the bank, his sodden clothes keeping him in cold’s embrace. As he moved into
the trees, he gave a wave, expelling moisture from his garments.

How had they found him?

He hadn’t done anything to draw attention. The only one who’d known where he was, could possibly have known, was Salarkis.

He thought hard about their last exchange. Salarkis had given the appearance of wanting to help, but Despirrow was not foolish
enough to take that on face value. Unfortunately, either way, he knew the best thing to do was go to Tallahow, and Forger.
His enemies would baulk at pursuing him there, at facing both him and the Lord of Pain together.

Where, then, in Tallahow, did he remember best? Surely the keep remained – in fact he knew it did, for he’d heard of Forger
taking it back. Concentrating hard, he pictured the square in front of it, and soon enough he began to unravel.

He surprised a couple of soldiers, appearing out of the air on the square’s grey cobbles.

‘I am Despirrow,’ he told them. ‘Take me to my old friend, Forger.’

Pale at his name (how good it felt not to hide it!), they nodded and gestured towards the keep entrance. Under the archway
they checked in with a superior, who looked Despirrow over with a mix of fear and caution.

‘If I’m not who I say I am,’ said Despirrow coolly, ‘then the mighty Forger will no doubt kill me. What do you care? Take
me to him.’

As they travelled upwards through the keep, the doors he passed returned pleasant memories to him. Many a night he had spent
here, taking wine and wenches as he pleased – perhaps coming back here was not so bad after all.