The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (24 page)

The tavern was cool and quiet, the sun making scattershot forays in through small windows. Despirrow sat next to such a one,
a bar of light glancing off him on its way to explode against an empty table in the middle of the room. The only other patrons
present were a pair of sour old drunks, whiling away the hours as the rest of the village went about its daily business.

He must look out of place, he knew. This was a farmland area, its people stocky and simply clothed. He, in comparison, was
pale and thin, and wore a sheer blue shirt that plunged deeply at the neckline to reveal a silver chain resting on his chest.
His fingers were adorned with a dazzling collection of rings, clinking together as he raised his mug, drawing attention to
themselves and amusingly annoying the drunks. It was not quite the resplendent fashion of his days in court, but he’d had
to strip back a little, for, in theory, he was trying to pass unnoticed.

‘Can I get you a fresh mug, sir?’

The barmaid was a healthy auburn-haired girl, the only spark of life in the place. He favoured her with a handsome smile.

‘Please, my dear. Thank you very much.’

He’d had a few mugs already, and was beginning to feel the effects. This home-spun ale was not quite the clear, refreshing
wine he thirsted for, but it did the trick.

As the barmaid moved away, he watched her posterior with some interest.

‘So what’re you supposed to be, eh?’

One of the glaring drunks had finally found the courage to address him, while the other sniggered.

‘Just a humble traveller, sir,’ he answered airily. ‘Out and about seeing the world.’

‘Look like a wayward lord to me. One who’s lost his king!’

They laughed, and he gave them a tight smile.

‘May be some truth to that,’ he said.

‘I’ll bet!’ The drunk slapped the table. ‘I’ll bet!’ Despirrow didn’t want to encourage them too much, lest they become overly
familiar. He became very interested in inspecting his nails.

‘Sorry about them, sir,’ the returning barmaid said quietly. His eyes flickered over her bosom as she bent to place a mug
before him, back up to her face before she had a chance to catch him ogling. She, however, wouldn’t have noticed, for she
was, in turn, sneaking a glance at his glittering rings.

‘That’s quite all right,’ he said. ‘I expect they won’t remember me tomorrow, and I’ll endeavour to return the favour.’

His wit seemed to pass her by. She gave a little nod, but failed to produce the chuckle he had hoped for. He could tell she
was impressed, however, by his garb, and no doubt his good looks.

‘What is your name, miss?’

‘Veysha,’ she said.

‘Tell me then, Veysha – such a pretty name – are there any sights to behold around here? Any crumbling old temples, or maybe
a stream between trees that catches the starlight, a good place for a midnight picnic?’

She reddened a little.

‘Not much to see around here, sir,’ she said. ‘My beau and I sometimes take a walk, but once you’ve seen one field, you’ve
seen them all.’

She retreated, and he gave an internal sigh. Mention of a ‘beau’, whether he existed or not, was obviously meant to convey
a clear message.

Had he been too forward?

There was a time when he’d been better at this. He’d had women aplenty flocking to him, well served by his reputation as a
lover. Charming in a way that did not feel forced, as it had done recently – ladies falling over one another for a chance
at a ‘midnight picnic’. Life as a court threader, best friend to the king, had been good. Now he
could not even pique the interest of this plump farm-grown tavern wench.

Well, no matter. He had been curious, that was all, to see if he could still cajole interest willingly. The effort bored him
quickly, however, and there was always the easier way. One little ‘halt!’ in his mind to stop the passage of time, while he
was touching her of course, and he would bring her with him into limbo while the rest of the world went still. Then he could
hike up her skirt and bend her over the bar, and she could scream for her stupid imaginary
beau
all she liked, while he crushed her breasts against the wood, under the dull stare of the drunks …

‘Everything all right, sir?’

He realised he had been baring his teeth as he imagined the sweat running down her thighs.

‘Oh … yes.’ He smoothed his expression. ‘The ale is just a little cool on a sensitive tooth that I happen to have.’

Perhaps raping her would be easy, yet he managed to control himself. All his life his lust had been great, even before the
change. He did not want to leave a trail of breadcrumbs, however, marking his whereabouts for cursed Braston and whoever else.
He had already broken his rule, effectively announcing to the other Wardens that he was at large, but this Veysha wasn’t pretty
enough to warrant the risk.

‘Are there any whores in this backwater?’ he asked, all friendliness gone from his demeanour.

‘Er …’ Veysha didn’t like him at all anymore. ‘No, sir … the men round here stay true to their women.’

Despirrow barked a laugh. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ He chugged the rest of his ale, flung some coins across the table
and stalked out of the tavern.

Outside, the sun hurt his eyes and made him feel woozy. How long had he been sitting in there? How drunk, in fact, was he?

It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered. As long as he stayed out of sight, he could do what he liked. They wouldn’t come
after him first, would they? Forger and Karrak were much worse than him. Those two were focused, grandiose in their actions,
while he was happy keeping out of everyone’s way. He could always seek his old comrades out later if he needed to. In the
meantime, mystified as he was to have returned from the grave, he wasn’t complaining.

He moved down the packed mud street, levelling contempt at the village’s small dwellings.

I don’t belong here
, he thought.
I need a proper town. A city
.

Once outside the village, he found a secluded spot under trees, and sank down in the shade. Time to threadwalk, but where
to go?

Saphura
, came the answer.

Dare he?

He tried to summon an image of the place, to envisage the line between him and it, but drink made it difficult to
hold a steady thought. He was in no state for the complicated process of threadwalking.

Just close my eyes for a little
, he thought.

When he got to Saphura, there would be wine and whorehouses aplenty. As he leant back against the trunk, he hoped his dreams
would be of them …

‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ said Braston, as they made their way toward the throne room. ‘I should be marching with the
army.’

Despirrow gave a sympathetic smile. Well did he know the depth of Braston’s desire to be with his people as they journeyed
north to the Ilduin Fields. Aorn’s great powers – Althala, Sortree, Galra, Ander, Tallahow and others, had pledged to combine,
and throw everything they had at the Pass. It was a desperate plan, and Despirrow foresaw a massive loss of life.

‘You know my objections,’ he said, ‘to such a funnelling of forces. It matters not how many of us cooperate, when a handful
of Unwoven can defend the Pass against a thousand.’

Braston frowned. ‘I see no other option – no matter the cost, we simply can’t let Regret continue with his experiments! Truly,
I wish there was another way.’

‘Why wish it? It is precisely what Mergan offers.’

Braston got a pained look, which came when his heart was at odds with his head. ‘You really think his plan can work?’

‘I think,’ said Despirrow, ‘it has a better chance than heaping the slain at the foothills of the Roshous.’

Braston sighed. ‘I ask my soldiers to fight, to die, for me. How will they react when they learn I don’t stand with them?’

‘My friend, you’ll do them greater service if you end Regret once and for all. The sooner he dies, the more of them you’ll
save. Trust me, they will thank you for it.’

‘If we succeed.’

‘If we succeed.’

Braston made a vexed noise. ‘Would that I had not been born a threader, just a simple king instead.’

‘Your commanders are worthy,’ said Despirrow, ‘and there will be other leaders on the Fields. Have some faith, Braston – it
will not fall apart for lack of your gaze.’

Braston grunted.

They entered the throne room, which was unusually empty. At a fountain near the entrance stood the sole occupants – Mergan,
with the band of threaders he had scoured Aorn to assemble. Despirrow recognised only one of them – Karrak, prince of Ander,
had visited Althala during more peaceable times. Approaching with Braston, Despirrow took in the rest.

There was a bald fellow dressed in leather, his skin a little sooty. A slight girl in a flowery dress tugged nervously at
her auburn hair. A soft-faced man in travelling clothes had a serene, unfocused gaze. And a young woman in a white robe, with
startlingly white hair, could only be
the Priestess Yalenna. Despirrow found his gaze lingering upon her, but he forced aside any lustful thoughts. This was a serious
group, put together for serious reasons. There would be plenty of time for romance once the world was safe.

‘Ah,’ said Mergan, ‘Braston, Despirrow – welcome. Let me introduce you to the rest of the Wardens.’

‘Wardens?’ said Braston.

‘It seems a fitting name,’ said Mergan, ‘given the purpose for which we’ve come together.’

‘And how did you go about finding these fine folk?’ said Braston. He moved before them, bowing slightly to Karrak, who returned
the gesture. ‘What was the standard by which the best threaders in Aorn are judged?’

Although his tone did not imply disrespect, Mergan stood a little straighter. Braston was still king here, and it seemed he
was not letting anyone forget it.

‘Well,’ said Mergan, ‘perhaps I should let them show you.’

Despirrow awoke with a stiff neck in the afternoon, the last doldrums of ale still curling in his veins.
Wardens indeed
, he thought, annoyed by the dream. That name had lost all original meaning, replaced these days with the hate and fear the
likes of him had imbued it with. The Despirrow who had given Braston patient counsel, and silenced his own desires at will,
was long gone. Thinking about him now was like trying to remember the details of childhood – a
few disconnected images, some vague impressions, and not much else.

He wanted water, badly. In his mind’s eye he saw the crystal surface of the Lumin River, bubbling happily under the bridge
into Saphura.

Damn it. I have to get out of this nowhere
.

He stood and, with a flick, banished all dirt from his clothes and skin. He tried to recall where he was – somewhere between
the Temple of Storms and Althala, not that far from Saphura by foot, really – and forced himself to go through the mental
preparation for the move. Some minutes later he was on his way, the hot fields fading past him as his threads realigned to
the distant point.

He felt nauseous as he stepped out of the air, onto a path hemmed by trees and waxy ferns. A quick scan of his surrounds showed
no one about to register his arrival, which was good, because he didn’t feel like being delayed by any killing. Before him
a bridge hung over a ravine some twenty paces deep, through which the Lumin ran. The bridge swung slightly as he stepped onto
it, enjoying the coolness that issued from beneath. On the other side, the path continued on and disappeared around a low
hill, which housed a gaping cave mouth he didn’t remember.

As he walked towards it, he saw something strange. On one side of the path, before the cave mouth, was a clear, rocky area.
There, some of the groups of smaller rocks were rattling together, as if something beneath them was trying to dig out. Suddenly
the rocks took off, floating directly
up into the air. He waited, watching, until they grew to distant specks.

Things quieted down.

The Spell ails
, he thought.

He knew that he was partly to blame – corrupted, as it were. That was what made his enemies so righteous about hunting him,
beyond the simple drive to stop a villain. Despirrow understood that was what he was, what he had become, but it didn’t bother
him – he enjoyed being him. And if the world was coming undone, he was damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy that too, while
he could.