The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (21 page)

Cedris gave a pained smile. ‘I am afraid I already have someone, Skullrender. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’ He glanced over to where the recruits still jousted.

‘Ah,’ said Rostigan dully. ‘Well. She is a fine warrior.’

‘Not her,’ said Cedris.

A series of recollections flashed through Rostigan’s head, of their journey along the road to Althala; Cedris and Artanon walking side by side, chuckling and smiling; sitting next to each other at a campfire, slapping each other on the back; in a tavern, Cedris reaching over to seize Artanon’s mug and quaff its contents, while Artanon rolled his eyes …

Rostigan had
not thought anything of it at the time, had simply assumed the men were good friends.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see.’

He felt foolish and sad, as if he had unnecessarily exposed his readiness to give Tarzi away. He had half-imagined some future for her in which she was happy, and free of him and his dark ways. He had worried about what to say to Cedris, and whether it was right or wrong to say anything in the first place … all without reason.

Cedris, however, did not seem to take it like that. ‘Stand tall, Skullrender,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you go to face, but you speak as if you’ve already failed. This is not the case, surely, else why go at all? And to seek me out in this fashion shows you have something worth returning to – for you must love your Tarzi greatly to care so much for her wellbeing.’

Rostigan felt a strange prickle behind his eyes.
Do I?
he wondered.
Perhaps.

‘She’s a lucky girl,’ said Cedris, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘So just make certain you come back to her. Yes?’

Rostigan walked a yellow ledge between great gashes in the earth. Here, south of Ander, the land was still wrinkled with quarries, which was not surprising, for he had cut deep and long. Some were still active it seemed, for tools were strewn about, abandoned in some recent desertion. For a moment he saw slaves toiling, their hammers rising and falling endlessly, their eyes and mouths caked with grit, the clank of chains interspersed with the crack of whips lacerating flesh. He shut his eyes, shut it out, and when he opened them again, only dust swirled through the empty pits.

From away
within the city walls, the sound of fighting issued up to a cloud of circling crows above.

My friends
, he sent them,
hark to me, and soon you will feast well – for your master Karrak has returned.

He moved along
city streets he had avoided for three hundred years. Now that he was back, it all seemed threateningly familiar. Ghostly figures – the memories of his long-dead subjects – lined up to watch him pass, as if he were some kind of unwelcome parade. Perhaps their icy stares toughened him, put him in touch with the role he meant to play. The deep place was rising to the surface, or else he was sinking into it … either way, his past was making itself known to him. He glanced up at the distant castle, and remembered the first time he’d gone back there after the change, despite Mergan’s wish that the Wardens stay together. Mergan had not yet realised how divided they’d become …

‘No one else run off!’ Mergan shouted at those who remained on the Spire roof. Jillan and Salarkis had already gone, and everyone else was trying to work out what had happened. Expressions were vastly different – Yalenna was befuddled, Forger actually seemed happy, Despirrow was thoughtful and subdued, while Braston stared about in wonder. As for Karrak himself, he could not quite yet work it out. There was a heat and a coldness in him, as if he were clay just out of the kiln, doused in water. The distant thunder of battle, away towards the Pass, seemed like music calling to him.

‘Stay calm,
everyone,’ said Mergan. ‘Something unexpected has happened to us.’

‘Well spotted!’ said Forger.

Braston crouched by Regret’s corpse. ‘I can see … but it’s miraculous! A whole new layer of threads. It’s like …’ He shook his head, apparently struggling to find the words.

‘Something leaks from me,’ said Yalenna, her voice rising as she spun about. ‘Can anyone else see that? It’s like I’m falling apart!’

‘There, there,’ said Despirrow, moving to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It will be all right.’

She shrugged him off, and he scowled.

‘Please, everyone, stay calm,’ said Mergan. ‘Yalenna, you aren’t falling apart.’

‘How do you know? Can you see what drifts from me, old man?’ She stalked towards him furiously, and he raised a warning hand. She pulled up short. ‘Well?’

Mergan shook his head.

Karrak noticed
Forger grinning maniacally. Upon realising he was being watched, the other Warden tried to smooth his expression and failed spectacularly – if anything, his grin grew wider. He opted to cover his mouth with his hands, though a muffled guffaw shot out from between his fingers.

‘We have to try to work this out,’ muttered Mergan.

‘I don’t know if it’s wise,’ said Despirrow, ‘to do so here. The Unwoven may come for us at any moment.’

Mergan was not convinced. ‘They haven’t bothered us yet, not even as their master fought against us. They are all at the Pass.’

Braston broke from whatever had captured his attention. ‘The Pass – the battle continues! We must let our people know they can pull back from that death trap!’

‘You don’t want them to finish off the Unwoven?’ said Karrak, hearing his voice for the first time since the change. It was as deep and dry as an empty well.

‘Finish off?’ said Despirrow indignantly. ‘Althalans are being slain in their hundreds while the Unwoven choke the Pass in abundance. There is no
finishing off
.’ His tone implied contempt for Karrak rather than any concern for the soldiers. For Braston, however, his words were a call to action.

‘It’s true!’ Braston exclaimed. ‘I must threadwalk to the Fields and call them off!’

‘We must stay together!’ said Mergan desperately. ‘We do not know what has –’

‘Yes,
yes,’ said Braston impatiently. ‘Let us go together, then. Shall we agree to meet by the rocks where we camped the night before we entered the Roshous?’

There were nods all around, though Forger giggled and Mergan seemed hesitant. Karrak inclined his head dourly. He had no intention of going to the Fields.

‘Let us threadwalk then,’ said Braston, and they all fell to concentrating.

A moment later Karrak appeared in his father’s throne room, high up in Ander Castle. To his chagrin, both his father and older brother Borry were present, as were a healthy flock of nobles and courtiers. To be expected, he supposed. As he came together before his father’s ridiculous golden seat, gasps and mutterings sounded from all around. While most in the court had heard of threadwalking, not everyone had seen it done.

‘Karrak!’ cried his father, leaning forward in the throne. The man was rickety, his beard long, his moustache curling upwards as he smiled. ‘Praise the Spell, I feared to never see you again. My boy, how do you fare?’

‘Did you succeed?’ asked Borry, moving before the throne. ‘Is Regret no more?’

Bile rose in Karrak’s throat, his stomach quivering as he tightened up his still re-forming pattern. He wondered if Regret’s threads were a part of him still, or if he had somehow shed them on unravelling to threadwalk. He did not wonder long, however, as he looked upon his brother with fresh eyes. What he had previously considered a prideful demeanour, he now saw as imperious. His brother’s question, which once he would have leapt to answer, was instead impertinent and graceless. Even brotherly care – the way Borry came forward to support him as he faltered a little, and pat his back as he retched – was contrived and insincere. How had he ever admired this man? This
prince
who had stayed behind while others marched forth, using logic as his excuse –
father hardly rules anymore … you know how heavily he relies on me these days
– to cover his cowardice and ambition.

‘You are
like a child,’ Karrak whispered, ‘stamping his foot and demanding respect.’

‘What?’ Borry recoiled slightly, seeming to doubt what he had heard. Then he stamped his foot, and looked amazed.

Karrak was a little amazed himself. He had done something with his words, something he had never done before – something which had made Borry do what he’d suggested.

‘Brother,’ said Borry shakily, ‘are you well? Someone fetch Prince Karrak a seat immediately!’

As Karrak slumped down, he found great anger building inside him, seeming to itch in his hands especially. He felt an urge to do something with them … like strangle his useless idiot brother or finish off his long suffering father once and for all and be done with it.

‘Is Regret dead?’ came his father’s voice. ‘Come, my boy, tell us that at least.’

Karrak rubbed his face. ‘Yes,’ he made himself say.

There immediately
followed a clamour that startled him, and it took him a moment to work out what it was.
Celebration
. People were cheering, calling for food and wine, juddering him as they slapped his back or seized his hands to pump them. The nausea finally began to abate, and he rose to find himself surrounded by people all chattering questions about what had just happened. They almost drowned out his father’s wavering voice, but Borry bellowed for silence and they quieted.

‘Son,’ said the king, ‘you must give us a full report.’

Karrak stared through the windows that ringed the throne room, wishing he had chosen another place to return to. He needed to sit and think, to work out what had been done to him. The idea of having to
explain
was instantly tiresome.

A distant black speck rose in the sky and, as he watched it, Karrak was struck by how clearly he could sense it, how he could almost hear the dark thoughts ticking in its tiny black mind … could recognise, and understand, something of its hunger. Could
empathise
.

To me
, he commanded, and the crow wheeled about towards the castle.

What a wonderful gift from the Spell.

‘Karrak?’

Annoyed by the distraction, he turned back to the expectant faces.

How dare you presume to make demands of me? You have no idea what has entered your midst.

He
would wait, however, until he knew his new self a little better. Could he ignore the itch until then, to reach for his sword and smash it through skulls? Could he stand the growing ache in his belly, the hunger of crows? Perhaps.

‘There were eight of us,’ he said, ‘and together we set out towards the Roshous Peaks …’

Rostigan reached the pillared entrance of the library. A group of Tallahowan soldiers emerged from within, carrying various items of value – an ornate lamp, a painting, silver candlesticks, other oddments.
No books
, Rostigan noted with disdain. There were tomes in the library worth more than their weight in gold, but obviously these fools could not tell. Nevertheless they seemed happy with their plunder, showing it off to each other as they guessed at worth, until they saw Rostigan, and pulled up short.

‘Doesn’t look like one of ours, sir,’ muttered one.

‘You,’ said an officer, pointing his sword at Rostigan. ‘Did you forget to flee the city with the other rats, or are you on your way to hole up in the castle?’