The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (16 page)

Rostigan began to swing his sword all around, opening up a kind of chamber, and Yalenna sagged lower as he weakened the web beneath her.

‘Cut your way down!’ he shouted.

Finally she seemed to awaken. She started struggling, and he wondered if she was too tightly wrapped … but then, with relief, he saw a flash of silver about her. As she sliced at the silk below, he continued enlarging his chamber, and a few moments later she tumbled down into it.

‘We have to get to the bottom,’ he said, and began to cut away beneath him. She quickly got the idea and set to work doing the same, and together they worked deeper into the nest. Orange light washed over them, and the air began to heat. The nest surface grew ever closer as Mergan burned it away, while the ground loomed towards them.

‘Come on, Yalenna!’

They moved frantically, slicing as best they could in the restrictive space. Finally they ripped through the last of the weave that lay between them and solid footing, setting down upon rock.

‘What
now?’

‘We need to find shelter or we’ll be roasted alive.’

Moving was easier now, and Rostigan led the way, carving a path through the sticky strands. He reached a cliff wall and skirted along it, hoping for a path out, or some cave. What he found instead was a low overhang, the space underneath barely large enough for a body to fit inside.

‘In here!’

Yalenna got down on her belly and wriggled backwards under the ledge. Beside her Rostigan did the same, until he had managed to wedge himself in quite far. Outside the fire flashed intensely as it reached the bottom levels, and embers began to settle where they had been standing.

‘I think we’ll avoid getting cooked in here,’ Rostigan said. ‘Do you want to wait it out and confront him, or …’

‘Let’s just get gone,’ she muttered angrily.

Thus, face down in the grit, they concentrated on threadwalking. Rostigan felt a wave of heat roll across him, but it was not intense or long lived – with the silk gone, there was nothing left to burn. Smoke wafted under the overhang and he willed himself to ignore the acrid sting entering his lungs. He pictured Althala, held the image firmly,
felt
the distance between him and it … and soon his threads were unravelling as his pattern came apart.

Salarkis saw
great pillars of smoke rising from the Peaks, and wondered what was happening. There were more silkjaws on the wing than usual, except over the Spire, which they thankfully seemed to avoid. In the Dale, groups of Unwoven were gathering to point and stare, while others ran up steep paths into the Peaks. Whatever was happening, Salarkis did not think that they had caused it.

He wondered if his old friends were nearby doing something useful, unlike him, stuck in this place, trapped and useless.

He watched for some time, until the smoke began to disperse.

In the Spire below he could hear Unwoven moving about. He had gathered from overheard snippets that they were cleaning the place up, though they still did not venture up to the roof. He was seemingly safe here, from them at least, if not from starving to death.

‘Hello?’ he
called down the stairs.

There came a shuffling and a grubby Unwoven appeared at the bottom, peering around the doorway. ‘What do you want?’ she said.

‘Do you know what has happened in the Peaks?’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Why would I tell you?’

‘Why not?’ he tried, but she sneered and receded.

He attempted again to work on his message. The sending of words had never been one of his threading talents, before or after his various changes, yet getting a message to Yalenna was one of the only useful things he could think of to do. He knew the technique in theory – a threader shaped threads from some random pattern into recognisable letters – but had never been able to do it himself. Then again, he had never had such a pressing need.

He searched the roof for anything useful, found a sharp stone, and set about scraping it across the ground, eking out letters as best he could. The message was simple, but important, and having it spelt out made it easier. He used threads plucked from the breeze, thin silvery strands which were light to his influence and which would float easily and far. Using the scratches as a template, he curled the strands tightly into shape. One by one, letter by letter, it was working. It was working!

He suppressed excitement lest it ruin his progress, for holding everything in place remained a strain. He tied letters together with finer threads to keep them in order, then tied the words together too, a sort of faint latticework that kept the message composed. A sideways glance at the world showed evening on the way – he must have been at this for hours, yet had barely noticed the time passing. He tried not to be distracted with thoughts about the increasingly large stains in the sky, which all but blotted out the setting sun.

The message
was ready, or as ready as he could make it. Gingerly he floated it up between his hands, some of the loose ends waving, and walked to the edge of the roof. To the south the Pass was high enough to obscure the lands beyond.
Easier if it were a straight line
, he thought anxiously,
for my first try
. Instead he concentrated hard on where Althala lay, somewhere beyond thick pinnacles of rock, and envisaged a line between him and it that curved slightly through the Pass. There were threaders on constant alert at the top of Althala Castle who cast a wide net, so even if his aim was off a little, with some good fortune, his blind shot might make it.

There was nothing else for it. Gently he eased forward his hands, and the bundle of threads floated from him, picking up speed as it went. He half expected to see Mergan’s influence reach up from somewhere below and tear it apart, but blessedly it seemed the man’s attention was elsewhere, and the message floated on.

It was irksome being near Loppolo, yet Yalenna could not fault his presence. She had been the one to decide that he could live, and now she had to live with that decision.

Loppolo had
apparently asked for a report from Jandryn and Tarzi about some mission they had led underneath the city. That was how Yalenna and Rostigan had found them anyway – in Loppolo’s dining hall, munching on various titbits while going over what had happened. Yalenna supposed that even a king who had been secretly stripped of his power should know what was occurring in his realm, if only to keep up pretences. Still, upon arriving, she reminded him who was really in charge by ordering Jandryn and Tarzi to start their account again from the beginning. Her brusqueness, she realised, from the looks she earned, was not ill-received by Loppolo alone – though it was hard to tell if Tarzi’s glower favoured her, or Rostigan. Jandryn too, seemed oddly distant. Nevertheless, after a moment, Tarzi started the tale again. As she spoke, Yalenna and Rostigan had cause to exchange a glance, each surprised to learn that worms had been feeding on the Althalan populace.

‘And
you
went into the tunnels?’ said Rostigan, staring in amazement at Tarzi.

‘I did,’ she answered testily. ‘Forgive me, did I need your permission?’

Rostigan looked slightly abashed. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. But I do worry for you – would you not expect me to?’

She laughed. ‘Why should you? I would have thought it obvious I survive, as it turns out.’

Yalenna took Tarzi’s chastising of Rostigan as fair warning to hide her own reactions. She, too, upon learning what Jandryn had been through, worried for him in retrospect – but she dared not say anything in fear of hurting his ego or inflaming his anger. He was his own man, after all.

Jandryn shot
Tarzi a smile, a clear sign of comradery. It seemed the two of them had bonded over the incident. ‘We needed Tarzi,’ he explained. ‘She kept us in good spirits when the greyness threatened to take our hope. Without her, well … it would have been very bad, I have no doubt. And now your minstrel has a story to tell in which she is the hero! You would have been proud of her.’

Rostigan nodded. ‘I am proud of her.’

Tarzi attempted an indifferent shrug, but it was obvious she was pleased.

‘Both of you were very valiant,’ put in Loppolo from the head of the table, as he ran his thumb squeakily around the rim of a wine glass. ‘Althala honours you. We should have a feast to celebrate …’

‘No,’ said Yalenna. ‘We cannot hold a feast to celebrate every last little thing.’ She immediately realised her words were poorly chosen, diminishing what Jandryn and Tarzi had been through.

‘Apologies, Priestess,’ said Jandryn curtly, ‘but someone had to attend to the wellbeing of the people while you two were off on your mysterious business. Even if it means so
little
to you.’

‘I didn’t mean …’ Yalenna sighed. Curse Loppolo for making her snap. ‘I simply meant there is much to do, and we cannot stop and roast a pig whenever something goes our way.’

‘I just
thought,’ wheedled Loppolo, ‘that a feast might raise morale, if the worms have damaged it.’

‘The worms are gone,’ growled Yalenna, ‘and you are only thinking of your own fat belly, so don’t pretend otherwise.’

‘Yalenna,’ murmured Rostigan quietly, and she reined herself in.

Jandryn caught the exchange, and his mood visibly darkened. He did not understand, of course, why Rostigan commanded her restraint, or spoke to her in such a familiar way. If only she could tell him how far back their relationship went – yet Rostigan had sworn her to secrecy, for the sake of his own lover, and it was angering hers.

It was not exactly fair.

She was certain that another of Jandryn’s unspoken complaints was that she had ‘chosen’, once again, to ‘transport’ Rostigan with her on a dangerous task instead of him. She wished she could explain that she could not actually take anyone else, and it was only because Rostigan was really a Warden that he was able to accompany her.

‘So,’ said Jandryn, ‘now that we’ve told you of our day, perhaps you’d care to share yours? Were you off on Despirrow’s trail again, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Rostigan.

That seemed to be the end of what he was willing to contribute, which did nothing to improve Yalenna’s private annoyance with him. Sighing, she spread her hands on the table and began to explain where they had gone, and what they had done. She left out the parts where Rostigan had done any threading, of course, so it sounded very much like he’d had no reason to be there beyond watching her back – which was, of course, exactly what Jandryn had offered to do. She almost wished the captain would direct his dark look to her instead of at the tabletop, though she wasn’t sure what expression she could answer it with to magically mollify him.

As for
the actual result of their endeavours, at least Loppolo was excited.

‘So the silkjaws are finished?’ he said brightly. ‘For good?’

‘Not finished. There are still plenty of them in the mountains, but their numbers will not grow, or replenish.’

‘As for Mergan, that is terrible news. Are you sure it was him?’

‘I know my teacher when I see him, thank you.’

‘But he works against us?’ Loppolo pressed.

Yalenna frowned. She had not yet worked out what was going on with Mergan, and it was difficult to think about. He was so full of malice towards her, when all she wanted was their old affinity.

There came a rap on the doorway, and a young threader stood there, her cheeks rosy as if she had been running.

‘Ah, this is Kalia,’ said Loppolo. ‘One of our finest messengers, Priestess, if you have not already met.’

His tone
seemed to faintly imply some ignorance on Yalenna’s behalf, which she ignored. Instead she spoke directly to the girl.

‘You have received something?’

Kalia nodded, but glanced at the king – to everyone else, that’s what he still was, and thus it was his permission she sought to speak.

Loppolo gave a wave. ‘Don’t just stand there, girl, tell us what it is.’

‘A message from the Peaks, lord. From the Spire.’

Now she had everyone’s undivided attention.

‘Tell us,’ said Rostigan, ‘the exact words.’

Kalia nodded, and began to recite. ‘From S. Restored. Trapped on roof. Wound took threads. No choice given. Unwoven think M is Regret. F killed D.’

The information in the scant words came at Yalenna from different directions. Furiously she tried to make sense of it all, sorting through the thoughts. Despirrow dead was good news, but the rest almost eclipsed it. Salarkis restored could only mean he was his human self again. How could that be? The Wound, he said. Was ridding the Wardens of their stolen threads really as simple as returning to the Spire? If indeed such a thing could be called simple – for one, Forger, or his threads at least, would have to go as well.

‘Why would Forger kill Despirrow?’ asked Tarzi.

‘For his threads,’ muttered Rostigan absently.

‘What?’

He glanced at her, waking up. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Yalenna hardly
registered the exchange. The words about Mergan were beginning to filter through, and she almost dared not examine them. Troubled and dangerous as he had become, she had not realised the full extent of it, or how absolutely he stood against them. Against her.