The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (37 page)

With a quick swipe over his shoulder, Rostigan tore the shimmer apart. Outside the cloud of crows wheeled about to stream towards the revealed opening. As the first of them flew in, Forger managed to divert a few small strands to break them in the air, but others dodged the falling bodies. Forger could not hold them all back, as well as fight Rostigan and Salarkis, and he knew it.

Just like that, time stopped.

As all threading ceased, the release of pressure sent Forger pitching forward. He landed on his knees, head slumping to his chest. He was shorter than Rostigan now, by just a little.

About them, crows hung in the air, their beaks murderously open, eyes gleaming wickedly. Salarkis was frozen too, his hands poised to continue fighting.

‘You are spent?’ said Rostigan.

Forger groaned. ‘Curse you.’

He raised his head to glower tiredly, his empty eye somehow seeming more accusing than the other. His body was coated in sweat, running down to mingle with the blood from his weeping stump. His patchwork of leather sagged around him, stretched too big for him now. He was still muscular, under it all – a muscular, normal-sized man.

Rostigan cut a strip of cloth from his
trouser leg and tossed it over. ‘Bind yourself.’

Forger stared at the offering.

‘Bind yourself,’ said Rostigan, ‘if you want to live. After you give back your gifts, you will no longer heal so easily.’

Forger howled at him, long and hard.

Rostigan waited.

Finally Forger was reduced to coughing, and Rostigan waited for that too.

‘You have a choice,’ he said presently. ‘I can kill you and take your threads myself. Ido not want that, but you cannot be allowed to keep them. Or you can walk yourself up to the roof.’

Forger hissed.

‘Yes, you will turn into someone else,’ said Rostigan, ‘but at least you’ll still exist. Isn’t that something? He – you – will be glad he is not you anymore. And, once it is done –’

‘Once it is done,’ shouted Forger, ‘I will be full of woe for the rest of my life!’

Rostigan raised the sword to Forger’s breast. ‘Choose.’

For a long moment Forger looked away. Then he felt for the strip of cloth and tried to wind it around his wrist. With only one hand to tie it, he didn’t have much luck.

Rostigan slid his sword into place across his back. ‘Let me help you,’ he said, going down on his knee.

Forger did not resist, only grimaced a little as Rostigan pulled the bandage tight.

‘On your feet,’ said Rostigan, rising.

Shakily, Forger
got to his feet, carefully avoiding the crows frozen mid-flight. ‘What about these,’ he said. ‘Will they come for me when I unstop time, while the Wound rises me up, helpless in the air?’

‘I will call them off.’

A tear rolled down Forger’s cheek, mirroring the blood from his empty eye.

‘I only wanted to have a little fun, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Didn’t you also? You did some terrible things in Ander, trying to make me believe in you.’

‘I did not enjoy that. It was just to get you here.’

‘Curse you,’ Forger breathed, without much feeling. Haltingly he turned and went towards the stairs. At the doorway he paused, his back still turned.

‘You’re going to do it too though, yes? Give back everything to the Wound?’

‘That was always the plan.’

Forger nodded.

‘See you soon then, brother.’

Slowly he walked up the stairs and disappeared from view.

Rostigan stood waiting. A while passed, but Forger had nowhere else to go. He would start time soon enough, and then Rostigan … he glanced around … Rostigan would be in a tower full of confused crows, whose quarry, as far as they could tell, had simply disappeared. He turned to the missing wall and blanched to see how many more were hovering just outside.

I should really get down
, he thought.

Sound rushed back all at once, the room full of cawing, frenzied crows. Rostigan
dove to the hard stone as the beats of wings peppered his back. Somewhere in the feathered cloud, Salarkis cried out in panic.

‘Get down!’ Rostigan shouted.

Begone! Begone! You are free to be lordless, free for all time!

The birds squawked and circled, battering each other, striking against walls. A few slipped down the stairs where Jandryn waited with Mergan, to be met by sounds of alarm.

Out! Out! Back the way you came!

Crows who were able began to turn about and spill from the opening. Others were stunned, and waddled along the floor giving low squawks. They collected at the edge, fluffing themselves up, until they had recovered sufficiently to launch. As the room emptied Rostigan checked on Salarkis, who was lying prone nearby, a little scratched but mostly intact.

Jandryn’s head appeared at the lower staircase. ‘Where’s Yalenna? Is she hurt?’

‘She’s fine,’ said Rostigan, as he shooed away a couple of lingering birds who were eyeing off the dead threader. ‘Come, Salarkis, we must fetch Mergan.’

Salarkis nodded and got to his feet.

In the room below, on a stretcher between two soldiers, Mergan lay bound and blindfolded, watched over by the remaining threader.

‘Take him to the roof.’

Salarkis gestured and
Mergan rose from the ground with a muffled exclamation of protest. As Salarkis manoeuvred him up the stairs, Rostigan stared hard at Jandryn and the others.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘be off. I will see that all goes well from here.’

‘No,’ said Jandryn. ‘There is no reason –’

‘
Go
,’ said Rostigan, implanting the word squarely in all their heads.

Jandryn got a dazed look. ‘Come,’ he told the others. ‘We will wait at the bottom.’

Rostigan watched them leave. Was this the last time he would manipulate another person’s mind? he wondered. During the past day he had forced many beliefs into Jandryn’s head – that there was no need to ask
why
he was to follow Yalenna with Mergan, or
who
precisely Hanry was, and to
ignore
any threading which he saw Rostigan do. He and Yalenna had pre-empted eventualities so thoroughly – what would the poor man do with all the loose connections in his head? Questions might return to him in time, it was true, but perhaps they were best left for Yalenna to deal with.

Rostigan returned to the upper room to find Salarkis waiting for him by the stairs, still levitating Mergan.

‘What are you waiting for?’

Salarkis shrugged, and turned to float Mergan onwards to the roof.

As a mortal, Salarkis
had proven no longer immune to Rostigan’s persuasion either.

For the last time? Certainly, if he went upstairs and gave back his gifts.

Across the steps a red flare reflected as, somewhere above, the Wound pulsed.

‘Well,’ he said.

Yalenna opened her
eyes. Her cheek pressed against dark stone, so smooth it almost seemed soft. She ran a finger over it, beneath the cocoon of her own snowy hair. Had she been here before?

Something was different. She felt as if she was smaller in her own skin. She was …

She raised her head.

Salarkis sat not far away, a pleasant smile on his boyish face.

‘Hello, Yalenna,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

She frowned. It was a good question. ‘What happened?’

Salarkis’s smile grew. ‘Why, you succeeded!’

Slowly he looked upwards, and she turned her head to follow his gaze. For a moment she was confused – what was she supposed to be looking at? There was nothing there. And then she realised.

The sky above the Spire was clear.

Except for … yes, there was a slight kink where the Wound had been, something like a faint scar, with a small round circle in the middle, a last little
opening. It was far from the gaping hole it had been, and no threads waved from it like bloody ribbons, no cracks spread out into the sky.

Small in her own skin
… because nothing seeped from her anymore.

‘I am …’

She sat up, put her hand on her chest.

‘I’m …’

‘You’re a young woman,’ said Salarkis. ‘Nothing less.’

Tears prickled her eyes and he moved closer to gather her into a hug. She found herself clutching him, crying freely on his shoulder.

‘But,’ she gasped, ‘what happened? Where are the others?’

He wiped some of her tears away. ‘You are the last to wake.’

‘Forger?’

‘He was here.’

‘Mergan?’’

Mergan too, and Rostigan. They have all given back their threads. They did not want to wake you – Mergan, mainly, said it was wise to let you rest, and come back in your own time.’

It was too much. The tears did not stop.

‘Where are they?’

‘They have gone down and out. I said that I would wait for you, since I am
used to waiting here. Would you like to go find them?’

‘Yes, yes.’ She let him help her up. ‘Let’s go.’

They went down the stairs into the Spire. She was light on her feet, as if a great weight had lifted … almost too light, almost off balance. She could feel that she was not as strong as she had been, though she could still see the threads, still reach and touch them.

‘We were the most powerful threaders in the world, weren’t we?’ she said. ‘Yet I feel as weak and delicate as a dandelion.’

‘It will take some getting used to. You are still strong, take it from me. As strong as any person has the right to be.’

A burning need to see Jandryn rose in her. She was thankful, so thankful, to discover that she loved him still … and was indeed free to love him as much as she wanted. Her time as a Warden was finally over.

‘Here we are,’ said Salarkis. He stood aside from the Spire entrance, holding his hand through to the light. For a moment she remembered Forger doing the same thing at another doorway, not so long ago, and was almost afraid … but she took a deep breath and stepped through.

The Dale was just as she remembered. Patrols trod the ruins and mountainsides, the sun shining bright on freshly exposed surfaces. Towards the edge of the city she saw two figures walking – was it Rostigan and Forger?

Just ahead, looking over it all, stood a brown-robed figure with his arms crossed, the breeze rustling his long grey hair. Seeing
him made Yalenna’s skin prickle, and her footsteps almost faltered, but she forced herself to keep going. He would, after all, be dead but for her, and she had to know if saving him had been a mistake.

He tilted his head slightly, seeming to sense her approach. Slowly he turned, and she saw the face she had known so well, before it had become twisted with malice. The madman’s gleam was gone from his eyes, his unblinking stare now dull and weary. It touched her only briefly, before sliding to some far away point.

‘Mergan,’ she said, drawing to a stop.

Grey strands wafted across his face. ‘Ah,’ he said, as he refocused. ‘There you are, sweet child.’

For a moment they stood regarding each other, unable to find the words.

‘How are you?’ she asked eventually.

The question seemed too prosaic for what lay between them, yet he nodded earnestly. ‘The fug is lifted,’ he said. ‘Or lightened, maybe, is a better way to put it.’

‘It wasn’t you,’ she said quietly. ‘You know it wasn’t.’

‘It did not seem like me, did it? And yet,’ he shook his head, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get the taste of horse flesh from my mouth.’ He shot her a sudden, appraising look. ‘I remember you though, amongst the rest, and that’s a blessing. So strong, and working against it all, all alone. I’m proud of you.’ His eyes returned to the middle distance. ‘I’m sorry Braston is not here.’

‘Me too. But …’

Had she really been alone? Somehow, despite
knowing she had sometimes felt that way, it was not how she remembered it now.

‘Salarkis,’ said Mergan, as the man joined them. ‘It’s good to see you too.’

‘We just saw each other,’ said Salarkis, his lips quirking wryly.

‘That doesn’t make it untrue, does it?’

Yalenna was glad to hear a hint of warmth creep into Mergan’s tone, even if it was not for her. Maybe it was because Salarkis had never been as close to Mergan as she had. There was less lost between them.

‘Ah, look,’ said Salarkis. ‘The rest of our number.’

The two figures were approaching. When Rostigan saw her, he smiled widely – a charming, knowing smile, such as he’d worn before the change, as opposed to the strangled snake she had seen pass for a smile on him more recently. Beside him, Hanry walked downcast. There were no lumps under his shirt – odd to see him without his leather – and a stained bandage wound around his head, another around the stump of his hand. Rostigan touched his arm, murmured something, and he looked up and saw her. His eye crinkled, his expression turning to dismay.

‘Yalenna,’ he said, reaching out shakily, then withdrawing as if he dare not touch her.

‘Hanry,’ she said, moving to embrace him.

Strange, that such
an impulse came to her so fast, when she had not dared to close a similarly small distance with her old teacher.

Forger was limp and hopeless in her arms, and spoke with the stop-start nature of someone trying to get words out between sobs.

‘How … can I … ever ask … for forgiveness? Oh, my. I have done such awful … such terrible … do you know how many …’

So many things. Too many.

‘It wasn’t really you, Hanry.’

‘But it was! I remember it all. I thought it was fun, do you understand? I thought it was nothing. Ahhhhh …’

As he crumpled against her, Rostigan rubbed his back.

‘It will take some time,’ he said.

‘Looks like you went down fighting,’ said Yalenna.

Hanry gave a pained laugh. ‘I did, I did. This is the least of what I deserve.’

‘No, Hanry. You helped heal the world.’

He drew back and looked away, wiping his nose with his stump.

‘And you?’ Yalenna asked Rostigan.

He nodded. ‘I’m all right. I already had centuries to come to terms with who I am. Broke the spell myself, you could say, so the change is not so shattering for me as it is for poor Hanry here.’

‘Poor Hanry,’ Hanry repeated. ‘My … the people I killed … and poor Hanry, you say? Oh, but my family, my little sis, she’s so long gone – I can never get her back! Never, never …’