*I can't speak for all but, having heard both of you speak today, I certainly feel that morale is better than it could be.'

*The fight is still good,' said Rostigan. *That has not changed.'

*I have been a little bothered by something, however.'

*Yes?'

*We know that Forger is heading for Ander, yet we do not march to stop him?'

Rostigan sighed. *We would never get there in time.'

*Hopefully,' said Yalenna, *Galra or Sortree will stand with their neighbour. Forger may be powerful, but that does not mean he can walk over kingdoms wherever he goes.'

*And if we set forth over such a distance,' said Rostigan, *we run the risk of being too far away if and when the Unwoven spill forth.'

Jandryn looked glum. *It was only a few weeks ago that none of these concerns existed. To face so many at once a' He stared into his mug. *Ah, but there's no point moping about it.'

Yalenna realised she hadn't had even a sip of the drink she'd been craving all evening, and quickly made up for lost time. When she put the mug down the men across the table looked equally surprised and amused. She had quaffed quite a lot at once, perhaps.

*Come,' she said, *I don't want to think about these things for a couple of hours at least.'

The men glanced at each other and nodded.

*Tell me, Jandryn,' she said, *today you mentioned you were a noble. I had not realised. Who are your family?'

*Our lands are across the Lumin to the west, some three towns' worth, and the pastures between. My parents are Lord and Lady Stead, noble on my mother's side, my father being a soldier * he was with you, Skullrender, when you fought on the Ilduin.'

*I thank him then.'

*Unfortunately, he took an injury to the leg, after which he could march no longer. Lucky for him, he'd already met my mother.' Jandryn smiled, and Yalenna wondered if it was the first time she had seen him do so. *They do not often come to court,' he continued, *taking the view, unlike some in their position, that they should be available to the folk who elevate them. As for me, I am here by my father's will. He believes that too many nobles spend their time drinking wine in the afternoon, while trying to outdo each other's pithy comments, rather than serve in an actual role. Maybe it is his soldier's blood, which I am glad to share.'

At this point the kitchenhand returned with a plate of steaming vegetables and a side of meat. Yalenna thanked him and may bugs that bite find other people tastier than you went into him. She did not notice however, for the smell of food was making her aware of just how famished she really was.

*I haven't had a meal in weeks!' she exclaimed, picking up her knife and fork.

Jandryn's eyebrows shot up. *But my lady, we ate together a few nights ago.' He immediately went red and glanced sideways at Rostigan. *Er a I mean, I was present while you were served dinner.'

For his part, Rostigan remained blank. *As I'm not a Warden,' he said, *I cannot guess what the Priestess means.'

Yalenna did not feel like explaining that, while time had been frozen, she had been without food for the equivalent of weeks, because she wanted to be eating instead. Luckily Tarzi arrived, her story evidently told, the crowd at the room's far end now dispersing. Yalenna used the distraction to get a laden forkful into her mouth.

*How did you go, songbird?' said Rostigan.

*Good. You saw me.'

*I did, I did.'

Tarzi yawned. *I'm tired though.'

Yalenna knew she was swallowing too fast, but she could not stop. Since the long night had ended, all she'd had to eat was a single biscuit * that's right, she remembered, that stupid pink-icing fop of a biscuit, in Loppolo's chambers the day before! Then, after she and Rostigan had spent a long time planning the speeches, she had collapsed exhausted into bed without any dinner. Why had it taken this long for her to realise how voracious she was? Maybe her hunger had been lying dormant, necessarily forgotten in order for her to keep functioning. It made her think of Mergan * if this was how she felt after mere weeks of deprivation, what kind of appetite had awoken in him after three hundred years?

All too soon the plate was empty and she slumped back with a sigh. Opposite her Jandryn sipped his ale, trying to appear as if he had not been watching. He could not hide, however, a slight tweak at the edge of his mouth.

*Now I really do believe you haven't eaten in weeks,' he said.

*Where are the others?' she asked, wiping her mouth, for they were nowhere to be seen.

Jandryn failed to keep back a grin, for a moment looking impossibly boyish. *I think you scared them off.'

Yalenna blushed * she had wolfed down her dinner in a very unladylike fashion.

*Do not fear,' said Jandryn, *I only jest * they were exhausted and left for bed. They did say goodbye, but I don't think you heard them over the sound of your own gnashing.'

His eyes twinkled, and she laughed.

She eyed the kitchen door * the truth was she could do with a second helping, but she decided not to subject him to that. Instead, she returned to her ale, which she attempted to sip in a more controlled fashion.

She was beginning to feel wide awake. The meal had done her wonders, while everyone else was fading. Even Jandryn seemed tired, his stifled yawns failing to hide a tell-tale darkening under his eyes. She felt the looming threat of solitude, and foresaw herself restlessly wandering the halls of a slumbering castle.

She decided she did not want such a future for herself.

Jandryn gave a small cough. *Do you mind if I ask you something, my lady? I know you said you didn't want to talk about important matters a'

*Go on.'

*About Rostigan * you took him with you when you went to fight Despirrow?'

*Yes.'

*Well, I know I'm not a proven hero like him but, well, if ever you wish me to, I would be honoured to fight with you. For you.'

Yalenna smiled. She did not tell him that she could never take a mortal man threadwalking, for that was the lie they had told to explain how Rostigan had accompanied her and Braston to Saphura.

*Thank you,' she said. Then; *Come, it is late. Let us walk back to the castle together, shall we?'

They were within sight of the castle entrance, passing beneath an ornamental tree that looked a little bent out of shape. Jandryn was chatting away about something, but Yalenna wasn't really listening. She was thinking about what Rostigan had said to her, about not being afraid to live in the hours that were her own, and also about the dangers lurking ahead. Having died once already she felt drawn towards opportunities she had ignored the last time.

Jandryn wouldn't object, she was sure. Perhaps he would be surprised, and that was fine a but since he would never initiate anything himself, she guessed, or at least take a thousand years to work up the courage, really it was up to her. Hers to take, if she wished.

So she pulled him into the shadows and kissed him.

THE TRANQUIL DALE.

Hidden in the dark of the Spire antechamber, Salarkis put together his disguise.

Having found nothing else of use, he spent the better part of the night working on the only material available to him * himself. It was a tricky and sometimes painful business to rearrange his own pattern, yet it was the best idea he had been able to come up with. Turning his attention and influence inwards * even though the adjustments were small and superficial * was like trying to make a bed while standing on it. Still, he had been good at disguises before the change and his native skills remained.

First he took up multitudes of the infinitesimal threads within his hair * one per strand, a thread within a thread * and stretched them out until his curls were limp and lank. He then proceeded to tighten his skin by drawing it in, constricting it over his muscles and bones to give him the same smooth, gaunt appearance of the Unwoven. Changing his colour required greater finesse. He gathered up those threads that gave him pigment, and pulled them back under the surface until he was left a sickly, pallid grey. The inside of his mouth was the worst, which had to be white to complete the effect. He achieved it in the same way as his skin, but his tongue and throat felt scratchy and dry, as if they had been sanded back. All changes he tied to one knot in the centre of his chest, to hold them in place. He felt sure that, at least physically, he could now pass for an Unwoven. Still, he wished he had a mirror, and trying to see his reflection in the dull gleam of a dagger catching scant moonlight through the doorway proved nothing but frustrating.

The final touch was his belt, which he unspun and put together again to create a semblance of *pants', which were, in fact, many thin strands hanging downwards like a kind of tattered skirt. As he fixed it about his waist, he might have found it comical were it not for his dire situation. From what he had seen of the mismatched rags the Unwoven wore, however, the strange garment would not draw attention * in fact, he could probably leave the Spire completely naked if he chose.

He fell to worrying about his daggers * hidden in the top of his skirt, they rubbed against him in dangerous ways, and the thought of carrying them in his hands seemed unnecessarily aggressive. Reluctantly, he discarded them.

Any half-decent threader would be able to detect the alterations he had made, but thankfully there were none among the Unwoven. This was fortunate, for if they scried him out, Salarkis would have a hard time fighting them off. Sheer numbers aside, Regret had created his children to be robust; their patterns were deep and hard to see, harder still to manipulate, with threads that sprang easily back into shape.

Simply walk through, he thought, staring down the length of the Dale * maybe two or three leagues to freedom?

Changing himself had taken longer than he would have liked, and morning light was just creeping into the Dale. He wished he still had the cover of darkness * given the Unwoven were everywhere except inside the Spire, walking out of it in plain view would instantly arouse suspicion. He could wait for the following night, he supposed, but the thought made him even more anxious. His skin prickled uncomfortably, and he was impatient to see if he could get away with his plan.

Several Unwoven nearby moved about listlessly, as if they had nothing to do and nowhere to be. Drift on, he willed them. As if in answer, another came by leading a pig on a rope, and the rest stopped to watch with interest. Were they hungry? They certainly looked it, all ropey muscle and sunken stomachs, their bright eyes big in receded faces. The pig and its owner wandered on, maybe heading up to the high green slopes where other livestock roamed. As heads turned to follow them, Salarkis slipped from the doorway and moved sideways away from it, then broke into a slow, aimless meander. He was sure he must have been seen in a valley with this many eyes, but there came no shouts at his sudden appearance, no accusatory pointing of fingers. As he began to angle down the slope, however, one individual fixed on him * a large male, his broad shoulders hunched low, with crystal blue eyes.

*Where did you come from?' Blue-eye called in a thick voice.

Salarkis did not stop. He was not sure how Unwoven behaved among their own, but knew at the least that they showed no fear. Nor, until he could listen to some of them interact with each other, did he want to risk speaking. It was said that Unwoven thought about the world in a different way, and he feared removing his disguise with the wrong choice of words. Thus, as he glanced at Blue-eye, he simply thumbed off in some vague direction away from the door. Do not follow, he prayed, as he continued down the slope, trying his best to appear unconcerned while his pounding heart threatened to betray him.

Quickly he became more afraid of his immediate surrounds. Unwoven sat about toasting bits of bread and meat over fires, slumbering loudly in their huts, or lying about in the open, curled up together like horrible cats. Two of those he passed were doing a strange dance, their arms reaching upwards as they swayed about.

*Can you smell it?' he heard one of them whisper.

*Yes, yes a the leaves keep spinning a his touch is spreading a'

A group of them clustered around a stone slab over which two brutes arm wrestled, until one slammed down the other's hand and there was hooting and laughter.

No one, thankfully, seemed very interested in Salarkis.

The slope levelled out as he moved into the ruins of the city which, in his younger days, had been a colourful, cheerful place. Now the remnants of mosaic walls, still brightly tiled under the dust, stood crumbling amidst buildings in various states of collapse. A few islands of cobblestones peppered the streets, and vegetation grew wherever it liked. It did not look like the Unwoven had actively destroyed their home, merely that they had never done anything to maintain it.

Poor people, he thought. It was easy to forget that these were really Regret's innocent victims, normal folk who had been changed against their will, a violation that had lasted generations. If there was a way to revert them to their old state, it had died long ago with their broken lord. The best to be hoped for them now was an end, not delivered in malice, but mercy.

Some of the buildings still seemed to be in use * Salarkis saw a chimney smoking, smelled fresh bread baking, and heard the clank of a blacksmith's hammer. How did the Unwoven organise themselves, he wondered? There was a semblance of civilisation here, yet one thing he knew about them was that they had no names. How could any society function like that? What if the baker wanted a sword from the blacksmith * what did they say to each other? How did a mother call to her children?

There sounded a squeal and two youngsters tore out of a half-collapsed house. They were an especially unnerving sight * hard little children without a skerrick of fat on them. The boy chased the girl, who suddenly spun around and struck him across the jaw with such force that Salarkis winced. An adult female came after them and grabbed the girl by her wrist.

*No!' she growled. *Never!'

The boy rose, apparently unhurt, grinning until the female grabbed him too.

*The one rule,' she said.

The children hissed at her.

*The one rule,' the woman repeated firmly.

*Unwoven,' said the girl, *do not fight Unwoven.'

Grunting sounded from a nearby alleyway. Salarkis was surprised to see a male pressing a female against a wall, forcefully pawing at her breasts. A moment later he pushed her downwards and she lay on her back, legs open, ready. They began to rut like pigs in the dirt, groaning without regard for the children nearby, or anyone else for that matter.

The mother finished remonstrating her children and released them. They ran away, up the alley past the writhing couple.

Salarkis wondered if the woman really was their mother.

Maybe they weren't even siblings.

The ground suddenly rumbled and, off up the mountainside, a jagged crack opened along an overhang of rock. It collapsed onto a grassy slope, sending up a dust cloud and loosing boulders through a herd of panicking cattle, crushing several. Salarkis gripped a wall in fright, though no one else around him seemed at all concerned. The fornicating Unwoven cried out in jubilation, their movements seemingly amplified by the earth's vibrations. After a few more moments the rumbling died away, and the boulders came to rest with redly glistening sides.

Salarkis moved on.

The *one rule' interested Salarkis. Did it apply to every Unwoven, or was it just something said to unruly children? Somehow it made sense, that a people like this, who lived hard and strong without pain or remorse, and who by all accounts held little sacred, would need a restriction to stop them killing each other. Perhaps it was part of Regret's original design, an enforced solidarity amongst his pack.

The fact that Salarkis's disguise seemed to be working well had the peculiar effect of slowing him down. His curiousity was getting the better of him * this was, after all, a rare chance to gain insight into the reclusive Unwoven world.

He came across a line of drying clothes hanging between buildings, with no one in particular watching over them. Trying to appear bold and uncaring, he took down a pair of trousers and a brown tunic. Nobody seemed to care, and he was glad to be able to clothe himself with a modicum of normality, though he was strangely sentimental about discarding the tattered skirt that used to be his belt.

Further on he paused in the shadow of a freestanding wall to eavesdrop on a group chattering heatedly with each other.

*But when? When?'

*It does not matter. One day, or ten, or a hundred. Soon.'

*When the cracks are wide enough to spill through!'

*And until then,' said a tall male whose cheeks were stained with splodges of green dye, *everyone goes about their happy day-to-day, eh? But I have a sword,' he patted the sword at his side, *and armour on.' He rapped on his leather vest. *What do you have?'

*Swords and armour, pah!' said a female. *They only get in the way. I like the squish.' She gouged her thumbs into an imaginary skull.

*I am ready, is what I mean!'

*Raid again, then, if it will calm your soul.'

*Bone and fire,' exclaimed Greencheeks, smiling so wide that his eyes screwed up, *you are right! Who wants to raid with me?'

*Yes, let us raid!'

*I will come!'

*And me!'

Greencheeks and a few of the others moved away excitedly.

*All this raiding,' said an older male among those who remained, *may bring eyes upon the Pass. Herald our coming.'