A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  World Map

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  King's Folly

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A THREAD IN THE TANGLE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s overactive imagination or are chimerical delusions of a tired mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely due to the reader’s wild imagination (that’s you).

  Copyright © 2013, Sabrina Flynn

  Published at Smashwords

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Sabrina Flynn

  Cover art courtesy of the National Gallery of Art:

  Maxime Lalanne

  French 1827-1886

  Alpine Castle above a Wooded lake c. 1870

  Fyrsta World Map by Sabrina Flynn © 2013

  Acknowledgements for map brushes and images:

  silverbeam.deviantart.com

  birgitengelhardt.de

  lileya.deviantart.com

  i-a-grafix.deviantart.com

  bohemianresources.deviantart.com

  calthyechild.deviantart.com

  starraven.deviantart.com

  To Alice and Merrily, my literary mothers.

  “Every story has a beginning; the task is finding it.”—Galvier Longstride

  Prologue

  TIME IS FICKLE, ever changing and flowing, ebbing like the sea. A vast ocean of moments brushing against the next, rippling beneath waters both turgid and calm. It slips between our fingers when we wish to hold it, yet moves with sluggish stubbornness when we seek to flee it, riding upon our shoulders like an oppressive yoke. Time is a burden we cannot escape. Our lives are swallowed in the cold, dark waters of its unfathomable depths; never to be remembered or recalled, fading like a whisper that never was. On occasion—a very rare occasion—one moment will brush against the next and a spark will flare to life that refuses to be extinguished. This is the moment, the spark, and this is how the end begins for a shattered realm—with a small nymphling who was cold.

  One

  1998 A.S. (After the Shattering)

  A SLEEK MARE cut through the night, racing over slick cobblestones and twisting roads with a fearlessness that her rider did not share. The rider clung to his mount’s neck as the northern wind howled its fury against the coastal kingdom of Kambe, penetrating the great bay of Wyrim’s Fist to hurl itself at the walls of Whitemount.

  A cold, relentless sleet battered the rider, stinging his beardless cheeks and tugging upon his cloak with a grim purpose that threatened to rip him out of the saddle. He closed his eyes, huddled against the sure-footed mare, and offered a silent prayer to the Guardians for protection.

  It was the Felling Wind; a storm born and brewed in the frigid mountains of the Fell Wastes. Every man, woman and child had taken shelter—everyone save the rider. It was certainly not a night to be racing through the decaying dock district in search of a lord who had abandoned his post, but then again, Edmund Flaetfoot hadn’t been given much choice in the matter. He cursed his luck, the uneven roads and the biting wind, but most of all the fiendish force that had started a fire in the Royal nursery.

  Lightning snapped, slicing through the sleet, illuminating a ramshackle pleasure house that rose proudly from the midst of squalor. Edmund pulled sharply on the reins and the mare skidded to a stop in the mud. He placed a steady hand on her neck and once she had settled, he tugged his cloak into place, squinting at a sign swaying on its chain.

  The faded letters of The Mermaid’s Blush were lost to him in the storm, but he knew every twist, turn, lane and alley in Whitemount as surely as he knew his own home, and this gaudy, run-down structure of red paint and gold-flecked balconies was undoubtedly his destination. As interested as Edmund was in the opposite sex, he would never set foot in so unsavory a place. So why in the Nine Halls would the Emperor’s Wise One?

  Edmund dismounted, bracing against the wind before leading his steed to the mouth of an alley offering a pitiable shelter. It was not his place to question orders, but as he sprinted up the rickety steps of the Mermaid’s Blush, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would find the Emperor’s Wise One here as the Guard Captain had instructed. Worst of all, he wondered what would happen to him if he failed to locate the esteemed healer.

  The common room was nearly empty of patrons, save the truly immobile. He picked his way past snoring drunkards and equally soused whores while wrinkling his nose at the gaudy decor. Clearly, some optimistic soul had tried to spruce up the worst of the termite-ridden wood. A layer of gold paint had been slapped on the walls and then doused with cheap perfume in a futile attempt to mask the underlying stench of sweat, piss and rotting timber.

  Edmund stepped into the light of a spluttering candle. A haggard woman stirred in the corner, studying the young man with small, suspicious eyes. Her gaze shifted to the young man’s tunic, which boldly displayed the Emperor’s crest: a black sword and two blue crowns emblazoned on a field of silver. Displeasure and spite creased her face like old leather.

  “Our dues are paid,” the woman called across the room.

  “Where can I find the Wise One known as Oenghus Saevaldr?”

  “Wise One?” the woman snorted. “Don’t know about all that. Is the big oaf in trouble again?”

  A large, bulky brute with a crooked nose dragged himself out of his chair, planting his feet and crossing his arms to await the hag’s orders.

  “I bring an urgent message for him—nothing more,” Edmund replied, quickly. It was not uncommon for officials to disappear in the dock districts and no one was ever the wiser for it.

  “I’ll hand it to ‘im while you ‘ave a drink. Vigum there will take yer coin.” The woman jerked her head towards the guard and stood.

  The messenger felt his throat go dry, but stiffened, remembering his orders and the urgency of his errand. He did not have time for these games.

  “In the n
ame of Emperor Soataen Jaal III, take me to the Wise One or this refuse heap will be burnt to the ground.” The whore regarded him while the guard chuckled. Edmund Flaetfoot resisted the urge to do what he did best: run.

  After a few moments of consideration, she spat at his feet and sauntered up the stairwell. The young man sighed with relief and followed in the wake of her tottering gait. The planks sagged beneath their feet, groaning in protest as they climbed. On the third floor landing, the woman stopped, waving a lazy hand down a door-lined hallway.

  “Oenghus’ room is the last door there. Good luck wakin’ ‘im.”

  Ignoring the woman’s smirk, Edmund hurried down the creaky corridor. The walls were peeling, the chairs were stained, and the artwork looked like a drunken one-armed sailor had attacked the canvas with a paintbrush. He rapped on the door three times, quick and authoritative, and then waited, shifting from foot to foot. When there was no immediate answer, he pounded again.

  “Who in the Nine Halls is that?” a voice bellowed from behind the door.

  “I have an urgent message for you, m’lord,” Edmund yelled.

  A loud grumble answered, followed by sounds of rustling fabric, and approaching footsteps. The door opened a crack, revealing a sleepy-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face.

  “Quiet down or you’ll wake the whole house,” she scolded before ushering him inside.

  The room was not the common sort reserved for patrons who came and went by the hour, but one that exhibited signs of prolonged habitation. Flames flickered in the small hearth, illuminating the cluttered room with a soft, inviting glow that failed to soften the biting chill. The woman, who was inadequately dressed, hurried back to a large bed.

  Edmund watched her hop beneath the covers, thinking the Wise One’s tastes weren’t that bad after all. A loud snore broke his reverie; the Wise One had fallen back asleep.

  The messenger walked over to the bed, eyeing the massive pair of feet protruding over the edge of the mattress with no small amount of uneasiness. Edmund decided to focus on the two attractive women stretched alongside the giant. While this lord would not be the first Edmund had had to drag out of bed, he was certainly the largest.

  Edmund cleared his throat, loudly.

  The Wise One’s snoring ceased, and then he roused himself with a grunt, lowering the covers to study his visitor. “Well?”

  “Lord Saevaldr—Wise One, I have urgent news. There’s been a fire in the palace.”

  “Good thing it’s raining,” the Wise One growled and—much to the bed’s creaking protest—shifted his bulk, draping an arm over one of his bedfellows.

  “M’lord,” Edmund persisted. “Emperor Jaal requests your presence.”

  “Kiss my arse.”

  “The fire was in the nursery wing.”

  The two women yelped in surprise as the Wise One threw off his blankets. Oenghus launched out of bed with a speed that defied his hulking stature, surging towards Edmund Flaetfoot before he could runaway. A crushing hand grabbed the stunned young man by the collar and yanked him clear off his feet, forcing him to meet the baleful gaze of what could only be a Nuthaanian Berserker—over seven feet of fury, of death and carnage.

  “Is Isiilde safe?” Oenghus demanded.

  The young man spluttered in fear. Edmund Flaetfoot could not run and he could not move except to kick his feet uselessly in midair.

  “Oen.” A woman’s gentle voice had never been more welcome to Edmund’s ears. The second woman slipped from the bed, draping a blanket elegantly around her shoulders. She was lush and dark and at that moment, hovering on the edges of his sight, she seemed a benevolent goddess. “Put him down and let him talk.” She placed a hand on the powerful arm—an arm that was larger than her waist. The giant calmed at her touch.

  “O, aye, might be a good idea.” Oenghus relaxed his grip. Edmund fell to the floor, collapsing in a breathless heap.

  Oen? By the gods, the man was as powerful as a bull. Edmund scuttled away from the looming Nuthaanian until he was stopped short by the closed door.

  “Spit it out, lad,” Lord Saevaldr growled, black beard twitching with threat.

  “I don’t know the details, m’lord.” Edmund’s perfectly prepared message had flown right out of his head, instead, his words tumbled inelegantly from his lips in a manner unbecoming for a royal messenger. “I heard there were injuries—and deaths. I don’t know who, but Emperor Jaal, m’lord, he is furious.”

  Much to Edmund’s relief, the Wise One didn’t utter a word in reply (or rip off his head). The bull of a man swiftly donned his clothes in grim silence and tore from the room with eyes as tempestuous as the storm. Edmund Flaetfoot was left wondering if a man such as that even took note of the Felling Wind.

  Two

  A BATTLE WAS raging above the sprawling palace of Whitemount. Wind and sleet dueled flame and smoke. A defiant inferno licked the pristine marble, hissing its frustration into the night. The entire east wing was engulfed in its smoldering fury. And every able-bodied man and woman in the palace strived to quench the unnatural blaze, but their efforts appeared futile.

  Oenghus Saevaldr strode swiftly towards the palace infirmary. He was a hard man to miss; an indomitable mountain that rivers flowed around, and the lords and soldiers of Kambe were no different, scattering like so many startled chickens at his unrelenting approach. No one dared to stand in Oenghus’ way, because he would barrel right over them without noticing.

  He ducked beneath the infirmary door and surveyed the wounded, searching for a tiny girl and dreading that he should find her here. Nineteen people had been injured; nine were already dead, their charred bodies covered with white linen shrouds. Another five patients appeared to be well on their way to rejoining the Spirit River. There were no children among the dead.

  A short, stout woman—firm and solid rather than weak and corpulent—pulled herself from the unfortunate wounded.

  “Oen,” she breathed in relief.

  “What of the children, Morigan?”

  “Aristarchus and Sarabian have suffered slight injuries, but it could have been much worse—would have been if not for their bodyguards’ sacrifice,” Morigan replied, glancing at the shrouded bodies waiting patiently upon their cots.

  The herbs-woman wiped her hands needlessly on her smock; a habit Oenghus knew well. The gesture twisted his gut, because it was the only sign of strain the tireless healer ever displayed.

  “And what of Isiilde?” Oenghus asked, bracing himself for the answer.

  “Well, that’s the problem,” Morigan began. “I’m sure you’ve already guessed who they’re blaming the fire on and it doesn’t help matters that she’s run off.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Let me finish,” she sighed. “It’s a good thing Isiilde ran off because the Emperor was in a mighty temper when he found out his heirs were nearly killed tonight.”

  “Isiilde is his daughter too,” Oenghus snapped.

  “You can certainly remind him, because he ordered the guards to find Isiilde and throw her in a dungeon until she’s old enough to sell.”

  An overwhelming urge to pummel Soataen filled Oenghus. He clenched his fists, imagining flesh transforming to pulp beneath his skilled blows.

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to start the fire, Zahra bless her heart, but after the disaster with the gardens, the library, and the banquet—well she’s dangerous, but a dungeon? The nymphling is only four.”

  Morigan was a stern, experienced healer, demonstrating more courage and mettle than Oenghus had seen in most warriors. He had watched her slog through the muck and mire of battlefields to heal the dying and spend long, grueling days in the healers’ tents without a moment’s rest, but he had never witnessed tears in her eyes as he did now when she said this last.

  “The bastard is not putting her in a dungeon,” Oenghus stated with a voice like a rock, and the slow, stubborn rumble of a mountain.

  “Oen,” Morigan hissed, glancing cautiously around the
infirmary for anyone who might have heard the traitorous words. “He’s the Emperor. If you interfere, then your head will be on the chopping block.”

  “It’s my head,” Oenghus snorted before stalking out of the infirmary.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Morigan had a valid point. Emperor Soataen Jaal III ruled the kingdom of Kambe with absolute power. The Emperor’s word was law. Any who dared defy him suffered a swift defeat, but then again, Oenghus was not just anyone, and Nuthaanian Berserker’s were not renowned for their good sense. However, Oenghus was also a Wise One, therefore he had more sense than most of his kin. A solid strategy was required.

  Beyond a doubt, Isiilde’s latest inferno had been the last straw for Soataen. Fortunately, the Emperor had always cultivated the good opinion of his populace and his penchant for popularity was Oenghus’ sole weapon, but if that failed—he would resort to what he knew best.

  First things first, Oenghus had to find Isiilde. Where would she go? The kitchens, the forges, no, there were too many people. She would run and hide, far away from the Kamberians.

  “By the Pits o’ Mourn!” Oenghus swore with such vehemence that an unfortunate guard tensed in surprise, retreated five steps, and reached for his sword. He ignored the soldier, pulled his cowl over his head, strode briskly past, and stepped outside into the chilling sleet.

  The inner bailey surged with structured urgency as flames spit their heat at the storm. He barreled through the chaos of bucket wielding servants, leaving a host of flustered nerves in his wake. The question of whom to blame was obvious; only Isiilde could have started a fire in this weather.

  The palace garden was Isiilde’s favorite place to roam. The gate was often locked, so the guards never bothered searching for the elusive nymphling within its walls, however, he knew better. An industrious fox had tunneled beneath the wall so it might take advantage of the bountiful garden. And Isiilde, ever curious, had discovered the overgrown breach. It seemed a good place to start.