A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  The guardian hounds sat patiently at their post. Their stone forms rippled with stagnant muscle and the tips of their alert ears reached towards the stars on the ceiling.

  The nymph shied from their gleaming eyes and grinning maws. Their expressions were so comical that they bordered on terrifying, like a grim jester she had once seen in Coven’s Square, with painted face and plastered smile. The visage had haunted her dreams for a fortnight.

  Faced with the giant hounds, the warning on the doors was troubling, but none of the Wise Ones really knew what would trigger the hounds, or if they would awaken at all. ‘Ill intent’ was a vague term, and as Oenghus had confided, everyone and their mother wanted to ring the Archlord’s neck. So whatever the hounds guarded, it certainly wasn’t the Archlord.

  When it came to their own stronghold, she thought, Wise Ones were not very knowledgeable.

  Beyond the doors, was a place of emptiness. It would take all her courage to cross this chamber without an escort, but her desire to find Marsais was strong, and it spurred her onwards like a frightened horse.

  Isiilde nudged the heavy doors open, and slipped through the crack, stepping into a dimensionless universe of obsidian, all polished darkness and glossy reflection. Then she ran, keeping her eyes downcast, focusing on the tips of her boots. Obscured shadows drifted in the stone’s reflection, like bodies trapped beneath a frozen lake of blackness, features blurred and twisted with immortal agony.

  The chamber was wrong, everything about it pricked and needled her senses, screaming at her to flee. And she was not alone in her fear. The Wise Ones did not speak of the chamber, refusing to put a name to what was better off forgotten. It was a dirty little secret, rotting in the center of the Spine like a festering disease.

  Marsais usually met her in the entrance hall, so he could escort her through the chamber. Once, she had asked him about the nameless place, and he answered with silence. She thought he would not speak at all, but then he finally did, saying she was wise to fear the chamber—that was all he said, and he never spoke of it again.

  Relief washed over her when she stepped into the throne room. It was a columned monstrosity whose ceiling was lost in shadow. Again, this wasn’t one of the nymph’s favorite places, but she tolerated it far better than the previous room, focusing on the rays of weak light that shone from stained glass windows high on the walls. Here, the stone mirrored the exterior of the Spine. Veins of gleaming quartz spiraled up the forest of monolithic columns; each pillar a masterpiece of brilliance.

  The cavernous hall would have been beautiful if not for the ring of faces that had been chiseled around the base of each column. The sculptor had taken exquisite care to carve ears, eyes, and mouth for his creations, but then in some moment of madness, someone had come along and desecrated the stone faces. Their eyes had been gouged, their ears chopped off, and the mouths chiseled down with brutish carelessness. Like the chamber before, Isiilde feared those faces, not for their ghastly appearance, but for the methodical way in which their disfigurement had been carried out.

  The throne room was vast, and it was easy for the nymph to move stealthily along its edges towards the two men conversing at the far end. As she tip-toed from pillar to pillar with her tray trailing silently behind, their echoing voices began to take shape; one belonged to Marsais, and the other to Tharios.

  “Yes, I have read all of your reports on Lachlan,” Marsais was saying. “However, I will not yield on this matter.”

  At the sound of his authoritative voice, giggles threatened, which was always the case when he spoke with his ‘Archlord’ voice. Others found his manner intimidating, but Isiilde found it amusing, because it was so unlike her Master. “You know my reasons.”

  After ensuring that the tray was out of sight, she crouched behind a pillar not far from the two, and poked her head around to survey the scene.

  “Unfortunately, reason and your name are rarely found in the same sentence,” Tharios remarked so reasonably that it was easy to overlook his sardonic words. “No one has ever known your reasons, Archlord. You let your whims guide you, steering this Order haphazardly, with no clear path for the rest to follow.”

  Isiilde glared at Tharios, disliking the tone he was using with Marsais. His manner was reminiscent of the way Zianna often spoke to her. She tilted her head, studying the two, realizing that Tharios wasn’t as handsome as she once thought.

  Oh, to be sure, he was fashionable enough, wearing a high-collared robe of misty silk that showed off his lean physique. His raven hair gleamed in the shadows and his pale face was as smooth as alabaster. But now, observing the two side by side, she realized there was something wrong. Tharios was like a painting that was beautiful at first glance, but the more one stared and studied, the image became disturbing.

  In comparison, Marsais was aged, hardened by time and stronger for it. His long white hair was the snowy crown of an ancient mountain, and his high cheekbones had been honed by the salt and sea, while his eyes were steel and his patience limitless. The throne where he sat was jet black as the nameless chamber, cold, remorseless obsidian that contrasted sharply with the crimson of his robes. Unlike Tharios, Marsais had nothing to hide beneath his noble brow.

  “I refuse to be goaded in the direction for which you’re aiming,” Marsais said at length, unhurried and calm.

  “My apologies,” Tharios said. “I am simply frustrated by your decision—many of us are.”

  “If enough of you were frustrated than I would have been overruled at council.”

  “But you could influence them.”

  “I certainly could if I were not suspicious of Lachlan’s motives,” Marsais agreed.

  “I fail to see what Lachlan has done to warrant such suspicion. He is a reasonable man. A cultured man with a clear vision of unity for his people. He seeks our support, because in us, he sees a like minded ally. Throughout history, our Order has stood for the very things that he values; to rule through wisdom, not by force.”

  Isiilde had to admit that she didn’t quite see what the issue was either. The South was fragmented, full of warring Thanes and petty land disputes. Surely stability would bring peace?

  Marsais began chuckling softly. Something flashed in the dim light, attracting her attention, drawing her eyes to the end of his long goatee, where three hollowed coins were woven into his braid. Their musical clinking seemed to mimic his amusement.

  Isiilde had never seen the coins in his hair before.

  “Hmm, perhaps you should spend more time perusing our libraries,” Marsais mused. “Allow me to give you a brief lesson in history. You see, every man starts off much the same as this Lachlan. Every king begins with good intentions in his own mind, but then the lure of power calls to him in the night.” Marsais leaned back, resting his elbows on the armrest, steepling his elegant fingers.

  “His eyes are enticed by a river, a single mile beyond the borders of his kingdom, so what does the king do? Simple really, he seizes it for his people, in the name of good. Then his ego swells, and with his brains between his legs he charges heedlessly onward, taking what is not even needed, until he finds himself in his dead neighbor’s bed, mounting another man’s queen. What does history whisper to us from the past?” Marsais hissed. Not waiting for an answer, he pressed relentlessly on, “The king’s eyes drift again, this time to the next border, and he embarks on a vicious cycle, unquenchable and pointless. I will not tie the Isle to a path with no end.”

  “Yet you tie us to Kambe,” Tharios replied. “What has Kambe ever done for us? We advise them, we aide them, we fight their petty skirmishes.”

  “What would Lachlan do for us? Or should I ask, what would this man do for you, Tharios?”

  “You would ask that of me, Archlord?” The black-haired Wise One gave a slight chuckle. “Such a question presented from a man who has the Emperor’s nymph stowed away in his chambers is a bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Rather obvious benefits, that.” Isiilde’s mouth fell open at
his suggestive remark.

  “I’ll warn you once and then no more: leave my apprentice out of this or I shall take it personally.” Although Marsais’ tone was quiet, his words carried as much threat as any roar from Oenghus.

  “I only bring the whispers and rumors into the open, Archlord, nothing more. If it is not on everyone’s tongue than it is in their thoughts.”

  “Rumors regarding my apprentice may stay in their thoughts, however, I will not hear it spoken of in my presence.”

  “Even you cannot deny that my words have merit. Appearances can be as damaging as truth and it appears to the majority that we are tied with Kambe.”

  “We are tied with all kingdoms who oppose the Void.”

  “Which Lachlan opposes as well,” Tharios said, firmly, taking a step towards the throne in his exuberance.

  “Does he?”

  “Beyond a doubt.”

  “I certainly have mine,” Marsais replied, dryly.

  “Certainly he has his own schemes, every ruler must, and no one faults them for it, but in this instance, our Order has something to gain.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Respect!” Tharios hissed, annoyance twisting his features for a split second before he recovered, dropping diplomacy neatly into place. “It’s time we remind the lands who we are. That we aren’t servants of Kambe, or anyone else. Don’t you see—we’ve fallen behind, there’s no power to be found in dusty tomes of the past. The Bloodmagi, the Mystics, by the gods, even the barbarian Shamans have unlocked secrets that our Lore cannot touch.”

  “I was present for the council and heard your argument the first time.”

  “This Order has done nothing but wavered since you took the throne, and now, you pass up your only chance for redemption.” Isiilde squeaked at the blatant insult before she could stop herself.

  “Hmm, I wasn’t aware I was in need of redemption.”

  “This Order is in need, because of you and your whims. I ask you respectfully, Archlord, to reconsider Lachlan’s offer.”

  “A most curious form of respect,” Marsais mused, and then he leaned forward, coins chiming with the sway of his goatee. His next words were void of amusement. “You forget who I am, Tharios, so allow me to remind you. I am a seer of no small talent and I tire of your masquerade. Let us get to the root of the matter.” Grey eyes flickered down the hall, gazing intently to the nameless chamber beyond. There was nothing there, save the ornate gate that separated this hall from the next. Tharios smirked at the Seer’s lapse. But then Marsais continued to speak, eyes still fixed on the beyond as if he were occupying two places at once. “I know your desires. I know what lies in your heart and fills your dreams.”

  “It’s no secret,” Tharios replied, casually. “Everyone knows I plan to cast my name for your throne.”

  “I speak of your other desire,” Marsais whispered, his voice echoing from all corners, as his eyes shifted, piercing the younger Wise One with steely wisdom.

  Tharios took a step back, hesitating, but the effect was lost when Marsais glanced back down the long hall. This time there was someone there. Tulipin Tuddleberry was floating towards the throne.

  Tharios glanced over his shoulder at Tulipin, and then whirled, issuing an ultimatum, “Don’t get too comfortable, old man.”

  “Hmm, you will not find what you seek,” Marsais said, evenly.

  Tharios blinked, clearly taken aback, but then his smooth mask slipped and a gloating smirk twisted his pale features. Without waiting to be dismissed, Tharios turned on his heel and stalked from the throne room.

  Twenty-three

  MARSAIS STARED STRAIGHT ahead, stroking his braided goatee as Tulipin drifted up to hover before his imposing throne. The gnome looked more agitated than ever, twisting a familiar looking scroll in his pudgy little hands. Isiilde fidgeted with worry from her concealment, half hoping that Tulipin had been so impressed by her manuscript that he had personally come to give praise.

  Tulipin cleared his throat, but either Marsais didn’t notice, or see fit to acknowledge him. The floating Wise One stifled a flare of irritation, readjusting his crossed legs in the stretch of silence that followed. After two more noisome throat clearings and a muttered Archlord, Tulipin grew exasperated and bellowed Marsais’ name.

  The Archlord raised his hand swiftly, demanding silence as he sat, eyes turned inward, lost in thought. Time ticked onwards. The gnome became increasingly impatient, but dared not defy so blunt a command in the Archlord’s own hall. Perhaps it had something to do with the warning outside the entrance—whatever the reason, Tulipin waited with grudging obedience. Grey eyes suddenly widened, and Isiilde knew Marsais had found whatever answer he sought.

  “Hmm?” Marsais finally acknowledged.

  Tulipin exploded, shaking the scroll at the Archlord. “That insolent—” The gnome’s face turned the same color as his hair, which made him look like a floating beet. “—brat who you call an apprentice!” He was so angry that he stuttered to a halt, unable to get anymore words out. Isiilde’s optimism had been sorely misplaced in this case.

  Marsais steepled his fingers, leaning back against his throne. “I don’t have an apprentice who is insolent, or a brat for that matter, but since I only have one apprentice, I’m assuming you’re referring to Isiilde.”

  “Yes,” Tulipin spat. “That faerie was mucking about in class the other day. Her actions forced me to cast her out, ordering her to write a report on the Blessed Order for her penance.”

  “And did she write it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed?” Marsais’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I fail to see the problem—”

  “Read this.” Tulipin thrust the scroll in the Archlord’s face. Marsais unrolled it with his confident hands and began reading. During the long minutes of uncomfortable silence that followed, Isiilde sank against the stone column, chewing fretfully on her nails until her master finally rolled the scroll back up and handed it to Tulipin.

  “Well?” the gnome fumed, transforming from a beet to a boiling teapot.

  “She has the ruling of 1101 A.S. dated wrong, and she misspelled deceitful,” he supplied at length.

  “It’s utter blasphemy!” Isiilde winced, expecting Tulipin’s ears to start steaming.

  “Hmm, certainly not from a faerie’s viewpoint.”

  “The words speak for themselves, no matter whose viewpoint. She states that the only reason the paladins passed the laws regarding nymphs was so they’d have leave to rape them!” Tulipin bit off each word, tightening his grip on the scroll until his knuckles were white.

  “Master Tulipin,” Marsais said, calmly, in sharp contrast to the gnome’s vehemence. “The paladins did, and continue to rape them—as does everyone else.”

  “Bah, this is outrageous,” Tulipin spat, throwing his hands up with exasperation. “They’re nymphs! They’re happy as long as someone is bedding them. Nymphs have crude instincts at best—little more than animals whose sole purpose is to tempt and destroy the will of decent men. The Blessed Order passed the laws to stop men from slaughtering one another. As soon as the creatures were put into their place then the wars stopped. But this—temptress scoffs at the noblest of Orders! The Chapterhouse in Drivel is already fuming over her desecration of the temple, but when they hear of this—”

  “And who is going to deliver it?” Marsais asked, rising from his throne, cutting Tulipin’s tirade off. “How easily you forget the state of your own race in Vaylin and Kiln. I believe gnomes are still enslaved there; a class of ‘creatures’ who are happy as long as they’re toiling in the mines. I wonder what a Vaylinish slave lord would say about a gnome’s report of his land?”

  “Vaylin is full of Void worshiping heathens. That’s hardly a comparison for the ruling of an Order who speaks for the gods. It’s an unforgivable insult for a mere—animal to pen such blasphemous claims,” Tulipin huffed.

  “What do you propose, then? Surely you don’t plan on putting an ‘animal’ on
trial for sacrilege? Hmm, if that were the case then we should be more diligent in capturing the seagulls that relieve themselves on the temples,” Marsais mused, holding out his hand to Tulipin, palm up, fingers commanding. “I think that sounds like a splendid waste of your time, Master Tulipin, wouldn’t you agree?” Tulipin took the Archlord’s firm hint and placed the scroll in his waiting hand.

  “Your bluntness has been insightful,” Marsais continued once the scroll was safely tucked away. “I assure you that my apprentice will never grace your lectures again.”

  A chill entered the throne room, creeping from between the Archlord’s lips, laying words of unspoken threat at the gnome’s feet.

  Tulipin blinked, swallowing uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to say more, but one look at the crimson figure stilled his tongue. Instead, he floated from the chamber as fast as his enchantment would allow. When he passed over the threshold, Marsais gestured sharply, and the heavy gate at the end of the throne room obeyed his command, slamming shut with a deafening echo.

  Isiilde sank miserably to the stone floor, shivering as tears ran freely down her cheeks. Tulipin’s words kept echoing in her ears, until she thought they would haunt her forever. Overall, she had liked the gnome and enjoyed his lectures, but she had had no idea that he loathed her so. Her silent tears eventually ran dry. And she lay on the hard stone with her palms pressed against her eyes, feeling ill and hopeless.

  A presence, more than any sound finally roused her. She peeked through her fingers to see who had found her. A pair of worn boots and the crimson hem of a familiar robe greeted her, telling her all she needed to know.

  “That doesn’t look very comfortable, my dear.”

  Isiilde stirred, lowering her hands to hug her thin body. She followed the robes, moving ever upwards, until she found the twinkling eyes of her only friend.