A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “What are you working on?” A sleek steel helm sat enticingly on the table, along with a pile of gems that were scattered around a bowl, which appeared to contain curdled blood.

  “A paladin of Zahra has contracted my services. It’s a helm that will help her identify those tainted by the Void. Perhaps she won’t dam the river to catch one fish when this is finished.”

  Isiilde sniffed at the bowl, instantly regretting her curiosity. The putrid tang of coppery blood rolled her stomach. She shifted her attention to the helm, poking it experimentally.

  “Do not touch!” Rashk hissed in warning. “Curiosity kills foolish faeries.” Isiilde stuck her hands in her pockets as Oenghus always made her do when they went to market.

  “Have you ever seen Voidspawn?”

  “I have,” Rashk replied, sniffing the air with her flat nose. “The Reapers have many lairs in Rraal—nests in the shadow; lairs in the dark.”

  The nymph’s eyes widened. She prayed that she would never meet a Reaper. They were shadow and claw, feasting on the blood of the living. It was one of the reasons she didn’t like sleeping in the dark. One of the servants had told her that they live in every shadow, attacking anyone who left their room a mess, although if that were the case, then Oenghus would be overrun with Reapers.

  Another knock interrupted the Wise One’s work. Rashk growled, low and feral, from the back of her throat.

  “I’ll get it.” Isiilde skipped over and opened the door. Tharios stood at the threshold, eyes narrowing on the unexpected presence of the nymph. He wore a wide, leather belt of buckles and a Xaionian half robe of crimson that flared at the waist, leaving his chest bare. Isiilde tilted her head to the side, studying his pale torso and the chaotic canvas of skin. He was covered with a twisting maze of artwork.

  One of the tattoos moved, and she squeaked, hopping back, however, the reality of it turned out to be far worse than shifting ink; it was a black snake, slithering over his shoulder, twining around his arm. Its lidless eyes watched her with an intelligence that a serpent should not possess. The Wise One brushed past her without a second glance.

  “Rashk, I would speak to you in private.” He held a scroll lightly in hand, sealed with a heavy circle of wax. When Isiilde focused on the stamp that had been pressed into the circle of red, he moved it to his other hand, out of sight.

  “I have already told you that I do not care what you humans do with your kingdoms.”

  “This concerns another matter. I require your expertise.”

  “Isiilde was here first,” Rashk replied with a twitch of amusement in her slitted eyes.

  “Erm—” Isiilde faltered when Tharios turned to regard her, annoyance plain on his pale features, but she swallowed and continued on undaunted, “I was wondering if you had any extra teeth laying around? Unattached ones,” she added quickly.

  Fortunately, Rashk was accustomed to bizarre requests. As casually as if Isiilde had asked to borrow some sugar, she walked unerringly over to a shelf, plucking a grisly jar from the clutter. In another life, the jar had been a small dog’s skull—now it was simply gruesome. Clay plugged the openings, sealing the eye sockets, mouth, and nostrils.

  “Why do you need teeth, nymph?” Tharios asked, twisting the last word like a foul curse.

  “An errand for the Archlord,” she said with haughty abandon, before turning to escape the Wise One’s piercing gaze. With her prize securely in hand, Isiilde sprinted down the stairwell, taking two steps at a time.

  Now, only one question remained: where to place the bait? The Imp could be anywhere in the castle. She stood at a junction of hallways, poking at the jar full of bloody teeth, while she considered her options.

  If she were an Imp then where would she go? The answer was obvious: a place where no one wanted her to go—somewhere with priceless objects. If she had learned one thing about humans, it was that they did not like things being broken. However, in the nymph’s opinion, some things were more interesting that way.

  Since she had been banned from entering the Hall of Artifacts some years ago, it seemed an excellent place to start. The rarely visited museum was full of musty old tapestries and ancient pottery that dated from before the Shattering, and as such, the temptation for destruction would be immense for an Imp—or so she hoped. Isiilde used her jar of teeth wisely, leaving a trail of gruesome bait at key junctures.

  When she came to the entrance of the little used wing, she cracked the door open and crept into the long, narrow chamber. It was cluttered with forgotten objects that had lost their splendor. The tapestries hung thread bare and washed out by time, their threads clinging together with nothing more than long, stubborn habit. A handful of the pottery pieces were of interest, but their delicate shapes were chipped and cracked, lying in pieces like a puzzle that could never be reassembled.

  The nymph stood in the midst of a bygone age, and she thought of Marsais, of his lost kingdom, his dead people, and his weathered skin—scarred like the relics collecting dust in this lonely chamber. It saddened her, this tomb of fading memories.

  Before its weight could settle too heavily on her senses, she upended the grisly jar, dumping its contents onto the the floor. She crouched to study the pile of assorted teeth like a Shaman searching for portents of the future in entrails and bones. However, Shamans likely didn’t get the urge to be sick, as the nymph felt now.

  Rashk had not cleaned her collection of teeth before stuffing them inside the jar. Some were still attached to the rotting bit of flesh from which they had been yanked.

  That done, she squeezed behind a nearby tapestry to wait. Isiilde scrutinized her nails, adjusted her bodice, and gave an impatient sigh. Whenever she was bored, Oenghus told her to count to a hundred, but five was as far as she managed before she inhaled a layer of dust. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought back the urge to sneeze.

  Quickly, she dashed from her concealment, away from the brittle material. Three quick puffs of flame burst from her ears. When her body had finished with her, she whirled around, checking the tattered cloth. The tapestry was unharmed, the relic hall silent and as cold as it had been a moment before.

  Isiilde sighed with relief, choosing her concealment with more care, which placed her beneath a table that was free of flammable materials. She rested her back against the stone and waited.

  Long minutes stretched by uneventfully. She was about to give up altogether when she heard tuneless humming. She scanned the hall, ears perking up as the rest of her froze, and then the Imp appeared, skipping down the middle, picking up a tooth at a time. It paused, holding its prize to the light, chittering with approval, before moving on to the next.

  Isiilde’s heart skipped a few precious beats as she realized that she hadn’t gotten to the binding part of her book. What in the Nine Halls was she going to do? She cast around for something brilliant in her mind, but all she found was a blank, dull slate.

  As the Imp approached the pile of teeth, it squealed with glee, and began dancing merrily around its hoard of ivory treasure.

  Isiilde had a dagger, but the thought of stabbing something twisted her heart. Besides, if Oenghus could not kill the Imp, then she certainly couldn’t. Keeping her eyes on the troublesome fiend, she eased the flagon out of her knapsack, and considered using it to bludgeon the creature into unconsciousness. But even if she could sneak up on it, the nymph found the idea as repulsive as her dagger.

  The Rune Bind. The idea came to her like a trumpet blast, proclaiming it brilliant. The Lore sprang to her lips and her fingers flashed, tracing the complicated series of runes. When the weave was complete, she flicked her wrist towards the Imp. It shot off like an arrow, knocking the creature clean off its feet, but her triumph was short lived. The air began to ripple around the Imp.

  It spread outwards, gentle vibrations heralding something more. Stone began to heave, shifting with a groan, the walls warped inwards, knocking pottery to the floor. Shattered fragments slid towards the Imp with a scraping whisper.r />
  Everything in the hall began to move, even things that should not. Relics were caught up in a vortex of power, swirling towards the focal point of her weave. The table overhead was plucked off the ground, sucked into the gathering tornado of artifacts. It slammed into a chair, ripping the wood into jagged splinters that spiraled around the chamber, slicing the flapping tapestries into shreds.

  Isiilde squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, willing the ensuing disaster to disappear. Ruin was imminent, which brought to mind her precarious situation. As the vortex tugged at her hair, she snatched flagon and knapsack to flee the chaotic weave, running side by side with an equally panicked Imp. They reached the doors together, one flapping wildly and the other running for her life when thunder struck, hurling the nymph through the doors and into a wall. The Imp careened off to the side.

  The castle rumbled, shook, and then exhaled, settling on its foundations with a long shudder. Silence hummed in her ears. Eventually she worked up enough nerve to move, gingerly rolling to the side with a moan. The inside of her skull throbbed, pressing against the back of her eyes. She curled into a miserable ball.

  Isiilde did not know how long she lay there, but by the time she cracked a tentative eye open, the dust had settled.

  This must have been what Marsais met by ‘ill occurrences’, which was all very horrible, but it was nothing compared to the terror that seized her when she caught sight of the thin figure who was marching through the destruction with a puffball at her side. The Vulture’s eyes widened in shock, which bled into outrage as they bounced from the ruined Relic Hall to the nymph, finally settling upon the rune-etched flagon in her hand.

  “You stupid, pathetic, insolent nymph,” Thira seethed, low and dangerous, as Crumpet snarled at her heel with equal fervor. A hand, crooked with rage, reached for her, yanking her to her feet by an ear, caring not for the scream of pain that her action elicited. “I will have you ousted for this!” Thira plucked the flagon from the floor and dragged the whimpering nymph past a sea of faces. No one dared challenge the infuriated Wise One.

  Twenty-seven

  THE ARCHLORD STOOD in front of the crystal window, peering into its complexities. A slash of red against the misty skies. The crystal cracked, splintered, and then fell away with the sluggish drip of honey from a pot. Marsais stared at the fire strewn roofs of the castle below with mild curiosity, but mostly disinterest.

  The Seer blinked, time shattered, and a heartbeat later, all was as it should be. The window was pristine and his thoughts continued to churn, one over the other, sifting through the ages, sorting an expanse of memory in search of the single piece that he needed to complete his puzzle.

  “Marsais.” A voice finally pierced the inner paths of his mind. Isek stood to the side, looking hungover and thoroughly used. “I’ve been knocking for awhile,” his assistant said by way of apology.

  Steely eyes were drawn to the smudge of lip paint on top of Isek’s balding head, and Marsais arched an amused brow. “I hope you had an eventful evening at the pleasure house.”

  Isek’s deep set eyes flashed with surprise.

  “I’m a seer,” Marsais shrugged, wondering how long it would take his friend to notice the lip paint.

  “You also owe me ninety silver for my efforts. The crew was a tight-lipped bunch, even after four kegs.”

  “Hmm.” The conclusion was obvious. “So you were forced to bed one of their women, who as it conveniently turned out, knew their deepest secrets.”

  “Wooed her fair, I did,” Isek grinned charmingly. “So, you ready to hear what I learned? Right then. Earlier in the year, late winter, Tharios’ crew harbored in Nefir for a fortnight. The crew was instructed to remain on board, which as you can imagine pleased them not at all. Tharios took a band of twenty mercenaries with him, of which only eight returned. Tharios was injured, but despite his injuries, he carried a long box, yea big—” Isek held his arms a part. “The box was plain, unadorned, but narrow.”

  “Made of wood or metal?”

  “It was blackish, sickly like. I’m thinking witchwood, maybe even ironwood.” Marsais stroked his braid in thought, coins clinking together like whispering chimes.

  “Do you know what it is?” Isek shifted, turning slightly away from the window’s concentrated sunlight, resisting the urge to pull his cowl over his throbbing skull.

  “Know?” Marsais inquired, amused by the question. “I dread what it is, but I need to see it.”

  “Look now,” Isek protested, “getting a few men soused is one thing, but I’m not about to sneak into Tharios’ chambers. I’m not suicidal.”

  “I’m glad to hear.”

  Isek shifted under the Archlord’s keen stare. “I’ll do it if you really want.”

  “An exceedingly foolish idea, Isek, even for a spy,” Marsais said, clucking his tongue in reproof. “As it turns out, I have another idea. Tell me, does Tharios still keep an estate on the outskirts of Drivel?”

  “Yes. He stays there more than here.”

  Marsais nodded as if this confirmed a suspicion. “Thank you, Isek. You know where I keep my coin, help yourself to whatever you like.”

  “Oh, and I haven’t forgotten my end of the bargain.” Isek pulled a small flask from beneath his coat. “Primrose wine. I thought you could use a few moments of peace.”

  Marsais brightened, half tempted to indulge on the spot, but instead he gestured for Isek to place it on his desk. “Ever thoughtful.”

  Isek turned to leave, but another thought brought him up short.

  “I passed a flock of emissaries on my way here.” Marsais’ heart lurched, and pain settled deep within, which no amount of Primrose wine could ever hope to relieve.

  “I’ve just come from an audience with them. They’ll—inspect her tomorrow.”

  “Does she know yet?”

  Marsais shook his head. “They arrived three days earlier than we expected. Fair winds,” he finished, twisting the words on his long lips.

  “It won’t be so bad if Mearcentia wins the bid for her, however, Kiln will break her, and you well know what Xaio would do with her. Their bloody Sultan rents out his own harem.”

  “Isiilde will be broken no matter who buys her,” the Seer said with a finality that sealed her Fate, and at these prophetic words, the castle trembled beneath his feet.

  Marsais glanced at Isek. From his friend’s look of alarm, he surmised that it wasn’t a twist of Time. The two men locked eyes for a moment before Isek rushed from the room to investigate.

  It was probably another one of Timmon’s miscalculations, Marsais thought grimly, striding over to his desk. He riffled through the tottering pile of books, scrolls, and parchment until he found what he sought, a tattered grimoire with no name. He flipped through its pages with the gentle efficiency of one who was accustomed to the feel of brittle parchment beneath his fingertips. The pages had been coated with preserving oil, but caution was still required.

  “Why this?” he whispered, scanning the sketch beneath his eyes. The yellowed page of human flesh displayed a staff with ornate end caps, each side nearly identical to the other, fashioned with the symbol of the Nine Halls: the Scorching Sun, a tangle of wicked spikes. Abyssal runes swirled up the staff’s surface, too faint to make out, so he studied the notations hastily scrawled onto the gruesome page. The staff was hot to the touch, charred, yet strong as steel, and covered with thorns. Undoubtedly, the case would have to be made of witchwood to carry such a powerful artifact.

  Soisskeli’s Stave—thought to be lost to time and ruin, crafted by a powerful Bloodmagus who was tainted by the Void. An artifact that held infinite binding capabilities, so legend went. Its last known location was in Kiln, near Vaylin’s border. Nefir was a perfect launching point for an expedition into Kiln.

  Visions of the future had hinted at Thario’s desire. Threads of past and present confirmed his knowledge of forbidden arts, but what would binding a fiend from realms beyond accomplish, other than expose
the ambitious young Wise One? What was his interest in Lachlan, his need for Soisskeli’s Stave, and why did he insist on having the Isle’s support?

  Marsais’ eyes widened as the missing piece thudded into place. The Isle was the key. Tharios was after something here, in the Order, for the same reason he desired the Archlord’s throne: for secrets long buried and better off forgotten. But how could he possibly have discovered what lay beneath the Spine, and for that matter, the true purpose of the Order?

  A cold trickle crawled down the back of Marsais’ neck. “The young fool,” he muttered, gently closing the book with a weary sigh.

  His grave rumination was interrupted by a stir of air, whispering in his ear from Isek, “You better get down to your throne room. Trouble has found your apprentice again.”

  ❧

  The throne of the Archlord was an imposing chunk of obsidian. It was as cold and rigid as the position demanded, and often as merciless as the man who sat on its hard lines and unforgivable dimensions. It was intended to be intimidating. And many an Archlord had been swallowed up by its austere strength.

  Marsais was no such Archlord. He perched on the crag of stone like a hawk upon its mountain, imperious and all seeing. But unlike most, Marsais despised the throne, because when he presided from the seat of power, there was coldness in his heart and weight upon his shoulders.

  When would this charade end, he wondered bleakly, surely there was a better man (or woman) than he to guard these secrets?

  The unwilling Archlord settled himself on his hated throne. No sooner had his long fingers curled over the armrests, than a trio of figures appeared. Isek stepped aside, as formal as ever. The source of his displeasure was easily apparent. Marsais gripped his throne, clenching his jaw in outrage as Thira marched towards the dais, dragging a terrified nymph by her ear while the abominable dog nipped at her heels.