“Take your hand from her!” Marsais’ voice crashed over the throne room, echoed by a thousand stone faces, reverberating from corners above and beyond. One did not ignore a command issued through the Voiceless—not even Thira. A thousand tongues had been sacrificed for the Archlord’s power and another could easily be added.
The Mistress of Novices propelled the nymph forward with a hard shove, and the slip of a girl stumbled, falling at the foot of his dais. Isiilde was pale and trembling, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, tears shimmering in her brilliant eyes. Despite her distress, she was still a perfect rose; skin as soft as a petal, lips ripe and red, breasts as delicate as blossoms, heaving within the confines of her bodice as she clutched her bruised ear with whimpering fear. She was alive, fresh and vibrant as spring, while the rest of mankind toiled in bleak shadow.
Marsais brutally pushed down an urge to rise from his throne and comfort the frail creature, instead, he focused on the Mistress of Novices. Steel clashed with steel, the cross-guards of their eyes locked in a battle of will, each as unyielding as the other.
“No one is allowed to touch my apprentice—not even you, Thira.” His voice was hard and unrelenting as the stone at his back.
“O, I’m a woman, Marsais, it doesn’t matter,” Thira snapped. “Your apprentice has destroyed the Relic Hall. There’s nothing left of it.”
Marsais arched a brow, glancing towards the nymph at his feet, but her eyes were downcast, shying away from the harsh words and unfamiliar voice of her master.
“I found this in her hand.” Thira tossed the rune-etched flagon towards him, and he caught it deftly. “She is responsible for the Imp who has been plaguing our lives. I demand that she be ousted from the Order. Lives have been lost. I will bring this matter to the Circle.”
“What Imp?” Marsais asked, feigning innocent surprise as he scrutinized the flagon.
“The one currently causing havoc,” Thira said with the patience of an executioner raising an axe.
“Oh, yes, now I remember.” He rapped his knuckles on the flagon, listening to the hollow ring that followed. “I’m not sure why you’d oust her when I was the one who opened it.”
“You opened it?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
The Vulture’s beady black eyes narrowed on the Archlord. “And why would you open it?”
“I forgot what was in there,” he mused. Thira opened her mouth, but instead of commenting, she closed it with an audible click.
“Hmm?” Marsais met her gaze evenly, unconcerned as a mountain surrounded by storm clouds. The silence deepened, along with Thira’s suspicion, while she adjusted to this new tactic of his, calculating possibilities and counterattacks. It was safe to say that the Archlord had already outmaneuvered her, however, she persisted on principle.
“Why was she carrying the flagon?”
“I asked her to re-trap the Imp, since I have little time for such matters. She’s not the only one who has tried, and certainly not the only one who has caused damage while attempting.”
“Damage?” Thira said with breathless disbelief. “The entire Relic Hall has been destroyed, including priceless artifacts dating from before the Shattering.”
“Artifacts that were priceless,” he pointed out. Thira huffed at his untroubled correction. “I always thought that hall could be put to better use.”
“You’re not going to do anything about this, are you?”
“I will punish her as I see fit,” he said, calmly, ignoring the fury in her dark eyes. “She is my apprentice.”
“She is useless, Marsais. There is only one reason you keep her here. Why else would a man tolerate so much? She’s a nymph. You indulge her every whim, but this time she has gone too far.” In a low tone, a dangerous hiss, she added. “You have gone too far.”
“She is my apprentice, because she is brilliant. She is also one of the few people who I can tolerate. As for my indulgence—well I must give you that, after all, she is faerie and their kind are meant to be indulged.”
“Your indulgence borders on blind devotion.”
“You may leave now,” Marsais ordered, brooking no opportunity for further argument.
The Wise One turned on her heel in disgust and stalked out of the long hall. Crumpet followed, pausing to raise his leg on a column, making it all too clear what the beast thought of the Archlord.
When Isek escorted Thira and her beast past the threshold of the throne room, Marsais gestured sharply towards the gates. They slammed shut, hurrying Crumpet forward with a yelp lest his tail be crushed.
The nymph’s sobs echoed mournfully in the vast chamber. Marsais briefly wished that his ears were like the stone carvings adorning the columns. To hear her cry was a heart wrenching ordeal.
“I’m so sorry, Marsais,” her voice caught on another helpless sob. “I can’t do anything right.”
As he stood, she reached out, clutching the hem of his robe. He did not pull away, but rather, sat down on the edge of the dais, feeling exhausted and drained. He did not trust himself with her today. Too much of his heart ached to give her comfort—wrap her delicate form in his embrace and take her from this Isle, far away from the paths that awaited.
This realm would pay for his weakness; all the realms would suffer dearly.
The nymph was a single, seemingly insignificant thread in the tangle, yet so much was bound to her Fate. This beautiful, innocent, and brilliant creature shivering at his feet was the catalyst that could send the lands spiraling into chaos, and as such, it was no simple matter to extract the thread from the rest. Of all the creatures who drew breath, of all the good and the evil that walked the lands—why Isiilde?
Damn the gods, Fate, and the imbecile who wrought them. Marsais forced himself to focus on the present; every breath, every heartbeat, because the future would come soon enough and there was nought to do but steer her towards the lesser of evils.
“Let me see your forehead.” She raised her eyes to him, as deep as the seas and full of sadness. Her perfect lips trembled with fright, but Marsais kept his gaze well away from the inviting blossom of warmth, focusing on the gash instead. Taking care not to touch her, he dabbed at the cut with the long sleeve of his robe, and then fished around his pocket for a handkerchief, pressing the clean linen to her wound.
“Head wounds always bleed freely, but I believe you will live.” He smiled down at her.
“I think she broke my ear.” Isiilde gingerly probed the tender area in question. Marsais studied the slender, swept back ear that rose from her copper curls, climaxing in an enticing crescendo. He cleared his throat and forced himself to focus on the bruised skin. By all that breathed, she was distracting today.
“Hmm, I think your ear is fine. It will perhaps be a bit sore, but nothing some ice won’t help.” He stood abruptly, pacing on the dais, balancing carefully along the edge. Isiilde looked on with an expression teetering between confusion and hurt. “So what happened?”
Talking brightened her mood, enough for her tears to stop. He listened with a great deal of amusement as she recounted the events that had brought her to his feet, however, he drew up short when she told him about the binding rune.
“What an interesting side-effect!” he exclaimed, and then added, “If dangerous. You’re very lucky to still be breathing, my dear. I believe you succeeded in binding the Imp, but you failed to tether him to anything.”
“You’re not angry with me?”
“No more than last time I was angry with you,” he answered.
“But, Marsais, you’ve never been angry with me.” A smile illuminated her face and he nearly fell off the edge of the dais.
“Exactly, however, I am relieved you’re not seriously hurt and if you feel up to it I require your assistance.” Her ears perked up, wilting just as quickly.
“What’s my punishment?”
“Spending your afternoon with an insane old man.”
“You’re not old, Marsais.” She clim
bed to her feet, favoring him with another dazzling smile.
“You see, my dear, I was hoping you’d say I wasn’t insane, because the fact is, I am rather old.”
“If you are insane than perhaps you haven’t lived as long as you think.”
“Are you an expert on matters of insanity?”
“I don’t think you could be an expert unless you were insane. Your qualifications would be suspect.”
“But if I’m insane and I believe myself old, isn’t that the same as the reverse?” he asked, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“What I meant,” she said, slowly, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms, “is you don’t look that old. In fact, compared to Tharios, I think you are—distinguished and much nicer to look at.”
“Aha! Here I thought the nymph was spying, instead, I find she was comparing men.”
“I was doing both,” she said with a mischievous quirk of her lips. “I’m very talented.”
“Yes, you are, my dear, more so than you know,” he replied. His sincere words flushed her cheeks with warmth.
“Marsais?”
“Hmm.”
“Will there be food involved in this punishment?”
Twenty-eight
SINCE A PROPER punishment should always involve food, Marsais led the way to one of the smaller kitchens to snatch a light lunch, rudely eating like barbarians as they strode through the castle. Marsais noted with no small amount of concern that every man who they passed gawked at the oblivious nymph.
When Isiilde bit into a strawberry with a moan of delight, Jaelin Featherpalm dropped a tray of ink wells. And when Marsais noticed that each and everyone turned to watch the nymph’s backside as she walked away, he moved behind her to obstruct their open-mouthed stares. Her hips might be slender, but unfortunately their sway was not diminished in the least. The nymph made the High Priestess of Asmara seem an ungainly hag.
Why Oenghus allowed her to wear trousers that clung to her every curve was beyond him. They certainly left little to the imagination, and what was worse, he doubted she had any clue as to why everyone was staring.
Isiilde had always been painfully beautiful, however, since her Awakening (which seemed to have been fully sparked by her errand to fetch him in Isadora’s Closet) her allure went far beyond beauty. Marsais was reminded of the scents that some creatures put out to signal their mating readiness. No doubt nymphs were saturated in the human equivalent, because there wasn’t a man who wasn’t affected, himself included, and if he were any judge, it seemed to be getting stronger with every passing day.
The established network of female guards positioned around the castle would no longer suffice. The nymph would need an escort from now on, but whether they could keep pace with her was entirely dependent on Isiilde’s whims.
“Marsais,” she said, stopping so suddenly that he nearly ran into her. “Where are we going?” He scratched at the aching scar beneath his robes, pondering that very question.
“We’re looking for that blasted Imp,” he muttered, riffling through her knapsack until he located the flagon. Unfortunately, when he touched it, nothing came to mind. His gift of foresight was rarely useful when he needed it.
“Where would you go to find him?”
“The armory,” she replied without hesitation.
“Hmm, any particular reason?”
“I’m not allowed there,” she answered as if it should be perfectly obvious.
“Good a place as any,” he conceded. “Lead on, my dear.” At his gesture, Isiilde began walking again. After a time, she glanced suspiciously over her shoulder.
“Marsais?”
“Hmm.”
“Why are you walking behind me?”
“Because your trousers are too tight and every man who we pass is staring at your backside,” he told her bluntly. The nymph stopped again (though he had anticipated it).
“That’s ridiculous, Marsais. I’m far too—how did you put it in Coven—slight.”
“I was attempting to be optimistic. And you may think it ridiculous, but if you’re a man, your figure is exceptionally nice to look at.”
Isiilde twisted around, trying to catch a glimpse of that portion of her anatomy. “I thought they were staring at my funny ears.”
“If they are, it’s not because they are funny. You have lovely ears.”
Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered before continuing along her intended path.
She will not think so well of me tomorrow, he thought grimly. A moment later, Marsais ran into his apprentice whose feet had faltered once again. She stumbled forward, and he nearly reached out to steady her, but brought himself up short, tucking his hands into his sleeves instead.
“You should keep walking, my dear.”
“Are you staring at my backside?”
“No,” he replied curtly. She narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing more.
Isiilde was silent for the remainder of their journey, winding through hallways and stairwells in thoughtful contemplation. When she recommended the armory, he had assumed that she was referring to the actual armory located in the barracks wing (in which she was not allowed), however, as he soon discovered, this was not the case. She led him to a long chamber that displayed suits of armor: a library of warfare.
The Isle had amassed quite a collection of rare pieces. The assorted hues and materials gleamed eerily beneath torches of everlight set in sconces along the wall. Marsais felt a king inspecting his troops who stood at attention in a crisp line.
“Why aren’t you allowed in here?” he asked, surveying the chamber.
“The Seneschal kicked me out last year.” She didn’t seem inclined to explain the details so he thought it best not to ask.
“Do you have those teeth?”
Her ears wilted. “I left them in the Relic Hall.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t have had time to retrieve them. Very wise of you.”
Isiilde brightened and slipped her hand into one of her trouser pockets, working her fingers into the tight fitting space, until she produced a blood caked molar.
“Thedus gave this to me,” she explained, dropping it into his palm. Marsais studied the tooth with a wary eye as she cleaned her hands on his robe.
“Hmm.”
“Do I have to be careful of Thedus?”
“You should be careful of every man. However, I doubt Thedus realizes he’s still attached to his body,” he mused. After determining that it was nothing more than a harmless tooth, he placed it on the floor while Isiilde tried to wrap her mind around his comment.
Marsais stepped beside a suit of Kilnish steel. Blued and bristling, it resembled a rhinoceros, replete with a horn protruding from the visored helm. He thought the armor quite ridiculous.
The air rippled, drawing Marsais’ attention away from the armor. A horde of soldiers in crimson and black livery snapped into view, battling amongst themselves, soaking the floor with their blood and bowels. The tide of carnage ebbed over the floor, filling the chamber with screams and howls. Marsais blinked. Time shifted and all was quiet.
Not even an echo lingered. The hall stood empty and the nymph stood staring up at him.
“O, hello, my dear.” Marsais smiled, pleased to see her lovely face instead of men being disemboweled.
“Are you all right?” Her lilting voice soothed his mind.
His gaze settled on the lone tooth in the center of the floor. “Ah yes, the Imp.”
“How are you going to catch him?”
“I’m not.”
“But I don’t think he can be killed,” she pointed out, studying the bristling set of armor.
“Then you would be correct. Why else would I bind an Imp to a flagon?”
Isiilde squeaked in pain as she poked her finger on a spike. He hoped someone had had sense enough to remove the poison before putting the armor on display. She sucked on her wounded finger, glaring up at him as if he were the cause of her discomfort.
>
“Marsais,” she seethed. He cast about in alarm. “You said you didn’t know what was in the flagon! That’s why I opened it. I couldn’t stop wondering what was in there.”
“That’s very understandable. Faerie have an insatiable curiosity,” he mused.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” The nymph crossed her arms, which drew attention to the supple curve of her breasts. Marsais winced, closing his eyes briefly, silently wishing that another vision would distract him. However, none came, so he looked everywhere, except at her.
“I had forgotten about the little fiend, which brings me to another dilemma. I can’t remember the Imp’s name.”
“Why do you need its name?”
“We’re not here to recapture him. I have something else in mind.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” The nymph bristled, her emerald eyes flashed, and he could not help but look at her then. By the gods, she was breathtaking when she was angry.
“Does it have to do with the emissaries who arrived earlier today?”
“No,” he replied curtly and began pacing before she could ask another question. “I think it starts with a B.”
“What?”
“The Imps name. Do try to pay attention, my dear. I need to remember it before he shows up.”
“How about Bjorn, Bolvine, Bazrin—” she began.
“No, no, Imps aren’t noble by nature. They usually have ridiculous names such as Blimp or Bip.”
Isiilde pondered this for a moment, and then launched into a sing-song stream of names which began with B. Marsais listened with half an ear and much amusement while he searched his faulty memory, trying to recall when he had bound the little devil. Where had it been? Somewhere in the Bastardlands, terrorizing a village, long before he had Oenghus as an apprentice, over eight hundred years ago.
He stopped to regard his current apprentice, who was still busy listing a myriad of mostly made up names, while she studied her backside in the gleaming surface of a greave. His attention was drawn elsewhere when he noticed the Imp crouching over the tooth. The currents shifted, time rippled, and a heartbeat later it vanished.
A Thread in the Tangle Page 31
