A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Isiilde, our little friend is coming.” She blushed in surprise, abandoning her inspection.

  The Archlord took up a position beside the armor stand of Kilnish plate mail, clasping his elegant hands loosely behind his back. Isiilde took cover behind him, poking her head back around with searching eyes. Scant minutes passed, yet he still couldn’t recall the name. His redheaded companion soon became fidgety and began prodding the suit of armor, sniffing distastefully at the breastplate.

  “Marsais?” she whispered, sliding her hand into the dangling gauntlet.

  “Hmm.”

  “Have you ever been in a battle?”

  “Yes,” he replied, softly. A surprised face with wide eyes poked around to stare up at him. “Did you wear one of these?” She wiggled her fingers in the gauntlet, steel scraping on steel.

  “My thin frame was never intended for such casing.” He arched a brow down at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “They are like monsters waiting for a spirit to enter them.” She snatched her hand from the metal, inching closer to him. He could feel her trembling. “I don’t think the man who died in this ever left.”

  Further questioning on this remarkable bit of insight was cut short when a little greasy creature came skipping in.

  “Have you remembered?” she whispered. He gave a slight shake of his head.

  With nary a hint of hesitation, the Imp skipped up to the molar, plucked it from the ground, and began performing a maniacal dance of glee.

  Blast it, what in the Nine Halls was its name? Prize in hand, the Imp had no further interest in the musty old chamber, and turned to leave. Marsais irritably muttered the Lore with deft, weaving fingers, and with a careless flick of his hand, the doors slammed shut, sealing the Imp inside.

  The Imp straightened in alarm, bolting instantly into the air, heading for a shuttered window set high on the wall.

  “Isiilde, go distract him.”

  “What?” She looked up at him as if he weren’t already insane.

  “Imps love faerie; keep him occupied,” Marsais said, waving a languid hand towards the Imp who finally caught sight of the pair and began chattering angrily.

  His apprentice took a few timid steps towards the center of the chamber, glancing nervously at the flapping Imp overhead. It screeched, whipped its tail, and flew straight for her. She threw up her arms and ducked.

  Marsais grabbed the spiked helm off its stand and hurled it at the fiend. The helm dealt the Imp a glancing blow to the wing before it could finish its swooping attack. The creature spiraled out of control, skidding along the stone floor. When it recovered, it zipped straight for Isiilde. She retreated in panic and promptly tripped, falling.

  “Luccub!” Marsais snapped his fingers in triumph and the Imp froze, scampering a few steps on the stone. Isiilde scurried behind her master and climbed to her feet.

  “Stay where you are,” Marsais commanded in the Abyssal tongue, “or I will put you back in this flagon without your collection of teeth.” The Imp’s beady eyes flashed with threat.

  “Don’t you dare try it, Luccub,” he warned. “I have a simple task for you. You’ll enjoy it, and what is more, you can steal all the teeth you desire.” The Imp straightened with a flutter of wings, tail swishing back and forth in consideration before it relented, listening intently.

  By nature, Imps were cunning creatures—when they felt like it. As Marsais explained what he required, the Imp barred its misshapen teeth, clearly offended by the underuse of its talents. For a fiend who could not be killed by usual means, sneaking into Thario’s private estate offered very little challenge. But Marsais needed to be sure his conclusions were correct before taking further action on the traitorous Wise One (or soon to be at any rate). A delicate touch was called for, one of risk and timing. A show of strength too soon could prove disastrous.

  Marsais dismissed Luccub, who flapped gleefully out, and turned to find a very agitated nymph glaring up at him.

  “What?” He snatched the helm turned missile from the ground and set it carefully back on its stand.

  “You said his name started with a B,” Isiilde explained, slowly. “Luccub does not start with a B.”

  “How very perceptive of you.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me what all that was about?”

  “Perhaps you should learn Abyssal,” he suggested. She frowned, spun around, and stalked away. Marsais found himself watching her departing form, admiring the hypnotic sway of her hips before he realized what he was doing and shook the vision from his mind.

  After two thousand years, one would think I’d be immune, he thought irritably.

  “Isiilde,” he called, hurrying after her. She stopped and waited for him to catch up. “I’m not going to tell you because it’s dangerous.”

  “It has to do with Tharios,” she stated.

  “Correct, but the less you know the better.”

  “You discovered what you thought he found.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And now you’ve sent the Imp to investigate?”

  “I haven’t told you a single thing, so if Oenghus asks why I’ve dragged you into this—I haven’t.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if it matters, but Tharios paid a visit to Rashk this morning. He said he needed her expertise.” Marsais stroked his goatee at this bit of information. It confirmed his hope that Tharios had questions about the stave.

  “Marsais?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Can I spend the rest of my punishment napping?”

  “Whatever you deem as proper punishment, my dear.”

  “In that case a foot rub would be near torture.” She fluttered her large eyes with innocent supplication and her smile was hopeful, but all together, the effect was stunning. The Archlord cleared his throat before taking the lead, because he held no illusions of being able to deny her request if he lingered on her smile a moment longer.

  Twenty-nine

  INK FLOWED ACROSS parchment, seeking, shifting, taking the form of his thoughts. History would remember his name and time would never forget. The echo of his past lives screamed to him in the night. Secrets grew in the dark, festering beneath the surface, and as much as some wished, they could never be completely forgotten—a fact which the Order of the Wise Ones would soon discover.

  Tharios paused, quill poised, studying his notes.

  So close, so soon, my Lord, Tharios breathed. A loud knock shattered his past, and he inhaled deeply, calming his thoughts and donning an affable mask. Tharios sheathed his quill, draped a silk robe over his bare shoulders, and closed his writing desk before rising to meet his unexpected visitors. Unexpected, but not unforeseen.

  “Master Tulipin and Mistress Thira, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Tharios purred, noting the gnome’s extreme agitation and the dangerous glint in the woman’s eye, which was unsurprising, considering the recent destruction of the Relic Hall. Thira was ever the stickler for order.

  “We’re sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but there is a delicate matter that we wish to discuss,” Thira said.

  Delicate. The word was music to his ears. At his invitation, Thira marched inside with the vermin on her heels. The dog growled in warning as it swept past and Tharios smiled agreeably in return.

  Next came Tulipin, eyes darting nervously around the chamber. Tharios offered them seats, but neither one accepted, so he settled into his chair, waiting patiently for them to utter the first words of rebellion.

  He did not have to wait long. Thira immediately dragged the matter into the open.

  “The nymph must be ousted. She has brought nothing but trouble to this Order.”

  “The destruction of the Relic Hall is a grave loss, but this Order is ripe with accidents. We dabble with dangerous forces. One expects it in our line of research.”

  “Most have sense enough to take precautions,” Thira snapped. “The nymph is utterly void of common sense.”

  “It’s not a simple matter of acci
dents,” Tulipin interjected. “She desecrated a shrine to Zahra and accused the Blessed Order of blasphemous deeds.”

  “The nymph’s list of misconduct grows by the day,” Thira began. “I will not stand for it a moment longer. You have the Order’s support, Tharios. You are well respected and your voice carries weight. Do something about this—this thing!”

  “I am afraid I’m not the Archlord, Mistress Thira. I believe we’ve tried to have her cast out before. Marsais has always used his position to overrule our objections.”

  “Marsais is mad,” Thira hissed. “There is no other word for it. He has defended that creature’s every action.”

  “The Seer’s cycle is nearly up, a new vote will be cast, and we’re confident you will win majority.”

  “Yes, but the vote will not be cast for another year.”

  “That is why we’ve come,” Tulipin offered.

  Tharios leaned forward in a manner that inspired their trust. Let them think it was their idea. The ancient fool would lose his throne with or without Tharios’ meddling. However, he needed to speed things along, and the nymph was proving a useful tool with which to hang her master.

  Thirty

  THUNDER INTERRUPTED HER sleep, rumbling through the wood of her door with polite inquiry. The nymph stirred, cracked an eye open at the dim light of her room, and pulled the covers over her head, burrowing deeper into her feather mattress. Another cold, grey day. The hearth had cooled during the night and she was fairly sure someone was trying to wake her a few hours too early.

  “Sprite?” the muted roar, which was supposed to be a whisper, penetrated her thick blankets. Isiilde told Oenghus to go away.

  “I need to talk to you.” The door creaked open and heavy footsteps entered, crossing her room. A formidable weight settled on the edge of the bed.

  “What?” She flung the covers off her face and squinted up at him.

  “Here, have something to eat. Marsais brought you another tray.” She stared at the tray in puzzlement.

  “Marsais is personally fetching my food morning, noon, and night?” she inquired slowly.

  “Who else do you think is doing it? Isek can’t be bothered with trifles. He does all the other stuff that the Scarecrow is supposed to be doing as Archlord.” Oenghus’ tone was gruff, far hoarser than the conversation called for.

  Isiilde was torn between a bowl of strawberries covered in whipped cream and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Unable to make a decision, she compromised, plucking a berry from its perch and dipping it in chocolate heat.

  Wasn’t she supposed to fetch her master things? Isiilde decided that she was not a very good apprentice, however, this self revelation troubled her very little.

  Oenghus stood, pacing restlessly like a caged bear. The nymph looked at him for the first time, noticing his attire. He was dressed in his kilt and best vest with his hair pulled back and beard neatly trimmed. He could certainly look a proper lord when he chose to.

  “Have you met a woman?” she asked with a knowing smile. Oenghus ignored her question, so she shrugged and ate a strawberry, which inevitably led her to another puzzle.

  “Oen,” Isiilde began around a mouthful of sweetness. “There’s hardly any sunlight on the Isle, but the pantries are always stocked with strawberries, even at our old cottage. Where do they all come from?”

  “Regular shipments from the South,” Oenghus muttered, absentmindedly. “Marsais charters a boat.”

  “Why would—” she began, but Oenghus interrupted her question.

  “You need to get dressed.” At the severity of his tone, she froze, leaving the strawberry half eaten.

  “Is Marsais hurt?”

  “I wish he was,” Oenghus growled. He returned to the bed, sitting on the edge, encompassing her hands in his. She gulped down the rest of her strawberry, which did little to keep the rising dread at bay.

  “A message arrived from the Emperor last week.” Her heart skipped a beat. “I didn’t want you to—I didn’t tell you. I wanted you to have a peaceful few days.”

  Isiilde was finding it difficult to breathe. Her room had become a cage and the stone closed in on her with suffocating pressure. “Emissaries from Kiln, Xaio, and Mearcentia arrived yesterday morning. They have come to see you.”

  Isiilde shook her head in disbelief. She shivered, her skin crawled, and her heart fought to free itself from her breast.

  “They are not going to take you yet,” he said firmly, cupping her face in his massive hands.

  “I don’t want to see them, Oen,” she stated numbly. “Have Marsais send them away.”

  “Marsais can’t do that, Sprite. This is an order that comes straight from your—from the Emperor. These men are representatives of their rulers. Marsais can’t just send them away. They’re only here to meet you.”

  “To see how much they will bid for me!” She threw her arms around Oenghus’ thick neck, pleading with him to put a stop to this, but his only answer was to wrap his powerful arms around her. For once she didn’t mind his suffocating embrace.

  ❧

  The once cozy sitting room had been stripped of warmth. Tapestries had been taken down, the furniture removed, and rich rugs spirited away, save for a single, pristine pedestal in its barren center. Light was drawn to that lonely pedestal, gathered from the row of windows that looked out into a blustery green garden, whose leaves dripped with persistent rain.

  The hearth was cold and the oil lamps had been replaced with warded orbs of everlight, illuminating the pedestal in a room free from distraction. Isiilde shuddered, and would have bolted if not for Oenghus’ bulk blocking the doorway.

  Two people were waiting for the nymph; a balance of dread and reassurance. Her master was the latter, resplendent in crimson robes. When she entered, he did not turn to greet her, but kept his eyes fixed upon a distant spot in the garden. The presence of dread was one who she despised: Caitlyn Whitehand stood in the window’s light, putting as much distance as she could from the impassive Seer.

  “You are looking well, nymph,” the healer remarked with brisk indifference. Caitlyn Whitehand looked exactly the same as she had for the past twelve years. Her blonde hair was severely pulled back in its customary chignon and she wore an austere green dress with a crisp white apron.

  “There is a robe for you. I’ll inspect you shortly.” She indicated a small room off to the side.

  “You just inspected me six months ago,” Isiilde bristled. “I’m not of age yet.” The blatant lie was the most convincing one she had ever uttered, because she wanted to believe it with all her heart.

  “All that concerns your buyers is that your innocence is intact. Your protestations will only prolong your unease, nymph. If need be I’ll have my assistants hold you down.”

  Isiilde glanced at Marsais, but he refused to look at her—shoulders slumped and eyes distant. Oenghus stood as solid and unwavering as a crag in the doorway, glaring at the healer with baleful eyes, fists clenched, struggling to remain controlled. Isiilde’s green eyes blazed with fury that mirrored the Nuthaanian’s, but as she had learned over the years, it was best to just get the inspection over with, so she stomped into the next room.

  The waiting robe was different from all the other years. It was made from nearly sheer Kilnish silk, and slid pleasingly over her skin. Caitlyn entered shortly, wasting no time. The healer’s inspection was as humiliating as always. And all Isiilde wanted to do afterwards was runaway and curl up on Marsais’ rug. She stood to redress, untying the robe with trembling fingers.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Caitlyn said waspishly. “Leave the robe on and come with me.”

  Isiilde chewed nervously on her lip and peeked out the door. Oenghus and Marsais where still waiting, heads bent together in quiet conversation. She hoped that they had some scheme in mind. When she rejoined them, Oenghus looked over at her, eyes narrowing.

  “Get your clothes on, Sprite,” Oenghus ordered, and Isiilde eagerly started to obey, but Caitlyn
blocked her progress, closing the door.

  “The robe is perfectly suitable. You may both leave now,” Caitlyn said, nodding curtly to the men, but instead of leaving, Oenghus took two threatening steps towards the healer. If Caitlyn were a man, then the Berserker would have had her around the neck, but Nuthaanians were ever respectful of womankind.

  “What are you getting at?” he growled.

  In reply, Caitlyn produced a sealed scroll. Oenghus snatched the scroll and ripped the seal apart. Marsais moved over to his side, brows arching ever higher as he read the missive in Oenghus’ hands.

  While the men were occupied, Caitlyn began brushing Isiilde’s hair, fussing over her bruised ear and the gash on her forehead. Isiilde watched Marsais and Oenghus with pleading eyes. Her rising trepidation reached a crescendo when she saw the giant’s hands clutch the parchment convulsively.

  “I will not stand for this!” Oenghus roared.

  “Then accept the consequences of treason, Oenghus Saevaldr. What did you expect would happen? Would you buy a horse without examining it? O, don’t start crying, nymph, you’ll look a wreck.”

  “Isiilde is not a horse,” Oenghus growled dangerously, taking a step forward.

  “You’re correct, she’s a nymph,” Caitlyn replied, as if that were all the explanation needed.

  “Oenghus,” Marsais warned, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. “I will stay with her.”

  “Both of you must leave,” Caitlyn said, firmly. “I’ll not suffer any distractions. The potential buyers have paid fifty-thousand crowns for the privilege of viewing her.” Isiilde’s eyes widened, but the exorbitant price was far from flattering, instead, the cold knot in her chest tightened and began to spread to her limbs.

  “I am Archlord of this Isle,” Marsais said, stepping forward. “You are a guest in my house, and I will have the final say.”