Marsais could help her, but Isiilde would not—could not face him again. Hadn’t he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her?
The persistent guard eyed the redhead nervously, wishing that her charge had not shaken off the rest of the escort, but as it was, she had barely managed to keep up with the nymph’s wild flight up the stairwell. Torches flickered restlessly in their sconces, and the guard gripped the hilt of her sword.
“Lass,” the guard said, slowly. “Just calm down. We could go to the infirmary. Morigan will know what to do.” Emerald eyes shifted to the guard. There was fear in the guard’s voice, in her stance, and Isiilde nearly laughed at the absurdity of it, but she was right, Morigan could help.
Without glancing at her uneasy shadow, Isiilde hurried back down the stairs. She couldn’t bring herself to take the shorter route through the gardens. It evoked too many memories of Marsais. Instead, she stalked down the maze of halls with barely a thought, ignoring the curious glances, whispered comments, and blatant leers that followed her path.
Let them look, she thought, she had nothing else to lose. Her heart raced beneath her breast and her ears were consumed with the rush of blood, drowning out all else. Rage urged her onwards at a reckless pace. Legs and arms quivered with tension, her vision blurred, narrowing to a long, dark tunnel of sight that threatened to consume her. A part of her embraced the rage, another, timid voice cowered from the heat in her veins, and in her desperation to reach Morigan, she took a shortcut through one of the sprawling libraries.
A group of apprentices and novices were gathered in the main hall, talking excitedly amongst themselves when they noticed the nymph enter. Isiilde instantly spotted Zianna in the group. She quickened her pace, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the exit.
“Why there she is now. Come over and join us, Isiilde,” Zianna invited with a flash of eyes. Isiilde kept walking, but the buxom apprentice intercepted her.
“Won’t you stop to talk with us? You are quite famous now.”
“Leave me alone,” she warned through clenched teeth.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Zianna purred. For a moment, the older woman almost sounded kind. “You should be flattered.”
“Why?” Isiilde snapped, side-stepping the apprentice. But Zianna kept pace.
“Haven’t you heard?” Everyone in the library had stopped to stare at the two women. “One of my friends is a Whisperer. He told me that the bidding for you is up to four hundred thousand crowns. You will be the most expensive whore ever sold.”
“I am not a whore,” she seethed.
“What are you then—a high priced animal?” The words cut deep, like a length of cold steel twisting in her insides, and the last shreds of her self-control caught like brittle tinder.
“I am not an animal!” The fury in her voice was answered by fire. It surged, breaking free from warded lanterns with an explosion of searing glass, heat and burning shards. Screams pierced the peace of the library as flames sped along the carpet, racing up the shelves with the ravenous hunger of a wild beast. A fiery shard leapt onto Zianna’s skirt, swirling up her legs, dancing along her flawless flesh and nipping at her lips with glee.
History was burning, the past was being consumed, and the knowledge of the ages curled into blackened ash as apprentices fled in panic. Fire rolled up the beams in hypnotic waves and rafters glowed with luminous heat. Zianna was thrashing, screaming frantically on the floor.
Amidst the carnage of heat, Isiilde stood in rapture. The fire’s dance was unbearable, enticingly so. She balanced on a razor’s edge, tottering towards absolute abandon, quivering with desire. Heat licked her skin, her lips parted, and on the verge of release, she moaned. However, the ached for moment never came.
Ice took root in her bones. She found herself in a cold, remorseless world being consumed by a blizzard. The flames were snuffed out in an instant. The blizzard dissipated as fast as it came, blanketing the ruin in a shroud of white.
The Mistress of Novices stood wide-eyed and trembling with rage. Feathers of scorched parchment fluttered around her head while Zianna twisted in agony at her feet.
“You,” Thira snapped at Isiilde’s stunned guard. “Get this woman to the infirmary, now!” The soldier hurried to obey, issuing orders to nearby apprentices. They rushed forward, picking up Zianna’s charred body. Her agonized screams intensified.
Isiilde tried to flee, but Thira was faster. She spat out a harsh word, gesturing sharply. A Weave of Silence slammed into the nymph, pushing past her lips, seizing her tongue in a vice like grip. Isiilde collapsed, clawing at her throat in panic; trying to scream, to beg for mercy in the face of the merciless Vulture, but nary a whimper emerged.
“You—” Thira seethed, wrenching her up by the ear. “Don’t think your master will save you now. I will deal with you myself.”
Fearful faces looked on as Thira dragged the nymph from the ruins, past guards, Wise Ones, and servants who were racing to aid the wounded and fighting to salvage their treasured books.
An apprentice being dragged through the corridors by the Mistress of Novices was a common enough sight, so no one paid them any mind. The kitchen staff barely glanced from their duties as Thira brought another errant novice in for punishment. In fact, the servants benefited from the punishment, because it saved them the trouble of scrubbing the pots.
“Got another one, I see. She’ll be in there for days,” the Ogre chuckled before returning to his pie crusts. Thira ignored the cook, propelling the nymph into the washroom, chasing out the scullery maids who happily obeyed.
The washroom was a dark, moldy place that smelt of mildew. A dingy fountain sputtered in the center. Cauldrons and pots were piled one atop the other, full of grime and grease that had no end.
“You will not rest until you have washed everything. I will come and get you when you have finished and not before. And believe me when I say that I will have thought of a more fitting punishment by then.” Thira yanked Isiilde closer, so she was forced to stand on her toes lest her ear be yanked from her head. “You can ponder what your life will be like in Xaio while you’re slaving away in here, nymph,” Thira hissed before slamming the heavy door shut.
Isiilde collapsed onto the slick stones. Tears swelled in her eyes and she choked on the sob that never emerged from her sealed lips. She struggled to calm herself, realizing that if she cried then her nose—her only source of air—would be impossible to breathe through. The weave was a cruel, torturous bit of work that made her throat burn and her tongue swell.
She lay on the floor for some minutes, struggling against her rising panic lest she suffocate. The ordeal was made all the worse by the permeating stench of rotten meat. Her stomach rolled with queasy agitation, but she fought the sensation down, focusing on the single window set high in the ceiling.
The faint outline of the moon behind a cloak of grey calmed her, lessening her fear. She staggered to her feet, leaning against the wall, letting the cool, fresh air soothe her senses. Slowly, her stomach settled.
When the nymph began shivering, she decided she better get busy. The sooner she started on the pile of dishes, the sooner she’d be able to leave. Isiilde pushed herself off the muck covered wall, rearranged her skirts, and reached for an abandoned scrub brush.
The door behind opened. Relief shuddered through her body. She thought it must be Oenghus or Marsais come to fetch her at last. But relief was replaced by a cold trickle of ice as the door closed with a whisper of air. She whirled around to see a figure looming in front of her, his back pressed against the heavy door. His perfect teeth gleamed in the dark.
“I’ve missed you,” Stievin said, softly, slick as the stones beneath her feet. The cold trickle turned into a torrent of ice, spreading down her spine, her legs, and along her arms. “Don’t worry, Isiilde, I’ll help you get all this cleaned up.” He turned to the side, gripped a large cauldron, and effortlessly rolled it in front of the door, wedging it beneath the handle.
&
nbsp; Isiilde stiffened like a startled deer. She thought he said more, his lips were moving as he approached, but all she could hear was the thunder of her own fluttering heart.
Suddenly, she realized that she had a lot to lose.
Thirty-five
CLAWS CURLED AROUND the edge of the door, cracking it open. A bulbous eye appeared in the length of shadow, watching. The Sylph’s moon glowed faintly behind a haze of clouds, and the crystal window gathered its beams like a mother embracing its child to bathe the study in a shroud of silver.
A crimson robed figure was picking his way carefully over a maze of books spread haphazardly on the floor. The tall man darted from page to page, muttering under his breath, searching for a pattern amidst chaos. Sensing the Imp, the Archlord whipped his head towards the door, eyes narrowing on the fearful spy.
“Luccub, come here,” Marsais commanded in the harsh Abyssal tongue. The Imp could not ignore a command from he who held its name, so it flapped over and landed clumsily atop a pile of tomes, folding its leather wings around its body. Its landing dislodged a book from the pile, causing it to tumble to the floor. “Did you see it?”
The Imp chattered back, palming a glittering object from the desk with a sideways glance towards its current master. The man did not seem to notice.
“Draw it for me, here.” Marsais unfurled a roll of parchment, handed the Imp a stub of charcoal, and it set to work, chattering on while it added a few personal touches to its sketch.
Marsais returned to the circle of books on the floor, bending at the waist, squinting at the swirl of words. Sometimes, a loftier view was needed to reveal what was hidden. And as he searched, he asked himself the single question that persisted to plague him: How did Tharios know what was hidden beneath the Spine, and what did he intend to do with that knowledge?
Silence answered the Seer. He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, clutching his scalp in frustration. By the gods, he could not think straight. Currently, his visions were colliding too swiftly to decipher. The Sea of Time was churning beneath his eyes, a great whirlpool of threads gathering around the Isle—to a single pinpoint shrouded in chaos. Perhaps he was in error, and in his distraction, had charted the wrong path from one point to the next. But impossible, his visions had been clear. Beyond a doubt, Tharios had knowledge of Portal Magic, but before or after? And what was more important, after what?
The Imp chattered, announcing that it was finished. Marsais picked his way over the pieces of history, robes dragging over crisp paper to study this new part of Time’s puzzle. He ignored the crude obscenities with which the Imp had embellished his sketch, focusing on the drawing instead, which was adequate for his purposes.
“Are you sure? This was all?” he hissed. The Imp straightened, tilting its pointy chin with wounded pride.
Marsais muttered an apology to the fiend and turned to study the charcoal rod, which was the source of his confusion: the rune-etched rod before him was just that, a rod, without the symbols of the Scorching Sun decorating its tips. Both end caps were missing, and with that realization, another piece of the puzzle clicked neatly into place.
Tharios had a part of Soisskeli’s Stave, but not all of it. Marsais would gladly wager that a powerful artifact such as this would have been dismantled, its parts scattered to the far corners of the realm.
“Thank you, Luccub. I may have use of you again. Continue whatever you were doing, hmm, but—” he held up a finger, “no killing, and give that back to me.”
The Imp hissed, spitting on the stone floor before fluttering into the air. Whereupon it hurled the stolen trinket at the window. Summoning all its fiendish pride, it flapped out, leaving the Archlord to his thoughts.
Marsais tried sitting in his chair, but the moment he sat, he surged impatiently to his feet. Long fingers twitched as visions danced in front of his eyes: Oenghus laying in a pool of blood. The crystal shifted and a solid door of blue flame illuminated the circle. A figure, just on the other side, stood waiting. The flagon on his desk tipped and an Eldar fiend from Isiikle surged forth in icy glory.
All of Time shifted and churned as the heart in his breast convulsed from one moment to the next.
A horde of Wedamen swept below him, charging across the pages of history as the gleaming palace of Whitemount burned black in the corner of his study. The Spine crumbled beneath his feet, the crystal shattered, and a Balor fiend roared through the gaping wreckage. The Scorched Sun hovered overhead, and an agonizing heartbeat later, Oenghus stood with his large hands wrapped lovingly around his daughter. Three sands of the hourglass fell, and the Nuthaanian snapped her neck with an effortless twist.
The nymph crumpled lifelessly to the floor.
Marsais squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for air. If this was not madness, then what was? He stormed over to the mirror, which hung on the wall, shrouded by a thick, black drape. Daring to look upon his reflection, he ripped off the covering.
The breath in his throat caught in pure, disbelieving wonder. He saw himself as he was, haggard, afraid, an unkempt vagabond with a haunted gaze, and there she was, peering over his shoulder, bright-eyed and beaming. Her lips whispered against his cheek. He spun, finding only air and a message that brushed his ear.
It was Morigan’s voice. “Marsais, where is Isiilde? There was a fire in the main library. An apprentice has been injured. Is she with you?” Grey eyes went wide with alarm. And as he stormed from his study, the visions collapsed around him like a child’s tower of blocks.
Wonder gave way to dread.
❧
Marsais strode into the ruined library, demanding explanations with a sweep of his steely gaze, and at once, he knew the destruction to be the work of his apprentice.
“Thira,” he barked. “Where is Isiilde?” The Wise One was shouting orders to a small army of servants who carefully sifted through the ruin, searching for books as if they were wounded soldiers waiting to be carried off the battle field.
“You’re a seer, Marsais. You figure it out.”
“I am in no mood, Woman!” He seized her arm in a vice like grip and the entire room froze.
“I treated her as I would treat any other foolish novice,” the High Alchemist said, shaking off his grip. “Compared to what she did to Zianna, a Weave of Silence and a few days scrubbing pots is small penitence.” The breath caught in his throat. He nearly strangled the infuriating woman.
“Damn you, Thira, you have rendered her helpless,” Marsais hissed, and then with a voice that thrummed with power, he ordered Thira to follow. His flight caused a number of servants and scribes to drop their wounded books, backing away in fear as he raced out of the library, robes billowing in his wake. Thira was forced into a run, and so was her runt of a dog. For once, Crumpet didn’t have the breath to yap.
Marsais charged into the kitchens, scattering servants like frightened chickens in their coop. He skidded to a stop in front of the unguarded washroom door, cursing sharply when he found it barred. With a gesture and a growl, Marsais ripped the door from its hinges and strode in with Thira on his heels, fearing and knowing what he would find.
The Mistress of Novices gasped. A pale, battered form was sprawled on the filthy floor, pinned beneath the grunting figure who was ravaging her. The nymph’s legs flailed uselessly as the man between her thighs pounded her against the floor with an animalistic frenzy that drove her delicate body into the stone.
A strangled sound escaped Marsais, but his fingers were already flashing. Before the echo of Marsais’ pain had died, a tangle of wispy, luminescent runes converged, forming a giant ethereal hand. Marsais spoke the Lore with a harsh and hateful breath, ripping Stievin off Isiilde and hurling the wide-eyed man against the dingy wall, pinning him to the stone fifteen feet from the floor.
Ruthlessly, he switched focus, clenching his hand into a sharp, crushing fist. The phantom Runehand mimicked its master’s movement. Stievin arched his neck severely and an inhuman howl tore from his throat as his manhood was
ripped from his body with a sharp tug, leaving a bloody, unrecognizable mess below his waist.
Marsais gestured, tossing the bloody weapon aside amidst a chorus of agony. The man’s screams gave him no comfort. He hurried over to the floundering nymph. She was trying to rise, moving with jerking convulsions rather than coordination while her body trembled with shock. Both arms were broken, her eyes unseeing, deep gouges marred her breasts, and blood seeped from between her legs.
“My dear,” Marsais whispered, hoarsely, falling to his knees. At the sound of his strained voice, her eyes darted to the side like a cornered animal—full of pleading and desperate madness. He passed his hand over her sealed lips, dispelling the weave in an instant.
Isiilde gasped out in pain, whimpering ever so softly.
“I won’t leave you,” he said, eyeing the fierce, serpentine creature that had appeared on her body. It rippled just beneath her skin, coiled tightly around her neck. It looked a fearsome thing, unlike any Bond he had ever glimpsed on a nymph.
“Isiilde,” he said, cradling her face in his hands. “I’ll get you to a healer.” For a moment, her eyes focused, but then rolled to the back of her head as a spasm of pain seized her when she tried to close her quivering legs.
“Stay with me, my dear, please don’t leave.”
Her torn clothing was scattered carelessly about, leaving her abused body exposed. Even as he reached for her torn shirt, Marsais grimaced, noticing the damage that the animal had caused. He pressed the shirt between her thighs before taking Thira’s offered cloak. With slow care he bundled the nymph up, gently lifting her in his arms. Despite his care, the shift of position sent her eyes rolling as unconsciousness threatened.
“You’re safe now,” he said firmly, and then addressed Thira. “Tell Morigan we’re coming. Find Oenghus and bring him at once.”
“What about him?” The straight-backed woman gestured to the bellowing man who was pinned solidly to the wall.
A Thread in the Tangle Page 35
