A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Are you ready for all this?” Again, silence answered. “Since the screaming young man in the washroom is a bit hard to miss, the news has spread through the castle. And that includes the emissaries. Kiln promptly removed their bid, which is not surprising considering her—spoiled state. Xaio and Mearcentia have requested an audience with you.

  “As of yet, there’s been no word from Emperor Jaal, but with as many eyes and ears he has in the Order, I’m sure it won’t be long. There are a number of Wise Ones, as well as the Ogre, who are infuriated with you for leaving Stievin pinned to the wall. Apparently the meals are suffering due to Stievin’s screams. Fortunately, no one is willing to unravel one of your wards and Thira, the only one with the bollocks to try, is content to follow your orders and leave Stievin where he is.”

  “Where is Oenghus?”

  “Thira sent a message by way of Whisperer, but the Blessed Order refused to release Oenghus until their inquiry is finished. I’ve sent a messenger with a scroll bearing your mark. It’s a few hours ride to Drivel, so I imagine Oenghus should be along shortly, one way or another.”

  Marsais nodded slowly, waiting for the next bit of news to come. They might have strayed down an unknown path, but some landmarks remained the same.

  “The council was an orchestrated piece of work earlier this afternoon. Since Oenghus was conveniently waylaid, and you were—agitated, Tulipin and Thira cast their vote in support of Lachlan. Shimei, Eldred, and myself did not. Six to three. The Order now supports Lachlan. I suppose you have the final say, but you’re not exactly popular right now. You’ve been ruffling the council’s feathers for some time, and they’ve turned to Tharios. He’s poised to take your throne in the next cycle. I can’t say I blame them, old fellow. Tharios is focused, energetic, and diplomatic while you’re—an absentminded recluse.”

  “Thank you for your bluntness,” Marsais replied, dryly.

  “Yes, well what I wasn’t expecting was their decision to oust Isiilde from the Order. Her destruction of the Relic Hall pushed everyone over the edge. I reasoned that she was going to be sold anyway, so there was no use kicking her out, but they cast her out with a sweeping vote, minus one.” That was unexpected. “They weren’t going to make it official until after the bidding since Eiji had a wager with N’Jalss regarding the final price. They were worried her removal from the Order would affect the bidding.”

  “Lovely,” Marsais muttered, feeling vaguely angry, but mostly queasy. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the present, and straightened in his chair, looking at Isek for the first time. “What do you know of Soisskeli’s Stave?”

  Isek whistled softly, rocking back and forth on his heels in thought. “If my memory hasn't failed me—the stave was crafted by Soisskeli, who was a Void tainted Bloodmagus. He was one of the Chaos Lords who worshipped Karbonek, a greater fiend from the Nine Halls—the god of the Fomorri and the Disciples of Karbonek, commonly known by their enemies as the Unspoken. Soisskeli created the artifact to control the dragons, but The Serene One, Oshimi, finally defeated him.”

  “So legend claims,” remarked Marsais who was ever doubtful of recorded history. At the questioning look from his assistant, he dismissed the subject with a languid hand, moving on to the next question. “What do you know about Portal Magic?”

  “It’s a bloody mess if you’re a Bloodmagus.”

  “Spare me your puns, Isek, I’m in no mood.”

  “You probably know as much as me.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “What’s there to say about the Portals on Iilenshar? They’re the embodiment of secretive. I sometimes wonder if the Guardians even know what’s behind the Portals’ power.”

  “I’m asking after the rune variety, as in Rune Portals.”

  Isek gave a low whistle. “The knowledge was scarce long before the Shattering, even before we forgot how to use those Gateways beneath the Spine.”

  Marsais nodded in agreement, and although Isek had simply confirmed what he already knew, often times listening to someone else helped to knock a piece of his memory into place. Unfortunately, nothing new revealed itself.

  “Thank you, Isek. If anything further occurs to you, let me know.”

  Isek nodded, hesitating in the doorway. “You need some sleep, old man. You look awful.”

  “You should have seen her a few hours back.” Steely eyes flickered to the assistant.

  “You’ll be no use to her passed out,” Isek said, and then left, closing the door softly behind him.

  Isek was right, he was exhausted and heavy of spirit. Warm candlelight flickered softly in the quiet, and Marsais stifled a yawn, slouching in his chair. His vision of time had stilled, and his heart slowed, matching that of the nymph’s.

  Marsais blinked. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark, the candles reduced to dark stubs of wax. He must have fallen asleep.

  A long exhalation shuddered through his body, and he grimaced, pressing a hand to the burning scar on his chest, trying to remember where and when he was. A pair of dull emerald eyes watched him in the dim, snapping him back to the present like a brand to his heart.

  Isiilde was awake, and undoubtedly frightened in the dark room. With a deft gesture of his free hand, a rune drifted to the ceiling, blanketing the room in soft, blue light. Marsais calmly searched her eyes. They were alarmingly vacant.

  “Are you thirsty, my dear?”

  “Where is Oenghus?” Her voice was empty of emotion.

  “He’s on his way. Can I do anything for you?” In answer she pushed herself up with shaking arms, slipped from beneath the covers, and moved onto his lap, curling against his chest. Goose bumps rose on her pale, shimmering skin. Marsais pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapping it around her before doing the same with his arms.

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “I know,” he replied, softly.

  “I can still feel Him.”

  “You are bonded to Stievin. He holds a part of you now.” Marsais slipped a hand around her neck, pressing his palm against her skin.

  “I tried to do as you asked, Marsais. I didn’t want to go to the kitchens.” Her whisper was thin and wavering as a tendril of smoke, and he had to hold his breath to hear her words.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Isiilde.”

  “I can still feel His hands,” she choked on her words. “I do not like how my skin feels. What did He do to me? Why can I feel His pain inside of me?”

  “You were raped. Stievin took your Bond,” he explained, calmly.

  “I didn’t want Him to touch me, so I stabbed Him, but He got very angry and—” She trailed off into silence, shuddering with violent memory. Marsais tightened his arms protectively around her.

  “You did the right thing,” he murmured, brushing her forehead with his lips.

  “Why did He hurt me?”

  Because you’re a nymph, he thought, but bit back the words. He could not bring himself to make any excuses for Stievin, instead, he forced a cheerful note to his tone, and said, “Do you remember this last summer, nearly four months back? I believe the sun was particularly bright. The ocean was in a rare mood—calm and docile as a lake.”

  “No.”

  “Well, it was and you were there, laying on the beach, soaking up the heat.”

  “Oen yelled at me to get some clothes on.”

  “I hoped that you might remember.” He smiled and stroked her hair, painting a picture with words, whispering gently in her ear, leading her thoughts far away from the present and the hours that came before. “Remember the sun beating on your skin and the lull of the tide. The coarse sand against your body and a whisper of a breeze brushing your hair. Do you remember the way it made you feel and how happy you were that day?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever feel like that again.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Always,” she breathed.

  “Then believe me when I say you will.”

  Thirty-eight

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nbsp; OENGHUS ARRIVED BEFORE dawn, soaked to the bone and grim as his name. For a man who was nearly eight feet tall, the Nuthaanian could move with frightening stealth when he wished. Oenghus slipped into the room, eyeing the lean silhouette slouched in the chair and the delicate outline wrapped in his arms. He laid a massive hand on the Archlord’s bony shoulder, shaking him roughly awake.

  Marsais’ eyes snapped open; alarm giving way to confusion, and then understanding when he felt a warm weight snuggled against his chest. He remembered the when and where, but never the why.

  The crag at Marsais’ side brushed back his daughter’s hair with a shaking hand, surveying the Bond that had collared her neck.

  “What happened?” Oenghus asked through clenched teeth.

  “Is anyone still working in the infirmary?” Marsais asked, shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair, trying to relieve the kink that twisted his neck.

  “A few—most are asleep. Some guards are standing outside. I know them,” Oenghus added, sensing Marsais’ next question.

  “I want to get her somewhere safer, but didn’t want to risk moving her until you arrived.” Oenghus needed no further explanation, he understood his old master’s intent perfectly well. In the seven hundred and some odd years that the two had known each other, trust had hardened into an unbreakable bond. At times like these, they did not question the other.

  Oenghus relieved Marsais of Isiilde, gently lifting her in his arms. With the slight weight of her head resting against his chest, came a sense of relief. His daughter was alive and the rest would sort itself out in due time.

  They kept to the less traveled avenues, using the teleportation runes whenever possible, encountering few, save heavy-lidded guards struggling against sleep in the long stretch of darkness before light. Oenghus followed Marsais to the safest place on the Isle: the Archlord’s study and personal chambers, where none but the trusted were allowed.

  Marsais’ private chambers were a study in disordered plunder, brimming with powerful trinkets, an assortment of potions both lethal and life saving, weapons of fame and priceless gems used as mere paper weights to flatten brittle scrolls containing forbidden words. The sole oasis of pristine order in the middle of the treasure trove was a massive canopy bed, which was rarely slept in for any length of reasonable time. It was here, on the crisp linens and plush feathers that Oenghus placed Isiilde.

  Logs stood stacked and waiting in the hearth. Marsais went immediately over, removing a pinch of copper colored dust from a small pot on top of the mantle before sprinkling the powder over the wood. With a whisper and a swift weave, the tinder flared to life, chasing back the chill with a cheerful crackle.

  “What happened?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” Marsais asked, settling into a plush chair.

  “Tell me everything,” Oenghus grunted, gripping the mantle with white-knuckled fists as if he were bracing himself for a flogging.

  Long after Marsais had finished relating the details of her attack, Oenghus remained still, head bowed, dark hair obscuring his face, hiding his eyes, but not his shaking shoulders. Marsais stood to shed his bloodied robes, giving his friend time to collect himself.

  “Where’s the bastard?” the barbarian rasped.

  Marsais’ fingers faltered on the laces of his trousers. Here it comes, a crossroad, a divergence. Would Oenghus go right, or would he go left?

  “He’s where I left him,” Marsais replied, carefully. “Pinned to the washroom wall.” Oenghus straightened with a growl and made to leave.

  “You can’t kill Stievin,” Marsais called, cinching the ties with a sharp tug.

  “And why not?” Oenghus’ sapphire eyes glittered with wild rage.

  “You know as well as I. Her spirit is tied to Stievin.”

  “I’m not going to leave her bound to him!” Oenghus’s muted roar echoed in the room. He cringed with sudden realization, glancing at his daughter, before continuing in a quieter tone, “You don’t know what it’s like, Marsais. You’ve never been bonded with a nymph. Their thoughts and desires are in your soul. Your flesh is their flesh and theirs is yours, but when you rip a bond from them, when a nymph is taken by force—that man owns them like a pair of boots. If he tells her to sit; she will sit. If he tells her to come; she’ll obey like a broken dog. I won’t let it continue.”

  “But if there was another way—a way that would leave her spirit whole?”

  “There is another way,” Oenghus snapped, stepping towards him. “If another man takes her. And I won’t let another man near her. If I hadn’t listened to your sack of bones, we’d be off this Isle and she’d never be in this position.”

  “So you kill him! Fine, go ahead, satisfy your revenge, and then what? The paladins hang you for murdering a helpless man over property, because that is exactly how they will see it. Isiilde will still be sold to Xaio.”

  “Those sniveling cans of tin couldn’t get near enough to put a rope ‘round my neck.”

  “Perhaps not, but you are still one man in a realm of powerful men. Do not think yourself invincible, because your daughter will not benefit from your death.”

  Oenghus growled dangerously. Marsais pressed on undaunted, “Listen to me. Your daughter has a fierce will. She fought back—a nymph fought! This is no vision of mine, no foreseen path, she has forged her own way and turned Fate upside down. Do not get mad at this, but this may very well be a blessing in disguise.”

  The Berserker’s fists clenched. Marsais took a hasty step back from the looming giant, holding his hands up in peace. “Think, Oenghus. By the Blessed Order’s own laws, Stievin stole her from Kambe and he must answer for it. Your daughter no longer belongs to Soataen, she is no longer backed by the might of Kambe, but belongs to Stievin.”

  “My granddaughter could kill that louse. Besides, what you’re getting at is a loophole in the Law. It might not hold with this Chapterhouse. The blasted Captain took my Brimgrog and forbid me to drink in public.” Marsais’ attempt to hide the grin spreading over his face failed miserably.

  “Keep your mouth shut, Scarecrow.”

  “Just give me a few more hours. That’s all I ask. I wish to consult with a friend who may know of another way.” Marsais stepped forward, gripping Oenghus’s arm. “Stay with your daughter and count yourself lucky that you can give her comfort. I know what it’s like to be denied that, Oenghus. I would have given anything to have that chance.” An old pain, a sharp ache, another scar on his torn heart. Reluctantly, the Nuthaanian nodded.

  Marsais snatched a wadded up shirt from the floor and slipped it over his head before hurrying down the hallway. His mind was currently as chaotic as his study, and he desperately needed to consult another ancient who was not only an expert on the law, but possessed a clearer head than his own.

  The grey outside the crystal window was lightening, heralding a new day of bitter rain and chasing back the shadows around the cluttered room. Marsais swept the scattered books on the floor aside with a recklessness that would induce scribes to murder. He rolled up the snowy pelt, exposing the naked stone beneath, and began muttering the Lore, linking himself to the powerful currents of energy that pulsed with the essence of All. Weaving thought to action, stirring the waters as his fingers traced a complicated pattern over the floor, coaxing runes of glowing ice to life with a delicate touch.

  One could not hope to master such a power, rather, he gave himself over like a bird caught in a current of wind, skillfully maneuvering, soaring, and drifting, but never seeking to control the Gift—no more than a bird controlled the skies.

  When his masterpiece was complete, he stepped back to appreciate the pulsing beauty of his art: a circle of flowing runes and flawless lines that held no error. A heartbeat later, he stepped inside the circle.

  Marsais had spent a lifetime in perpetual disorientation. While most found the sensation unsettling, he did not blink an eye as his mind left his body as easily as one might set off for an afternoon stroll. He always liked wh
ere he ended up, which was nowhere, neither dark nor light, up or down, it simply was, and he waited.

  A form materialized from nothing, joining him in nowhere. The man who stood before him wore robes of luminescent white. The form pushed back his deep cowl, revealing dark skin, an aquiline nose, and bright, silver eyes that were as distant and reassuring as the stars.

  “Marsais!” The other man in this non-place smiled with delight. When his majestic features relaxed, he resembled a boy with a mop of unruly white hair. However, his smile faded when he noticed the grim visage of his companion, and the boy vanished, looking neither young nor old, like his companion. “You don’t look well.” His voice was deep, and as compassionate as the earth.

  “I’m not well,” Marsais admitted, “but then that is part of the reason I requested this meeting. Thank you for seeing me, Chaim.”

  “There is little that I would not abandon for you, my old friend.” The Guardian of Life crossed his arms, slipping his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his robe in a perfect vision of serenity. Marsais envied his calm control, but then as the god had pointed out in the past, he did not have the curse of foresight. “More visions?”

  “In part,” Marsais sighed. “I have questions of matters which are wisely not penned, let alone answered. Hmm, I was hoping to pick your brain.” The god nodded for him to continue. “What do you know of Soisskeli’s Stave?”

  “I know I don’t like hearing mention of it.”

  “So the legends are true? It has the power to bind virtually anything?”

  “Anything not born of this realm, yes. Soisskeli wanted to make sure no one used it against him.”

  “Ah, well then, what if I told you that an ambitious Wise One has possession of the haft?”

  The god took a deep breath. “Only the haft?”

  “I think he knows the location of at least one segment, the end caps, perhaps both. Am I correct in thinking it was separated and scattered to the distant parts of the land? The haft was placed somewhere near Vaylin. One of the end caps was hidden in the South along the Spotted coast. And the other?”