A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

Forty-one

  ISIILDE STARED NUMBLY into the fire. The dream had faded into reality, colliding into the harsh stone like a bird plummeting from the sky; broken and battered. Her cheek rested on the pristine pelt, however, she could not feel its softness—only His hands slithering along her flesh. Stievin called for her like a street crier, wailing his madness between her ears, until she was empty of everything save his rage and lust.

  Flames seared her eyes, forcing her to blink, and the split second of darkness sparked memory: the relentless drip of water on the dingy stone, the sour scent of Him, and the shiver of steel, all crashing behind a single flutter of an eyelid.

  Come back to me, His voice crawled beneath her skin like an unwelcome parasite. You belong to me. You are mine.

  Another blink and pain blossomed with the echo of cracking bone; slick, warm fluid, and an unyielding force pushing inside of her, splitting her open. It had been an invasion far worse than mere eyes. She wished she could leave her body, because it no longer felt her own.

  Why did you resist me? You tempted me; you wanted me.

  “Have some food, Sprite.” The deep rumble beside her ear was faint, washed out by the stifling presence of her owner.

  Tell them you wanted me. Come to me so I may see you. Take me down from here.

  The smell of bread wafted in front of her nose, bile rose in her throat, and a distant cough shook her bones. Oenghus wiped the spittle from her chin, brushing back the hair from her face. A chasm of filth separated her from the comforting touch of her guardian.

  The nymph was being relentlessly dragged into darkness by a hopeless weight around her throat. Why didn’t someone remove the filthy collar? Isiilde pried at the invasive Bond with her fingernails, but Oenghus stopped her, taking her hands in his own.

  “No, Sprite, you’re only hurting yourself.” His touch brought no more relief than the sight of a distant shore fading from view. She was adrift in a cold sea; full of a cruel, demanding brute.

  “He wants to see me,” she whispered. “Why won’t He get out of me?” Her voice was as hollow as a forgotten tomb.

  Because I own you.

  “He holds your Bond, Sprite. That’s why a nymph is so sought after. He holds your spirit and it’s like—it’s like holding the Gift inside of you. It’s not supposed to be like this. A nymph’s Bond was never meant to be taken by force.”

  There was pain in the strong voice. She looked at Oenghus, wondering if he was wounded, but he appeared as he always did save his eyes, which were shimmering with unshed tears.

  Moving was like fighting through a deep snow drift, expending a tremendous amount of energy for little gain, but she managed it, lifting her head up enough to rest it on his lap, offering her protector the only comfort she could give.

  “How do I get Him out? I can’t stand Him.”

  You can’t stand me? You stupid, worthless whore, look what you did to me—on and on he howled, screaming at her to be silent, to come to him, full of demands that threatened to wash what remained of her sanity away.

  Isiilde viciously bit her bottom lip, and blood pooled in her mouth. The sickly warmth distracted her from Stievin’s ranting insults long enough to focus on Oenghus’ reply.

  “There’s two ways,” Oenghus said, wrapping his hand protectively around her neck. “I will either kill him and we’ll leave this place.” The nymph squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering as an onslaught of protests reverberated inside her skull.

  “You can’t kill him, please, you can’t!” Isiilde gasped, struggling for breath as the mark around her throat tightened possessively. Dim words of comfort drifted to her ear, but Oenghus’ voice was drowned out by a cacophony of threats.

  I will drag you into the dark with me!

  When he saw her distress, Oenghus cursed under his breath, searching the room until he caught sight of a vial sitting on a shelf, which was engraved with his crest: a rooster. Oenghus sniffed warily at the contents. Once he was satisfied that it wouldn’t kill his daughter, he pressed it to her lips.

  “Drink this. It’ll help.” Or so he hoped.

  Isiilde swallowed the potion in one gulp. Oenghus thought she might be sick, but she kept the substance down, shivering as it coursed through her veins. When the affects had settled, her heart slowed, and she pushed Stievin’s presence to the side, enough to recognize a thought as her own.

  With clarity, came the memory of the night before, crashing over her like a wave, sharp and vivid as when it occurred. Isiilde curled up into a ball, hugging her legs to her chest. Nothing helped—He was still inside of her.

  “What’s the other choice?”

  “The Emperor’s champion is on his way to the Isle. He’ll duel Stievin and then take you to Kambe by right of Law, but if you bond with another man—one of your choosing—then he will fight the champion. If this man wins, then you will stay with your new Bonded. Kambe will have no further claim to you.”

  The nymph was silent for a long time, trying to grasp this new thought with a mind in tatters.

  “Another man will take me?” The words left a foul taste in her mouth. Despite her thick leggings and warm tunic, she felt exposed.

  “Yes,” Oenghus replied. “Short of killing Stievin, which I will gladly do, you can’t get your Bond back, Isiilde. A man will always hold it from here on out.” His fists clenched and arms wider than her waist flexed with frustration. “At least it will be a man you choose. Maybe his presence won’t be so revolting.”

  Wouldn’t it be the same, or could another be worse than Stievin?

  You enjoyed it. Every moment was unimaginable bliss. Isiilde smothered the voice, shoving him to the back of her mind.

  “You could go after that young swordsmith Coyle. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’d stand a chance against the Hound. And that’s true with most men.”

  She had liked looking at the chiseled male, but didn’t think she’d want him to hold her Bond—to be inside of her like this.

  “I can choose any man?”

  “As long as he’ll have you. Whatever you decide, it’ll have to be before morning.”

  Forty-two

  “ARCHLORD.” SILENCE ANSWERED Isek Beirnuckle. He shifted impatiently, eyeing the rangy Seer who was currently staring out a narrow window with the look of a man who was lost in the Great Expanse.

  “Marsais!” Isek hissed, chucking a copper piece at the back of his snowy head.

  The coin fell to the floor, and finally, Marsais shivered, gazing down at the pathetic little disc of metal laying at his feet. “Hmm?”

  “You know one of these days someone is going to stick a dagger in your back. A stone giant could sneak up on you.”

  “Well, I sincerely doubt it could fit in my bedchamber,” Marsais mused. “More news?”

  “Caitlyn Whitehand has been demanding to see Isiilde. I’m not sure Kambe believes she was ravaged. They’re convinced Oenghus didn’t rein her in tight enough.” Isek waited, but Marsais made no comment about the Emperor’s healer, so he continued, “High Inquisitor Multist and the new Knight Captain, Acacia Mael, have come to investigate. Where a nymph is involved, the Blessed Order is not far behind. They have requested an audience with you, but wish to inspect her first.”

  “Since they have requested an audience, then I deny them one, and they can wish all they like, but I refuse to subject Isiilde to an interrogation,” Marsais said, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “Marsais, you don’t want to get on their bad side, especially now.” Narrow shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “Fine, a brief audience.”

  “I also have a list of names for Isiilde to go over.” Isek produced a scroll.

  “Wonderful,” Marsais remarked, dryly.

  “There’s a fair amount of warriors on here, but I’m not sure I’d wager on any of them considering who they’re up against. Ielequithe, Oenghus, and N’Jalss stand the best chance, but two of them are out of the question, and I think Isiilde would be better off with Stie
vin over N’Jalss. You want me to add your name to the list?”

  Again, silence answered, until Isek thought Marsais had lapsed into one of his reveries, so it came as a surprise when he finally asked, “What would you do if you abruptly lost your vision? Here, now, in the middle of this room?”

  Through long association, Isek was accustomed to odd questions from the Seer, and he barely paused before answering, “I’d cling to my last moment of sight, reconstruct the layout of the room and try to get to the bloody infirmary without breaking my neck.”

  “I never much cared for stumbling around in the dark. I believe I will simply stand and wait,” Marsais murmured.

  “That’s well and good, but do you want me to put your name down, or not?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Please tell the Inquisitor and Knight Captain that I will see them as soon as I am presentable.”

  Isek blinked.

  “I could hardly speak with the illustrious Inquisitor of the Blessed Order dressed as I am.”

  “Marsais,” Isek remarked, dryly. “You’ve met with dignitaries while wearing a patched shirt, trousers, and sandals.”

  “At least I was clothed,” Marsais shrugged. “O, and, Isek, have them wait for me outside of the throne room.”

  Isek smirked. “As you wish.”

  Marsais intended to enjoy this lull in time. Untroubled by visions, he exercised all the primping care that his predecessor had shown to his own appearance. He lounged in the bath, relishing the pleasure of shaving without having to endure his reflection’s eyes being gouged out by crows, or his neck repeatedly slit. And while the paladins waited outside his throne room, fidgeting nervously in the nameless chamber, he took extra care with the oils he applied to his skin, the robes he chose, and the braids he wove into his hair.

  When Marsais finally emerged from his dressing room, he presented a regal figure, clad in dark, austere robes that emphasized his leanness to the point of severity. From his noble brow, to his hawkish nose, and the three hollow coins chiming at the end of his goatee, he was every bit the famed Archlord of the Isle, wearing a mantle of mystery and power with trifling ease.

  ❧

  The Archlord was in a foul mood even before he perched on his troublesome throne. On the way to his throne room he had passed Isiilde in his study. She had been curled on the pelt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, nearly lifeless, and ever so faded in the sunlight.

  If it not for the scroll of names clutched tightly in her hand, he would have thought her dead.

  The arrival of High Inquisitor Multist, his scribe, and the new Knight Captain did little to improve Marsais’ mood. He watched their confident approach with narrow eyes, studying the round faced Inquisitor who was bedecked in gilded mail. The ceremonial armor was resplendent, and utterly impractical for combat. Marsais loathed the man at the best of times.

  The new Knight Captain marched at Multist’s side with her polished helm tucked under an arm. The humorless woman intrigued Marsais. Anyone who had the audacity to confiscate a Nuthaanian’s sacred Brimgrog was worth his attention. But as to what kind of paladin she was, he would soon discover.

  As Marsais appraised her, Captain Mael was making her own observations of the Archlord, and what she saw, unnerved her. He was a stoic predator, sitting atop a crag of obsidian, white hair shimmering in shadow. His eyes were calculating, following them relentlessly. And his unnaturally long fingers curled over the armrests, tapping rhythmically on the glassy stone of an imposing throne.

  The trio stopped before his dais and bowed as protocol demanded.

  “High Inquisitor Multist,” Marsais acknowledged. His soft words echoed through the throne room, repeated a thousand times, by a thousand whispering voices. The Knight Captain warily searched the shadows, eyeing the mutilated faces decorating the stone. “I know you, but I have not been introduced to your companion.” A muscle twitched along the Knight Captain’s jawline.

  “May I present, Acacia Mael, our new Knight Captain of the Chapterhouse in Drivel.” Marsais inclined his head, and Multist forged on, without waiting to see if the Captain wished to speak.

  “Emperor Jaal has asked the Blessed Order to take the nymph into custody until his champion arrives.”

  “O, well that seems very reasonable,” he agreed, amiably. “May I see the Emperor's orders?” Marsais held out an expectant hand.

  “It was relayed by Whisperers,” Multist explained.

  “Hmm.” Marsais stroked his braided goatee, coins chiming in the vast chamber. “A Whisperer, you say? I’m afraid that won’t do. Everyone knows such messages can be intercepted and altered. It’s like snatching a feather from the wind.” An elegant hand rose, swiping the air with the swiftness of a viper. “Not very hard to accomplish with a quick hand. You should hear some of the things that I pluck from the winds.”

  “You refuse to hand her over?” Multist’s eyes narrowed.

  “I refuse to hand her over without orders bearing the Emperor’s seal. I assure you she’s quite safe where she is.”

  Multist’s eyes bulged in his corpulent head, but he could hardly dispute such simple reasoning. “What of the young man? I suppose you won’t hand him over either?”

  “You can remove him from the wall as long as you don’t execute him. I left him up there as proof for your investigation. Thira bore witness to the rape, as well as myself.”

  “As a witness to events, Archlord,” Captain Mael interjected with crisp professionalism, “I would like to hear your account.”

  The Captain nodded to the pinched-faced scribe, waiting for him to arrange his writing implements before asking the Archlord to proceed. For the second time, in too few hours, Marsais found himself repeating the events of the previous evening, enduring the details with a sickening twist of his gut.

  “Morigan, the Chief Healer, will be able to confirm her injuries,” he finished at length, vowing never to repeat her humiliation to another soul. He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to relax his grip on the armrests.

  The Captain asked few questions in return, mostly pertaining to Stievin’s prior contact with Isiilde and how her guards managed to lose sight of their charge. Satisfied, the Captain nodded to the scribe, however, Multist had more on his agenda.

  “We need to discuss another matter, Archlord.” The fevered thrill of righteousness entered the Inquisitor's eyes. “A number of your actions have been brought to our attention. You have been charged with heresy and summoning and must submit to questioning.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “A certain manuscript, which was written by your apprentice—former, I should say, was placed in our hands. Since she is a nymph and it was written under your tutelage, you are responsible for this blasphemous account of our Order’s history.” Multist paused dramatically while Marsais continued his rhythmic tapping on the armrest. “It has also come to our attention that you are responsible for releasing a fiend onto the Isle. This falls under the Laws of Summoning.”

  “Indeed?” Brows rose in curious surprise. The Inquisitor was stretching his interpretations of the Law today, more so than usual. By the gods, thought Marsais, if only they knew the half of it.

  “You don’t deny it?”

  “I freely admit to opening the flagon. I was casting about for something to wet my whistle with and saw it on my desk. So yes, I opened it. Hmm, I forgot he was in there.” The Archlord gave a dismissive gesture.

  “You forgot that there was a bound fiend in a flagon?” the High Inquisitor asked, incredulously.

  “My dear fellow,” Marsais purred. “It’s been near fifteen hundred years since I put the Imp in there. At the time, the Blessed Order was but an inkling of a thought and a small village was being tormented by the fiend. I can’t be expected to remember every petty detail of a lifetime spent fighting such creatures.” The Archlord’s fingers twitched impatiently, for he knew why he was being troubled with these trivialities, and i
t was growing tiresome.

  “We shall see,” Multist drawled, pompously. “But don’t get too comfortable in that chair, I am personally leveling another charge against you. Your treatment of the young man Stievin was barbaric. Law demands that you answer for the damages inflicted on his person.”

  “My treatment of Stievin?” Impatience was being replaced with something far more sinister.

  “By your own admission, you attacked an unarmed man and castrated him.”

  “He was raping my apprentice!” A thousand voices rose in tumultuous fury. “I suppose you would have watched and waited while he finished up!” Marsais bounded to his feet in disgust, robes billowing around him with restless anticipation.

  Captain Mael tensed, hand straying to the sword on her hip, but the Inquisitor stood his ground with an air of triumph, relishing the fact that he had burrowed beneath the Archlord’s cool exterior.

  “The creature is a nymph—not worth the damage caused,” Multist stated.

  “I will answer your summons, but in the meantime get out of my tower,” Marsais hissed. Long fingers twitched dangerously at his side. The High Inquisitor would make an excellent rat, but on further thought, even that creature was too noble an animal for the slime sullying his hall.

  Marsais caught Isek’s attention with a flash of his eyes. The assistant stepped forward to escort the paladins out, but rather than testing the limits of his restraint while they exited, Marsais touched the teleportation rune etched into the armrest.

  Coldness embraced him, dragging his body through stone to reappear in the chair behind his cluttered desk.

  Forty-three

  MARSAIS SURGED TO his feet, startling Oenghus, who had not moved from his daughter’s side.

  “Do I want to know?” Oenghus grumbled. Marsais shook his head, knowing it would accomplish little except to provoke the Nuthaanian.

  Weak sunlight draped the nymph in a blanket of warmth as she curled on the pelt. Her emerald eyes followed his ill-tempered strides. When he noticed, he slowed, forcing himself to stifle the rage in his heart. It was well past midday, light was fading into night—time was slipping through their fingers.