“That’s fine,” she said lightly. “If you do the same.”
He cocked his head.
“There will come a time when I ask the same of you,” she parroted. “I expect you to do it.”
“You know I won’t,” he said.
“Exactly.”
An iron voice called his name, interrupting their conversation. Marsais winced. “Quick, push me off the ramparts.”
Isiilde poked his shoulder. “Considering your ultimatum, I’m tempted.”
He set his back solidly against the stone as they watched Thira stalk up the stairs. The Wise One looked lonely without her snarling little companion. When Pyrderi’s spirit left Crumpet, the bird had been reduced to a burnt husk at the bottom of the pit. Isiilde felt immensely sorry for the woman.
Thira looked Marsais over once, and scowled. “What are you going to do about the state of the Order?”
“I’m not Archlord anymore,” he reminded.
“You were wrongly accused.” Thira sounded like she was chewing on something unpleasant. “But I still think you are a horrid Archlord.”
“I agree.”
Thira stopped short. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You do?”
“I do.” His lips twitched with understanding. “As the current Archlord, and with the Order in a state of chaos, I will use my right to choose another.”
“There are more than nine Wise Ones left. Plenty for a vote.”
“Can we be sure of their loyalties?”
“With Morigan, Oenghus, Rashk, you, myself, and Eldred—” she stopped short. That only made six. “No. That brings me to another issue. Do you have any idea where Isek Beirnuckle might have run to?”
Marsais gave a heavy sigh. The sting and regret of betrayal was clear. “No, I do not. But knowing Isek, when things became complicated he cut his losses, and ducked back into the shadows.”
“I had surmised as much.”
“I doubt he’ll surface anytime soon. Consider him removed from the Order.”
“Noted.” Thira inclined her head. “I suppose you’ve heard that Iilenshar has offered our Order a home in Westhaven. However, I suspect that it has more to do with keeping an eye on our activities.”
“Spare me, please. I’m tired.”
There wasn’t a shred of pity in her eyes. “If you hand over the seat to Oenghus—”
Marsais raised a hand. “I’m not that mad.”
“Then who?”
“You.”
The words stunned her. Thira froze, and Isiilde gaped. The thought of Thira as Archlord terrified her.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I can think of no better person for the throne. Despite our differences, you have always acted in the best interests of this Order.”
Thira’s gaze flickered to Isiilde. Her lips formed a hard line, and she quickly looked away. “Not always.”
“We all make mistakes, Thira.”
The woman sniffed his understanding to the side. “Some more than others.”
“I’m sure you will set my own blundering aright.”
“I’ve done more than my share,” the Wise One conceded. “That’s it, then?”
“You are Archlord,” he confirmed. “I apologize that you have neither the Spine nor the Runic Eye.”
“I’ve always said that this nymph would destroy our Order.” Isiilde’s ears twitched, and she clenched her jaw, glaring daggers at the woman. Thira looked at her in challenge, but stopped her fury with a few clipped words. “And a good thing you did. Rot lay at its very core.”
“A dubious foundation indeed,” Marsais agreed.
Thira drew herself up, and with her spine straighter than it had been for days, she breathed in, exuding determination. “We will rebuild.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
Thira looked at the nymph, and Isiilde braced herself for a tirade. Her bond stirred in response, feeding off her building rage, singing inside her heart. It was a beautiful roar, but she let the fire wash over her, and thought only of the woman’s loneliness.
“As my first act as Archlord of this Isle,” Thira announced. “I’ll forgo the Trials—you have proven yourself a hundred times over, Isiilde. You are no longer an apprentice, but a Wise One with all the titles and responsibilities.” Thira thrust out her hand. “If you like.”
Isiilde tilted her head, searching for any sign of deception.
“If you haven’t learned how to shake a hand, Nymph, then I’ll retract my offer.” It was said sharply, but there was a shadow of humor in Thira’s eye.
Isiilde shook her hand.
“Welcome to the Order.” Before Isiilde could open her mouth, Thira turned on her heel and stalked away.
“Well,” Marsais said, sounding pleased. “That was certainly a surprise.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Acacia Mael stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind her back. In front of her, the Sacred Sun hung on the wall. High Inquisitor Multist had commandeered a tailor’s shop the moment he arrived, bringing all the golden trappings of the Blessed Order. She wondered where the tailor was now.
“There is another chair,” a drawling voice interrupted her contemplation.
Her gaze slid to the man. Marsais slumped in a chair, one arm thrown over his sling, long legs stretching over the floor. He looked, in comparison, years younger with his hair clipped short and his shaven cheeks. It emphasized his high cheekbones and pointed ears. Despite awaiting an interrogation, he looked utterly relaxed. She chalked it up to his apparent exhaustion. Multiple Healings took a toll on the body, and now, his own needed time and rest to fully mend. His arm was still bandaged to his side to prevent the pectoral from tearing.
“I’m sorry, Marsais,” she said suddenly. “I did not intend for you to be here, too.”
“It was your duty to pen that report. You stated the facts, nothing more. I take great comfort in the fact that your Order generally strangles a criminal before sawing them into quarters.”
She closed her eyes, and blew out a long breath. What she would not give for the weight of her armor resting on her shoulders. But the moment she had handed over her report, Multist had ordered her stripped of armor and weapons, and tossed in a makeshift jail. The implements of the Inquisitor’s trade now waited on a table.
They had spared her chains, and for that, at least, she was grateful.
“I left out your relationship with the fiend,” she admitted.
His hand went to his heart. “You lied for me?”
“I wrote that you were attacked.” It wasn’t a stretch. It was clear by the wounds on his body that his night with the fiend had been less than enjoyable.
“Hmm, I’ll likely be the first man in your Order’s history to be drawn and quartered for being raped by a fiend and her cohorts.”
The blood drained from her face. “Would you stop saying it’s my Order.”
“Isn’t it?”
Acacia clenched her jaw. “It doesn’t matter if it is, or it isn’t. You are still here, and you have no need to be.” She gave him a pointed look.
“Well, I thank you for attempting to throw yourself on the sacrificial flame for my sake. We did what was needed, Acacia. And you did not let Law cloud your judgment. That’s a rare thing.”
“Not in the eyes of the Blessed Order.”
“Ah, yes, loyalty blinded by divine light. There has never been a more insidious combination.”
“Do you realize that everything that comes out of your mouth is considered heresy by this Order?”
“Hmm, Marsais the Heretic. It has a better ring to it than seer.”
“It won’t help your inquiry,” she pointed out.
The man looked amused by the thought. Acacia tore her gaze from the thoughtful ancient. Confident madmen were far from reassuring. Her Oathbound had been a Wraith Guard, and she knew from experience that Iilenshar was as rigid as the Blessed Order. Even the Guardians were held to their own laws, or so it was said.
Nearly two hundred years ago, she had joined the Order as a young woman. She had lived and breathed the Laws, and now, without that structure, she felt adrift.
What would it mean to serve the Sylph? There were sacred shrines of oak and wilderness, tended by half-drunk priestesses who were fond of bedding men and women. No structure, no discipline, no martial training. The Blessed Order was all Acacia knew. And the thought of leaving that structure terrified her.
The door opened and two paladins walked into the room. Acacia snapped to attention. The two bore the sigil of Iilenshar: the Sacred Sun caught in a maze-like circle. Dread rose in her breast. When Iilenshar was directly involved, the paladins outranked all others.
The High Inquisitor, dressed in his golden armor, followed on their heels. She detested the man, but had not found sufficient evidence to prove that he had been accepting bribes. There had been no time.
A white-robed cleric entered last. That was odd. Clerics of Chaim were not usually present for an Inquiry, unless it was expected to turn violent. The cowled cleric stepped to the side and stood in silence.
“At ease,” a grizzled, Kilnish paladin said. Acacia relaxed, but only a fraction. He was a commander of the First Order, and one did not stand easily in his presence. The man flicked his gaze over to Marsais.
“Thank you, but I’m already at ease,” the ancient said.
Despite herself, humor replaced dread. She nearly laughed. His madness was rubbing off on her—that, or her giddiness was simply a side-effect of stress.
There were no long-winded speeches, no arrogant words, nor any slaps to the face from Multist. The commander looked to the High Inquisitor and nodded. With a glint of glee, Multist stepped forward. “Hold out your hand, Acacia Mael.” He stressed her name, making it clear that her rank had been stripped.
She did. With a sonorous chant, and wide gestures that were wholly unnecessary, Multist teased the aura of her spirit into the air. A silver light flared to life. Multist frowned, and crushed her hand with his own, snuffing the light. “Open it again.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the Commander said. “Multist, hold out your hand.”
The Inquisitor turned red-faced. “I am not under scrutiny.”
“You are,” the Commander corrected. “And you have been for some time. Hold out your hand.”
Multist’s eyes danced between the paladins, clearly gauging his chances. But in the end, his shoulders slumped, and he did as ordered. The Commander stepped forward to test the man. A dingy, murky mess of grey rippled in the air over Multist’s palm. Not enough to execute, but certainly enough to oust the man.
The Commander nodded to the second paladin, and he stepped forward, gripping Multist’s shoulder. The Inquisitor’s arguments thundered in the room long after he was marched out. Without a word, the commander followed, leaving Acacia with the ancient and a cleric. Marsais had not even been examined.
“That had to be the shortest Inquiry in the history of the Blessed Order,” Marsais mused.
The cleric pushed back his cowl. “Trust me, I’ve tried to shorten them, but humans do love their traditions.”
Acacia stood for a breathless second. She took in the cleric’s curly white hair, dark skin, silver eyes, and aquiline nose. Years of training snapped her to action. She sank to one knee, and bowed her head, staring at the floor.
A rustle of white robe and boots stepped into her line of sight. “Please, Captain Mael,” a deep voice said. “Don’t kneel on formality.” The Guardian of Life reached down and took her hands in both of his. She stood, and looked up into his eyes. They were reassuring, kind, and distant as stars. “You have served Iilenshar well, but mostly...” His gaze slid to the ancient. “Anyone who can put up with Marsais for as long as you did has my respect.”
Acacia cleared her throat. “The journey certainly had its moments.”
“All this flattery is making me blush,” Marsais quipped. “If I can test your divine patience, Chaim, then I consider my day well spent.”
Chaim released her hands and stepped back. “Next time I’m going to shave your head.”
“I’ll look like a dying vulture.”
“An improvement.” Chaim flashed his teeth at the man. And Acacia looked from one to the other. Although Marsais was a few shades lighter than the Guardian, they could nearly pass as brothers. She had noticed the resemblance before, but now, with the two in the same room—the resemblance was striking. As it had been with the Fey.
“No, we are not related. Well, distantly,” Chaim corrected.
“Very distantly,” Marsais added.
“Please sit, if you like, Captain.” Chaim gestured towards the single remaining chair. It was not an order, but a politeness.
“I’ll stand, thank you, Guardian.”
“Call me Chaim.”
Acacia opened her mouth. The world was spinning decidedly fast. With an abrupt change of mind, she walked over to the chair and sat.
“I never have that effect on people,” Marsais sighed.
Chaim smirked. “When was the last time you told someone your name?”
“I did this morning.”
“And?”
“She became annoyed with me and threatened to push me off the ramparts.”
“Which is why the captain has my utmost respect,” said Chaim.
“And mine.” Marsais looked over at her. “I would have assured you that the Inquiry would end well, but I doubted you would believe me.”
“No,” she said, faintly. Acacia gripped the armrests so tightly that she feared they would break.
“Captain—”
“If I’m to call you Chaim, please do me the same courtesy.”
The Guardian inclined his head. “Marsais has nothing but praise for you. I’ve read your report and heard the full account of events. Not only did I want to personally thank you, but I have a request... an offer really.”
“An offer?” Her voice sounded distant in her own ears.
“I need your help,” Chaim said, bluntly. “I need warriors who will do the right thing—no matter the risk. If you accept, the things you learn of Iilenshar may very well shake the foundation of your beliefs.”
“More so than Marsais already has?”
“He would shake anyone to their core.”
“Hmm, all madmen are heretics,” Marsais muttered.
Acacia needed to be on her feet. She pushed herself out of the chair. “Would I serve as a cleric?”
Chaim shook his head. “A Knight of the Blessed Order, as you are serving now. I need people I can trust, Acacia.”
“To do what?”
“It is easy to lose sight of the ground when you live on a floating island. Zahra, my mother, is...” he hesitated. “My mother has lost sight of the ground and those who live on it. The state of her Order reflects that.”
“Are you planning to overthrow Zahra?” Confusion filled her voice.
“No, nothing so drastic, but I have, for years now, been mitigating many of her actions.”
“I can’t imagine how I could help you.”
“You already have.” He gestured at Marsais. “If my mother had sent her Wraith Guards and Valkyries, Marsais might not be sitting here so casually. In her mind, there is no leniency, no mercy—only Law. You, however, see all sides of a situation. That is what I require. I need you to do what you have always done, Acacia. It is the very reason that the Sylph favors you.”
“I...” she started to deny it, but she could not. It felt true. And she knew in her heart that it was. “Yes, I will. I’ll be honored to serve you.”
“You’ll not be serving me, Acacia. You will be serving those who need it most. And it will not be without danger.”
“It can’t be worse than spending a month
in Marsais’ company.”
“You wound me,” Marsais said.
“It may be worse,” Chaim mused. “There is a certain dragon that needs relocating.”
The paladin’s heart sank. “Will it involve portals?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Oenghus glared at the two paladins who flanked the door. His fingers flexed and stretched, and his knuckles cracked. Sooner or later, he was going to have to test his prowess with one arm. The thought deflated the berserker.
A warhammer hung on his belt, but it wasn’t Gurthang, and it most certainly wasn’t Slàtra. He didn’t even have an arm to hold a shield.
Suddenly tired, Oenghus sat on a bench beside his daughter. Isiilde’s legs swung nervously. She was worried, too. Instead of reaching for his weapon, he wrestled out his pipe, and stared, at a loss. He only had one hand. How was he going to light his pipe?
With care, he set the pipe on his leg, and fished out a pinch of weed from his pouch. Bending forward, he braced the stub of his arm against the wood to steady it, and sprinkled the weed into the bowl. It would have to do.
Oenghus thrust the pipe between his lips and looked for the closest fire. A flame sprang to life right in front of his eyes. It burned cheerfully on the tip of Isiilde’s finger. She put the flame to the bowl, and he lightly puffed until the weed smoldered.
“Thanks,” he muttered around the stem.
She did not let the flame die, but hummed softly, watching it slither down her finger, and finally dance on the palm of her hand. The flameling moved as if it were alive.
“Why did they march Multist out? What’s happening?” The flameling wavered, mirroring Isiilde’s anxiety.
“I’m as clueless as you, Sprite,” he grunted.
“I’ll not let the Blessed Bloody Order draw and quarter either of them.”
“Course we won’t.” An angry line of smoke seeped from his lips.
Isiilde glanced at his bandaged stub. “Does it hurt?”
“Feels like it’s still there.”
“I’m glad you cut if off, Father. I thought I’d lost you again.”
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 43
