Marsais crouched by the stream and unwrapped his bandages. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his hands in the icy water, watching the byways of time swirl in the moonlight. His coins chimed, nudging him into the present. Lucas stood behind him, or more accurately, where the man would be standing soon.
The seer’s eyes shifted from the vacant spot to where Lucas and Acacia approached. The two had been conversing. And they wanted answers.
“How is Isiilde?” Acacia’s question surprised the seer—a rare thing. “I didn’t intend to upset her.”
Marsais smiled sadly. “Hmm, words are rarely wrong, Captain, but rather the memories that they invoke. A soft bed, a quiet cottage, and warm food would do her good.”
“Wishes are useless,” said Lucas. “You said you knew about Tharios and his schemes: Did you know about your friend Isek Beirnuckle?”
“That should be rather obvious,” Marsais replied with measured words. His tone gave the paladins pause. “And yes, I completely agree with your next words: where a nymph is involved, there is always trouble. But remember, Sir Lucas, it is men who make the trouble—not the nymph.”
The scarred paladin adjusted his helm, as if the metal would keep the seer out of his mind.
“What are your plans, Marsais?” asked Acacia.
“Currently, I am soaking my hands while I watch a sea monster gnaw off my fingers.”
Acacia narrowed her eyes at the stream.
“The captain is talking about Tharios and his schemes.”
“Ah, well, what do you plan on doing about him?”
“I’m not the one who handed him a map to a dark god.”
“No, but you know about it, as do I. Hmm, I believe this emerging plot is in your Chapterhouse’s district—is it not? So really, I should ask what the Blessed Order is going to do about Tharios.”
“Do not trifle with me, Seer.”
“It was a legitimate question. I wonder if I were not present—if I had been killed, what would you do?”
Acacia placed a hand on her lieutenant. “Depending on where we are in Vaylin, I would make for a large city, Vlarthane, or if we happened to be in the south, I would head to Nefir and pay for a message to be delivered.”
“To whom?”
“High Inquisitor Multist may accept bribes, but he is no Void worshipper, Marsais.”
“That you know of,” he arched a brow, and silence answered. “For the moment, let us assume he is not. If we send a Whisper, and if by some chance Tharios is not watching the skies for messages and intercepting them, what would our good Inquisitor do, hmm? March right up to the Storm Gate in his pretty armor, knock, and arrest Tharios and his cabal of Unspoken?”
Lucas grunted, lip curling in a gruesome smile. Undoubtedly, the veteran had noticed the High Inquisitor’s love of comfort.
“Can you contact Iilenshar?”
“Why would he be able to speak to Iilenshar—only the Blessed Order can.” Lucas looked from Acacia to the seer, but his captain was quite serious. Something unspoken passed between the two.
“We are discussing what you would do if I were not present,” Marsais reminded.
“As I said, I’d send a message,” Acacia persisted.
“And how long might the journey to Vlarthane or Nefir take?”
“Depending on where we are in Vaylin, it could take far more time than you say we have.”
“Oh, my good Captain, there is always time and there always will be. Past, present, and future are an indefinite weave. So let me watch, and listen, and I ask for your patience—for your own plans are little better than my carefulness.” Marsais’ steely eyes glinted at the paladins, mirroring the heavens above and the madness of the ages.
Fifteen
FOR THE SECOND time in under a week, Morigan found herself in the repulsive throne room of the Order. She had never cared for the place, and never would. With its dizzyingly high columns and mutilated carvings, it wasn’t a chamber that inspired peace.
Until now, she hadn’t stepped foot inside the throne room for thirty years—not since the invasion from the Fell Wastes. Marsais had risen to the occasion with an air of confidence and calm that few believed he possessed. But then the majority of the Order was populated with thick-headed fools who were more concerned with appearances—not the meat of a man.
The newly appointed Archlord was everything they looked for: focused, poised, and possessed with a smooth tongue that made Morigan’s skin crawl.
Four days ago, on the day of the duel, a ripple of shock had traveled through the Isle when Marsais had been charged with Bloodmagic, consorting with fiends, and conspiracy. Disbelief had quickly turned to anger when the bodies of slain guards were laid out as proof.
What had been left of the guards, at any rate.
It wasn’t hard to spot Oenghus’ work: crushed skulls and broken bodies, but then there were those guards who had not been killed by a hammer. They had been sliced and stabbed, and no one seemed to question who had been wielding the sword. Certainly, not Marsais.
There were those guards who were charred by an unmistakable conflagration that left the bodies impossible to identify, save for a chunk of melted armor. The three missing paladins, everyone agreed, were among those bodies. Only a fire from Isiilde, or a very powerful weave, could have gutted the dungeon such as it had been.
In a matter of hours, members of the Blessed Order had swarmed the castle; investigating, questioning, and poking long noses where they shouldn’t be. One witness after another had recounted evidence against Marsais and Oenghus. But even more damning was the solid proof found in Marsais’ private research chambers.
Morigan had listened to every charge with growing disbelief. The accusations of Bloodmagic certainly fit neatly together, and no one dared say a contrary word when the Blessed Order had its nose to the ground.
In less than four days, the entire Order had turned its back on a man who had served it for nearly one hundred years. The Nine went into council an hour after High Inquisitor Multist made his ruling on the ordeal, and in record time, cast its Vote to keep the Order functioning.
No one was surprised by the outcome. Everyone knew that Tharios was poised to win the Vote in a month’s time. He was what an Archlord was supposed to be: diplomatic, focused, talented and, even Morigan had to admit, logical.
It was, without a doubt, the fastest turnover of Archlords the Isle had ever seen. Despite everything, she could not believe the charges against Marsais, and especially against Oenghus.
With a heavy heart, Morigan watched and listened as the final words were spoken by the circle of eight that surrounded Tharios. The new Archlord was dressed in well-cut robes of crimson silk, and he stared forward with determination, hands held up, palms facing outward.
Thira, and a Mearcentian Wise One by the name of Sidonie, had filled the two vacant seats left by Marsais and Oenghus. One by one the eight traced the Weave of Confirmation until Tharios stood illuminated by a column of swirling blue.
The enchantment hung in the air, but only for a moment. A wind swept through the great hall. The columns flared in acceptance, bathing the black-haired Wise One in bluish light. When the light faded, a cheer rose up in the hall as Tharios thrust his hand out, displaying the Archlord’s Runic Eye.
It was done.
The healer sighed, a breath of sound that was washed out by the cheering audience. A small, wistful part of her had hoped the tower would reject the new Archlord. Now, all she was left with was her own nagging doubt.
Tharios stepped lightly on top of the dais, turning to face those assembled. The hall fell silent and his calm voice carried to all ears.
“Wise Ones of the Order, I thank you for coming. These are dark times and the shock of betrayal is still fresh in our hearts, but we must carry on with a tradition that has spanned 3500 years. I ask that you put behind you, the stagnant rule of a recluse and his dark secrets. I ask that you walk with me back into the pages of history, through the present, and face o
ur future once again as I lead this Order into a new era of progress.” Tharios sat down on the obsidian throne, straight-backed with chin held high, every bit the Archlord of the Isle.
❧
In the loud din of conversation that followed, Morigan waited. Rumors and idle speculation filled her ears. Some expressed sadness, but most claimed they had suspected Marsais and Oenghus all along.
A few braggarts boasted that they’d round up the fugitives themselves, if they only knew where they had gone. Morigan would like to see anyone try and ‘round up’ Oenghus. She kept her eye on one member in particular—Thira. Morigan wished to speak to the Mistress of Novices. And even better, Isek Beirnuckle was with the severe, dark-robed woman.
Isek had been Marsais’ friend for nearly as long as Oenghus. The poor man had been in a state of shock when he gave his account in front of the hall. It was clear that Isek had doubted his own eyes.
As soon as Thira and Isek Beirnuckle detached themselves from the crowds, Morigan hurried over. “I need a word with you two.”
Thira narrowed her beady eyes at the portly woman and Isek sighed heavily, nodding. When the trio passed through the Unnamed room, Morigan steered them off to the side. The healer checked the pins in her hair, wishing she was back in her infirmary. She did not like to leave it unattended for long.
Marsais’ last words rang in her ears. Perhaps I do spend too much time in the infirmary, she thought.
“I know how you’re feeling, Isek.” Sensing his profound pain, she patted his hand. “I can’t believe it either. Something just isn’t right,” she stated bluntly.
Thira looked at her as if she had sprouted wings.
“But I can’t deny what I saw.” Isek rubbed his bald pate. “Marsais commanded a fiend, he spoke Abyssal, and what he ordered Isiilde to do to those paladins—” It was all very distressing to the wiry man.
“Morigan, have some sense,” Thira snapped. “The evidence is undeniable.”
“It’s Marsais and Oenghus we’re talking about,” argued Morigan. “I know there is evidence from every angle but—my gut says otherwise and it has never been wrong. None of this explains the guards who were killed by a blade. We all know Marsais can’t use a blade to save his life.”
“There are four Isle Guards unaccounted for,” Thira stated. “Obviously, they were aiding Marsais. If that absentminded imbecile has an explanation for this, then he can turn himself in to the Blessed Order.”
“It’s true,” said Isek. “Every Chapterhouse in the lands is hunting them. I’d certainly like an explanation other than what I saw—whether it was a complicated illusion—Void, maybe I drank too much Primrose, but it doesn’t change their disappearance and the paladins’ bodies.” Isek was shaking his head as he spoke. “I just have to come to grips that Marsais finally went mad. We all do, Morigan. He really was disturbed. Surely you must have noticed.”
Thira fixed a sharp eye on Morigan and battered her over the head with logic. “Set your personal feelings aside, Morigan. It’s common knowledge in the Order that Marsais had no respect for the gods. He hid his surname and lineage. He admitted to the Inquisitor and me that he let that horrid fiend out. He refused to grant the paladins access to his chambers to see the nymph. And as Isek stated, the man is not right in the head. Quite frankly, in the past, some of his comments have infuriated the Nine and bordered on sacrilege. The facts do not lie.”
“I realize it seems that way, but I’m telling you that something is wrong,” Morigan returned with conviction. “I’m asking you both to keep your eyes open—that’s all.”
“You have my word on that, and if you hear anything—” Isek lowered his voice to a whisper, “anything at all—I’d like to know.”
Morigan squeezed his hand. At least she wasn’t entirely alone.
“The matter is closed,” Thira said with ice in her voice. “I, for one, am glad to see the three of them gone. Perhaps we’ll finally get some work done. Speaking of which, I need to bring Crumpet by the infirmary. Winter is nearly here and his joints seem a bit stiff. I’ll expect the usual, Morigan.” The rail-thin woman turned abruptly and stalked off without another word.
Isek frowned. “Thira never liked Marsais, and especially, Oenghus.”
“No, she never did,” the healer murmured, watching Thira’s retreating form. “I should get back to the infirmary.”
Morigan excused herself and slowly worked her way through the milling groups, smiling as warmly as she could manage in response to countless greetings from everyone whom she had treated over the years.
The healer never forgot a patient, and there was one patient whom she had never treated for stiff joints—Crumpet.
❧
It wasn’t hard to follow her. The stout Nuthaanian was stopped in every hallway by friends, showered with greetings of good will and idle chatter. Eventually, the crowds thinned, and another tactic was called for—Isek’s edges blurred. And as he followed the healer, he shifted, strolling at the edge of memory—a slippery memory that was soon forgotten.
Sixteen
TWO COWLED GUARDS escorted Isek Beirnuckle towards the newly appointed Archlord’s study. All traces of its former occupant was being removed, and that included Isek’s access to the pinnacle.
The Spine had seen more activity in the past four days than it had in the past one hundred years. Tharios was driven, Isek would give him that.
His escort pulled him to a stop as a guard dragged a charred body down the hall. The corpse was missing both hands. Isek wondered how many Wise Ones had been forced to unravel Marsais’ ward, and how many had died trying. The ancient had a frighteningly fiendish mind at times. Soon, an equally gruesome death would be Isek’s fate, unless inspiration were to strike him. Luckily, for Isek, inspiration rarely missed its mark.
“How difficult can one ward be?” Tharios asked slowly, staring at the vault. For all his frustration, he certainly hadn’t made an attempt. Eiji stood off to the side, scrutinizing the rune-etched door of witchwood. In theory, it was impossible to trace wards onto witchwood, which is precisely why the Storm Gate was such a puzzle to the Wise Ones.
A stain of broiled blood and melted flesh decorated the stone floor.
“There isn’t any pattern to it,” Eiji remarked. She looked up as Isek approached and a slow smile spread across her all too innocent looking face.
“Nothing Marsais ever did was reasonable,” Tharios sighed, and turned to the traitor who was no longer needed.
“Archlord,” Isek bowed, deeply.
“I need this vault opened, Isek.” The sentence was one of death. “I’m sure you are intelligent enough to realize that as it stands right now, you are expendable.”
“And a liability,” Isek added, weaving a crown across his knuckles.
“I’m glad we can be honest with one another.” Tharios stepped aside, gesturing towards a knot of runes that was comparable to the Storm Gate. “Fail, and I won’t mourn you, but succeed, and your usefulness to me will have gone up considerably.”
“I’ve already been plenty useful. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, Tharios. You, on the other hand, never delivered yours. I still want my nymph.”
“Plans have already been set into motion. My Hunters will bring her back, but I need this vault opened, more than I need your loyalty, so I suggest that you survive this undertaking.”
“Easier said than done, or you’d have tried it yourself.” Isek stepped in front of the vault, considering his options. “You know I can be of use to you in other areas. Wards have never been my strong suit, and I will say, not everyone is convinced the charges against Marsais are true.”
“I don’t need the obvious stated.”
“Yes, but I have the means to keep an eye on the disbelieving.”
“You don’t think I do? Stop trying to delay, Isek. The one thing I don’t have is time.”
“It’s your choice, Archlord,” Isek conceded. “I’m not in any position to resist, but my death will c
ertainly raise suspicion.”
“I don’t care about suspicion.”
“Then in that case, I know someone who can open this vault, beyond a doubt.”
Eiji cocked her pink-haired head, and Tharios narrowed his eyes, his lips forming a single question, “Who?”
“Witman the Wondrous.”
“The legendary enchanter is on the island?” Eiji asked in shock.
“Where?”
“Do you really think I’d hand you the means to escape a death sentence?”
Tharios smiled, and a slow, savoring laugh escaped his throat. “Of course not. But will he help us?”
“For a price,” Isek answered. “Witman the Wondrous always has a price.” Another move, another triumph, and one more play towards victory.
Seventeen
THE STORM ROLLED in before sunset, a nasty, furious thing spitting down the channel from the Fell Wastes. If the air had been warmer, ice would have turned to snow; instead, needles sliced from the sky, burning the lungs.
Brinehilde, Priestess to the Sylph, pinched a small nose, squeezed, and upended a draught of cold ward into her last, stubborn charge. The girl swallowed, gagged, and Brinehilde put a finger under her chin, glaring down at the child lest she think about spitting the potion on the floor.
It was cold enough to freeze to death, like every winter on the Isle. And winter was coming on beating wings. The pot belly stoves smoldered in the sleeping areas, but coal and wood were precious on the Isle, and she couldn’t spare the coin to heat the rest of the orphanage. There was something about the Isle’s wind that cut straight through stone and down to the bones. She’d exchange one of the Isle’s winters for a Nuthaan winter any day.
A pang of sadness clutched her heart as she bade the children a warm night and shut their door. The chill in the hallway slipped under her collar and nipped her skin. She hurried towards her rooms.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 11