A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “If the Thanes unite, then Kambe will grow nervous, with good cause, and strengthen its southern borders, leaving Nuthaan to keep the Wedamen at bay. Nuthaan’s borders are already hard pressed and we all know that the Fell Wastes have been stirring of late. I’m bloody well suspicious of Lachlan. And I won’t throw our Order in with his lot, but I also don’t agree with Shimei’s proposal of disrupting Lachlan’s efforts to unite the Thanes. I think it’s too early to take action.”

  “So you propose to sit and wait like a lazy hunter for his prey to come?” N’Jalss sneered at the Nuthaanian, black lips curling back to reveal a row of perfectly pointed teeth.

  “Until Lachlan’s intentions become apparent? I damn well do, because I don’t shift my colors as some do,” Oenghus stated, bluntly.

  Marsais quickly intervened before the honor sensitive Rahuatl could react. “Hmm, let’s not forget the purpose of this Order; to gather knowledge. We do not meddle in the affairs of kingdoms.”

  “We don’t meddle,” Tharios repeated, dryly. “When have we not meddled? Have you already forgotten Emperor Jaal’s latest request for aid in capturing this Bastard Prince? How can we aid Kambe, but turn our backs on a divided kingdom that is in dire need of guidance?”

  Isiilde sighed with relief. So the scroll bearing her father’s seal had not been about her, but a request for help. She wondered if Sarabian had told their father about her visit with the Bastard Prince.

  “This is different. Kambe serves the Guardians,” Oenghus said.

  “The Guardians,” N’Jalss cut in, failing to hide his disdain. “Your gods—your gods who have not held a Council of Kings for nearly a hundred years.”

  “How dare you mock the Guardians in this council, you Rahuatl savage!” Tulipin wheezed with outrage.

  “At least I’m not a boot licking pup,” N’Jalss hissed back.

  “Please, please, gentlemen,” Tharios interjected, smoothly. “Now is not the time for petty squabbles. Look past your prejudices, past your own motives, and ask yourselves what is the best course for this Order?”

  Silence followed as tempers cooled and Tharios continued, “There is merit to N’Jalss’ words, the Guardians have been absent from our lives. We’ve only had whispers from the Guardians of Iilenshar, and the borders of Morchaint have been strangely quiet. So I propose we seize the opportunity which has been offered us. We must take this lull in the Everwar as a sign—a sign to build our strength and numbers by uniting the lands and gaining allies to fight the Void. We know that the Bloodmagi have not been idle. While we have stagnated, they are growing in power and numbers, and what do we do? We bicker and argue amongst ourselves while our numbers dwindle.”

  “It is true. We have grown weak,” Shimei reluctantly acknowledged.

  “We’ve strayed from the point,” Yasimina pointed out.

  “When do we not?” Marsais mused. “Cast your say.”

  Tharios, Eiji, Yasimina, and N’Jalss all cast their support for whatever Lachlan’s proposal was. Oenghus, Eldred, Shimei, and Tulipin were all opposed. And here came the reason for a Circle of Nine—a decision was always made, and as usual, the final say fell on the Archlord’s shoulders.

  “I will not support this,” Marsais stated, gravely. N’Jalss hissed with open contempt, his flat nose flaring, the ritual scars of his face twisting.

  “Then may I make another proposal?” Tharios inquired, waiting for Marsais’ permission before continuing, “I propose to send an emissary so we can keep a finger on the pulse of the situation in the South. As Tulipin so wisely pointed out, we shouldn’t close the doors entirely.”

  This proposal passed unanimously.

  Isiilde thought it high time she leave a place where she had no business being. She snuck out the way she had come as she pondered what she had overheard. She didn’t quite understand the situation in the South, but then she never understood war. What did Lachlan want with the Order of Wise Ones? And what of Eldred’s accusations—why would Lachlan need Vaylin’s help to unite the Thanes? The Void-worshiping kingdom was on the other side of the Bastardlands, on the tip of the eastern continent, along the Bitter Coast. Didn’t they have enough lands already?

  Whatever the situation between Vaylin, Kambe, and the Thanes, she certainly hoped the Order didn’t decide to help Kambe capture the Bastard Prince. She thought that it would be unwise to make an enemy of so formidable a man (aside from the fact that Sarabian had been rather taken by him). The bounty on the dread pirate’s head was up to fifty-thousand crowns, and that was from Kambe alone, it didn’t include the bounties that Mearcentia and Kiln were offering.

  As the nymph flitted from one teleportation rune to the next, hopping corridors and floors with mindless expertise, she became lost in her thoughts, imagining the infamous dread pirate as her sister had described him, which led to far-fetched imaginings and romantic fantasies worthy of any young woman. She soon forgot all about the Imp, as well as the flagon dangling from her belt, and her empty stomach unconsciously led her through the castle.

  The Spine was connected to the main Keep by a curtain wall that skirted the edge of a dizzying cliff. The rock face dropped three-hundred feet to the ocean below. On brighter days she liked to walk along the top of the wall, peering over the edge to watch the waves slam into the base with a spray of misty brilliance. But on a stormy evening such as this, she didn’t dare venture outside, instead she took the warmer route—a long hallway called the King’s Walk.

  The passage was rightly named for the myriad of masterpieces placed in perfectly symmetrical alcoves that flowed like waves along the stone walls. The statues had been carved or chiseled from marble, obsidian, rare woods, and precious metals, each representation as unique as the great men and women whom they portrayed. The statues were of rulers long dead who had shaped the face of Fyrsta.

  As always, Isiilde stopped in front of her favorite queen, and smiled at the rosewood carving of a woman who stood tall and graceful. Her name was Lith, the first queen of Kambe, and as the nymph had recently learned from Marsais, she had been a faerie—one of the Lindale. Of course Kambe had been little more than a wooded valley at the time, but Isiilde always liked to think of herself as a distant relative of the wooden beauty.

  “I haven’t been very good today,” she whispered, confiding to the wooden ears of the proud queen. The nymph ran her fingertips along the gleaming wood, tracing the queen’s hands. What had occupied those hands so long ago? Did her elegant fingers caress the strings of an instrument, or did she tend to the trees and earth? Had she been a warrior?

  Isiilde had trouble imagining those fine hands curled around a sword hilt. Marsais’ calm, gentle voice had tickled her ears when he described the Lindale, and the memory of his words made her glow, but still, it was difficult to imagine a time when faerie were not scorned. A faint sound tore her attention from the sculpture and her heart skipped a beat. She was not alone—a man stood beside her, but her alarm quieted a moment later.

  “Hello, Thedus,” she greeted. “I see you’ve been walking outside again. Not a very good day for that.”

  The Wise One who was neither old, nor young, was soaked to the bone and a small stream of water trailed in his wake. His tattered brown hair was plastered to his sunburnt skin (she was never quite sure where he managed to find sunlight on the Isle) and his torn trousers were soaked with mud, while his shirt was absent.

  Thedus did not greet her, but this was unsurprising, since as far as she knew he had never uttered a word to anyone. However, his mute company was always welcome, and the inconvenience to conversation was minimal, because he always listened to whatever she had to say. Isiilde thought Thedus a fine friend, and she hoped he thought the same of her.

  Most everyone in the castle claimed he was mad, and a good number had warned the nymph away from him, whispering that he was a dangerous sort. The Wise Ones did not cross him, they did not trifle with him, and even Thira appeared uneasy in his presence, but Isiilde had no such qualms.
She had spent a good part of her youth playing Raven and the Prey with him. Thedus always assumed the role of the Raven, because through trial and error, she had found him to be a terrible hider. His milky, half blind eyes, drifted slowly over to the statue of the faerie queen.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Isiilde sighed, wistfully. “Thedus, if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone else?” He didn’t take his eyes off the statue, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening. “I opened this warded flagon, and accidentally let an Imp loose in the tower.” She trailed her fingers along the long neck of the container. “I don’t suppose you know how to catch an Imp? I must put him back, but I don’t know how.”

  Thedus did not move, or show any sign of response for a full five minutes. She nearly gave up on him, but suddenly, like the slow creaking of a rising drawbridge, he turned, focusing milky eyes on the nymph. Thedus moved with sluggish purpose, as if the air were a quagmire and he was trapped within. He reached towards her, his fingertips harsh and worn as they trailed down her forearm. When he came to her hand, he picked it up, turning her palm face up and pressing something cold into her skin, curling her fingers around the small gift.

  Isiilde stared at Thedus in amazement. This was more of a response than she had ever received. The faded Wise One let her hand fall, turned and shuffled down the hallway towards the Spine like a Forsaken spirit drifting aimlessly from one thing to the next. Isiilde uncurled her fingers, narrowing her eyes at the object sitting disgustingly in the palm of her hand. It was a tooth—a molar covered in blood to be exact. She glanced from his gift to the flagon and thought she better get a second opinion.

  Compared to the rumbling pit in her stomach the flagon swinging from her belt was a distant (if somewhat uncomfortable) thought, so the nymph reversed course, heading straight to the main kitchens.

  It took a tremendous amount of energy to wield the Gift. As a result the Wise Ones had tremendous appetites. A few had toyed with Runes of Sustenance, but that research was quickly dropped after a string of botched attempts that resulted in deadly poisonings. Summoning food proved no better, unless one liked the taste of sawdust and swamp scum, so the mundane remained, forcing the mysterious Order to nourish themselves by ordinary means.

  On this particular evening the orderly bustle of the kitchens had quite another tune. Isiilde’s eyes went wide with alarm as she strode into the kitchens, which had been thrown into a state of chaos. It appeared that a tornado had ripped through, gutting the large chamber. Stews, beans, rice, puddings, and cakes had been thrown in every direction, and much of the mess now dripped down the walls. Pots were askew, utensils littered the floor, and flour dusted the kitchen staff as well as the guards, giving them the appearance of frantic apparitions charging to and fro, dousing the small fires.

  The swarthy head cook, or the ‘Ogre’ as he was affectionally referred to by his harried staff, was standing toe to toe with Thira. With his red hair awry and his features twisted into a mask of anger, he bellowed his rage, shaking a meaty fist beneath her hooked nose.

  At any other time this would have been entertaining, because Isiilde always enjoyed it when the Vulture’s feathers were ruffled by another, but at present, it only brought disappointment. It was unlikely that her stomach would be satisfied anytime soon.

  “You should have seen it earlier,” a soft voice murmured at her shoulder. She took an instinctive step forward, whirling around to find a clean shaven man with slightly pointed ears smiling down at her. It was Stievin, one of the Ogre’s stewards. He had always been kind to her and was never too busy to prepare her a plate of food.

  “What happened, Stievin?” she asked.

  “Something is loose in the castle. It swept through here, wreaking havoc like a banshee, but was gone as quick as it came.” The nymph quickly hid the flagon in a fold of her skirt. “Someone seemed to think it was an Imp or a Cinder cat. I tried to catch it of course, but it’s a slippery thing.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair, taming the unruly mass. “I suppose you were hoping for some food, m’lady?”

  “It doesn’t look like there’s much left.”

  “Anything at all is possible for you. Hold on a minute and I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled, displaying a perfectly straight set of white teeth before plunging into the chaos.

  Wanting to disappear, she pressed herself against the wall of the hallway, keeping a wary eye on Thira. The last thing she needed was to draw the Wise One’s attention. The Vulture was sure to find a way to blame the entire mess on her.

  It is your fault, you fool headed nymph, she thought, and then another, much more reasonable voice added, but he said it might be a Cinder cat.

  Stievin returned shortly, bearing a tray of food fit for a queen.

  “As promised,” he said, lifting the lid with a flourish.

  “Thank you!” she beamed. When he handed her the tray, his fingers brushed the back of her hand.

  “And I swear there’s not a scrap of meat on the plate.”

  Isiilde smiled. “You’re one of the few people who have always remembered that meat, of any kind, makes me ill.”

  “How could I ever forget?” Stievin asked, surprised. “I should never want to cause you harm.”

  He towered over her, his eyes were deep brown, and they were fixed upon her. Twelve years ago, when she had first met Stievin, she thought his eyes were the color of chocolate. This had immediately endeared him to the tiny nymphling. However, something had changed, and presently she did not like the way he looked at her. For reasons she did not understand, his gaze made her uneasy.

  “Speaking of harm,” he continued smoothly. “I’d be honored to see you safely home—what with the creature loose in the castle.”

  “Erm—no thank you. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do and I’m due back for my lessons.”

  Isiilde bobbed a curtsy and hurried away with her tray. Before rounding the corner, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Stievin was still watching.

  A cold prickle crawled up her spine. In an attempt to ward off the sudden chill, she pulled her cloak closer and quickened her pace.

  Eighteen

  THE LANKY WISE One shifted uncomfortably in a chair, plucking at his crimson robes with disinterest, listening with half an ear as the Circle argued about who to send to spy on the rising warlord. It didn’t matter who they sent. Very little mattered in a realm of pieces; broken bits all jumbled together, scattered and disorganized, made all the worse by those who were frantically trying to reassemble what could not be put back together.

  Besides, Marsais already knew that Tharios had his own spies in the South. There was immense tedium in possessing the gift of foresight, because it was damn difficult to fake interest when you knew the overall outcome. Marsais had stopped pretending long ago, and so he sat, studying the warp and weft of his robes while he mulled over the significance of its color. Was the crimson a reminder of the blood that stained the Archlord’s hands, or was it intended to conceal? There would be blood in the South and beyond, a great thick swath of it as vibrantly dark as the folds of his cloth. All paths led to war, however, the misty parts lay in getting there.

  A jolt of energy spiraled from the pinnacle of the domed ceiling overhead, striking the overly large table, splitting it in two. Marsais brightened with interest, leaning forward to watch the cracks splinter across the granite surface. He looked from the broken table to the ceiling, and squinted curiously at the churning storm above.

  “Oh, it’s raining,” he mused.

  “Beg your pardon, Archlord?” Eldred’s booming voice was dim compared to the roll of thunder overhead.

  “Marsais.” A familiar voice cut through the storm. It vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a massive Nuthaanian who was glowering across the table at him. Marsais glanced back at the table—only mildly surprised to find it undamaged.

  “Hmm?” The Circle of Nine were staring at him as if he were mad, which was not so
uncommon an occurrence.

  “What does the weather have to do with this?” Shimei inquired.

  “With what?” When one was lost, it was always best to answer a question with a question.

  “The scouts we’re sending,” Tharios explained, patiently.

  “I’m sure they will be well suited to the task,” he said, keeping his reply vague until he could recall where he was and what he was doing.

  Vagueness appeared to satisfy the Circle, stimulating the flow of conversation. Marsais returned his attention to the granite table. The round table was a solid, heavy weight of timeless stone—not an easy thing to break. He pondered the poor men who must have labored to carry the monstrosity inside. And for what? So a few ideological words could be scratched on its surface and the men of the Circle could use it as a footrest.

  His eyes traced the words that had been repeatedly etched into its surface by various hands over the past three thousand years. We protect the past to safeguard the future. What had knowledge of past mistakes ever accomplished? How many times had history repeated itself during his lifetime? There would always be men like Tharios, young and confident, with the stir of power rotting their blood. Tharios was an easy one to plot, his course was set, but how far would he travel down the path of power? What would satisfy his thirst? There lay the problem with the pathways of time—the issue of choice. It muddled things, cast an unknown variant into a vast sea of possibilities.

  The ancient Wise One sat back, unsuccessfully trying to slouch in his narrow chair. The movement returned his attention to the scroll tucked beneath his wide sash. There lay pain in that bit of parchment; an unbearable jab to his heart.

  There were variants and unknowns, and then there was a certain nymph. The delightful problem with his apprentice was she never knew what she was going to do from moment to moment, so how could he possibly foresee her future with any accuracy?