“Then I will take her back to Kambe,” Caitlyn threatened. “The Emperor’s orders were explicit in this matter.”
“Hmm.” Marsais stroked his goatee, eyes flickering to Isiilde for the first time. “One does wonder why she wasn’t taken to Whitemount. Perhaps the seas are a bit more turbulent than the Emperor would currently like.” His voice was soft and suggestive. “No one is safe with the Bastard Prince roaming the seas, especially a treasure such as she.” Caitlyn’s mouth clicked shut.
“Very well, as Archlord, you may stay,” she surrendered with a respectful nod. A shuddering exhalation swept past Isiilde’s lips.
“How magnanimous of you,” Marsais muttered, dryly.
“I’ll be right outside, Sprite.” Oenghus squeezed her shoulder and leant forward to whisper in her ear, “Don’t be afraid.” The Nuthaanian ducked beneath the doorway, but not before he pinned Marsais with a baleful glare.
“Stand on the pedestal.” Caitlyn placed a supporting hand on her elbow, but Isiilde shook it off with a defiant glare, stepping on top of the cushioned pedestal unassisted. Isiilde felt like a vase on display as Caitlyn stepped back to appraise her.
Ignoring the healer, she glanced at Marsais. The Archlord was impassive, however, she knew him too well, and his twitching fingers betrayed his turmoil.
“You will not speak, nymph, unless I tell you to do so. Keep still and do not meet their eyes, look straight ahead, or down at the floor if you must, otherwise the Kilnish officials will see it as a lack of respect.”
“May I sit? My legs are shaking.” She barely recognized her own tremulous voice.
“You must stand and do as you’re told. This won’t take long.” Caitlyn paused to primp the nymph one last time, tilting her chin just so, and fluffing her robe before striding out.
“Marsais,” she pleaded, but her master said nothing, looking as pale as his white hair. He gave her a slight shake of his head, stirring the coins on his goatee with a soft chime.
The door opened and her body went numb as six men, dressed in the finery of their respective kingdoms, entered the room. If she had tried to run she doubted her legs would obey, let alone support her.
First came the Kilnish lord; dark as obsidian, broad-shouldered, and firm-jawed. His chest was bare, muscles rippling with power. Chin raised proudly; pale eyes appraising. An assistant followed closely on his heels, his position apparent by his lighter skin and the ring piercing his nose like a bull’s snout. He carried a ledger and a quill in hand.
The Xaionian officials were garbed in bizarre trappings of leather and buckles with silver piercings linked by thin chains. They appraised the nymph with the cool disinterest of merchants, effecting a bored stance that convinced no one.
The Mearcentian lords entered last. They were dressed in high collared robes of embroidered fabric that resembled a gleaming sea. Trinkets and charms were woven into their long black hair. They paused to bow respectfully to the Archlord before turning their gazes to the nymph. The room felt small, the eyes close, and the men moved slowly around their desired prize.
“Her name is Isiilde Jaal’Yasine, and her blood is pure, a daughter of Emperor Soataen Jaal III.” Caitlyn began without offering introductions. The men did not appear to mind, their eyes were fixed upon her—studying, assessing, greedy with possession. She did not like their stares. The nymph cast about for Marsais, who stood silently off to the side, watching the men.
After a single circuit, the Xaionian officials stopped directly in front of her and one gestured languidly towards her robe. “Let us see what this creature has to offer.”
Caitlyn stepped forward, reaching for the sparse robe. Isiilde clutched at the front of the garment as it began to slide from her shoulders.
“I will not!” she squeaked. The Xaionian merchants gave a sickening smile.
“She will need to learn obedience,” the Kilnish lord told his scribe who made a note in his ledger.
Marsais stepped next to the Xaionian, ignoring the man to look into her eyes. Standing on the pedestal as she was, they were nearly of the same height.
“My dear,” his gentle voice soothed her heart. “I want you to look at me, and focus as you would on your fire.”
“But Marsais, please—” A tear broke free, shimmering down her cheek.
“Look into my eyes,” he whispered for her alone, standing tall and proud in her line of sight. “I am the only man here.”
Caitlyn tugged the robe free, and it slid from her shoulders. Cold air whispered against her bare flesh as the silk pooled at her feet. An involuntary gasp rose from the throats of her buyers. The air was thick with lasciviousness as they circled her nakedness like vultures, however, she paid them no mind as she was drawn into a calm pool of grey.
“I have seen boys more shapely than this nymph,” remarked the Kilnish lord.
“Some clients find that appealing,” the Xaionian mused.
“Does she not eat?” the Mearcentian asked with concern.
“She is so frail,” his companion agreed.
“Too willful.” Their voices droned on and she cared not what they said, because they were ever so far away, distant flutters of blustery air and nothing more. Marsais’ lips twitched in the slightest of smiles as the light of his eyes drew her from the crux of the hourglass, where the sands of both past and future mingled.
“She will need a proper diet.”
“How old is she?”
“Her breasts are too small—”
“My assistant will check her claim to innocence.”
“You will not touch her!” Marsais snapped, breaking the spell. Isiilde jerked from the uncharacteristic harshness in his tone. The connection was broken, and it left her cold and rigid with a heart that thundered like a waterfall in her ears. The emissaries took a hasty step away from the Archlord, eyeing him warily.
“I have already established her innocence,” Caitlyn smoothly interjected into the tense silence.
“You represent the interests of Kambe,” the Xaionian pointed out, seizing an opportunity to return to the familiar topic of commerce. “We wouldn’t know she had been sullied until after payment was received. It is in your best interest to make that claim.”
Marsais stepped directly in front of Isiilde, blocking her body with his own as he turned to face the emissaries. His long hair brushed her bare skin and she could feel the heat of his body beneath his robes.
“I will vouch personally for the nymph. I give you my word as Archlord that no man has ever touched her.” The Kilnish lord started to object, but Marsais silenced him with a sharp gesture. “Every healer knows there are ways to mask a loss of virginity. A far more accurate test for a nymph is her mark. If she bears none, than she has never bonded with a man,” he reasoned firmly before adding with a distasteful twist of his lips, “You have seen more than enough of her to confirm this.”
“You must hear the nymph sing,” Caitlyn said, brightly, trying to diffuse the tense standoff, which resembled a herd of stallions preparing to fight for a single mare. “Isiilde, sing for them,” she commanded.
The nymph stiffened, bristling with indignation. “My voice is my own and I will not be ordered about,” she declared with a flash of haughty fury, meeting each and every eye in the room with defiant challenge. But rather than take offense, her outburst had quite another effect on the emissaries; their eyes went wide, drinking the sight of her fierce spirit with thirsty gazes.
“You have seen enough. I strongly urge you to leave, now.” The edge in the Archlord’s voice was unmistakable—more threatening than a shout from the Berserker.
For once, Caitlyn didn’t offer objection. There was danger in the air, building by the second. With every lingering moment, lust clawed at their bodies.
Marsais’ fingers twitched at his side as he swept an impenetrable gaze over the emissaries. One by one they tore their eyes from the vision of legend, and filed out, casting furtive glances as they left. When the door shut, Isiilde�
�s legs gave out and she collapsed in a sobbing heap, clutching at the back of Marsais’ robes. He did not turn to comfort her.
“Thank you, Archlord.” Caitlyn swallowed with an echo of fear. “I had no idea how—potent she would be.” The healer nearly looked ashamed, however, it was quickly stifled, replaced with brisk efficiency.
“Fetch Oenghus,” Marsais ordered. The healer did as he bid, and a moment later, Oenghus stormed in, wrapping his trembling daughter in a soft blanket and carrying her off without a word.
❧
The Archlord of the Wise Ones’ Isle stood before the rain battered windows; a slash of crimson against the grey. His elegant hands were clasped behind his thin frame as visions gleefully danced around him. His reflection gleamed in the streaked glass, suffering a hundred different torments in all the vast and varied possibilities that might snip his thread, but he cared not, because his mind was filled with one thought—one everlasting memory that would haunt him to the end of his days—the dazzling beauty of her emerald eyes.
Thirty-one
THE ARCHLORD WATCHED the predatory gait of Tharios. The younger Wise One paced in front of the floor to ceiling window of flawless crystal. He was dressed in crimson robes and struck an impressive figure. More so than the current Archlord at any rate.
Even his study was more impressive than the dusty tomes that currently kept Marsais company. The plush frost bear pelt was hardly as mysterious as the blue runes burning a halo into the stone floor. Portal Magic. And not a common sort. It lacked the gruesome style of the Bloodmagi, and looked nothing like the golden Portals of Iilenshar. This was something ancient, similar to the Gateways hidden beneath the Spine.
Marsais did not recognize the rune pattern, but then, there were so many bleak gaps in his memory that it came as no surprise, nor was a cause for much worry. Knowledge was a beautiful thing; it came to one when it chose and not before. As if to underscore his thoughts, the vision vanished, or perhaps it shifted (he could never really tell).
“Do I dare ask?” Isek stood impatiently on the other side of the cluttered desk.
“Ask what?”
“What you’re staring at?”
“Not unless it’s what we were talking about,” Marsais replied, sharply. Isek gave him an even look that reminded him of his mother. Marsais took a deep breath, running his fingers through his disheveled hair. When was the last time he bathed, or for that matter, slept? His assistant and dear friend continued unperturbed.
“I was relaying the news from the Thanes in the South.” Isek pointed to a stack of reports delivered by Whisperers. “In short, Lachlan has united the Thanes without swinging a blade. The newly united kingdom is in joyous festival and he has sent greetings of ‘peace and goodwill’ to all his neighbors.”
“Hmm, didn’t Ramashan do the same when he liberated that cursed island in the name of peace?”
“Aren’t we cynical today,” Isek muttered, shifting to another report. “He has named his new kingdom, ‘Lachland’.”
Marsais snorted, rolling his eyes at the name. “By the gods what an unimaginative absurdity.”
“Yes, imagine a ruler naming his lands after himself, such as—Marsais zar’Vaylin.” Isek directed a pointed look at Marsais.
“You’re not supposed to know that.”
“Well, you shouldn’t get drunk and tell me.”
Marsais yanked on his goatee in irritation, a habit that he had picked up from his berserking apprentice some years back.
“Oenghus is being ‘questioned’ by the noble order of our blessed patron Zahra, Guardian Of All That Is Good, concerning his desecration of her temple. The Circle has conveniently called an emergency council, and since he is absent, Thira has graciously agreed to sit in his place until he returns. One crown says they’re going to reassess our position in the South.”
“You’d make an excellent seer,” Marsais replied dryly.
“Of a more delicate nature, the bidding for Isiilde is in high swing. They have been communicating with Kambe by way of Whisperers for the past four days. Xaio is on top at the moment. They have thrown in exclusive trade rights and free passage for Kambe—as long as Isiilde lives. Although Mearcentia could do the same and we all know how Kiln feels about losing to them, so I wouldn’t count them out yet.”
Marsais scratched at the burning scar on his chest, glancing at the plush pelt. Isiilde was there, broken and battered, dressed in the trappings of a Xaionian bed slave, staring blankly at some unseen vision as he stared now.
How she had faded.
The Seer surged to his feet, unable to look upon remorseless Fate any longer. He dunked his head in the wash basin, scrubbing at his eyes as if something so simple could wipe the memory from his mind. Just as quickly, he pushed the hair out of his face. Water dripped down his robes as he clutched the side of the table, trying not to be sick.
Isek watched him carefully. “When did you sleep last, Marsais?”
“I do not need a nursemaid,” he snarled.
“You can’t go to the council looking like that.”
“Then you go.” He paced his study, closing his eyes against the shifting sands of time.
“Why don’t you buy Isiilde?” Isek’s voice was a low murmur.
“I can’t.”
“The bidding is up to four hundred thousand crowns, but if you empty your coffers and throw in a few ‘trinkets’ from that vault of yours, then I’m sure you could match it.”
“Do not tempt me!” Marsais shouted.
Isek’s brows shot up. A long shudder seized the Seer’s thin frame, and he took a deep, calming breath that did nothing to ease the pain twisting his heart.
“I went to the pleasure house some months back. I needed a respite, a bit of the seed for my mind. You can’t imagine the visions plaguing me of late, Isek,” he confided. “I had a true vision, a dreaming daze atop my perch, like a bird of prey watching the byways of time. It all stretched out so clearly. In one, I walked down that path, but in our happiness this realm will suffer. I am not meant for her. I cannot choose her!”
Isek answered this outburst with silence. Finally, when he spoke, he chose his words carefully, “Marsais, for as long as I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you in love—until now.”
“My heart perished too long ago for that,” he whispered. “I cannot love Isiilde as she deserves. I only wish her happiness—to protect her until a more deserving man arrives.”
“That sounds a lot like love to me, old friend.”
“There is but one path that leaves her untouched—one death.” He swallowed back the words like bile rising in his throat. “I can’t do it, I couldn’t before, and I can’t now, however, Oenghus will if it comes to that.”
“You’re not making any sense, old fellow. What are you talking about?”
“Never mind.” Marsais waved a dismissive hand. “I’m a raving madman, remember.”
“If you’re going to the council, then you should get cleaned up.”
“Stand for me. Say what you like. I care not if they take my throne,” Marsais snapped, sparing one last look at the empty rug before stalking out of his study.
Thirty-two
THE HEAVY CLINK of shifting chain mail echoed in the hollow tunnel of the King’s Walk. Flames fluttered restlessly in their sconces. The guard of the First Watch glanced uneasily at her charge, whose red head peeked from behind a rosewood statue. The guard resisted the urge to remove her helm and wipe the perspiration from her brow. She silently cursed the short straw she had drawn for the privilege of guarding the nymph today.
The unit of guards began as four, but the flighty faerie had employed a clever series of tactics. Through misdirection, twisting corridors, secret passages, and pure deviousness, the nymph had dwindled her guard to one. The remaining guard could not leave to gather reinforcements, so she watched the nymph closely, waiting for the creature to bolt. In the meantime, she hoped her compatriots would find them soon.
Isiilde n
arrowed her eyes at the Isle Guard who stood some ten feet down the King’s Walk. The stern-faced woman looked none too pleased, and slightly humiliated—as she should be, considering how easily the nymph had thwarted her cohorts.
Why did they bother? Isiilde wondered with a sigh, ducking back behind the statue to rest her head against the cool wood of the faerie queen’s thighs. She poked sullenly at the sheathed dagger on her hip, wondering if it was disrespectful to use Lith as a backrest. Since they were both faerie, she reasoned that she was allowed some liberties.
As far as Isiilde was concerned, faerie had to stick together, because humans were traitorous, such as Marsais and Oenghus had proved three days prior.
Some months ago, she had confided in Marsais her plans to run away, and now, when her impending sale loomed, he had assigned four guards to her day and night. This complicated her plans considerably (not that she had worked out a plan as of yet).
It was difficult to think with dull guards standing about. She had spent most of the morning trying to shake them off her trail. Unfortunately, the remaining guard was stubborn and now her feet were sore.
The afternoon dragged on, dinner was approaching, and Isiilde had avoided another lesson with Marsais. She had not seen him since he left her weeping on the floor, but then she had also refused to leave her room when he visited.
The men’s eyes had gleamed so brightly that it made her skin crawl. The memory of their gazes made her feel less than a dog. Isiilde didn’t want to see anyone, she wanted to hide, and never again be an object of desire as she had been on that cursed pedestal. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin atop her knees, pondering her misery.
As if her own predicament were not bad enough, Oenghus was in grave trouble due to his fight with the Imp (which was her fault) and the destruction of Zahra’s temple (which was made worse by her). And early this morning, the Blessed Order had come to take him away for questioning on charges of sacrilege. What if he was arrested and never returned? Men had been executed for sacrilege, and now Oenghus would pay for her worthlessness. She felt like crying, but all her tears had been spent over the last few days. Tears were useless anyway.
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