A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “I’ve always wondered if you were related to her.” Isiilde started at the familiar, musing tone of her master, but kept her eyes firmly on the back wall of the alcove where she hid. “I couldn’t help but notice you missed three of your lessons. Oenghus might not have told you, but I came by to see how you were fairing yesterday—and the day before.” There was a long silence, filled only by the clinking of mail and the soft chiming of his coins.

  “Well,” her master sighed heavily, “if you change your mind you know where to find me.”

  “What’s the point,” she seethed.

  “The point of what, Isiilde?”

  “Lessons! Lore books, reading, wielding the Gift?” Isiilde rose to her feet and stepped from behind the statue to face the tall seer. Torches flared along with her anger and Marsais took a quick step back, eyes wide and glittering.

  The guard tensed, hand straying to the hilt of her sword, torn between protecting the Archlord, or the nymph, if it came down to it.

  “The point? Why to learn of course.”

  “Why should I learn? I am to be sold.” Isiilde bristled, and her hot tears spat and hissed on her skin, mirroring the heat of her words. “Do you think they will let me stay here?” Two threatening steps forward put the nymph within striking distance and Marsais fought down an urge to retreat with her advance. “Do you think Oenghus will be able to come? Will they let either of you visit? I will never be able to see you again, because I am nothing more than a man’s plaything! What use is a nymph who can read and write? What good will that do in my slave master’s bed?” The torches along the tunnel stirred, surging three feet in the air to singe the stone.

  “Calm down, my dear,” Marsais urged. “It may not be as bad as you believe. They are rich kingdoms. You will be assured every luxury. You will have an army of servants at your disposal.”

  “So am I to be the king’s prize steed?” The embodiment of fury flared to life in front of Marsais and he stiffened, fingers twitching nervously. “To be groomed as my owner sees fit.” The words burned down her throat. “To be fed what he wishes and exercised when he deems it proper. To be mounted whenever my owner has an urge—do not speak to me of luxury!”

  With the final lash of her tongue, fire filled the tunnel, seeking for something upon which to sate its hunger. Marsais gathered the flame into a rolling ball with a quick flash of his fingers and hurled it into the stone wall, sending a spray of cinder scattering in all directions before darkness consumed them.

  “Stop it!” the nymph screamed in terror and anger and aching loss.

  “Stop what?” Marsais snapped back, his deft fingers already weaving, producing a rune of light that hovered overhead with a bluish glow. The guard drew her sword, poised to fight, but Marsais held a commanding hand out to her in warning.

  “I hate it when you do that,” Isiilde fumed.

  “Do what?”

  “Stop answering my questions with more questions,” she growled.

  “I did not realize you asked one,” he said, hastily. “Truly, I didn’t know you felt so strongly on the matter.”

  “I hate it when you take my fire!” There was power in her voice, and wrath in her eyes, but it sputtered shortly after it reared its fearsome head. Her voice cracked, raw with intensity, and she collapsed, quivering with weakness and slapping her fist uselessly on the stone floor. “It’s all I have.” Her final words were faded like a tendril of smoke trailing from a cold wick.

  The silence was absolute. The guard stood stricken, afraid to move lest she reawaken fury incarnate. A grain of sand slipped through the crux of the hourglass, the Archlord blinked, his heart beat and the weight of the ages settled upon his shoulders with a ragged breath. Marsais leaned heavily against the wall and finally slid down, slumping beside the nymph on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said with aching tenderness. At the sound of his voice, Isiilde raised her head. Grey eyes glistened like mist. And for the first time since she had known him, he looked old and spent in the dim. “I am so sorry for all of this.”

  “Why did you let them look at me?”

  “Forgive me if I annoy you, but I must answer your question with a question.” Marsais’ voice was thin and faded. “What would have happened if I did not allow them to view you, my dear? How would your mind have settled things?” Curiosity laced with firmness, an unlikely balance of the two.

  “Oen would have ripped off their heads,” she stated without hesitation. “And then we would all go somewhere warm to live our lives as we saw fit.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to walk down that path,” he chuckled, bitterly. “I wish such lovely visions would grace my eyes. Shall I tell your virgin ears what I see in my waking dreams?” His voice was not at all gentle and he did not wait for her to answer, but forged mercilessly forward, speaking to her of what he had never spoken before: his visions.

  “Beyond a doubt, Oenghus would have killed the emissaries. Now he becomes a treasonous traitor, hunted by not one, but four kingdoms. He would have taken you and fled, but where, my dear?” Marsais paused, glancing over at her in question.

  “The Bastardlands,” she replied quickly.

  “Hmm, let us follow but one thread then, and assume that you two could make it through the Western Gates undetected, despite the Blessed Order pursuing you. I ask you, Isiilde, what becomes of a lone nymph in the Void infested wilds after the Widow’s Own hunt down Oenghus and slit his throat in the night? What will you do then?” Marsais gestured sharply as if erasing a slate. “Another path! I refuse to let the emissaries see you. Caitlyn Whitehand takes you back to Kambe, only you never arrive on the shores, for pirates can’t resist a prize such as you,” he said, searching her face with haunted eyes. It was then that Isiilde realized that he had lived out each possibility in the visions which plagued him.

  “Are you too innocent to see that Fate? A nymph as beautiful as you on a ship full of scoundrels?” She shivered at the pang of anguish in his hoarse voice. “Shall I go on? Do you want to hear what would happen if I kept you locked away in my tower? Oh, to be sure, no man would ever touch you, but shall I tell you the price that comes with such a dream? Would you like to hear about the war that would destroy the Isle and kill every breathing thing on it before rippling through the rest of the realm?”

  “Stop it, please,” she whispered, fearfully, not for her, but for his own sake. How could he live like this? How could he bear to watch so much suffering and death? Why had she never realized the burden he carried?

  “This realm is a cruel and twisted place, Isiilde. Sometimes you must choose the lesser of two evils. That is why I allowed them to inspect you, and I do not regret it. I cannot regret it.” The last echoed with firm conviction in the tunnel. The nymph wanted to curl up and never open her eyes again, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “They were laughing at me, Marsais.”

  “I wish they were, but I assure you they were not.”

  “But I heard them—I don’t look like other nymphs. My breasts are small, I have no meat, no curves. My ears are big. Why do they desire me?”

  “You are beautiful, my dear, though you don’t see it.”

  “You didn’t even look at me.” There was pain beneath the accusation, and confusion. “Why not?”

  Marsais considered her question, heard her confusion, and saw to the root of the matter. “Not so long ago, I told you that you should trust no man, save Oenghus. Ancient I might be, but I am still a man, and I do not trust myself with you. That is why I have never taken your hand or greeted you with the embrace of a friend. I have always strived to behave as a gentleman and I will not risk your innocence, or betray your trust.”

  Isiilde reached for his hand, but he snatched it away with a shuddering breath.

  “Please, Isiilde, do not.” His rejection caused her more pain than the leering stares of the emissaries. The nymph stood, arching a delicate eyebrow at the man who sat at her feet.

  “Yet
you have no qualms with kissing my hand when you are drunk.” From the surprised look on his haggard features, she surmised that he did not even remember, which infuriated her and she lashed out with words that cut him to the bone. “You are no gentleman, Marsais.”

  Isiilde turned and stalked down the tunnel. The guard of the First Watch hurried after her charge, leaving the ancient Archlord slumped against the wall in defeat.

  Thirty-three

  “I THOUGHT THIS was supposed to be a bloody inquiry.” Oenghus glared at the Inquisitor. The pale blonde who sat behind the desk in the corner of the interrogation room looked up from her notes and arched a thin eyebrow.

  “O, a thousand apologies, cursing is part of my bloody vocabulary. A savage like me can’t much help it,” Oenghus said, offering the woman behind the desk a smile, and then turned to growl at the golden robed Inquisitor who was laying his instruments on the table with the precision of a Mearcentian servant.

  Oenghus Saevaldr had been kept waiting for four hours without his pipe in a windowless room. The paladin had called it a room of ‘reflection’, however, the Nuthaanian Berserker called it tedious. The only thing he had reflected on was who he was going to bash over the head first. Oenghus didn’t have anything personal against Zahra—she was what she was—but her Blessed Order of Paladins was a constant thorn in his side.

  The barbarian’s patience was running thin. His chair was damn uncomfortable (not that he fit in most chairs). And the room itself was a source of irritation. In the typical paladin fashion, they had decorated with sparse opulence, seeing no need for a fireplace or rug. Instead, a massive gold statue of the Radiant One, Goddess Of All That Was Just, Guardian of Good, the Divine bloody Savior Zahra filled the majority of the room.

  The golden robed Inquisitor adjusted the last of his tools and turned to leave, pausing to scrape and grovel at the statue’s feet. Oenghus snorted and rolled his eyes, having no patience for reverence of any kind. A Nuthaanian was more apt to pick a fight with one of his own gods than bow at the deity’s feet.

  Oenghus eyed the tray of trinkets. They were mostly for show, purposefully left out in an attempt to intimidate the unrepentant. The implements had no affect on Oenghus. He had been through the test many a time and knew the ritual by heart.

  First, they would check him for signs of a taint. Once they determined that he was not a Voidspawn masquerading as a quarrelsome Nuthaanian, then they would weave an Orb of Truth around him, asking him the same bloody questions about his supposed desecration of the temple. All of which would take an extremely long time.

  A low rumble echoed in the room as he sighed. His poor sprite. She had hardly left her room since the emissaries rudely inspected her. He didn’t blame her one bit, however, he could hardly coax her to eat, let alone speak. She had a right to be angry. The two people who she trusted most in her life had subjected her to a humiliating ordeal. Marsais had cautioned him of other paths and consequences, but by the gods he wanted to pummel the Seer and his visions.

  Still, Oenghus had to agree, the time for flight had not been ideal. As any seasoned warrior knew—sometimes timing was the difference between life and death. Even with that knowledge, it had taken every ounce of his self control to keep from ripping those bastards limb from limb.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to lean back, but the bloody armrests were in the way. His patience with the chair had come to an end. He gripped the wood, yanking the armrests clear off, flinging them to the floor before leaning back for the first time in four hours.

  The woman behind the desk looked up from her notes with a tight-lipped frown, but showed no further reaction before returning to her writing. Oenghus returned to his thoughts. There was still a good chance that Mearcentia would win the bid, and all in all, the Sea Lord was a good man. Oenghus could live with the knowledge that his daughter was safe in the hands of King Syre II, and he hoped—prayed that his own plans would not be tested. A life on the run was no life for his daughter.

  Oenghus tugged on his braid, prodding the splintered wood with his boot. Curse the future, it would come in its own bloody time.

  At present, he was worried what would happen if he wasn’t home by nightfall. Isiilde was terrified of the darkness in the Spine and his heart ached at the thought of her sitting in that cold tower alone.

  Unreasonably, he blamed all his troubles on the cursed woman who was currently scratching away on an endless supply of parchment. Knight Captain Acacia Mael of the Blessed Order. The slight point to her ears, slanting eyes, and pale blonde hair, marked her as Kamberian. That she was a warrior, was clear, possessing a hard physique and an alertness to match. She might have been an attractive one if she let her hair down and made some effort to smile.

  She was Antony’s replacement. The old captain, who had been a good friend of Oenghus, had finally retired to a warmer climate. Sir Antony had been a bit more lenient than most paladins, and Oenghus wondered how this inquiry would go. Considering the amount of time he had been kept waiting—things definitely weren’t off to a promising start.

  Two Inquisitors glided silently in, bowing at the large feet of the ridiculous statue before taking their places beside the table. The Knight Captain pushed her chair back and stood with a clink of golden mail. She walked to the center of the room, clasped her hands, and studied Oenghus for a silent minute.

  “I am Acacia Mael, Knight Captain of the Chapterhouse here in Drivel.”

  “Oenghus Saevaldr, my lady, or should I call you, your holiness?” He flashed her his most charming grin.

  “You may call me Captain Mael.”

  “You may call me Oenghus,” he nodded graciously.

  Captain Mael ignored him. “This was to be a mere inquiry, however, I’ve discovered this isn’t your first offense.”

  “Can we skip the flirting and get on with it?” he growled.

  “I had not realized you were in a hurry, Oenghus.”

  “Aye, a bit of one.”

  “Then perhaps you will think twice before destroying a temple dedicated to Zahra.”

  “I wasn’t much thinking at all,” he grunted. “Should I have stood by and let the fiend piss all over Zahra’s head?”

  The Inquisitors jerked, eyes blazing with righteous indignation, but the Knight Captain quickly cut their impending tirade off with a gesture.

  “I would rather you use more sense,” the Knight Captain replied, evenly, nodding to the Inquisitors to continue.

  “Finally,” Oenghus muttered, leaning back in the abused chair and planting his powerful legs to either side. The Knight Captain glanced at the unfortunate view his kilt offered, but remained unflustered. The Inquisitors began their complicated ritual of prayers, which was their equivalent of the Wise One’s Lore, only bloody irritating.

  “I assume you know the drill since this is not your first inquiry?”

  “As you say,” Oenghus nodded, extending his hand, palm up. The Knight Captain stepped forward and took his wrist in her firm, calloused grip.

  “Nice hands.” His compliment was sincere. She ignored him and began chanting in the flowing tongue of her Order. When she had completed the ritual, a pure, pristine light flared to life, hovering over the palm of his hand, revealing the essence of his spirit. Surprise flickered across the Knight Captain’s light blue eyes, however, she recovered quickly, studying the swirling orb of gold until it dissipated.

  “Can’t get further from Void tainted than that, aye?” Oenghus smirked. The Knight Captain met his gaze with cool appraisal. “Let me guess—you’ve never seen its like before. It’s because I’m blessed.”

  “I have seen it before.”

  “You served on Iilenshar?” It was Oenghus’ turn for surprise.

  “Yes, I did, but I doubt a ‘blessed man’ would be caught urinating on our temple wall.” The Knight Captain walked over to her desk, selecting a stack of reports.

  “I was drunk and got lost,” he defended. “Don’t tell me you’ve never ha
d one too many.”

  The Knight Captain ignored his question, shuffling through the papers, but if he were any sort of judge of emotion, he’d wager that she was buying time so she could decide how to proceed with the inquiry. A pure essence was a rare thing. Unfortunately, it appeared that the Knight Captain was a stickler for protocol, because she continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

  “Your list of grievances are extensive. Drunkenness, disorderly conduct, destruction of property—well I could continue, but it’s safe to say you’ve started fights in just about every tavern on the Isle. Three of which were with paladins.”

  “They got in my bloody way.”

  “Six paladins and a shrine to Asmara ‘got in your way’? The details of that fight are rather obscure,” she noted with a disapproving quirk of her lips.

  “I had a good reason for that.”

  “Let me guess—you were drunk?”

  “Aye, and a bloody good reason that is,” he grunted, tugging on one of his braids before continuing, “That, and I was bored.” It sounded a lot like something his daughter would say.

  “You will find, Oenghus Saevaldr that I am not as lenient as the former captain. I warn you, with a reckless and uncivilized record such as yours, this inquiry will be far more thorough than my predecessor’s.”

  Thirty-four

  A THIRD, POUNDING demand reverberated in the stairwell at the top of the tower, jangling the heavy iron handle. There was no answer. The nymph clenched her fist again, slamming it against the wood, heedless of the pain shooting along her forearm as she willed Rashk to appear. But the Rahuatl did not answer and Oenghus was still absent. Isiilde was suffocating, and there was no one to help her climb from beneath the stone. Her blood boiled, confusion reigned, and she felt like a dam about to burst.