A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  Marsais stared silently at his old friend.

  “That town on the border of the Fell Wastes,” Oenghus reminded. “You knew it was going to be attacked by Wedamen, and yet you said nothing. Instead, you tricked me into leaving, knowing that I’d change the tide of the battle. That I’d interfere with the course you plotted through your sea of visions. Afterwards, while we were sifting through the tortured remains of the massacred, you told me that one child needed to die—one, out of thousands!”

  The stones shifted in answer to the Nuthaanian’s bellow. When the tremors died, Oenghus continued, lowering his voice, “And you wonder why I didn’t tell you about Isiilde’s mother. Why I’m less than pleased that my daughter is bound to you. I’ve seen what you’ll sacrifice for your schemes, and I’ve never been able to stomach it.”

  “I don’t expect you to, Oenghus,” Marsais whispered. “The ocean of blood on my hands is mine to bear, and mine alone. But I do remember. I do.” His voice was worn with endless time and boundless grief. “I would do anything to safeguard Fyrsta. You must at least believe that of me. If this realm falls to the Void, then the Sylph will perish, and that includes her daughter—your daughter.”

  Oenghus stared long and hard at the white-haired ancient, searching for any signs of deception or trickery. In the end, he nodded, satisfied.

  “Fine, I’ll accept that, but stop talkin’ about things that shouldn’t be talked about. I don’t like to think about the past—not my past, but further, beyond the ol’ River. It makes my head hurt.”

  “Not to worry, Oenghus, you were never much of a thinker, in any life. I have no intention of overtaxing your brain.”

  “And you’ve always been an annoying bastard, so don’t think I’m apologizing for the—” Oenghus gestured towards the bag of ice.

  “Lack of an apology accepted,” Marsais said with a pained grunt.

  Silence fell over the two men. Marsais slumped in his chair with a sigh, running a weary hand over his face as if he could erase the past, the present, and future, wishing to wipe the slate clean and begin anew. Unfortunately there was no going back, only forward, and if the stakes had not been high enough already; they had just gone up considerably.

  “How did you survive after Yasine died?” Marsais finally asked, breaching the silence. “Until last night, I feel as if I have been dead all these years.”

  “For the same reason you’ll be fighting the Hound—for Isiilde. I’ve stayed alive for my little sprite.”

  “Speaking of your little sprite,” Marsais began, clearing his throat. “I’d appreciate it if you brewed an ample supply of fire resistant potions for me. The more potent the better.” Oenghus narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending. “You know what happens when she sneezes—” Marsais hinted.

  “Aye, but it’s easy enough to dodge.”

  “Hmm, well the rest of your little sprite is just as flammable.”

  “What do you—” Oenghus cut off abruptly, eyes widening in realization; beard twitching with mirth. “And you’re gonna bloody trust me to mix up some protection for your bony carcass?”

  Laughter rumbled through the room like a symphony of thunder.

  Forty-six

  GUTHRE DRAGONBANE. THE name sent a shiver of fear through Isiilde. But her fear was justified. The Emperor’s champion bore an impressive list of titles that had been earned on the battlefield: Champion of Kambe, Right hand to the Emperor, Devout of the Blessed Order, and the highest of honors, Knight of the Sylph. Guthre Dragonbane was feared by his enemies, and rightly so.

  Legend claimed that he lost his eyes while battling Indrazor, Guardian of War, and as a reward for his fearless stand against a god, the Sylph blessed him with sight keener than any living creature.

  Isiilde’s stomach twisted as she sat on the bed watching Marsais get ready for his duel, because at the moment, her own champion did not look very fear inspiring. Marsais was tall and rangy rather than powerful, and his ribs showed through his weathered flesh. He reminded her of a winter wolf who was half starved—all bone and sinewy muscle without an ounce of meat on him.

  Currently, her wolf was rummaging through the clutter, muttering under his breath as he searched for something to wear. So far, he had located boots and trousers, but was having difficulty selecting a suitable shirt.

  “Marsais, have you checked in your armoire?” He started in surprise, looking up at her with glittering grey eyes.

  “Hmm, I have an armoire?” Isiilde pointed to the elegant piece of furniture in the corner of his bed chamber.

  “O, I don’t think I’ll find what I’m looking for in there,” he said, slowly, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “If there aren’t any clothes in there, then what is in there?”

  “An excellent question!” His gaze fell on a chest at the foot of his bed, and he brightened, flinging the top open to rifle through the contents. Ordinarily, curiosity would have seized Isiilde, propelling her towards the mysterious armoire, but at present, she didn’t feel like doing much of anything.

  “Can’t we just stay up here so you won’t have to fight the Hound?”

  “As tempting as that is—I believe we would eventually get hungry.” He gave her a lopsided grin before lifting a bundle of dark green cloth from a tangle of clothes. Isiilde couldn’t bring herself to smile back, instead, she hurried over, burying her face against his chest. His long arms encompassed her and she breathed in his scent: sharp and strong and sure.

  “Isiilde,” he murmured against her hair. “Do you remember what I promised you last night?” She remembered everything from last night; all of it wonderful.

  “But I can feel you, and you’re afraid.” It never occurred to her that Marsais, or Oenghus might be afraid of anything.

  “I fear only what my failure will mean for you. So with that said—I cannot fail.” He lifted her chin, kissing her softly before stepping back to slip the garment over his head. The dark tunic fit him perfectly. Runes, the color of autumn, swirled up the slim arms like leaves. She helped him lace the sleeves, which tapered to the back of his hands, secured by a ring on the end of each that slipped around his middle fingers.

  She stood back to survey the foreign garment. The effect was impressive. It emphasized his leanness, making his arms seem impossibly long. All in all, he looked like a snake that was poised to strike.

  Marsais thanked her, and then limped gingerly over to his mirror. A swath of velvet concealed the glass—all of his mirrors were covered. She had always thought it odd, but had never thought to ask. He squared his shoulders, reaching up with a hesitant hand to brush the fabric. A moment later, he steeled himself and snatched off the covering, letting it drop to the floor, forgotten as he stood gazing at his reflection.

  Isiilde joined him, standing on the footstool to peer over his shoulder. With his gleaming white hair and steely eyes, she thought that perhaps he stood a chance against the Hound after all.

  “What do you see?” she whispered in his ear.

  His reflection grinned roguishly. “A beautiful woman who is staring at me with eyes that could stop a heart.” At his words, a blush spread to the tips of her ears and a smile danced in her eyes.

  Forty-seven

  THE CAVERNOUS THRONE room made Isiilde uneasy at the best of times, and this was not the best of times—far from it. This was the last place where she wanted to be. The prospect of having to face anyone save Marsais and Oenghus made her tremble. She wanted to bury her face against Marsais and hide in his arms, but now was not the time.

  The Archlord, her Bonded, sat straight-backed on his imposing throne, tapping rhythmically against the dark stone of his armrest. She huddled in her heavy cloak and backed against the bear of a man behind her, taking some comfort in the massive arms that crossed protectively around her, holding her close.

  Oenghus wore his kilt in battle fashion, with a breastplate of banded leather and greaves strapped to his shins. A spiked shield was slung over one shoulder along with a brace of kni
ves crossing his chest. The massive, rune-etched war hammer, Gurthang, hung at his side.

  She had only seen him garbed for battle three times in her short life. Once during their hurried journey to the Isle, which was a dim memory of boredom, because she had spent most of the voyage in hiding. And then twice more when pirates had worked up the nerve to raid Coven. She had been cloistered in the Spine during the attacks, curled on the frost bear pelt while Marsais watched the battle through the Gnomish crystals. She remembered when Oenghus had returned, and would never forget the gore that covered him, nor the glint of enjoyment in his eyes.

  The ornamental gate at the end of the hall opened smoothly and Isek led a procession inside. A squad of Isle Guards fell in behind him, followed by paladins of the Blessed Order whose armor echoed with the grate of duty. The emissaries, officials, and Wise Ones came next and what appeared to be every apprentice and novice inside the Order. The latter whispered in hushed voices, gazes darting to the nymph, and so did everyone else for that matter.

  All her instincts screamed at her to bolt. She wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the paladin’s Law, which stated that all parties involved had to be present for a challenge. As such, Isiilde had no choice but to witness the upcoming bloodshed. But if she had the choice not to watch, would she take the coward’s route and allow Marsais to fight in her absence? Fear filled her as she studied his profile, not for herself, but for him. At the very least, she would stand with him and face what lay ahead.

  The Isle Guards fanned out, turning towards the attendants, watching the crowd as they jostled one another for a good position. Isek stepped into the empty space before the dais, bowing respectfully to the Archlord.

  “Archlord, I present High Inquisitor Multist of the Blessed Order.”

  Multist clanked forward, inclining his head, more to the audience than Marsais.

  “Knight Captain Mael of the Blessed Order,” Isek announced, gesturing towards a stern woman who stepped forward lightly despite her armor.

  “Lord Champion Guthre Dragonbane of Kambe.”

  The man who stepped forward was more fearsome than she had ever imagined. He was nearly as tall as Marsais, though his broad shoulders made him seem the taller of the two. Along with his height, he wore armor, crafted from jade dragon scales.

  It was his uncovered head that frightened her most. His pale blond hair was trimmed close, displaying the pointed ears of a Kamberian, while his square jaw whispered of Nuthaanian blood and his eyes—his eyes, or lack of, drew her in. A jagged scar sliced across the bridge of his nose, beginning and ending in his eye sockets. They lacked the normal optical organs, instead, silver liquid filled the fleshy basins, shifting like pools of mercury.

  Guthre’s nostrils flared, sniffing the air like the hound for which he had been named. His presence was formidable, a warrior who had been honed for battle and stripped of all else.

  “And Stievin Maxwell of Coven.” The name rolled off Isek’s tongue like a curse. Two paladins marched Isiilde’s attacker forward. Stievin focused on her with a look of the truly insane.

  At the sight of Stievin, she went numb. Oenghus’ arms tightened protectively, and Marsais’ spirit stirred inside of her, wrapping around her heart, glowing with warm reassurance.

  “All parties are present,” Isek announced, inclining his head to a paladin whose belt was stretched to its limits. “You may proceed, Inquisitor Multist.”

  “By the Blessed Order’s ruling and declaration regarding nymphs,” the Inquisitor began, unfurling an official looking scroll. “The said property, being referred to as Isiilde, was stolen and seized by Stievin Maxwell of Coven on the 23rd day of the Reddened month, 2010 After the Shattering. By order and law, Emperor Soataen Jaal III has right of challenge. By his request, Knight of the Sylph, Guthre Dragonbane will stand in the Emperor’s stead as champion.”

  Guthre Dragonbane stepped forward, handing a sealed scroll to the Inquisitor. “The victor will claim the property and no other challenges will be recognized as written in the Law and Decree of Damien Caal.”

  “I issue challenge!” An enraged outburst silenced all else. “The nymph was taken from me!” Stievin pounded on his chest, spittle spraying from his mouth. “Who took her from me? The nymph is mine.”

  A ripple of shock traveled through the crowd. Everyone looked to the other for answers, amidst a swell of confusion. Stievin’s fevered eyes latched onto her, and his next, fervent words made bile rise in her throat. “Come back to me, Isiilde.” Her knees buckled, but Oenghus’ arms kept her upright.

  “Silence!” Marsais’ voice cut through the murmuring crowd like a scythe through wheat, reverberating powerfully through the hall, as every mutilated face that decorated the pillars cried out in unison. All eyes turned to the Archlord as he rose with purpose; a single, clear chime issued from the coins weighing down his goatee.

  “I hold the nymph’s Bond.” His soft confession reached all ears. He held up his hand, displaying the head of her mark nestled in his palm. There was a universal intake of air from the sea of wide eyes. “I accept your challenge Stievin, moreover, I appoint Oenghus Saevaldr as my champion for the duel.”

  “Unacceptable!” The High Inquisitor stepped forward. “The barbarian is not involved in this matter.”

  “Lord Saevaldr has the right,” a harsh, damaged voice interrupted. It was the Hound who spoke up, blatantly overruling the Inquisitor. “He was her appointed guardian when she was stolen. Justice will be upheld.”

  Multist opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it, taking a step back and bowing to the Knight’s interpretation of the Law. The Hound’s liquid gaze focused on Marsais.

  “I was ordered to fight he who holds her Bond. Although I am saddened that it is you who I must fight, it will be a great honor to face you in battle, my old friend.”

  The Archlord stepped off his dais to stand before the Hound.

  “It would have been a greater honor to stand beside you against the Void once again, Guthre,” Marsais said, gripping his forearm in the gesture of comrades.

  “May our spirits drift side by side in peace when we meet in the great River,” the Hound intoned, stepping back to clench a fist to his heart in salute. “If you are ready, then I would like to get this over with. I was pulled from the Fell Wastes for this errand.”

  “O, by all means,” Marsais mused. “I can’t stand waiting for my death to come either. Hmm, the hours before are spent in useless contemplation.”

  “To the arena!” Isek’s voice boomed in the throne room.

  Forty-eight

  THE ENTIRE CASTLE had come to witness the duel, and the guards who were stuck at their posts would have given nearly anything to attend. The Hound’s arrival had caused enough stir, but when word spread like wildfire that the Hound would be fighting the Archlord to the death, every Wise One, save Thedus, dropped what they were doing and raced to the arena. The Hound’s fight with an apprentice cook was more akin to an execution, however, a duel with a reclusive Archlord who wasn’t given to public displays of skill, was quite another matter.

  The arena was mainly used for experiments involving dangerous runes, or explosive side effects. The circular basin in the center was filled with sand. Its smooth stone walls were etched with protective wards, creating a barrier of shimmering greenish light that extended forty feet overhead. Once in a great while, a disagreement would arise that couldn’t be resolved with words, and a Wise One would challenge another to a duel, where they settled their differences in blood.

  Such duels generally attracted a crowd, but never one as significant as this. People stood on their seats, shoulder to shoulder, stable boys climbed pillars and walls, and a few Wise One’s floated above the audience, while a good majority crowded along the battlements for a bird’s eye view of the fight. A chorus of voices rose with excitement, shouting their wagers, and jostling each other in the press of the crowd.

  The festive atmosphere sickened Isiilde as she watched the
bustle from a private balcony reserved for the Archlord. The spacious seats were only ten feet from the meticulously groomed sand. Across the arena, on the edge of the ring, Stievin readied himself for battle. She looked forlornly past the banners and streamers, the waving arms and sea of faces, to the sky overhead. If only she had wings, she thought, she could fly far away from the horrors to come.

  The sun had succeeded in burning away the morning fog, leaving a crisp, blue sky and autumn breeze. The cold tickled her nose, causing her to sneeze, which was accompanied by a burst of flame from her ears. The two paladins who were guarding her, one heavily scarred and the other too young to grow a proper beard, shifted uneasily at the burst of flame, hands straying to their weapons. Knight Captain Mael gestured for them to be at ease, while her own pale gaze focused thoughtfully on the nymph.

  “Piss and wind,” Isek cursed. “They’re not even accepting bets for this fight. O, and Marsais, thought I should let you know—the odds are against you for your duel.” Isek was rocking back and forth on his heels with merry good cheer.

  “Hmm, and who have you wagered on?”

  “Haven’t decided yet,” Isek said, flashing Isiilde a grin. She gave a squeak of fear and stared at her trembling hands. Marsais reached over his armrest, encompassing her hands in one of his with a flood of reassurance that traveled through their Bond.

  An energized hush fell over the crowd as Inquisitor Multist walked into the arena, striking a commanding pose in the center.

  “Stievin Maxwell of Coven has issued challenge to Marsais—” There was a slight pause as the Inquisitor realized that he didn’t know the Archlord’s surname. Isek shook with silent laughter. “—of the Isle, for ownership of the nymph. The winner will follow the Right of Ascent, until ownership is established. Oenghus Saevaldr of Nuthaan will stand for the Archlord.”