A Thread in the Tangle (43 page)

“Yet
you
tie us to Kambe,” Tharios replied.
 
“What has Kambe ever done for us?
 
We
advise them,
we
aide them,
we
fight their petty skirmishes.”

“What would Lachlan do for us?
 
Or should I ask, what would this man do for you, Tharios?”

“You would ask that of me, Archlord?”
 
The black-haired Wise One gave a slight chuckle.
 
“Such a question presented from a man who has the Emperor’s nymph stowed away in his chambers is a bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say?
 
Rather obvious benefits, that.”
 
Isiilde’s mouth fell open at his suggestive remark.

“I’ll warn you once and then no more: leave my apprentice out of this or I shall take it personally.”
 
Although Marsais’ tone was quiet, his words carried as much threat as any roar from Oenghus.

“I only bring the whispers and rumors into the open, Archlord, nothing more.
 
If it is not on everyone’s tongue than it is in their thoughts.”

“Rumors regarding my apprentice may stay in their thoughts, however, I will not hear it spoken of in my presence.”

 
“Even you cannot deny that my words have merit.
 
Appearances can be as damaging as truth and it appears to the majority that we are tied with Kambe.”

“We are tied with all kingdoms who oppose the Void.”

“Which Lachlan opposes as well,” Tharios said, firmly, taking a step towards the throne in his exuberance.

“Does he?”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“I certainly have mine,” Marsais replied, dryly.

“Certainly he has his own schemes, every ruler must, and no one faults them for it, but in
this
instance, our Order has something to gain.”

“Trouble?”

“Respect!” Tharios hissed, annoyance twisting his features for a split second before he recovered, dropping diplomacy neatly into place.
 
“It’s time we remind the lands who we are.
 
That we aren’t servants of Kambe, or anyone else.
 
Don’t you see—we’ve fallen behind, there’s no power to be found in dusty tomes of the past.
 
The Bloodmagi, the Mystics, by the gods, even the barbarian Shamans have unlocked secrets that our Lore cannot touch.”

“I was present for the council and heard your argument the first time.”

“This Order has done nothing but wavered since you took the throne, and now, you pass up your only chance for redemption.”
 
Isiilde squeaked at the blatant insult before she could stop herself.

“Hmm, I wasn’t aware I was in need of redemption.”

“This Order is in need, because of you and your whims.
 
I ask you respectfully, Archlord, to reconsider Lachlan’s offer.”

“A most curious form of respect,” Marsais mused, and then he leaned forward, coins chiming with the sway of his goatee.
 
His next words were void of amusement.
 
“You forget who I am, Tharios, so allow me to remind you.
 
I am a seer of no small talent and I tire of your masquerade.
 
Let us get to the root of the matter.”
 
Grey eyes flickered down the hall, gazing intently to the nameless chamber beyond.
 
There was nothing there, save the ornate gate that separated this hall from the next.
 
Tharios smirked at the Seer’s lapse.
 
But then Marsais continued to speak, eyes still fixed on the beyond as if he were occupying two places at once.
 
“I know your desires.
 
I know what lies in your heart and fills your dreams.”

“It’s no secret,” Tharios replied, casually.
 
“Everyone knows I plan to cast my name for your throne.”

“I speak of your other desire,” Marsais whispered, his voice echoing from all corners, as his eyes shifted, piercing the younger Wise One with steely wisdom.

Tharios took a step back, hesitating, but the effect was lost when Marsais glanced back down the long hall.
 
This time there was someone there.
 
Tulipin Tuddleberry was floating towards the throne.

Tharios glanced over his shoulder at Tulipin, and then whirled, issuing an ultimatum, “Don’t get too comfortable, old man.”

“Hmm, you will not find what you seek,” Marsais said, evenly.

Tharios blinked, clearly taken aback, but then his smooth mask slipped and a gloating smirk twisted his pale features.
 
Without waiting to be dismissed, Tharios turned on his heel and stalked from the throne room.

Twenty-three

M
ARSAIS
STARED
STRAIGHT
ahead, stroking his braided goatee as Tulipin drifted up to hover before his imposing throne.
 
The gnome looked more agitated than ever, twisting a familiar looking scroll in his pudgy little hands.
 
Isiilde fidgeted with worry from her concealment, half hoping that Tulipin had been so impressed by her manuscript that he had personally come to give praise.

Tulipin cleared his throat, but either Marsais didn’t notice, or see fit to acknowledge him.
 
The floating Wise One stifled a flare of irritation, readjusting his crossed legs in the stretch of silence that followed.
 
After two more noisome throat clearings and a muttered Archlord, Tulipin grew exasperated and bellowed Marsais’ name.

The Archlord raised his hand swiftly, demanding silence as he sat, eyes turned inward, lost in thought.
 
Time ticked onwards.
 
The gnome became increasingly impatient, but dared not defy so blunt a command in the Archlord’s own hall.
 
Perhaps it had something to do with the warning outside the entrance—whatever the reason, Tulipin waited with grudging obedience.
 
Grey eyes suddenly widened, and Isiilde knew Marsais had found whatever answer he sought.

“Hmm?” Marsais finally acknowledged.

Tulipin exploded, shaking the scroll at the Archlord.
 
“That insolent—”
 
The gnome’s face turned the same color as his hair, which made him look like a floating beet.
 
“—brat who you call an apprentice!”
 
He was so angry that he stuttered to a halt, unable to get anymore words out.
 
Isiilde’s optimism had been sorely misplaced in this case.

Marsais steepled his fingers, leaning back against his throne.
 
“I don’t have an apprentice who is insolent, or a brat for that matter, but since I only have one apprentice, I’m assuming you’re referring to Isiilde.”

“Yes,” Tulipin spat.
 
“That faerie was mucking about in class the other day.
 
Her actions forced me to cast her out, ordering her to write a report on the Blessed Order for her penance.”

“And did she write it?”

“Yes.”

“Indeed?”
 
Marsais’ eyebrows shot up in surprise.
 
“I fail to see the problem—”

“Read this.”
 
Tulipin thrust the scroll in the Archlord’s face.
 
Marsais unrolled it with his confident hands and began reading.
 
During the long minutes of uncomfortable silence that followed, Isiilde sank against the stone column, chewing fretfully on her nails until her master finally rolled the scroll back up and handed it to Tulipin.

“Well?” the gnome fumed, transforming from a beet to a boiling teapot.

“She has the ruling of 1101 A.S. dated wrong, and she misspelled deceitful,” he supplied at length.

“It’s utter blasphemy!”
 
Isiilde winced, expecting Tulipin’s ears to start steaming.

“Hmm, certainly not from a faerie’s viewpoint.”

“The words speak for themselves, no matter whose viewpoint.
 
She states that the only reason the paladins passed the laws regarding nymphs was so they’d have leave to rape them!”
 
Tulipin bit off each word, tightening his grip on the scroll until his knuckles were white.

“Master Tulipin,” Marsais said, calmly, in sharp contrast to the gnome’s vehemence.
 
“The paladins did, and continue to rape them—as does everyone else.”

“Bah, this is outrageous,” Tulipin spat, throwing his hands up with exasperation.
 
“They’re nymphs!
 
They’re happy as long as someone is bedding them.
 
Nymphs have crude instincts at best—little more than animals whose sole purpose is to tempt and destroy the will of decent men.
 
The Blessed Order passed the laws to stop men from slaughtering one another.
 
As soon as the creatures were put into their place then the wars stopped.
 
But this—
temptress
scoffs at the noblest of Orders!
 
The Chapterhouse in Drivel is already fuming over her desecration of the temple, but when they hear of this—”

“And who is going to deliver it?” Marsais asked, rising from his throne, cutting Tulipin’s tirade off.
 
“How easily you forget the state of your own race in Vaylin and Kiln.
 
I believe gnomes are still enslaved there; a class of ‘creatures’ who are happy as long as they’re toiling in the mines.
 
I wonder what a Vaylinish slave lord would say about a gnome’s report of his land?”

“Vaylin is full of Void worshiping heathens.
 
That’s hardly a comparison for the ruling of an Order who speaks for the gods.
 
It’s an unforgivable insult for a mere—
animal
to pen such blasphemous claims,” Tulipin huffed.

“What do you propose, then?
 
Surely you don’t plan on putting an ‘animal’ on trial for sacrilege?
 
Hmm, if that were the case then we should be more diligent in capturing the seagulls that relieve themselves on the temples,” Marsais mused, holding out his hand to Tulipin, palm up, fingers commanding.
 
“I think that sounds like a splendid waste of
your
time, Master Tulipin, wouldn’t you agree?”
 
Tulipin took the Archlord’s firm hint and placed the scroll in his waiting hand.

“Your bluntness has been insightful,” Marsais continued once the scroll was safely tucked away.
 
“I assure you that my apprentice will never grace your lectures again.”

A chill entered the throne room, creeping from between the Archlord’s lips, laying words of unspoken threat at the gnome’s feet.

Tulipin blinked, swallowing uncomfortably.
 
He opened his mouth to say more, but one look at the crimson figure stilled his tongue.
 
Instead, he floated from the chamber as fast as his enchantment would allow.
 
When he passed over the threshold, Marsais gestured sharply, and the heavy gate at the end of the throne room obeyed his command, slamming shut with a deafening echo.

Isiilde sank miserably to the stone floor, shivering as tears ran freely down her cheeks.
 
Tulipin’s words kept echoing in her ears, until she thought they would haunt her forever.
 
Overall, she had liked the gnome and enjoyed his lectures, but she had had no idea that he loathed her so.
 
Her silent tears eventually ran dry.
 
And she lay on the hard stone with her palms pressed against her eyes, feeling ill and hopeless.