A Thread in the Tangle (50 page)

“You stupid, pathetic, insolent nymph,” Thira seethed, low and dangerous, as Crumpet snarled at her heel with equal fervor.
 
A hand, crooked with rage, reached for her, yanking her to her feet by an ear, caring not for the scream of pain that her action elicited.
 
“I will have you ousted for this!”
 
Thira plucked the flagon from the floor and dragged the whimpering nymph past a sea of faces.
 
No one dared challenge the infuriated Wise One.

Twenty-seven

T
HE
A
RCHLORD
STOOD
in front of the crystal window, peering into its complexities.
 
A slash of red against the misty skies.
 
The crystal cracked, splintered, and then fell away with the sluggish drip of honey from a pot.
 
Marsais stared at the fire strewn roofs of the castle below with mild curiosity, but mostly disinterest.

The Seer blinked, time shattered, and a heartbeat later, all was as it should be.
 
The window was pristine and his thoughts continued to churn, one over the other, sifting through the ages, sorting an expanse of memory in search of the single piece that he needed to complete his puzzle.

“
Marsais
.”
 
A voice finally pierced the inner paths of his mind.
 
Isek stood to the side, looking hungover and thoroughly used.
 
“I’ve been knocking for awhile,” his assistant said by way of apology.

Steely eyes were drawn to the smudge of lip paint on top of Isek’s balding head, and Marsais arched an amused brow.
 
“I hope you had an eventful evening at the pleasure house.”

Isek’s deep set eyes flashed with surprise.

“I’m a seer,” Marsais shrugged, wondering how long it would take his friend to notice the lip paint.

“You also owe me ninety silver for my efforts.
 
The crew was a tight-lipped bunch, even after four kegs.”

“Hmm.”
 
The conclusion was obvious.
 
“So you were forced to bed one of their women, who as it conveniently turned out, knew their deepest secrets.”

“Wooed her fair, I did,” Isek grinned charmingly.
 
“So, you ready to hear what I learned?
 
Right then.
 
Earlier in the year, late winter, Tharios’ crew harbored in Nefir for a fortnight.
 
The crew was instructed to remain on board, which as you can imagine pleased them not at all.
 
Tharios took a band of twenty mercenaries with him, of which only eight returned.
 
Tharios was injured, but despite his injuries, he carried a long box, yea big—”
 
Isek held his arms a part.
 
“The box was plain, unadorned, but narrow.”

“Made of wood or metal?”

“It was blackish, sickly like.
 
I’m thinking witchwood, maybe even ironwood.”
 
Marsais stroked his braid in thought, coins clinking together like whispering chimes.

“Do you know what it is?” Isek shifted, turning slightly away from the window’s concentrated sunlight, resisting the urge to pull his cowl over his throbbing skull.

“Know?” Marsais inquired, amused by the question.
 
“I dread what it is, but I need to see it.”

“Look now,” Isek protested, “getting a few men soused is one thing, but I’m not about to sneak into Tharios’ chambers.
 
I’m not suicidal.”

“I’m glad to hear.”

Isek shifted under the Archlord’s keen stare.
 
“I’ll do it if you really want.”

“An exceedingly foolish idea, Isek, even for a spy,” Marsais said, clucking his tongue in reproof.
 
“As it turns out, I have another idea.
 
Tell me, does Tharios still keep an estate on the outskirts of Drivel?”

“Yes.
 
He stays there more than here.”

Marsais nodded as if this confirmed a suspicion.
 
“Thank you, Isek.
 
You know where I keep my coin, help yourself to whatever you like.”

“Oh, and I haven’t forgotten my end of the bargain.”
 
Isek pulled a small flask from beneath his coat.
 
“Primrose wine.
 
I thought you could use a few moments of peace.”

Marsais brightened, half tempted to indulge on the spot, but instead he gestured for Isek to place it on his desk.
 
“Ever thoughtful.”

Isek turned to leave, but another thought brought him up short.

“I passed a flock of emissaries on my way here.”
 
Marsais’ heart lurched, and pain settled deep within, which no amount of Primrose wine could ever hope to relieve.

“I’ve just come from an audience with them.
 
They’ll—inspect her tomorrow.”

“Does she know yet?”

Marsais shook his head.
 
“They arrived three days earlier than we expected.
 
Fair winds,” he finished, twisting the words on his long lips.

“It won’t be so bad if Mearcentia wins the bid for her, however, Kiln will break her, and you well know what Xaio would do with her.
 
Their bloody Sultan rents out his own harem.”

“Isiilde will be broken no matter who buys her,” the Seer said with a finality that sealed her Fate, and at these prophetic words, the castle trembled beneath his feet.

Marsais glanced at Isek.
 
From his friend’s look of alarm, he surmised that it wasn’t a twist of Time.
 
The two men locked eyes for a moment before Isek rushed from the room to investigate.

It was probably another one of Timmon’s miscalculations, Marsais thought grimly, striding over to his desk.
 
He riffled through the tottering pile of books, scrolls, and parchment until he found what he sought, a tattered grimoire with no name.
 
He flipped through its pages with the gentle efficiency of one who was accustomed to the feel of brittle parchment beneath his fingertips.
 
The pages had been coated with preserving oil, but caution was still required.

“Why this?” he whispered, scanning the sketch beneath his eyes.
 
The yellowed page of human flesh displayed a staff with ornate end caps, each side nearly identical to the other, fashioned with the symbol of the Nine Halls: the Scorching Sun, a tangle of wicked spikes.
 
Abyssal runes swirled up the staff’s surface, too faint to make out, so he studied the notations hastily scrawled onto the gruesome page.
 
The staff was hot to the touch, charred, yet strong as steel, and covered with thorns.
 
Undoubtedly, the case would have to be made of witchwood to carry such a powerful artifact.

Soisskeli’s Stave—thought to be lost to time and ruin, crafted by a powerful Bloodmagus who was tainted by the Void.
 
An artifact that held infinite binding capabilities, so legend went.
 
Its last known location was in Kiln, near Vaylin’s border.
 
Nefir was a perfect launching point for an expedition into Kiln.

Visions of the future had hinted at Thario’s desire.
 
Threads of past and present confirmed his knowledge of forbidden arts, but what would binding a fiend from realms beyond accomplish, other than expose the ambitious young Wise One?
 
What was his interest in Lachlan, his need for Soisskeli’s Stave, and why did he insist on having the Isle’s support?

Marsais’ eyes widened as the missing piece thudded into place.
 
The Isle was the key.
 
Tharios was after something here, in the Order, for the same reason he desired the Archlord’s throne: for secrets long buried and better off forgotten.
 
But how could he possibly have discovered what lay beneath the Spine, and for that matter, the true purpose of the Order?

A cold trickle crawled down the back of Marsais’ neck.
 
“The young fool,” he muttered, gently closing the book with a weary sigh.

His grave rumination was interrupted by a stir of air, whispering in his ear from Isek, “You better get down to your throne room.
 
Trouble has found your apprentice again.”

❧

The throne of the Archlord was an imposing chunk of obsidian.
 
It was as cold and rigid as the position demanded, and often as merciless as the man who sat on its hard lines and unforgivable dimensions.
 
It was intended to be intimidating.
 
And many an Archlord had been swallowed up by its austere strength.

Marsais was no such Archlord.
 
He perched on the crag of stone like a hawk upon its mountain, imperious and all seeing.
 
But unlike most, Marsais despised the throne, because when he presided from the seat of power, there was coldness in his heart and weight upon his shoulders.

When would this charade end, he wondered bleakly, surely there was a better man (or woman) than he to guard these secrets?

The unwilling Archlord settled himself on his hated throne.
 
No sooner had his long fingers curled over the armrests, than a trio of figures appeared.
 
Isek stepped aside, as formal as ever.
 
The source of his displeasure was easily apparent.
 
Marsais gripped his throne, clenching his jaw in outrage as Thira marched towards the dais, dragging a terrified nymph by her ear while the abominable dog nipped at her heels.

“Take your hand from her!” Marsais’ voice crashed over the throne room, echoed by a thousand stone faces, reverberating from corners above and beyond.
 
One did not ignore a command issued through the Voiceless—not even Thira.
 
A thousand tongues had been sacrificed for the Archlord’s power and another could easily be added.

The Mistress of Novices propelled the nymph forward with a hard shove, and the slip of a girl stumbled, falling at the foot of his dais.
 
Isiilde was pale and trembling, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, tears shimmering in her brilliant eyes.
 
Despite her distress, she was still a perfect rose; skin as soft as a petal, lips ripe and red, breasts as delicate as blossoms, heaving within the confines of her bodice as she clutched her bruised ear with whimpering fear.
 
She was alive, fresh and vibrant as spring, while the rest of mankind toiled in bleak shadow.

Marsais brutally pushed down an urge to rise from his throne and comfort the frail creature, instead, he focused on the Mistress of Novices.
 
Steel clashed with steel, the cross-guards of their eyes locked in a battle of will, each as unyielding as the other.

“No one is allowed to touch my apprentice—not even you, Thira.”
 
His voice was hard and unrelenting as the stone at his back.

“O, I’m a woman, Marsais, it doesn’t matter,” Thira snapped.
 
“
Your
apprentice has destroyed the Relic Hall.
 
There’s nothing left of it.”

Marsais arched a brow, glancing towards the nymph at his feet, but her eyes were downcast, shying away from the harsh words and unfamiliar voice of her master.

“I found this in her hand.”
 
Thira tossed the rune-etched flagon towards him, and he caught it deftly.
 
“She is responsible for the Imp who has been plaguing our lives.
 
I demand that she be ousted from the Order.
 
Lives have been lost.
 
I
will
bring this matter to the Circle.”