A Thread in the Tangle (51 page)

“What Imp?” Marsais asked, feigning innocent surprise as he scrutinized the flagon.

“The one currently causing havoc,” Thira said with the patience of an executioner raising an axe.

“Oh, yes, now I remember.”
 
He rapped his knuckles on the flagon, listening to the hollow ring that followed.
 
“I’m not sure why you’d oust her when I was the one who opened it.”

“You opened it?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

The Vulture’s beady black eyes narrowed on the Archlord.
 
“And why would
you
open it?”

“I forgot what was in there,” he mused.
 
Thira opened her mouth, but instead of commenting, she closed it with an audible click.

“Hmm?”
 
Marsais met her gaze evenly, unconcerned as a mountain surrounded by storm clouds.
 
The silence deepened, along with Thira’s suspicion, while she adjusted to this new tactic of his, calculating possibilities and counterattacks.
 
It was safe to say that the Archlord had already outmaneuvered her, however, she persisted on principle.

“Why was she carrying the flagon?”

“I asked her to re-trap the Imp, since I have little time for such matters.
 
She’s not the only one who has tried, and certainly not the only one who has caused damage while attempting.”

“Damage?” Thira said with breathless disbelief.
 
“The entire Relic Hall has been destroyed, including priceless artifacts dating from before the Shattering.”

“Artifacts that
were
priceless,” he pointed out.
 
Thira huffed at his untroubled correction.
 
“I always thought that hall could be put to better use.”

“You’re not going to do anything about this, are you?”

“I will punish her as I see fit,” he said, calmly, ignoring the fury in her dark eyes.
 
“She is
my
apprentice.”

“She is useless, Marsais.
 
There is only one reason you keep her here.
 
Why else would a man tolerate so much?
 
She’s a nymph.
 
You indulge her every whim, but this time she has gone too far.”
 
In a low tone, a dangerous hiss, she added.
 
“
You
have gone too far.”

“She is my apprentice, because she is brilliant.
 
She is also one of the few people who I can tolerate.
 
As for my indulgence—well I must give you that, after all, she is faerie and their kind are meant to be indulged.”

“Your indulgence borders on blind devotion.”

“You may leave now,” Marsais ordered, brooking no opportunity for further argument.

The Wise One turned on her heel in disgust and stalked out of the long hall.
 
Crumpet followed, pausing to raise his leg on a column, making it all too clear what the beast thought of the Archlord.

When Isek escorted Thira and her beast past the threshold of the throne room, Marsais gestured sharply towards the gates.
 
They slammed shut, hurrying Crumpet forward with a yelp lest his tail be crushed.

The nymph’s sobs echoed mournfully in the vast chamber.
 
Marsais briefly wished that his ears were like the stone carvings adorning the columns.
 
To hear her cry was a heart wrenching ordeal.

“I’m so sorry, Marsais,” her voice caught on another helpless sob.
 
“I can’t do anything right.”

As he stood, she reached out, clutching the hem of his robe.
 
He did not pull away, but rather, sat down on the edge of the dais, feeling exhausted and drained.
 
He did not trust himself with her today.
 
Too much of his heart ached to give her comfort—wrap her delicate form in his embrace and take her from this Isle, far away from the paths that awaited.

This realm would pay for his weakness; all the realms would suffer dearly.

The nymph was a single, seemingly insignificant thread in the tangle, yet so much was bound to her Fate.
 
This beautiful, innocent, and brilliant creature shivering at his feet was the catalyst that could send the lands spiraling into chaos, and as such, it was no simple matter to extract the thread from the rest.
 
Of all the creatures who drew breath, of all the good and the evil that walked the lands—why Isiilde?

Damn the gods, Fate, and the imbecile who wrought them.
 
Marsais forced himself to focus on the present; every breath, every heartbeat, because the future would come soon enough and there was nought to do but steer her towards the lesser of evils.

“Let me see your forehead.”
 
She raised her eyes to him, as deep as the seas and full of sadness.
 
Her perfect lips trembled with fright, but Marsais kept his gaze well away from the inviting blossom of warmth, focusing on the gash instead.
 
Taking care not to touch her, he dabbed at the cut with the long sleeve of his robe, and then fished around his pocket for a handkerchief, pressing the clean linen to her wound.

“Head wounds always bleed freely, but I believe you will live.”
 
He smiled down at her.

“I think she broke my ear.”
 
Isiilde gingerly probed the tender area in question.
 
Marsais studied the slender, swept back ear that rose from her copper curls, climaxing in an enticing crescendo.
 
He cleared his throat and forced himself to focus on the bruised skin.
 
By all that breathed, she was distracting today.

“Hmm, I think your ear is fine.
 
It will perhaps be a bit sore, but nothing some ice won’t help.”
 
He stood abruptly, pacing on the dais, balancing carefully along the edge.
 
Isiilde looked on with an expression teetering between confusion and hurt.
 
“So what happened?”

Talking brightened her mood, enough for her tears to stop.
 
He listened with a great deal of amusement as she recounted the events that had brought her to his feet, however, he drew up short when she told him about the binding rune.

“What an interesting side-effect!” he exclaimed, and then added, “If dangerous.
 
You’re very lucky to still be breathing, my dear.
 
I believe you succeeded in binding the Imp, but you failed to tether him to anything.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“No more than last time I was angry with you,” he answered.

“But, Marsais, you’ve never been angry with me.”
 
A smile illuminated her face and he nearly fell off the edge of the dais.

“Exactly, however, I
am
relieved you’re not seriously hurt and if you feel up to it I require your assistance.”
 
Her ears perked up, wilting just as quickly.

“What’s my punishment?”

“Spending your afternoon with an insane old man.”

“You’re not old, Marsais.”
 
She climbed to her feet, favoring him with another dazzling smile.

“You see, my dear, I was hoping you’d say I wasn’t insane, because the fact is, I am rather old.”

“If you are insane than perhaps you haven’t lived as long as you think.”

“Are you an expert on matters of insanity?”

“I don’t think you could be an expert unless you were insane.
 
Your qualifications would be suspect.”

“But if I’m insane and I believe myself old, isn’t that the same as the reverse?” he asked, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“What I meant,” she said, slowly, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms, “is you don’t look that old.
 
In fact, compared to Tharios, I think you are—distinguished and much nicer to look at.”

“Aha!
 
Here I thought the nymph was spying, instead, I find she was comparing men.”

“I was doing both,” she said with a mischievous quirk of her lips.
 
“I’m very talented.”

“Yes, you are, my dear, more so than you know,” he replied.
 
His sincere words flushed her cheeks with warmth.

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Will there be food involved in this punishment?”

Twenty-eight

S
INCE
A
PROPER
punishment should always involve food, Marsais led the way to one of the smaller kitchens to snatch a light lunch, rudely eating like barbarians as they strode through the castle.
 
Marsais noted with no small amount of concern that every man who they passed gawked at the oblivious nymph.

When Isiilde bit into a strawberry with a moan of delight, Jaelin Featherpalm dropped a tray of ink wells.
 
And when Marsais noticed that each and everyone turned to watch the nymph’s backside as she walked away, he moved behind her to obstruct their open-mouthed stares.
 
Her hips might be slender, but unfortunately their sway was not diminished in the least.
 
The nymph made the High Priestess of Asmara seem an ungainly hag.

Why Oenghus allowed her to wear trousers that clung to her every curve was beyond him.
 
They certainly left little to the imagination, and what was worse, he doubted she had any clue as to why everyone was staring.

Isiilde had always been painfully beautiful, however, since her Awakening (which seemed to have been fully sparked by her errand to fetch him in
Isadora’s Closet)
her allure went far beyond beauty.
 
Marsais was reminded of the scents that some creatures put out to signal their mating readiness.
 
No doubt nymphs were saturated in the human equivalent, because there wasn’t a man who wasn’t affected, himself included, and if he were any judge, it seemed to be getting stronger with every passing day.

The established network of female guards positioned around the castle would no longer suffice.
 
The nymph would need an escort from now on, but whether they could keep pace with her was entirely dependent on Isiilde’s whims.

“Marsais,” she said, stopping so suddenly that he nearly ran into her.
 
“Where are we going?”
 
He scratched at the aching scar beneath his robes, pondering that very question.

“We’re looking for that blasted Imp,” he muttered, riffling through her knapsack until he located the flagon.
 
Unfortunately, when he touched it, nothing came to mind.
 
His
gift
of foresight was rarely useful when he needed it.

“Where would you go to find him?”

“The armory,” she replied without hesitation.

“Hmm, any particular reason?”

“I’m not allowed there,” she answered as if it should be perfectly obvious.

“Good a place as any,” he conceded.
 
“Lead on, my dear.”
 
At his gesture, Isiilde began walking again.
 
After a time, she glanced suspiciously over her shoulder.

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Why are you walking behind me?”

“Because your trousers are too tight and every man who we pass is staring at your backside,” he told her bluntly.
 
The nymph stopped again (though he had anticipated it).