A Thread in the Tangle (53 page)

“I haven’t told you a single thing, so if Oenghus asks why I’ve dragged you into this—I haven’t.”

“Well, I’m not sure if it matters, but Tharios paid a visit to Rashk this morning.
 
He said he needed her expertise.”
 
Marsais stroked his goatee at this bit of information.
 
It confirmed his hope that Tharios had questions about the stave.

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I spend the rest of my punishment napping?”

“Whatever you deem as proper punishment, my dear.”

“In that case a foot rub would be near torture.”
 
She fluttered her large eyes with innocent supplication and her smile was hopeful, but all together, the effect was stunning.
 
The Archlord cleared his throat before taking the lead, because he held no illusions of being able to deny her request if he lingered on her smile a moment longer.

Twenty-nine

I
NK
FLOWED
ACROSS
parchment, seeking, shifting, taking the form of his thoughts.
 
History would remember his name and time would never forget.
 
The echo of his past lives screamed to him in the night.
 
Secrets grew in the dark, festering beneath the surface, and as much as some wished, they could never be completely forgotten—a fact which the Order of the
Wise
Ones would soon discover.

Tharios paused, quill poised, studying his notes.

So close, so soon, my Lord,
Tharios breathed.
 
A loud knock shattered his past, and he inhaled deeply, calming his thoughts and donning an affable mask.
 
Tharios sheathed his quill, draped a silk robe over his bare shoulders, and closed his writing desk before rising to meet his unexpected visitors.
 
Unexpected, but not unforeseen.

“Master Tulipin and Mistress Thira, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Tharios purred, noting the gnome’s extreme agitation and the dangerous glint in the woman’s eye, which was unsurprising, considering the recent destruction of the Relic Hall.
 
Thira was ever the stickler for order.

“We’re sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but there is a delicate matter that we wish to discuss,” Thira said.

Delicate
.
 
The word was music to his ears.
 
At his invitation, Thira marched inside with the vermin on her heels.
 
The dog growled in warning as it swept past and Tharios smiled agreeably in return.

Next came Tulipin, eyes darting nervously around the chamber.
 
Tharios offered them seats, but neither one accepted, so he settled into his chair, waiting patiently for them to utter the first words of rebellion.

He did not have to wait long.
 
Thira immediately dragged the matter into the open.

“The nymph must be ousted.
 
She has brought nothing but trouble to this Order.”

“The destruction of the Relic Hall is a grave loss, but this Order is ripe with accidents.
 
We dabble with dangerous forces.
 
One expects it in our line of research.”

“Most have sense enough to take precautions,” Thira snapped.
 
“The nymph is utterly void of common sense.”

“It’s not a simple matter of accidents,” Tulipin interjected.
 
“She desecrated a shrine to Zahra and accused the Blessed Order of blasphemous deeds.”

“The nymph’s list of misconduct grows by the day,” Thira began.
 
“I will not stand for it a moment longer.
 
You have the Order’s support, Tharios.
 
You are well respected and your voice carries weight.
 
Do something about this—this thing!”

“I am afraid I’m not the Archlord, Mistress Thira.
 
I believe we’ve tried to have her cast out before.
 
Marsais has always used his position to overrule our objections.”

“Marsais is mad,” Thira hissed.
 
“There is no other word for it.
 
He has defended that creature’s every action.”

“The Seer’s cycle is nearly up, a new vote will be cast, and we’re confident you will win majority.”

“Yes, but the vote will not be cast for another year.”

“That is why we’ve come,” Tulipin offered.

Tharios leaned forward in a manner that inspired their trust.
 
Let them think it was their idea.
 
The ancient fool would lose his throne with or without Tharios’ meddling.
 
However, he needed to speed things along, and the nymph was proving a useful tool with which to hang her master.

Thirty

T
HUNDER
INTERRUPTED
HER
sleep, rumbling through the wood of her door with polite inquiry.
 
The nymph stirred, cracked an eye open at the dim light of her room, and pulled the covers over her head, burrowing deeper into her feather mattress.
 
Another cold, grey day.
 
The hearth had cooled during the night and she was fairly sure someone was trying to wake her a few hours too early.

“Sprite?” the muted roar, which was supposed to be a whisper, penetrated her thick blankets.
 
Isiilde told Oenghus to go away.

“I need to talk to you.”
 
The door creaked open and heavy footsteps entered, crossing her room.
 
A formidable weight settled on the edge of the bed.

“What?”
 
She flung the covers off her face and squinted up at him.

“Here, have something to eat.
 
Marsais brought you another tray.”
 
She stared at the tray in puzzlement.

“Marsais is personally fetching my food morning, noon, and night?” she inquired slowly.

“Who else do you think is doing it?
 
Isek can’t be bothered with trifles.
 
He does all the other stuff that the Scarecrow is supposed to be doing as Archlord.”
 
Oenghus’ tone was gruff, far hoarser than the conversation called for.

Isiilde was torn between a bowl of strawberries covered in whipped cream and a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
 
Unable to make a decision, she compromised, plucking a berry from its perch and dipping it in chocolate heat.

Wasn’t she supposed to fetch her master things?
 
Isiilde decided that she was not a very good apprentice, however, this self revelation troubled her very little.

Oenghus stood, pacing restlessly like a caged bear.
 
The nymph looked at him for the first time, noticing his attire.
 
He was dressed in his kilt and best vest with his hair pulled back and beard neatly trimmed.
 
He could certainly look a proper lord when he chose to.

“Have you met a woman?” she asked with a knowing smile.
 
Oenghus ignored her question, so she shrugged and ate a strawberry, which inevitably led her to another puzzle.

“Oen,” Isiilde began around a mouthful of sweetness.
 
“There’s hardly any sunlight on the Isle, but the pantries are always stocked with strawberries, even at our old cottage.
 
Where do they all come from?”

“Regular shipments from the South,” Oenghus muttered, absentmindedly.
 
“Marsais charters a boat.”

“Why would—” she began, but Oenghus interrupted her question.

“You need to get dressed.”
 
At the severity of his tone, she froze, leaving the strawberry half eaten.

“Is Marsais hurt?”

“I wish he was,” Oenghus growled.
 
He returned to the bed, sitting on the edge, encompassing her hands in his.
 
She gulped down the rest of her strawberry, which did little to keep the rising dread at bay.

“A message arrived from the Emperor last week.”
 
Her heart skipped a beat.
 
“I didn’t want you to—I didn’t tell you.
 
I wanted you to have a peaceful few days.”

Isiilde was finding it difficult to breathe.
 
Her room had become a cage and the stone closed in on her with suffocating pressure.
 
“Emissaries from Kiln, Xaio, and Mearcentia arrived yesterday morning.
 
They have come to see you.”

Isiilde shook her head in disbelief.
 
She shivered, her skin crawled, and her heart fought to free itself from her breast.

“They are not going to take you yet,” he said firmly, cupping her face in his massive hands.

“I don’t want to see them, Oen,” she stated numbly.
 
“Have Marsais send them away.”

“Marsais can’t do that, Sprite.
 
This is an order that comes straight from your—from the Emperor.
 
These men are representatives of their rulers.
 
Marsais can’t just send them away.
 
They’re only here to meet you.”

“To see how much they will bid for me!”
 
She threw her arms around Oenghus’ thick neck, pleading with him to put a stop to this, but his only answer was to wrap his powerful arms around her.
 
For once she didn’t mind his suffocating embrace.

❧

The once cozy sitting room had been stripped of warmth.
 
Tapestries had been taken down, the furniture removed, and rich rugs spirited away, save for a single, pristine pedestal in its barren center.
 
Light was drawn to that lonely pedestal, gathered from the row of windows that looked out into a blustery green garden, whose leaves dripped with persistent rain.