A Thread in the Tangle (59 page)

The Imp chattered, announcing that it was finished.
 
Marsais picked his way over the pieces of history, robes dragging over crisp paper to study this new part of Time’s puzzle.
 
He ignored the crude obscenities with which the Imp had embellished his sketch, focusing on the drawing instead, which was adequate for his purposes.

“Are you sure?
 
This was all?” he hissed.
 
The Imp straightened, tilting its pointy chin with wounded pride.

Marsais muttered an apology to the fiend and turned to study the charcoal rod, which was the source of his confusion: the rune-etched rod before him was just that, a rod, without the symbols of the Scorching Sun decorating its tips.
 
Both end caps were missing, and with that realization, another piece of the puzzle clicked neatly into place.

Tharios had a part of Soisskeli’s Stave, but not all of it.
 
Marsais would gladly wager that a powerful artifact such as this would have been dismantled, its parts scattered to the far corners of the realm.

“Thank you, Luccub.
 
I may have use of you again.
 
Continue whatever you were doing, hmm, but—” he held up a finger, “no killing, and give that back to me.”

The Imp hissed, spitting on the stone floor before fluttering into the air.
 
Whereupon it hurled the stolen trinket at the window.
 
Summoning all its fiendish pride, it flapped out, leaving the Archlord to his thoughts.

Marsais tried sitting in his chair, but the moment he sat, he surged impatiently to his feet.
 
Long fingers twitched as visions danced in front of his eyes: Oenghus laying in a pool of blood.
 
The crystal shifted and a solid door of blue flame illuminated the circle.
 
A figure, just on the other side, stood waiting.
 
The flagon on his desk tipped and an Eldar fiend from Isiikle surged forth in icy glory.

All of Time shifted and churned as the heart in his breast convulsed from one moment to the next.

A horde of Wedamen swept below him, charging across the pages of history as the gleaming palace of Whitemount burned black in the corner of his study.
 
The Spine crumbled beneath his feet, the crystal shattered, and a Balor fiend roared through the gaping wreckage.
 
The Scorched Sun hovered overhead, and an agonizing heartbeat later, Oenghus stood with his large hands wrapped lovingly around his daughter.
 
Three sands of the hourglass fell, and the Nuthaanian snapped her neck with an effortless twist.

The nymph crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

Marsais squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for air.
 
If this was not madness, then what was?
 
He stormed over to the mirror, which hung on the wall, shrouded by a thick, black drape.
 
Daring to look upon his reflection, he ripped off the covering.

The breath in his throat caught in pure, disbelieving wonder.
 
He saw himself as he was, haggard, afraid, an unkempt vagabond with a haunted gaze, and there she was, peering over his shoulder, bright-eyed and beaming.
 
Her lips whispered against his cheek.
 
He spun, finding only air and a message that brushed his ear.

It was Morigan’s voice.
 
“Marsais, where is Isiilde?
 
There was a fire in the main library.
 
An apprentice has been injured.
 
Is she with you?”
 
Grey eyes went wide with alarm.
 
And as he stormed from his study, the visions collapsed around him like a child’s tower of blocks.

Wonder gave way to dread.

❧

Marsais strode into the ruined library, demanding explanations with a sweep of his steely gaze, and at once, he knew the destruction to be the work of his apprentice.

“Thira,” he barked.
 
“Where is Isiilde?”
 
The Wise One was shouting orders to a small army of servants who carefully sifted through the ruin, searching for books as if they were wounded soldiers waiting to be carried off the battle field.

“You’re a seer, Marsais.
 
You figure it out.”

“I am in no mood, Woman!”
 
He seized her arm in a vice like grip and the entire room froze.

“I treated her as I would treat any other foolish novice,” the High Alchemist said, shaking off his grip.
 
“Compared to what she did to Zianna, a Weave of Silence and a few days scrubbing pots is small penitence.”
 
The breath caught in his throat.
 
He nearly strangled the infuriating woman.

“Damn you, Thira, you have rendered her helpless,” Marsais hissed, and then with a voice that thrummed with power, he ordered Thira to follow.
 
His flight caused a number of servants and scribes to drop their wounded books, backing away in fear as he raced out of the library, robes billowing in his wake.
 
Thira was forced into a run, and so was her runt of a dog.
 
For once, Crumpet didn’t have the breath to yap.

Marsais charged into the kitchens, scattering servants like frightened chickens in their coop.
 
He skidded to a stop in front of the unguarded washroom door, cursing sharply when he found it barred.
 
With a gesture and a growl, Marsais ripped the door from its hinges and strode in with Thira on his heels, fearing and knowing what he would find.

The Mistress of Novices gasped.
 
A pale, battered form was sprawled on the filthy floor, pinned beneath the grunting figure who was ravaging her.
 
The nymph’s legs flailed uselessly as the man between her thighs pounded her against the floor with an animalistic frenzy that drove her delicate body into the stone.

A strangled sound escaped Marsais, but his fingers were already flashing.
 
Before the echo of Marsais’ pain had died, a tangle of wispy, luminescent runes converged, forming a giant ethereal hand.
 
Marsais spoke the Lore with a harsh and hateful breath, ripping Stievin off Isiilde and hurling the wide-eyed man against the dingy wall, pinning him to the stone fifteen feet from the floor.

Ruthlessly, he switched focus, clenching his hand into a sharp, crushing fist.
 
The phantom Runehand mimicked its master’s movement.
 
Stievin arched his neck severely and an inhuman howl tore from his throat as his manhood was ripped from his body with a sharp tug, leaving a bloody, unrecognizable mess below his waist.

Marsais gestured, tossing the bloody weapon aside amidst a chorus of agony.
 
The man’s screams gave him no comfort.
 
He hurried over to the floundering nymph.
 
She was trying to rise, moving with jerking convulsions rather than coordination while her body trembled with shock.
 
Both arms were broken, her eyes unseeing, deep gouges marred her breasts, and blood seeped from between her legs.

“My dear,” Marsais whispered, hoarsely, falling to his knees.
 
At the sound of his strained voice, her eyes darted to the side like a cornered animal—full of pleading and desperate madness.
 
He passed his hand over her sealed lips, dispelling the weave in an instant.

Isiilde gasped out in pain, whimpering ever so softly.

“I won’t leave you,” he said, eyeing the fierce, serpentine creature that had appeared on her body.
 
It rippled just beneath her skin, coiled tightly around her neck.
 
It looked a fearsome thing, unlike any Bond he had ever glimpsed on a nymph.

“Isiilde,” he said, cradling her face in his hands.
 
“I’ll get you to a healer.”
 
For a moment, her eyes focused, but then rolled to the back of her head as a spasm of pain seized her when she tried to close her quivering legs.

“Stay with me, my dear, please don’t leave.”

Her torn clothing was scattered carelessly about, leaving her abused body exposed.
 
Even as he reached for her torn shirt, Marsais grimaced, noticing the damage that the animal had caused.
 
He pressed the shirt between her thighs before taking Thira’s offered cloak.
 
With slow care he bundled the nymph up, gently lifting her in his arms.
 
Despite his care, the shift of position sent her eyes rolling as unconsciousness threatened.

“You’re safe now,” he said firmly, and then addressed Thira.
 
“Tell Morigan we’re coming.
 
Find Oenghus and bring him at once.”

“What about him?”
 
The straight-backed woman gestured to the bellowing man who was pinned solidly to the wall.

“Leave Stievin where he is,” Marsais warned.
 
“If anyone touches him, then they will answer to me.”
 
Thira nodded silently in return; her throat gone suddenly dry.

Marsais cast one last look at Isiilde’s attacker, and paused, turning to study the man with surprise.
 
There were cuts along Stievin’s face and arms, deep ones made by a blade.
 
The blade in question protruded from his shoulder, steel lost in flesh to the bone-handled hilt.
 
The significance of that dagger was not lost on Marsais.
 
Isiilde—a
nymph
—had fought, and fiercely.

This path was unforeseen.

All too aware of the severity of her injuries, he hurried through the kitchens, past a sea of stunned faces.
 
The soft sounds of her despair tore at the hearts of all who heard.

The walk to the infirmary was a stretch of torturous time.
 
Shock lingered in her vacant eyes, every shuddering breath seeming her last.
 
He quickened his pace, heart galloping, legs stretching.

The maze of corridors bled together; faces drifted from the edges of his vision, voices reached his ears, but were never translated to thought.
 
The past two thousand years had arrived at a momentous crux.
 
All the realm held its breath, knowing not what hung in the balance, only that the end depended on this moment.

Morigan was waiting by the infirmary door.
 
The healer glanced at the limp, bloody bundle and shock of red hair in his arms, and bustled them straight to a private room.
 
Two women attendants entered on their heels.
 
Marsais hesitated, staring at the crisp white linens waiting on the bed.
 
She felt so frail and he feared she would fade if he let her go.

“Put her down,” Morigan ordered, snapping him to action.
 
And he did—as gently as possible.

“No,” Isiilde whimpered, struggling to keep him in focus.

Morigan peeled back the cloak that covered her patient.
 
A pained sound escaped the healer’s lips.
 
The injuries were familiar—nothing that any of them had not seen before, but her delicate body and unearthly beauty made the abuse something more than brutal.
 
It was a desecration of innocence; a sacred temple profaned in the foulest manner imaginable.
 
Something good and pure had been ruined.
 
The whole world wept, a shadow was cast, and a grim weight settled on their shoulders, polluting the very air they breathed.

Long years of focusing on necessity took over, issuing orders to the healer’s sluggish minds.
 
Wash basins and fresh linens were ushered in as they recovered their senses.

The small room became cramped.
 
Marsais found himself being herded out by one of the stern-faced women.
 
Isiilde’s whimpering protest and panicked eyes called to him, but he steadily lost ground, until he was pushed into the corridor.
 
And there he stood, staring at a closed door.

Thirty-six