A Thread in the Tangle (61 page)

“Oenghus will kill Stievin,” she grunted.

“No, he won’t.”
 
Morigan blinked with surprise at his matter-of-factness.
 
“If he kills Stievin, then a part of Isiilde will die too.”

“Well, he’ll castrate him at the very least.
 
He’s a Nuthaanian after all,” she huffed, looking as though she wouldn’t mind doing the deed herself.

The Archlord’s brows rose sharply.
 
“I already have, and then some.”

Morigan nodded approvingly.
 
Nuthaanians, for all their fierce, violent ways had strict laws about such things.
 
Nuthaanian males held their women in high regard.
 
It was beyond dishonorable to rape, or harm an unarmed woman (armed was an entirely different matter).
 
In Nuthaan, the consequences of such an act were brutally and decisively permanent.

“You may send someone to heal Stievin, but they’re not allowed to remove him from the wall.
 
I want the proof to be clear when the Blessed Order comes sniffing.”

“Of course, Archlord,” Morigan said respectfully, inclining her head before hurrying out.

With steepled fingers, he sat in silent thought, watching a single flame flicker on its wick.
 
The sands of time were as still as the stones.
 
Marsais did not know what he ought to think about this.
 
Should he be worried or relieved?

The nymph had set them upon an unknown path and all his careful considerations of visions thus far were utterly useless.

Ah, well,
he thought, he had been less than enthused with the crossroads that presented themselves, only now, the way was shadowed.
 
For the first time, in a long while, the Seer was blind to the future.

Isiilde stirred fitfully in her sleep, reaching up to claw at her throat.
 
What a will she had
, he thought, reaching over to take her hand gently in his own, running his thumb soothingly over her knuckles.
 
At his touch, her distress subsided, and she stilled, sinking back to what he prayed was a dreamless slumber.

Marsais leaned forward in his chair, studying her mark.
 
He had never seen such a complicated bond, not that he had seen many, or remembered, at any rate.

The mark was serpentine in nature, a graceful dragon like creature with glistening scales.
 
The image (if one could put such a name to the physical manifestation of the spirit) was not on top of her skin, but just below, as if floating beneath a pool of crystal water.
 
It was a sleek thing with wings of swept flame and slitted eyes.
 
The whole, long length of it was wreathed with flame, or was it entirely made of fire?

The mark shared her eye color, and the slitted emeralds suddenly blinked at him.
 
Marsais jerked upright with a shock of surprise.
 
Cautiously, he leaned ever closer, staring intently at the angular face and the watching eyes.
 
Some minutes passed without incident, and he began to wonder if he imagined the movement.

Isiilde rolled towards him, obscuring his view of her bond as she hugged his hand to her breast, burying her face against his forearm.
 
Marsais had no desire to disturb her slumber, so he sat in the quiet dark, listening to the reassuring rustle of her breath and counting the steady pulse of her heart.

Thirty-seven

A
BEATING
HEART
is the breath of time; seconds, minutes, and hours melting together, dwindling down to a single pulse of life.
 
What was time without those to feel its passage?
 
A lonely thing, was what it was, so the ancient greatly cherished the company, and into the steady beat of one, entered two, a small, narrow man with dark eyes glinting from the door way.

“How is she?” Isek whispered.
 
Marsais did not dignify the question with an answer, only regarded his assistant with silence.
 
Isek shifted, glancing from Isiilde to Marsais, before continuing with his errand.

“Are you ready for all this?”
 
Again, silence answered.
 
“Since the screaming young man in the washroom is a bit hard to miss, the news has spread through the castle.
 
And that includes the emissaries.
 
Kiln promptly removed their bid, which is not surprising considering her—spoiled state.
 
Xaio and Mearcentia have requested an audience with you.

“As of yet, there’s been no word from Emperor Jaal, but with as many eyes and ears he has in the Order, I’m sure it won’t be long.
 
There are a number of Wise Ones, as well as the Ogre, who are infuriated with you for leaving Stievin pinned to the wall.
 
Apparently the meals are suffering due to Stievin’s screams.
 
Fortunately, no one is willing to unravel one of your wards and Thira, the only one with the bollocks to try, is content to follow your orders and leave Stievin where he is.”

“Where is Oenghus?”

“Thira sent a message by way of Whisperer, but the Blessed Order refused to release Oenghus until their inquiry is finished.
 
I’ve sent a messenger with a scroll bearing your mark.
 
It’s a few hours ride to Drivel, so I imagine Oenghus should be along shortly, one way or another.”

Marsais nodded slowly, waiting for the next bit of news to come.
 
They might have strayed down an unknown path, but some landmarks remained the same.

“The council was an orchestrated piece of work earlier this afternoon.
 
Since Oenghus was conveniently waylaid, and you were—agitated, Tulipin and Thira cast their vote in support of Lachlan.
 
Shimei, Eldred, and myself did not.
 
Six to three.
 
The Order now supports Lachlan.
 
I suppose you have the final say, but you’re not exactly popular right now.
 
You’ve been ruffling the council’s feathers for some time, and they’ve turned to Tharios.
 
He’s poised to take your throne in the next cycle.
 
I can’t say I blame them, old fellow.
 
Tharios is focused, energetic, and diplomatic while you’re—an absentminded recluse.”

“Thank you for your bluntness,” Marsais replied, dryly.

“Yes, well what I wasn’t expecting was their decision to oust Isiilde from the Order.
 
Her destruction of the Relic Hall pushed everyone over the edge.
 
I reasoned that she was going to be sold anyway, so there was no use kicking her out, but they cast her out with a sweeping vote, minus one.”
 
That was unexpected.
 
“They weren’t going to make it official until after the bidding since Eiji had a wager with N’Jalss regarding the final price.
 
They were worried her removal from the Order would affect the bidding.”

“Lovely,” Marsais muttered, feeling vaguely angry, but mostly queasy.
 
He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the present, and straightened in his chair, looking at Isek for the first time.
 
“What do you know of Soisskeli’s Stave?”

Isek whistled softly, rocking back and forth on his heels in thought.
 
“If my memory hasn't failed me—the stave was crafted by Soisskeli, who was a Void tainted Bloodmagus.
 
He was one of the Chaos Lords who worshipped Karbonek, a greater fiend from the Nine Halls—the god of the Fomorri and the Disciples of Karbonek, commonly known by their enemies as the Unspoken.
 
Soisskeli created the artifact to control the dragons, but The Serene One, Oshimi, finally defeated him.”

“So legend claims,” remarked Marsais who was ever doubtful of recorded history.
 
At the questioning look from his assistant, he dismissed the subject with a languid hand, moving on to the next question.
 
“What do you know about Portal Magic?”

“It’s a bloody mess if you’re a Bloodmagus.”

“Spare me your puns, Isek, I’m in no mood.”

“You probably know as much as me.”

“Indulge me.”

“What’s there to say about the Portals on Iilenshar?
 
They’re the embodiment of secretive.
 
I sometimes wonder if the Guardians even know what’s behind the Portals’ power.”

“I’m asking after the rune variety, as in Rune Portals.”

Isek gave a low whistle.
 
“The knowledge was scarce long before the Shattering, even before we forgot how to use those Gateways beneath the Spine.”

Marsais nodded in agreement, and although Isek had simply confirmed what he already knew, often times listening to someone else helped to knock a piece of his memory into place.
 
Unfortunately, nothing new revealed itself.

“Thank you, Isek.
 
If anything further occurs to you, let me know.”

Isek nodded, hesitating in the doorway.
 
“You need some sleep, old man.
 
You look awful.”

“You should have seen her a few hours back.”
 
Steely eyes flickered to the assistant.

“You’ll be no use to her passed out,” Isek said, and then left, closing the door softly behind him.

Isek was right, he was exhausted and heavy of spirit.
 
Warm candlelight flickered softly in the quiet, and Marsais stifled a yawn, slouching in his chair.
 
His vision of time had stilled, and his heart slowed, matching that of the nymph’s.

Marsais blinked.
 
When he opened his eyes, the room was dark, the candles reduced to dark stubs of wax.
 
He must have fallen asleep.

A long exhalation shuddered through his body, and he grimaced, pressing a hand to the burning scar on his chest, trying to remember where and when he was.
 
A pair of dull emerald eyes watched him in the dim, snapping him back to the present like a brand to his heart.

Isiilde was awake, and undoubtedly frightened in the dark room.
 
With a deft gesture of his free hand, a rune drifted to the ceiling, blanketing the room in soft, blue light.
 
Marsais calmly searched her eyes.
 
They were alarmingly vacant.

“Are you thirsty, my dear?”

“Where is Oenghus?”
 
Her voice was empty of emotion.

“He’s on his way.
 
Can I do anything for you?”
 
In answer she pushed herself up with shaking arms, slipped from beneath the covers, and moved onto his lap, curling against his chest.
 
Goose bumps rose on her pale, shimmering skin.
 
Marsais pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapping it around her before doing the same with his arms.

“I don’t feel well.”

“I know,” he replied, softly.

“I can still feel Him.”

“You are bonded to Stievin.
 
He holds a part of you now.”
 
Marsais slipped a hand around her neck, pressing his palm against her skin.

“I tried to do as you asked, Marsais.
 
I didn’t want to go to the kitchens.”
 
Her whisper was thin and wavering as a tendril of smoke, and he had to hold his breath to hear her words.