A Thread in the Tangle (64 page)

M
IND
PLUNGED
BACK
to body with a frisson of shock.
 
Marsais shivered, rubbing his arms briskly as he stepped out of the dissipating circle.
 
With the sluggishness of a body newly emerged from frozen waters, his mind slowly registered another presence, and his eyes followed.
 
Isek had his boots propped on the cluttered desk in the study, snoozing in his chair.
 
A quick gesture from Marsais sent a jolt of energy hurling into his assistant’s shoulder.

Isek bolted awake.
 
“Blast it!
 
I was resting my eyes.”
 
The wiry little man hopped to his feet, wiping the mud off of the desk.
 
“What were you doing?”

“Consulting a friend who is well versed in the Law.
 
What time is it?”

“A bit past the eighth bell.”

“What news?”

“The Emperor is furious, but not out of any concern for Isiilde.
 
This will hit his coffers hard.
 
The bidding was up to four hundred thousand crowns and now that Kiln’s pulled out he can’t hope to get that much.
 
The terms have changed and the slate will be wiped clean for the bidding to begin again.”

“Hmm.”

“Oenghus has been exiled from Kambe.
 
If he sets foot within the borders then he’ll be executed on charges of treason.
 
The Emperor has summoned the Hound from the Fell Wastes.
 
He’ll champion the Emperor for the right of Isiilde, then take her to Kambe after the duel with Stievin.”

“Curse it,” Marsais hissed.
 
“I was hoping Soataen would keep her here until Mearcentia and Xaio renegotiated.
 
That would give her some time.
 
When will the Hound arrive?”

“If the winds favor his mount, then he’ll be here tomorrow morning, but with the storms this season, even a gryphon will have a hard time of it, so perhaps tomorrow afternoon.
 
And what do you mean—time for what?”

“Let me get Oenghus.
 
I don’t want to explain this twice.”

❧

Steam filled the humid chamber, swirling over scintillating mosaics of soft greens and deep blues, flowing like the ocean’s currents to the circular bath in the center, which was more fountain than tub.
 
Water flowed soothingly from a smaller basin into the larger, stirring the frothy waters with a gentle touch.

Isiilde sat in the middle of the bubbles, shoulders slumped, head bowed as if her mark moored her in place.
 
Her hair hung limp around her face, and her hand strayed towards her neck, only to be gently pulled away by the giant sitting on the edge.

“Leave it be, Sprite,” Oenghus said with the haggard patience of one who had repeated himself numerous times.
 
Her delicate hand disappeared beneath the foam, only to reappear a moment later, drawn to the mark like a newly collared slave exploring her chains.

Marsais stood politely outside his private bath chamber and cleared his throat from the door way.
 
“I need a moment, Oenghus.”
 
At the sound of his voice, Isiilde lifted her eyes, but not her head, meeting his own with a silent plea.

“Stay here, Sprite.
 
I won’t be far, and don’t touch your neck.”
 
The emerald eyes fell, staring dimly at the surrounding water.

“So?” Oenghus demanded when he joined Marsais and Isek in the hallway.

“I did not learn what I hoped for, but my friend suggested another option that I hadn’t considered.”

“Who’s this friend?” Isek asked.

“He’s an expert on the Law,” Marsais answered, vaguely.
 
“He confirmed of what we spoke, Oenghus.
 
It isn’t just a loophole; the paladins will uphold it and adhere to the Laws of Challenge.
 
Soataen may issue challenge, but he only has a claim to her if his champion is victorious.”

“Aye, but that bastard of a swine still has her by a leash and he’s a cook, not a warrior, the Hound will crush him.
 
What good is the Law?”

“Have you considered letting her choose her Fate?
 
To continue to forge her own path?”

“What choices does she have?” Oenghus growled.
 
“I said I wouldn’t let another man near her, and I meant it.”

“So you keep her on another leash—of a different kind.
 
I know what you were planning, and I know what you would have done in the end if everything else failed.
 
Would you have given her a choice before doing the deed?”

“It would have saved her this pain,” Oenghus whispered, harshly.

“Life is full of pain, but sometimes a single laugh can make it worth living.
 
You can’t deny her the choice to live.”

“Whoever she chose would have to stand a chance against the Hound,” Isek inserted into the tense silence.

Oenghus tugged on his beard.
 
“How long until he’s here?”

“He’ll be here tomorrow to fight Stievin and take her to Kambe,” Isek replied.

“She was attacked last evening,” Oenghus said, gnawing on each word.
 
“Her injuries aren’t fully healed and you’d ask her to take another man this soon after?”

“Oenghus.”
 
Marsais raised his hands in peace.
 
“Her mark is around her neck.
 
Can she feel much worse?”
 
He did not wait for an answer.
 
“Isiilde isn’t four anymore, though I know you can’t see it.
 
She has a keen mind when she chooses.
 
I’m simply asking you to give her a choice in the matter.”

“Look, the alternative isn’t much better.
 
We can’t be sure if Mearcentia will win the bid.
 
She could be sent to Xaio,” interjected Isek.
 
“Maybe she’s had her eye on someone.
 
It’s not as if the Order is full of common militia here.
 
A few of the Guard and a number of Wise Ones stand a chance against the Hound.
 
I’ll put some thought into it and make a list of our best fighters.
 
If someone strikes her fancy, then we can ask him if he’d be willing to champion her—that is, if she goes through with it.”

Oenghus stood like a brooding storm cloud, mulling over Isek’s words before he finally relented.
 
“Fine.
 
I’ll talk to her, but I’m also giving her the option to get off this cursed Isle.”
 
He turned his back on the two men, and stalked out, slamming the door in protest.

Isek leaned against the wall and gave a low whistle.
 
“I don’t think there’s a man on the Isle who wouldn’t risk the Hound for a chance at her.”

“I’m so glad you’re finding this amusing.”
 
Disgust propelled Marsais into his study, leaving Isek Beirnuckle whistling softly in the hallway.

Forty

M
ADNESS
LURKED
IN
an unobtrusive basket, coiled and waiting for light to touch its long body.
 
The coil was the color of death, of tattered funeral wrappings and dried bone, with two milky eyes lacking the luster of life.

The Rahuatl took a step back as the dark-haired man reached into the basket, calmly gripping the rope of muscle by its tail, ignoring the sibilant rasp of a creature who had tasted the last breath of many a prey.
 
The snake whipped its head around, searching, seeking the hot blood that tempted its forked tongue.

As casually as could be, Tharios placed his forearm in front of death.
 
The whipcord struck with ferocity, sinking yellow daggers into the pale skin of the human.
 
The snake jerked, and the human arched his neck, flexing his jaw with the look of a man who had found physical release.

Humans were strange creatures, N’Jalss mused.
 
Torture them and they howled like infants.
 
Yet for their pleasures, they freely subjected themselves to pain.

“Have you ever taken ethervenom directly from its source?” Tharios breathed, allowing the snake to continue its piercing intimacies.
 
The Rahuatl said nothing, because only a madman would risk such a thing.
 
“Pure ethervenom affects the mind, but not in the way most believe, rather, it has an enlightening side-effect.”
 
Tharios carefully pulled the Plague viper’s fangs from his forearm and wrapped a pristine cloth around the bleeding bite as he studied the Rahuatl with calculating eyes.
 
“Tell me, N’Jalss, what progress have you made?”

“None, m’lord.”

A muscle in Tharios’ jaw twitched, but that was all the displeasure he betrayed.
 
Without a word the sleek Wise One walked over to a large window overlooking the turbulent sea.
 
He stood for long minutes, quiet and contemplating, allowing the knot between N’Jalss’ shoulders to tighten in anticipation.
 
N’Jalss sensed danger, smelt aggression, and knew that the hunt was always with this one.
 
His master was not a man to be crossed.

“The Shadowed Dawn approaches,” Tharios said at length, stroking the triangular head of the viper slithering over his naked shoulders.

“I am searching day and night, m’lord.”

“All of my plans will be useless if we fail to locate the entrance.”
 
N’Jalss relaxed at the inclusion of ‘we’ meaning that Tharios did not hold the Rahuatl solely responsible for failure.

“What of Tulipin?
 
Has he held up his end of the bargain?”

“He has reproduced the scroll—a simple matter for a mind like his.
 
As we speak, it is being shown to the Blessed Order, but I’m afraid it won’t be enough to have Marsais prematurely disrobed.”

“A toad may bring down a giant,” N’Jalss quoted a proverb of his race.
 
“Our
esteemed
Archlord digs his own grave with the help of that whining creature.”

“True,” Tharios admitted.
 
“The nymph has done most of the work for us.
 
It’s almost too easy.
 
If time were not a factor, then I’d let events run their course and assume his throne when the names are drawn.
 
Still—” Tharios trailed off, turning back to the window, where he stood long enough for N’Jalss to grow restless.

The Rahuatl rubbed his split tongue along the insides of his pointed teeth, cutting the flesh, and wetting his palate for his dinner below the castle.
 
He was so distracted by the scent of blood that he nearly missed Tharios’ next words.

“Tell me, N’Jalss.
 
If you saw your death coming—would you run from it or fight?”

“Fight it,” the Rahuatl hissed.

“A sane man would fight it and a wise man would run, but what of a madman?” Tharios mused, turning to regard the Rahuatl with a tilt of his brow.

Slow realization crept over N’Jalss and at its conclusion, he dug his claws irritably into the palm of his hand.
 
“Embrace it,” he spat, knowing even as he answered that the Seer had been playing his own game while they played theirs.
 
What Marsais planned, or what he was waiting for, they did not know.