A Thread in the Tangle (33 page)

Cursing her carelessness, she sprang to her feet, nearly tripping over her skirts as she ran out the front door.
 
If she were lucky (which she usually was), then Marsais would have left his rucksack in the Archlord’s private preparation chamber, which led directly into the Hall of Judgment where the Circle assembled.
 
And while she was rifling through his belongings, she might as well see if the letter from her father was there.
 
Not that she would ever pry intentionally, but if the scroll happened to be unrolled, or lying about, then there was always a chance for an accidental glimpse.

A hard knot had been twisting in her stomach ever since Isek had handed the sealed message to Marsais.
 
Of course, it was silly to think that the Emperor of Kambe and the Archlord of the Isle had nothing else to discuss than the nymph, but still—she was of age and if Marsais had figured it out, then it was safe to assume someone else might have too.

Every time she thought about being sold, her heart clutched with dread, and bile rose in her throat.
 
The tears came too, relentless, as they did now, sizzling on her heated flesh as she ran blindly down the stairwell.
 
The eventuality was ever present, everyday of her life, the loss of freedom loomed ever closer and today, she felt it so keenly that she wanted to scream.

However much she raged, screaming would accomplish nothing.
 
She was grateful for the years of freedom that Marsais and Oenghus had fought hard to provide her with.
 
Marsais had risked his throne on her behalf, time after time, and he continued to do so.

That he granted her, a nymph, sanctuary on the Isle was no small matter, yet he pressed it even further when he recommended her into the Order.
 
No one could deny the ease with which she manipulated runes, but still, Marsais had spent many long, grueling days cloistered in the Hall of Judgment, urging the Circle to accept the nymph as a novice at the tender age of ten (an age that was unheard of) to say nothing of her race.

Whatever Marsais had argued, it must have been eloquent, because the Circle had granted her entrance by a vote of five to four.
 
However, four years later, after an unfortunate Linking accident with Miera Malzeen, the Circle began questioning its decision.
 
The other Wise Ones feared her strange affinity, not only for fire, but for the Gift that they wielded so carefully.
 
There had been a number of petitions calling for the fourteen-year old nymph’s dismissal.
 
And it was only after Marsais claimed her as his apprentice that they quieted, because the Archlord was now responsible for the nymph’s actions.

Marsais had seen to it that she had as much freedom as possible while on the Isle.
 
Every male guard was rotated to the outer walls and baileys while the inner Keep was patrolled exclusively by female guards.
 
During her first years as a novice, she had had two guards with her at all times, and a number were posted elsewhere throughout the corridors as well as in the lecture rooms.
 
However, the nymph tired of their presence, and had developed a considerable talent for losing her guards.

In fact, she excelled at it so much that Lord General Ielequithe finally told Marsais that it was pointless to try to shadow her, because if she could evade an entire regiment of Isle guards than it was unlikely she would be cornered by someone who meant her harm.
 
The guards now stood, silent and sentry like at their posts.
 
And just to spite them, Isiilde made it a point to avoid them whenever possible.
 
It was, she thought, a grand game to play.

Isiilde loved to explore, and the Wise Ones tower was a perfect place to quench her desires.
 
Short-cuts, secret chambers, passages, and teleportation runes were numerous, and what was more, many of them were unknown.
 
But she had a knack for discovering what was hidden.
 
It was not uncommon for her to spend days in the castle without seeing, or being seen by another soul, save Oenghus and Marsais.
 
This was her freedom, and she treasured it, as solitary and lonely as it sometimes was.

The nymph pressed her delicate hand against a column of marble, activating an invisible rune.
 
She stepped into the wall, and emerged a heartbeat later, stopping to listen for approaching footsteps.
 
By order of some Wise One or another, she wasn’t supposed to enter the outer sanctum of the Hall of Judgment.
 
However, such peevish decrees never deterred her.
 
How could she possibly resist the dazzling chamber?

Pristine marble glittered like freshly fallen snow and the supporting columns swirled with veins of molten silver.
 
If such beauty were not enough to tempt her, then the whirlpool of churning gold and red hues churning above surely would.
 
A weave gone awry swirled at the pinnacle of the domed ceiling, some forty-feet in the air.
 
It was an everlasting testament to the Wise One who had failed: Lispen the Louse, as he was labeled, was a Wise One who had tried to summon a Gateway to prove he could, and subsequently was never seen again.

It is never wise to try when using the Gift,
so went the sage saying.
 
Avoiding the center, she circled around the edge of the chamber, keeping to the smooth walls as her slippered feet moved silently over the polished floor.
 
She kept a wary eye on the churning cauldron of color above.
 
The runes of the weave were all tangled, ever moving and unstable, and she wondered what fatal combination Lispen had woven to produce the chaotic cycle.
 
An older apprentice had once claimed that fiends occasionally dropped through the portal, but if that were the case, than she was sure there would be guards posted directly inside the chamber.

Isiilde hurried to an unremarkable marble wall, activating the hidden rune, which was known as the Eye of the Archlord.
 
A rune that was reserved for the Archlord’s use, and one to which Marsais had thoughtfully given her access.
 
There were many places inside the tower where she was forbidden to venture, however, if her desire was profound, wards did not deter her, but unease often did.
 
Forbidden or not, there were places she avoided—foul places that made her skin crawl.

A tall, square panel of stone pulsed to life, and she gently pushed it open, slipping inside the Archlord’s preparation room.
 
The chamber was small, a dressing room of sorts, but elegantly garbed with plush chairs, a gilded mirror, and a lavishly oiled wardrobe.
 
According to Oenghus, the Archlord before Marsais was something of a peacock, but then again, Oenghus said that of Marsais.

A familiar rucksack and tattered grey cloak sat on a padded bench where they had been dumped into an unceremonious heap.
 
As she moved towards the item of her desire, she passed the full length mirror.
 
Her reflection proved distracting.
 
She drew up short, turning towards the glass to study the young woman who stared back, or rather the nymph.
 
She smoothed her skirts, and readjusted her dark green bodice, turning this way and that, inspecting herself from every angle.

Who was she that kings would wage war over?
 
Not much, she answered her own inner musings.
 
She was delicate and weak, too short and slender, and hair too bright.
 
She was a study of disproportion with large eyes and a wide mouth.
 
Isiilde moaned, hiding her sweeping ears with her hands.
 
To her eyes, they looked like horns, or wings sprouting from her head.

Wings.
 
Her thoughts snapped back into focus as she recalled her errand.
 
She hurried over to Marsais’ rucksack, untied the flap, and poked at the ominous opening.
 
It might be warded.
 
Marsais liked wards, placing them on things whenever he was restless, drunk, or bored.
 
But she wasn’t sure how one would go about warding a bag.

She leant forward, peering into its dark depths, and wrinkled her nose as a sharp, bitter scent assailed her senses.
 
Did he have a skunk hiding in there?
 
After brief consideration, she held it at arm’s length and shook it roughly, waiting for the unknown olfactory offense to charge out.
 
That was the problem with enchanted bags containing pockets of space—a tiger could fit inside.

“One never knows what one might find,”
Marsais had once remarked, and then claimed he had found a dragon hiding in a sock (Oenghus said it was a large lizard).
 
She steeled herself and thrust her hand inside.
 
Images of spiders and large thrashing monsters intruded upon her imagination.
 
Isiilde gagged silently as her questing fingers brushed something slimy, and she quickly moved to the opposite side, pulling out a variety of oddly shaped vials, a thin book full of her master’s drawings, and finally, the rune-etched flagon.

She held her prize up to the light, much as she had done inside his vault, inspecting the twisting runes on its silver surface.
 
In its reflection, she saw a marble pedestal in the corner, and the Bowl of Scrying sitting enticingly on top.
 
If the nymph was sure of anything, she was sure that eaves dropping on the Circle of Nine while they were holding council in the Hall of Judgment was an extremely bad idea, so naturally, she forgot the flagon and went straight for the pedestal.

Isiilde traced an an air rune over the milky water, uttering the Lore in a low, persuasive voice, until the water began to swirl and the fog cleared, revealing a bird’s eye view of the massive round table, and Nine angry Wise Ones.
 
Their voices echoed in her ears as the scene played out beneath her wide eyes.

“—we cannot stand by and let this happen!” Shimei Al’eeth exclaimed, surging to his feet to glare across the council table at Yasimina.
 
If his rich, obsidian skin, and tightly curled black hair did not name him as Kilnish, then his flowing accent certainly did.

“Unification of the southern Thanes would bring stability to a war ravaged land,” Yasimina replied with unwavering calm, however, there was an uncharacteristic edge beneath her words.
 
“Do my people not deserve that?”

“The price is too high; the risk too great.
 
This upstart has ties with Vaylin,” Eldred Runewise interjected.
 
He was an immaculately groomed dwarf from the Bastardlands, and his booming voice echoed loudly in the Hall.

“Precisely,” Shimei agreed.

“So your sources claim,” a slow, sinuous, hiss wrapped itself softly around the echo of voices.
 
The voice belonged to N’Jalss, a Rahuatl male who frightened the nymph terribly.
 
Whenever his slitted eyes focused on her, she felt like a mouse caught in his claws, and as such, she avoided the bronzed hunter at all costs.

“We must be reasonable.
 
Lachlan has ties with everyone.
 
He’s the first Thane in the South to turn diplomat.
 
I’ve personally spoken with him.
 
He truly appears to desire peace.”
 
This insertion of calm reason came from Tharios—at three hundred years, he was the youngest member of the Circle.
 
He hailed from the Merchant Kingdom of Ghast and his lush, raven hair, hazel eyes, and cultured style of dress were exceptionally nice to look at.
 
“Lachlan extends an offering of peace with a gesture of goodwill and we balk at it like an ill-mannered tribe of brutes.”

“Some of us
are
brutes, and we have reason to be wary, Tharios,” said Eldred.
 
“Any fool can see that this is more than an offer of peace—it’s a request for the Order’s backing, only he’s painted it up like a back alley whore.”

“Why shouldn’t we back a man who not only intends, but has the means, to stop the bloodshed in the South?” Tulipin asked.
 
As always, the carrot-haired Gnome levitated above his chair, legs crossed, with hands serenely placed upon his bent knees.

“The ports would open up again.
 
They would no longer be a haven for pirates.
 
Think of the stability this would bring to the trade routes along the coast,” Eiji said.
 
The gnomish woman was always a source of fascination to the nymph.
 
She was from Xaio, and embraced every bizarre fashion of which the famed kingdom had ever dreamt.
 
Eiji’s pink hair stood up on end, like a bristling porcupine, which added two inches to her three foot stature, and as always, she wore her snug, glossy black leathers.

“You’re looking to fatten your purse, and nothing more.
 
This new dread pirate has been wreaking havoc on your affairs,” Eldred growled at the gnome.

“Trade routes and stability—Bah!” Shimei spat.
 
“We will see what happens to stability when Vaylin gains a foothold in the West.
 
Kambe is weak and undisciplined compared to Kiln.
 
Their warriors have never faced a Vaylinish legion.”
 
The pride in his voice was unmistakable.