A Thread in the Tangle (35 page)

It took a tremendous amount of energy to wield the Gift.
 
As a result the Wise Ones had tremendous appetites.
 
A few had toyed with Runes of Sustenance, but that research was quickly dropped after a string of botched attempts that resulted in deadly poisonings.
 
Summoning food proved no better, unless one liked the taste of sawdust and swamp scum, so the mundane remained, forcing the mysterious Order to nourish themselves by ordinary means.

On this particular evening the orderly bustle of the kitchens had quite another tune.
 
Isiilde’s eyes went wide with alarm as she strode into the kitchens, which had been thrown into a state of chaos.
 
It appeared that a tornado had ripped through, gutting the large chamber.
 
Stews, beans, rice, puddings, and cakes had been thrown in every direction, and much of the mess now dripped down the walls.
 
Pots were askew, utensils littered the floor, and flour dusted the kitchen staff as well as the guards, giving them the appearance of frantic apparitions charging to and fro, dousing the small fires.

The swarthy head cook, or the ‘Ogre’ as he was affectionally referred to by his harried staff, was standing toe to toe with Thira.
 
With his red hair awry and his features twisted into a mask of anger, he bellowed his rage, shaking a meaty fist beneath her hooked nose.

At any other time this would have been entertaining, because Isiilde always enjoyed it when the Vulture’s feathers were ruffled by another, but at present, it only brought disappointment.
 
It was unlikely that her stomach would be satisfied anytime soon.

“You should have seen it earlier,” a soft voice murmured at her shoulder.
 
She took an instinctive step forward, whirling around to find a clean shaven man with slightly pointed ears smiling down at her.
 
It was Stievin, one of the Ogre’s stewards.
 
He had always been kind to her and was never too busy to prepare her a plate of food.

“What happened, Stievin?” she asked.

“Something is loose in the castle.
 
It swept through here, wreaking havoc like a banshee, but was gone as quick as it came.”
 
The nymph quickly hid the flagon in a fold of her skirt.
 
“Someone seemed to think it was an Imp or a Cinder cat.
 
I tried to catch it of course, but it’s a slippery thing.”
 
He ran a hand through his sandy hair, taming the unruly mass.
 
“I suppose you were hoping for some food, m’lady?”

“It doesn’t look like there’s much left.”

“Anything at all is possible for you.
 
Hold on a minute and I’ll see what I can do.”
 
He smiled, displaying a perfectly straight set of white teeth before plunging into the chaos.

Wanting to disappear, she pressed herself against the wall of the hallway, keeping a wary eye on Thira.
 
The last thing she needed was to draw the Wise One’s attention.
 
The Vulture was sure to find a way to blame the entire mess on her.

It is your fault, you fool headed nymph,
she thought, and then another, much more reasonable voice added,
but he said it might be a Cinder cat.

Stievin returned shortly, bearing a tray of food fit for a queen.

“As promised,” he said, lifting the lid with a flourish.

“Thank you!” she beamed.
 
When he handed her the tray, his fingers brushed the back of her hand.

“And I swear there’s not a scrap of meat on the plate.”

Isiilde smiled.
 
“You’re one of the few people who have always remembered that meat, of any kind, makes me ill.”

“How could I ever forget?” Stievin asked, surprised.
 
“I should never want to cause you harm.”

He towered over her, his eyes were deep brown, and they were fixed upon her.
 
Twelve years ago, when she had first met Stievin, she thought his eyes were the color of chocolate.
 
This had immediately endeared him to the tiny nymphling.
 
However, something had changed, and presently she did not like the way he looked at her.
 
For reasons she did not understand, his gaze made her uneasy.

“Speaking of harm,” he continued smoothly.
 
“I’d be honored to see you safely home—what with the creature loose in the castle.”

“Erm—no thank you.
 
I’m sure you have a lot of work to do and I’m due back for my lessons.”

Isiilde bobbed a curtsy and hurried away with her tray.
 
Before rounding the corner, she glanced over her shoulder.

Stievin was still watching.

A cold prickle crawled up her spine.
 
In an attempt to ward off the sudden chill, she pulled her cloak closer and quickened her pace.

Eighteen

T
HE
LANKY
W
ISE
One shifted uncomfortably in a chair, plucking at his crimson robes with disinterest, listening with half an ear as the Circle argued about who to send to spy on the rising warlord.
 
It didn’t matter who they sent.
 
Very little mattered in a realm of pieces; broken bits all jumbled together, scattered and disorganized, made all the worse by those who were frantically trying to reassemble what could not be put back together.

Besides, Marsais already knew that Tharios had his own spies in the South.
 
There was immense tedium in possessing the
gift
of foresight, because it was damn difficult to fake interest when you knew the overall outcome.
 
Marsais had stopped pretending long ago, and so he sat, studying the warp and weft of his robes while he mulled over the significance of its color.
 
Was the crimson a reminder of the blood that stained the Archlord’s hands, or was it intended to conceal?
 
There would be blood in the South and beyond, a great thick swath of it as vibrantly dark as the folds of his cloth.
 
All paths led to war, however, the misty parts lay in getting there.

A jolt of energy spiraled from the pinnacle of the domed ceiling overhead, striking the overly large table, splitting it in two.
 
Marsais brightened with interest, leaning forward to watch the cracks splinter across the granite surface.
 
He looked from the broken table to the ceiling, and squinted curiously at the churning storm above.

“Oh, it’s raining,” he mused.

“Beg your pardon, Archlord?”
 
Eldred’s booming voice was dim compared to the roll of thunder overhead.

“Marsais.”
 
A familiar voice cut through the storm.
 
It vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a massive Nuthaanian who was glowering across the table at him.
 
Marsais glanced back at the table—only mildly surprised to find it undamaged.

“Hmm?”
 
The Circle of Nine were staring at him as if he were mad, which was not so uncommon an occurrence.

“What does the weather have to do with this?” Shimei inquired.

“With what?”
 
When one was lost, it was always best to answer a question with a question.

“The scouts we’re sending,” Tharios explained, patiently.

“I’m sure they will be well suited to the task,” he said, keeping his reply vague until he could recall where he was and what he was doing.

Vagueness appeared to satisfy the Circle, stimulating the flow of conversation.
 
Marsais returned his attention to the granite table.
 
The round table was a solid, heavy weight of timeless stone—not an easy thing to break.
 
He pondered the poor men who must have labored to carry the monstrosity inside.
 
And for what?
 
So a few ideological words could be scratched on its surface and the men of the Circle could use it as a footrest.

His eyes traced the words that had been repeatedly etched into its surface by various hands over the past three thousand years.
 
We protect the past to safeguard the future.
 
What had knowledge of past mistakes ever accomplished?
 
How many times had history repeated itself during his lifetime?
 
There would always be men like Tharios, young and confident, with the stir of power rotting their blood.
 
Tharios was an easy one to plot, his course was set, but how far would he travel down the path of power?
 
What would satisfy his thirst?
 
There lay the problem with the pathways of time—the issue of choice.
 
It muddled things, cast an unknown variant into a vast sea of possibilities.

The ancient Wise One sat back, unsuccessfully trying to slouch in his narrow chair.
 
The movement returned his attention to the scroll tucked beneath his wide sash.
 
There lay pain in that bit of parchment; an unbearable jab to his heart.

There were variants and unknowns, and then there was a certain nymph.
 
The delightful problem with his apprentice was she never knew what she was going to do from moment to moment, so how could he possibly foresee her future with any accuracy?

Marsais had no idea what his apprentice was going to do, and for that matter, how others would react to the unknown.
 
Chaos followed like a faithful dog on her heels, and a delicious amount of it was sprinkled everywhere she went.
 
Unlike the dull group of performers before him, of which he had already glimpsed the script, Isiilde surprised him.

Trying to chart her path made his head spin.
 
Countless crossroads, intersections, byways, and shortcuts lay at the nymph’s feet, waiting for her to take the first step down any given path, but even when she did, she often skipped to the next.
 
Unfortunately, so many paths ended badly that he dared not dwell on the visions.

Marsais blinked, time rushed forward, and he looked up.
 
As usual he seemed to have missed a few pages.
 
The chairs around the table were empty, except one.
 
His old apprentice and now dear friend was staring at him across the expanse of stone.

“They cast their say and called it a day,” Oenghus said.

“Hmm, what did I vote?”

“You waved your hand, so they took it as a yes—not that you seemed to care,” Oenghus grunted, and then in a blink of an eye, his gruff exterior melted.
 
“You doing all right?”

“Am I ever?” Marsais mused.
 
“Unfortunately, there’s no simple answer, because if I answer, yes, then you will accuse me of lying, and if I answer, no, then you will fuss over me like an old woman.
 
A bit of a conundrum for such a mundane question.”

“And if you keep avoiding my question, then I’ll make bloody well sure you’re not all right,” Oenghus growled.

“Ever thoughtful, Oen,” Marsais quipped, and then stood, stretching his long body with the appreciative sigh of the free.
 
When a degree of suppleness had returned to his joints, he began pacing around the table, gathering his thoughts.

“To answer your question—honestly, I am not well,” he finally said, stopping beside the giant who looked even more uncomfortable in the small chair than he had.
 
Marsais gestured, nimble fingers flashing as he wove an Orb of Silence
so they might converse in private.
 
Keen ears had been known to overhear matters that were best left unheard in this chamber.
 
Marsais pulled the letter from Emperor Jaal out of his sash and tossed it on the table in front of Oenghus as if it carried the plague.