A Thread in the Tangle (55 page)

The nymph stiffened, bristling with indignation.
 
“My voice is my own and I will not be ordered about,” she declared with a flash of haughty fury, meeting each and every eye in the room with defiant challenge.
 
But rather than take offense, her outburst had quite another effect on the emissaries; their eyes went wide, drinking the sight of her fierce spirit with thirsty gazes.

“You have seen enough.
 
I strongly urge you to leave,
now
.”
 
The edge in the Archlord’s voice was unmistakable—more threatening than a shout from the Berserker.

For once, Caitlyn didn’t offer objection.
 
There was danger in the air, building by the second.
 
With every lingering moment, lust clawed at their bodies.

Marsais’ fingers twitched at his side as he swept an impenetrable gaze over the emissaries.
 
One by one they tore their eyes from the vision of legend, and filed out, casting furtive glances as they left.
 
When the door shut, Isiilde’s legs gave out and she collapsed in a sobbing heap, clutching at the back of Marsais’ robes.
 
He did not turn to comfort her.

“Thank you, Archlord.”
 
Caitlyn swallowed with an echo of fear.
 
“I had no idea how—potent she would be.”
 
The healer nearly looked ashamed, however, it was quickly stifled, replaced with brisk efficiency.

“Fetch Oenghus,” Marsais ordered.
 
The healer did as he bid, and a moment later, Oenghus stormed in, wrapping his trembling daughter in a soft blanket and carrying her off without a word.

❧

The Archlord of the Wise Ones’ Isle stood before the rain battered windows; a slash of crimson against the grey.
 
His elegant hands were clasped behind his thin frame as visions gleefully danced around him.
 
His reflection gleamed in the streaked glass, suffering a hundred different torments in all the vast and varied possibilities that might snip his thread, but he cared not, because his mind was filled with one thought—one everlasting memory that would haunt him to the end of his days—the dazzling beauty of her emerald eyes.

Thirty-one

T
HE
A
RCHLORD
WATCHED
the predatory gait of Tharios.
 
The younger Wise One paced in front of the floor to ceiling window of flawless crystal.
 
He was dressed in crimson robes and struck an impressive figure.
 
More so than the current Archlord at any rate.

Even his study was more impressive than the dusty tomes that currently kept Marsais company.
 
The plush frost bear pelt was hardly as mysterious as the blue runes burning a halo into the stone floor.
 
Portal Magic.
 
And not a common sort.
 
It lacked the gruesome style of the Bloodmagi, and looked nothing like the golden Portals of Iilenshar.
 
This was something ancient, similar to the Gateways hidden beneath the Spine.

Marsais did not recognize the rune pattern, but then, there were so many bleak gaps in his memory that it came as no surprise, nor was a cause for much worry.
 
Knowledge was a beautiful thing; it came to one when it chose and not before.
 
As if to underscore his thoughts, the vision vanished, or perhaps it shifted (he could never really tell).

“Do I dare ask?”
 
Isek stood impatiently on the other side of the cluttered desk.

“Ask what?”

“What you’re staring at?”

“Not unless it’s what we were talking about,” Marsais replied, sharply.
 
Isek gave him an even look that reminded him of his mother.
 
Marsais took a deep breath, running his fingers through his disheveled hair.
 
When was the last time he bathed, or for that matter, slept?
 
His assistant and dear friend continued unperturbed.

“I was relaying the news from the Thanes in the South.”
 
Isek pointed to a stack of reports delivered by Whisperers.
 
“In short, Lachlan has united the Thanes without swinging a blade.
 
The newly united kingdom is in joyous festival and he has sent greetings of ‘peace and goodwill’ to all his neighbors.”

“Hmm, didn’t Ramashan do the same when he liberated that cursed island in the name of peace?”

“Aren’t we cynical today,” Isek muttered, shifting to another report.
 
“He has named his new kingdom, ‘Lachland’.”

Marsais snorted, rolling his eyes at the name.
 
“By the gods what an unimaginative absurdity.”

“Yes, imagine a ruler naming his lands after himself, such as—Marsais
zar’Vaylin
.”
 
Isek directed a pointed look at Marsais.

“You’re not supposed to know that.”

“Well, you shouldn’t get drunk and tell me.”

Marsais yanked on his goatee in irritation, a habit that he had picked up from his berserking apprentice some years back.

“Oenghus is being ‘questioned’ by the noble order of our blessed patron Zahra, Guardian Of All That Is Good, concerning his desecration of her temple.
 
The Circle has conveniently called an emergency council, and since he is absent, Thira has graciously agreed to sit in his place until he returns.
 
One crown says they’re going to reassess our position in the South.”

“You’d make an excellent seer,” Marsais replied dryly.

“Of a more delicate nature, the bidding for Isiilde is in high swing.
 
They have been communicating with Kambe by way of Whisperers for the past four days.
 
Xaio is on top at the moment.
 
They have thrown in exclusive trade rights and free passage for Kambe—as long as Isiilde lives.
 
Although Mearcentia could do the same and we all know how Kiln feels about losing to them, so I wouldn’t count them out yet.”

Marsais scratched at the burning scar on his chest, glancing at the plush pelt.
 
Isiilde was there, broken and battered, dressed in the trappings of a Xaionian bed slave, staring blankly at some unseen vision as he stared now.

How she had faded.

The Seer surged to his feet, unable to look upon remorseless Fate any longer.
 
He dunked his head in the wash basin, scrubbing at his eyes as if something so simple could wipe the memory from his mind.
 
Just as quickly, he pushed the hair out of his face.
 
Water dripped down his robes as he clutched the side of the table, trying not to be sick.

Isek watched him carefully.
 
“When did you sleep last, Marsais?”

“I do not need a nursemaid,” he snarled.

“You can’t go to the council looking like that.”

“Then you go.”
 
He paced his study, closing his eyes against the shifting sands of time.

“Why don’t
you
buy Isiilde?”
 
Isek’s voice was a low murmur.

“I can’t.”

“The bidding is up to four hundred thousand crowns, but if you empty your coffers and throw in a few ‘trinkets’ from that vault of yours, then I’m sure you could match it.”

“Do not tempt me!” Marsais shouted.

Isek’s brows shot up.
 
A long shudder seized the Seer’s thin frame, and he took a deep, calming breath that did nothing to ease the pain twisting his heart.

“I went to the pleasure house some months back.
 
I needed a respite, a bit of the seed for my mind.
 
You can’t imagine the visions plaguing me of late, Isek,” he confided.
 
“I had a true vision, a dreaming daze atop my perch, like a bird of prey watching the byways of time.
 
It all stretched out so clearly.
 
In one, I walked down that path, but in our happiness this realm will suffer.
 
I am not meant for her.
 
I
cannot
choose her!”

Isek answered this outburst with silence.
 
Finally, when he spoke, he chose his words carefully, “Marsais, for as long as I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you in love—until now.”

“My heart perished too long ago for that,” he whispered.
 
“I cannot love Isiilde as she deserves.
 
I only wish her happiness—to protect her until a more deserving man arrives.”

“That sounds a lot like love to me, old friend.”

“There is but one path that leaves her untouched—one death.”
 
He swallowed back the words like bile rising in his throat.
 
“I can’t do it, I couldn’t before, and I can’t now, however, Oenghus will if it comes to that.”

“You’re not making any sense, old fellow.
 
What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.”
 
Marsais waved a dismissive hand.
 
“I’m a raving madman, remember.”

“If you’re going to the council, then you should get cleaned up.”

“Stand for me.
 
Say what you like.
 
I care not if they take my throne,” Marsais snapped, sparing one last look at the empty rug before stalking out of his study.

Thirty-two

T
HE
HEAVY
CLINK
of shifting chain mail echoed in the hollow tunnel of the King’s Walk.
 
Flames fluttered restlessly in their sconces.
 
The guard of the First Watch glanced uneasily at her charge, whose red head peeked from behind a rosewood statue.
 
The guard resisted the urge to remove her helm and wipe the perspiration from her brow.
 
She silently cursed the short straw she had drawn for the
privilege
of guarding the nymph today.