A Thread in the Tangle (66 page)

Again, silence answered, until Isek thought Marsais had lapsed into one of his reveries, so it came as a surprise when he finally asked, “What would you do if you abruptly lost your vision?
 
Here, now, in the middle of this room?”

Through long association, Isek was accustomed to odd questions from the Seer, and he barely paused before answering, “I’d cling to my last moment of sight, reconstruct the layout of the room and try to get to the bloody infirmary without breaking my neck.”

“I never much cared for stumbling around in the dark.
 
I believe I will simply stand and wait,” Marsais murmured.

“That’s well and good, but do you want me to put your name down, or not?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Please tell the Inquisitor and Knight Captain that I will see them as soon as I am presentable.”

Isek blinked.

“I could hardly speak with the illustrious Inquisitor of the Blessed Order dressed as I am.”

“Marsais,” Isek remarked, dryly.
 
“You’ve met with dignitaries while wearing a patched shirt, trousers, and sandals.”

“At least I was clothed,” Marsais shrugged.
 
“O, and, Isek, have them wait for me outside of the throne room.”

Isek smirked.
 
“As you wish.”

Marsais intended to enjoy this lull in time.
 
Untroubled by visions, he exercised all the primping care that his predecessor had shown to his own appearance.
 
He lounged in the bath, relishing the pleasure of shaving without having to endure his reflection’s eyes being gouged out by crows, or his neck repeatedly slit.
 
And while the paladins waited outside his throne room, fidgeting nervously in the nameless chamber, he took extra care with the oils he applied to his skin, the robes he chose, and the braids he wove into his hair.

When Marsais finally emerged from his dressing room, he presented a regal figure, clad in dark, austere robes that emphasized his leanness to the point of severity.
 
From his noble brow, to his hawkish nose, and the three hollow coins chiming at the end of his goatee, he was every bit the famed Archlord of the Isle, wearing a mantle of mystery and power with trifling ease.

❧

The Archlord was in a foul mood even before he perched on his troublesome throne.
 
On the way to his throne room he had passed Isiilde in his study.
 
She had been curled on the pelt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, nearly lifeless, and ever so faded in the sunlight.

If it not for the scroll of names clutched tightly in her hand, he would have thought her dead.

The arrival of High Inquisitor Multist, his scribe, and the new Knight Captain did little to improve Marsais’ mood.
 
He watched their confident approach with narrow eyes, studying the round faced Inquisitor who was bedecked in gilded mail.
 
The ceremonial armor was resplendent, and utterly impractical for combat.
 
Marsais loathed the man at the best of times.

The new Knight Captain marched at Multist’s side with her polished helm tucked under an arm.
 
The humorless woman intrigued Marsais.
 
Anyone who had the audacity to confiscate a Nuthaanian’s sacred Brimgrog was worth his attention.
 
But as to what kind of paladin she was, he would soon discover.

As Marsais appraised her, Captain Mael was making her own observations of the Archlord, and what she saw, unnerved her.
 
He was a stoic predator, sitting atop a crag of obsidian, white hair shimmering in shadow.
 
His eyes were calculating, following them relentlessly.
 
And his unnaturally long fingers curled over the armrests, tapping rhythmically on the glassy stone of an imposing throne.

The trio stopped before his dais and bowed as protocol demanded.

“High Inquisitor Multist,” Marsais acknowledged.
 
His soft words echoed through the throne room, repeated a thousand times, by a thousand whispering voices.
 
The Knight Captain warily searched the shadows, eyeing the mutilated faces decorating the stone.
 
“I know you, but I have not been introduced to your companion.”
 
A muscle twitched along the Knight Captain’s jawline.

“May I present, Acacia Mael, our new Knight Captain of the Chapterhouse in Drivel.”
 
Marsais inclined his head, and Multist forged on, without waiting to see if the Captain wished to speak.

“Emperor Jaal has asked the Blessed Order to take the nymph into custody until his champion arrives.”

“O, well that seems very reasonable,” he agreed, amiably.
 
“May I see the Emperor's orders?” Marsais held out an expectant hand.

“It was relayed by Whisperers,” Multist explained.

“Hmm.”
 
Marsais stroked his braided goatee, coins chiming in the vast chamber.
 
“A Whisperer, you say?
 
I’m afraid that won’t do.
 
Everyone knows such messages can be intercepted and altered.
 
It’s like snatching a feather from the wind.”
 
An elegant hand rose, swiping the air with the swiftness of a viper.
 
“Not very hard to accomplish with a quick hand.
 
You should hear some of the things that I pluck from the winds.”

“You refuse to hand her over?”
 
Multist’s eyes narrowed.

“I refuse to hand her over without orders bearing the Emperor’s seal.
 
I assure you she’s quite safe where she is.”

Multist’s eyes bulged in his corpulent head, but he could hardly dispute such simple reasoning.
 
“What of the young man?
 
I suppose you won’t hand him over either?”

“You can remove him from the wall as long as you don’t execute him.
 
I left him up there as proof for your investigation.
 
Thira bore witness to the rape, as well as myself.”

“As a witness to events, Archlord,” Captain Mael interjected with crisp professionalism, “I would like to hear your account.”

The Captain nodded to the pinched-faced scribe, waiting for him to arrange his writing implements before asking the Archlord to proceed.
 
For the second time, in too few hours, Marsais found himself repeating the events of the previous evening, enduring the details with a sickening twist of his gut.

“Morigan, the Chief Healer, will be able to confirm her injuries,” he finished at length, vowing never to repeat her humiliation to another soul.
 
He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to relax his grip on the armrests.

The Captain asked few questions in return, mostly pertaining to Stievin’s prior contact with Isiilde and how her guards managed to lose sight of their charge.
 
Satisfied, the Captain nodded to the scribe, however, Multist had more on his agenda.

“We need to discuss another matter, Archlord.”
 
The fevered thrill of righteousness entered the Inquisitor's eyes.
 
“A number of your actions have been brought to our attention.
 
You have been charged with heresy and summoning and must submit to questioning.”

“On what grounds?”

“A certain manuscript, which was written by your apprentice—former, I should say, was placed in our hands.
 
Since she is a nymph and it was written under your tutelage, you are responsible for this blasphemous account of our Order’s history.”
 
Multist paused dramatically while Marsais continued his rhythmic tapping on the armrest.
 
“It has also come to our attention that you are responsible for releasing a fiend onto the Isle.
 
This falls under the Laws of Summoning.”

“Indeed?”
 
Brows rose in curious surprise.
 
The Inquisitor was stretching his interpretations of the Law today, more so than usual.
 
By the gods, thought Marsais, if only they knew the half of it.

“You don’t deny it?”

“I freely admit to opening the flagon.
 
I was casting about for something to wet my whistle with and saw it on my desk.
 
So yes, I opened it.
 
Hmm, I forgot he was in there.”
 
The Archlord gave a dismissive gesture.

“You forgot that there was a bound fiend in a flagon?” the High Inquisitor asked, incredulously.

“My dear fellow,” Marsais purred.
 
“It’s been near fifteen hundred years since I put the Imp in there.
 
At the time, the Blessed Order was but an inkling of a thought and a small village was being tormented by the fiend.
 
I can’t be expected to remember every petty detail of a lifetime spent fighting such creatures.”
 
The Archlord’s fingers twitched impatiently, for he knew why he was being troubled with these trivialities, and it was growing tiresome.

“We shall see,” Multist drawled, pompously.
 
“But don’t get too comfortable in that chair, I am personally leveling another charge against you.
 
Your treatment of the young man Stievin was barbaric.
 
Law demands that you answer for the damages inflicted on his person.”

“
My
treatment of Stievin?”
 
Impatience was being replaced with something far more sinister.

“By your own admission, you attacked an unarmed man and castrated him.”

“He was raping my apprentice!”
 
A thousand voices rose in tumultuous fury.
 
“I suppose you would have watched and waited while he finished up!”
 
Marsais bounded to his feet in disgust, robes billowing around him with restless anticipation.

Captain Mael tensed, hand straying to the sword on her hip, but the Inquisitor stood his ground with an air of
 
triumph, relishing the fact that he had burrowed beneath the Archlord’s cool exterior.

“The creature is a nymph—not worth the damage caused,” Multist stated.

“I will answer your summons, but in the meantime get out of my tower,” Marsais hissed.
 
Long fingers twitched dangerously at his side.
 
The High Inquisitor would make an excellent rat, but on further thought, even that creature was too noble an animal for the slime sullying his hall.

Marsais caught Isek’s attention with a flash of his eyes.
 
The assistant stepped forward to escort the paladins out, but rather than testing the limits of his restraint while they exited, Marsais touched the teleportation rune etched into the armrest.

Coldness embraced him, dragging his body through stone to reappear in the chair behind his cluttered desk.

Forty-three

M
ARSAIS
SURGED
TO
his feet, startling Oenghus, who had not moved from his daughter’s side.

“Do I want to know?” Oenghus grumbled.
 
Marsais shook his head, knowing it would accomplish little except to provoke the Nuthaanian.

Weak sunlight draped the nymph in a blanket of warmth as she curled on the pelt.
 
Her emerald eyes followed his ill-tempered strides.
 
When he noticed, he slowed, forcing himself to stifle the rage in his heart.
 
It was well past midday, light was fading into night—time was slipping through their fingers.