A Thread in the Tangle (2 page)

“I bring an urgent message for him—nothing more,” Edmund replied, quickly.
 
It was not uncommon for officials to disappear in the dock districts and no one was ever the wiser for it.

“I’ll hand it to ‘im while you ‘ave a drink.
 
Vigum there will take yer coin.”
 
The woman jerked her head towards the guard and stood.

The messenger felt his throat go dry, but stiffened, remembering his orders and the urgency of his errand.
 
He did not have time for these games.

“In the name of Emperor Soataen Jaal III, take me to the Wise One or this refuse heap will be burnt to the ground.”
 
The whore regarded him while the guard chuckled.
 
Edmund Flaetfoot resisted the urge to do what he did best: run.

After a few moments of consideration, she spat at his feet and sauntered up the stairwell.
 
The young man sighed with relief and followed in the wake of her tottering gait.
 
The planks sagged beneath their feet, groaning in protest as they climbed.
 
On the third floor landing, the woman stopped, waving a lazy hand down a door-lined hallway.

“Oenghus’ room is the last door there.
 
Good luck wakin’ ‘im.”

Ignoring the woman’s smirk, Edmund hurried down the creaky corridor.
 
The walls were peeling, the chairs were stained, and the artwork looked like a drunken one-armed sailor had attacked the canvas with a paintbrush.
 
He rapped on the door three times, quick and authoritative, and then waited, shifting from foot to foot.
 
When there was no immediate answer, he pounded again.

“Who in the Nine Halls is that?” a voice bellowed from behind the door.

“I have an urgent message for you, m’lord,” Edmund yelled.

A loud grumble answered, followed by sounds of rustling fabric, and approaching footsteps.
 
The door opened a crack, revealing a sleepy-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face.

“Quiet down or you’ll wake the whole house,” she scolded before ushering him inside.

The room was not the common sort reserved for patrons who came and went by the hour, but one that exhibited signs of prolonged habitation.
 
Flames flickered in the small hearth, illuminating the cluttered room with a soft, inviting glow that failed to soften the biting chill.
 
The woman, who was inadequately dressed, hurried back to a large bed.

Edmund watched her hop beneath the covers, thinking the Wise One’s tastes weren’t that bad after all.
 
A loud snore broke his reverie; the Wise One had fallen back asleep.

The messenger walked over to the bed, eyeing the massive pair of feet protruding over the edge of the mattress with no small amount of uneasiness.
 
Edmund decided to focus on the two attractive women stretched alongside the giant.
 
While this lord would not be the first Edmund had had to drag out of bed, he was certainly the largest.

Edmund cleared his throat, loudly.

The Wise One’s snoring ceased, and then he roused himself with a grunt, lowering the covers to study his visitor.
 
“Well?”

“Lord Saevaldr—Wise One, I have urgent news.
 
There’s been a fire in the palace.”

“Good thing it’s raining,” the Wise One growled and—much to the bed’s creaking protest—shifted his bulk, draping an arm over one of his bedfellows.

“M’lord,” Edmund persisted.
 
“Emperor Jaal requests your presence.”

“Kiss my arse.”

“The fire was in the nursery wing.”

The two women yelped in surprise as the Wise One threw off his blankets.
 
Oenghus launched out of bed with a speed that defied his hulking stature, surging towards Edmund Flaetfoot before he could runaway.
 
A crushing hand grabbed the stunned young man by the collar and yanked him clear off his feet, forcing him to meet the baleful gaze of what could only be a Nuthaanian Berserker—over seven feet of fury, of death and carnage.

“Is Isiilde safe?” Oenghus demanded.

The young man spluttered in fear.
 
Edmund Flaetfoot could not run and he could not move except to kick his feet uselessly in midair.

“Oen.”
 
A woman’s gentle voice had never been more welcome to Edmund’s ears.
 
The second woman slipped from the bed, draping a blanket elegantly around her shoulders.
 
She was lush and dark and at that moment, hovering on the edges of his sight, she seemed a benevolent goddess.
 
“Put him down and let him talk.”
 
She placed a hand on the powerful arm—an arm that was larger than her waist.
 
The giant calmed at her touch.

“O, aye, might be a good idea.”
 
Oenghus relaxed his grip.
 
Edmund fell to the floor, collapsing in a breathless heap.

Oen?
 
By the gods,
the man was as powerful as a bull.
 
Edmund scuttled away from the looming Nuthaanian until he was stopped short by the closed door.

“Spit it out, lad,” Lord Saevaldr growled, black beard twitching with threat.

“I don’t know the details, m’lord.”
 
Edmund’s perfectly prepared message had flown right out of his head, instead, his words tumbled inelegantly from his lips in a manner unbecoming for a royal messenger.
 
“I heard there were injuries—and deaths.
 
I don’t know who, but Emperor Jaal, m’lord, he is furious.”

Much to Edmund’s relief, the Wise One didn’t utter a word in reply (or rip off his head).
 
The bull of a man swiftly donned his clothes in grim silence and tore from the room with eyes as tempestuous as the storm.
 
Edmund Flaetfoot was left wondering if a man such as that even took note of the Felling Wind.

Two

A
BATTLE WAS
raging above the sprawling palace of Whitemount.
 
Wind and sleet dueled flame and smoke.
 
A defiant inferno licked the pristine marble, hissing its frustration into the night.
 
The entire east wing was engulfed in its smoldering fury.
 
And every able-bodied man and woman in the palace strived to quench the unnatural blaze, but their efforts appeared futile.

Oenghus Saevaldr strode swiftly towards the palace infirmary.
 
He was a hard man to miss; an indomitable mountain that rivers flowed around, and the lords and soldiers of Kambe were no different, scattering like so many startled chickens at his unrelenting approach.
 
No one dared to stand in Oenghus’ way, because he would barrel right over them without noticing.

He ducked beneath the infirmary door and surveyed the wounded, searching for a tiny girl and dreading that he should find her here.
 
Nineteen people had been injured; nine were already dead, their charred bodies covered with white linen shrouds.
 
Another five patients appeared to be well on their way to rejoining the Spirit River.
 
There were no children among the dead.

A short, stout woman—firm and solid rather than weak and corpulent—pulled herself from the unfortunate wounded.

“Oen,” she breathed in relief.

“What of the children, Morigan?”

“Aristarchus and Sarabian have suffered slight injuries, but it could have been much worse—would have been if not for their bodyguards’ sacrifice,” Morigan replied, glancing at the shrouded bodies waiting patiently upon their cots.

The herbs-woman wiped her hands needlessly on her smock; a habit Oenghus knew well.
 
The gesture twisted his gut, because it was the only sign of strain the tireless healer ever displayed.

“And what of Isiilde?” Oenghus asked, bracing himself for the answer.

“Well, that’s the problem,” Morigan began.
 
“I’m sure you’ve already guessed who they’re blaming the fire on and it doesn’t help matters that she’s run off.”

“Where is she?”

“Let me finish,” she sighed.
 
“It’s a good thing Isiilde ran off because the Emperor was in a mighty temper when he found out his heirs were nearly killed tonight.”

“Isiilde is his daughter too,” Oenghus snapped.

“You can certainly remind him, because he ordered the guards to find Isiilde and throw her in a dungeon until she’s old enough to sell.”

An overwhelming urge to pummel Soataen filled Oenghus.
 
He clenched his fists, imagining flesh transforming to pulp beneath his skilled blows.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to start the fire, Zahra bless her heart, but after the disaster with the gardens, the library,
and
the banquet—well she’s dangerous, but a dungeon?
 
The nymphling is only four.”

 
Morigan was a stern, experienced healer, demonstrating more courage and mettle than Oenghus had seen in most warriors.
 
He had watched her slog through the muck and mire of battlefields to heal the dying and spend long, grueling days in the healers’ tents without a moment’s rest, but he had never witnessed tears in her eyes as he did now when she said this last.

“The bastard is not putting her in a dungeon,” Oenghus stated with a voice like a rock, and the slow, stubborn rumble of a mountain.

“Oen,” Morigan hissed, glancing cautiously around the infirmary for anyone who might have heard the traitorous words.
 
“He’s the Emperor.
 
If you interfere, then your head will be on the chopping block.”

“It’s my head,” Oenghus snorted before stalking out of the infirmary.

As much as he hated to admit it, Morigan had a valid point.
 
Emperor Soataen Jaal III ruled the kingdom of Kambe with absolute power.
 
The Emperor’s word was law.
 
Any who dared defy him suffered a swift defeat, but then again, Oenghus was not just anyone, and Nuthaanian Berserker’s were not renowned for their good sense.
 
However, Oenghus was also a Wise One, therefore he had more sense than most of his kin.
 
A solid strategy was required.

Beyond a doubt, Isiilde’s latest inferno had been the last straw for Soataen.
 
Fortunately, the Emperor had always cultivated the good opinion of his populace and his penchant for popularity was Oenghus’ sole weapon, but if that failed—he would resort to what he knew best.

First things first, Oenghus had to find Isiilde.
 
Where would she go?
 
The kitchens, the forges, no, there were too many people.
 
She would run and hide, far away from the Kamberians.

“By the Pits o’ Mourn!” Oenghus swore with such vehemence that an unfortunate guard tensed in surprise, retreated five steps, and reached for his sword.
 
He ignored the soldier, pulled his cowl over his head, strode briskly past, and stepped outside into the chilling sleet.

The inner bailey surged with structured urgency as flames spit their heat at the storm.
 
He barreled through the chaos of bucket wielding servants, leaving a host of flustered nerves in his wake.
 
The question of whom to blame was obvious; only Isiilde could have started a fire in this weather.