A Thread in the Tangle (32 page)

Every Archlord in the Isle’s history had lived in the Spine.
 
Oenghus had once remarked that they lived there in an attempt to make up for other shortcomings.
 
She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, so she had asked Marsais, who only laughed in reply.
 
Now, three years later, she finally understood the crude jest and wondered why Marsais had found the insult so amusing.

The first drop of yet another grim storm fell into her open mouth, sliding down her throat with a chilling tingle, and like a pebble heralding a landslide, the heavens opened up, unleashing a downpour of icy missiles.
 
A series of violent sneezes gripped the faerie, and by the time she had stopped spouting flame, her hair was soaked and her teeth were chattering.

“Don’t stand there glaring, my dear, I didn’t expect you to wait for me.”
 
Marsais brushed passed her with a twinkle of mirth in his eye.

This time he stopped in front of the correct hedge.
 
She followed him through the shrubbery and he splayed his fingers on the hidden rune, uttering the Lore under his breath.
 
After twelve years on the Isle, using Runes of Teleportation was a familiar routine, but she still found the method of travel as thrilling as the first time.

When Marsais took his hand away, the stone remained the same, but she was accustomed to the lack of change.
 
Marsais stepped aside to usher her through and she let the enchantment embrace her body.
 
She was pulled into the stone like sand sliding through the heart of an hourglass.
 
A single step took her from the Spine’s base to the floor below the tower’s peak.
 
Isiilde ducked beneath the ever present cobwebs, which had been made by a spider that she had never seen.

The nymph tore off her cloak with numb hands and shook the water from it.

“I hate the rain,” she managed between another series of sneezes as Marsais squeezed passed her, timing it between bursts of flame, to continue down the empty corridor.
 
Isiilde folded her damp cloak over her arm and followed on his heels, thoroughly wet and as irritated as a cat.

As it turned out, Marsais did not go directly to his study, but rather into one of the extensive libraries located inside the Spine.
 
Dusty tomes, manuscripts, and ancient lore books lined the walls like a catacomb of skulls with only a single, round window to light the eerie crypt of forgotten ink.
 
The nymph watched curiously as Marsais searched the shelves, but she stayed outside, since she was forbidden to enter any of the archive rooms.
 
For some odd reason the other Wise Ones believed she posed a threat to a room full of rare books.

“Marsais?”
 
He didn’t seem to hear her, so she tried again.
 
“Marsais, are you looking for the Imp in here?”

“Imp!”
 
His face appeared from behind a shelf, sniffing the air, as he searched the room with wary eyes.
 
“Where?”

“Perhaps not here, but certainly somewhere,” she replied.

“Hmm, everything is somewhere, but the rub is when it can be anywhere,” he stated, and then walked to the center of the room, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints on the priceless Mearcentian rug.
 
Marsais turned in a complete circle, and then stopped, staring out the round window high on the wall.

“The Shadows of Dawn,” he breathed.
 
“We stand at a crossroad.”

Isiilde risked a few timid steps into the forbidden library.
 
As she passed the threshold, she half expected to trip off a Ward of Alarm or alert a squad of Order guards, but nothing more exciting than her footsteps on the plush carpet occurred.

Bolstered by her anti-climatic entrance, she ventured in farther, standing at Marsais’ side.
 
The window held him entranced, but aside from the steady streams of rain beating against the thick glass, it was unremarkable.

“What do you see, Marsais?” she whispered.
 
He jerked as if she had shouted in his ear.

“Oh, hello, my dear, what brings you here?” he inquired, pleasantly.

“I’ve never left.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“Don’t you remember the warded flagon that I opened?
 
You were looking for the Imp.”

“That was ages ago,” he murmured, shaking his head, clearly disoriented.

“No, Marsais.
 
It was today.”
 
Uncomprehending eyes answered her, and his gaze was drawn back to the window, following the branching rivulets of water running down the pane.

Marsais could be absentminded at times, but he was acting even odder than normal today, and it worried her so much that she took his hand.
 
At her soft touch, his head whipped around, locking her with an impenetrable gaze.

“O, yes, of course.
 
How foolish of me.”
 
He delicately extracted his hand from hers and roughly cleared his throat.
 
“Now then, where am I—Aha yes, I remember!”
 
He launched himself at the sliding ladder that was attached to the shelves, hopped onto a rung, and let momentum carry him clear to the end of the wall length bookshelf.
 
When the ladder stopped, he nimbly climbed to the very top, ran a questing finger along the spines, plucked a book from the shelves, ignored the five feet of empty space as if it were a mere inconvenience and dropped off the ladder, landing softly.

Marsais dumped the heavy tome in her arms and hurried out, leaving her to stumble after him with her burden.

Isek Beirnuckle rounded the second corner and Marsais drew up short, casting about for a place to hide as if his assistant hadn’t already seen his tall, unmistakable form standing in an empty corridor void of adornment.

Isek, short and balding as the day she met him, took a deep, patient breath.
 
“Marsais, the Circle of Nine have been searching for you since morning.”
 
His deep, baritone voice didn’t fit with the rest of his wiry body.
 
Isiilde caught the unspoken sentence underneath his words.

I have wasted my day looking for you as well,
Isek’s dark eyes seemed to say as she watched him casually weaving a coin over his knuckles.
 
Isek’s hands were never still and the gold coin was ever present, as if he had too much pent up energy, ever restless with action.
 
Isek had tried to teach her the trick numerous times, but she did not have the patience to keep the coin moving for more than two clumsy passes.

“Here are the reports from the outlying scouts,” Isek said, handing Marsais a stack of papers.
 
“A message with the Emperor’s seal.”
 
Isek’s eyes flickered to Isiilde and he gave her a quick wink.
 
“And—” Isek paused, holding a slim cylinder.
 
“Something I think you should read before you enter the Hall of Judgment to speak with the Circle.”
 
He placed the scroll case purposefully into the Archlord’s reluctant hand.

“Hmm.”
 
Marsais glanced at the cylinder and quickly tucked it into an inner pocket of his cloak.
 
Pressing matters settled on the men’s shoulders.
 
They started to leave, forgetting the nymph altogether.

“Marsais?”
 
She felt foolish for bothering him.
 
His time was stretched so thinly of late and she was only a troublesome apprentice.
 
Still, her master paused at her soft call.

“Yes, my dear.”

“What about the—
monkey
?” she stressed, eyes shifting purposefully to Isek, and then back to Marsais.
 
Thankfully, he picked up on her hint.

“Hmm, everything you need to trap him with is in that book.
 
I’m sure you’ll have no problem.”
 
He turned to go, but caught himself, recalling another matter.
 
“One moment, Isek.”
 
Marsais rejoined Isiilde, drawing her away from his impatient assistant, leaning close and speaking softly.
 
“Think about what we discussed, and by the gods, please let me know before you carry out any future plans.”

“It’s not really running away if I tell you beforehand,” she whispered.

“No,” he smiled, “but at the very least, I should like to say goodbye.”

“I promise then, if you will show me the same courtesy next time you disappear.”

“Upon my honor,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.

“Good,” Isiilde smiled, reminding the ancient of every sunrise he had ever seen.
 
Marsais turned and fell in step beside Isek, leaving her shivering in the hallway, and clutching a very big book with a great deal of perplexity.

Seventeen

T
HE
NYMPH
FLIPPED
through the thick tome for the third time, feeling as sick as she had the first time.
 
Despite her stubborn optimism, there were still no pictures, except for a sketching of ten different containers that were covered with faded runes.

She sighed, turning her attention to the cheerful fire burning brightly in the hearth.
 
Briefly, she considered chucking the book into the flames to watch the pages curl and blacken.
 
As tempting as the thought was, she resisted, for no other reason than saving Marsais additional trouble, because this was obviously an original, not a copy, based on the sharp, scrawling letters and dubious number of blood stains decorating the edges.

The worn leather cover did not bear a title, instead, one was scrawled inside with a self-satisfied hand:
Binding and Baiting
.
 
The first two pages had not been very helpful.
 
They had stated quite clearly that an Imp was a lesser fiend from the Nine Halls.
 
Since learning this disturbing bit of information, she could not bring herself to read page three.
 
Her sensitive imagination conjured fiends in the shadows, so she sat as close to the fire as she possibly could, waiting for Oenghus to return.

At the moment, she missed their cottage by the seaside.
 
Their rooms in the Spine did not feel like home; they were hollow and cold despite the massive hearth and thick tapestries.
 
The earth was far below, and the stones were lifeless, full of empty corridors and echoing memories that whispered to the nymph—she did not like being alone in their new chambers.

Another thing I’ve ruined,
she sighed, rubbing at the phantom pain lurking below her collarbone.
 
When Oenghus pulled the wooden shard out, she hadn’t been awake, but the bruising was extensive, even after the healing.
 
The only bright spot in the whole ordeal (which was quite a considerable one) was that it provided her with an opportunity to spend more time with Marsais than their brief lessons had previously allowed.
 
Oenghus and she lived directly down the hallway from a teleportation rune that led to his private chambers.
 
Now, she could come and go from his study whenever she pleased.

Isiilde flipped through the pages, turning to the sparse offering of illustrations.
 
She studied the assortment of containers again, tracing the ill rendered runes with her keen eyes.
 
A spark of memory lit up her mind: Marsais had put the flagon in his rucksack, and what was more, he still had it.
 
How was she going to catch the Imp without a trap?