A Thread in the Tangle (5 page)

“Consider it done,” the Guard Captain stated without hesitation, and then he took a deep breath, glancing over his shoulder and lowering his voice to a whisper as if the very stones had ears.
 
“Tell me—is it true about nymphs being favored by the Sylph, the Goddess of All?”

“Course it is,” Oenghus answered.
 
“You didn’t hear the Emperor arguing, did you?”

“No, but—” Darius hesitated, smoothing his mustaches.
 
“Nymphs aren’t our equals.”

“You’re bloody right they aren’t.
 
They’re something far above us, Captain.
 
Don’t forget that.”

“If that were the case then the Blessed Order would treat them as such.
 
Your claims do not make sense,” Darius defended.

“They sure in the Void don’t, but it’s the truth.”

“Oenghus,” Darius gripped his arm and drew him to a halt.
 
“The Blessed Order serves the Goddess.
 
If nymphs are favored by the Sylph then the Order wouldn’t have decreed them property.”

“The Blessed Order doesn’t serve the Sylph,” Oenghus glowered down at the man.

“They serve the Guardians, and in turn, the Guardians serve the Sylph.”

“So the Guardians of Iilenshar claim.”

“Careful, Oenghus,” Darius hissed in warning, “comments like that border on heresy.”

“You going to run and babble to the first Inquisitor you find?”

“Of course not, but you’ve burned many bridges here tonight.
 
You’ve made a powerful enemy in the Emperor and there’s no point in adding the Blessed Order to your list.”

“The Blessed Order can rot,” Oenghus snorted.

“You might say that now, but one day you might find yourself backed into a corner without an ally in sight, my friend.”

Oenghus bared his teeth.
 
“Then I’ll turn around, lift up my kilt and bend over real nice like so they can all kiss my arse right before I drag the lot of them into the Pits o’ Mourn.”

“Spoken like a true Nuthaanian,” Darius sighed.

Three

“A
RE WE GOING
in there, Oen?”
 
A timid little voice whispered from the Nuthaanian’s rucksack.
 
He twisted his neck around to study the freckled face poking from beneath the flap.

“Keep your head down, Sprite,” he growled for the hundredth time since arriving on the Isle of Wise Ones.

“It’s very scary.”
 
The nymphling shivered before she ducked back into his rucksack, pulling the flap closed like a turtle hiding in its shell.

“This tower is called the Spine.
 
This is where the Archlord of the Isle lives.”
 
Oenghus squeezed his bulk between the shrubbery at the base of the monstrosity and scanned the strange stone.

“There’s no door,” Isiilde pointed out from her concealment.

“It’s a secret one.
 
Now hush.”
 
A well concealed one, Oenghus thought, searching for the invisible rune with a clumsy eye.

After a time, he grunted with triumph and placed his hand on the cool, wind worn stone, sliding his rough palm around the general area where he vaguely remembered the door being hidden.
 
A slight tremor in the stone brought him up short.
 
He spread his fingers and uttered the words that would awaken the dormant power.

The stone had not changed, but Oenghus knew better.
 
The shrubbery offered ample cover, but all the same, he glanced over his shoulder, searching for watchful eyes before stepping into the teleportation rune.
 
A cold, ancient weight embraced him, sucking him through its cracks like a strain before spitting him out a heartbeat later.

Oenghus emerged from the enchantment, shaking the uncomfortable chill from his bones, and stepped into a thick sheet of cobwebs that stretched from one end of the empty alcove to the next.
 
A gasp had risen from his rucksack, but he thought it more excitement than fear.
 
The nymphling poked her head from the rucksack with an inquisitive tilt of her ears.

“You have to be on your best behavior, Sprite,” Oenghus instructed as he emerged from the alcove into an equally deserted hallway.

“I’m always good,” she stated, puzzled as to why he would even say such a thing.

“Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Oenghus walked straight into an identical alcove waiting at the opposite end of the corridor and placed his hand on another unspectacular bit of stone, summoning the Lore.
 
The familiar chill tugged him through the stone.

Another empty corridor greeted him, however, with this passage, there was a large, ornate door waiting at the end.
 
Oenghus strode purposefully towards the door, taking it as a good sign that his old master and friend hadn’t taken him off the guest list to his private chambers in the Spine.
 
He stopped in front of the stately wood, gathering his wits and resolve.

The Archlord of the Isle was completely immune to Oenghus’ bullying, therefore he’d need all his meager powers of persuasion to convince his old master to let Isiilde remain.
 
Perhaps blunt honesty would do.

“Keep quiet ‘til I tell you different,” Oenghus murmured over his shoulder.

Obedient silence answered.
 
He took a deep breath and pounded his fist against the wood.
 
At his persistent knock, the door opened swiftly.
 
Isek Beirnuckle, advisor to the Archlord, stood at the threshold.
 
Isek reminded him of a balding weasel with dark, calculating eyes, and taut muscles that were perpetually poised to flee at a moment’s notice.

“Oenghus,” the wiry Wise One said with a startled breath.
 
But the Archlord’s assistant recovered quickly, offering a smooth grin as he grasped Oenghus’ hand in greeting.

“By the Pits o’ Mourn, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Isek said, stepping aside as Oenghus ducked beneath the lintel.

“Me either, but it appears I’m still welcome,” Oenghus said, directing his comment to the back of a gaunt man who stood in front of a crystal window that filled an entire wall of the circular chamber.

The oval window glowered down at the Isle and the ocean beyond like some monstrous, multi-faceted eye watching its surroundings.
 
The Archlord did not immediately stir at the sound of his former apprentice’s rumbling voice.
 
Instead, he continued his silent vigil, standing in a pool of bluish light.
 
Moonlight streamed through the crystal, illuminating a collection of artifacts, each a power in their own right, along with a formidable hoard of books, most of which contained knowledge best left on the shelves.

Oenghus stepped into the center of the study, eyeing the Archlord’s narrow back.
 
The Archlord had not changed during the long years of their acquaintance—he was as timeless as the crystal window and older than most of the books spilling from their disorderly shelves.
 
His long, elegant hands twitched.
 
And finally he stirred from his contemplation, causing his snowy hair to brush lightly over the back of his crimson robes.

“Isek,” the Archlord said without turning.
 
“Leave us please.”

“Right then,” Isek muttered, sourly.
 
“We’ll have a drink later and catch up on the past ten years, aye?”

“If you’re buying.”

“I’ll have to if I want to find out what’s so important.”
 
Isek bounced his gaze from the Archlord to Oenghus, shrugged, and then vacated the study.
 
The Archlord waited until the door closed and the echoes of Isek’s footsteps faded before turning to regard Oenghus.
 
The damn goatee that he insisted on wearing had grown since Oenghus last saw him, but that was the only apparent difference in a span of ten years.

“Marsais.”

“Oenghus,” Marsais replied, nodding in greeting.

“Are we good, then?”

“Were we ever not?” Marsais asked, arching a sharp eyebrow, but the corners of his long lips and a pair of glittering grey eyes betrayed his amusement.

Oenghus grunted, thinking the bastard probably forgot the specifics of their disagreement.
 
Either way, he certainly wasn’t going to dredge up old arguments, so he asked instead, “I take it you know why I’m here?”

“Hmm, I knew you were coming, but not why,” Marsais mused, stroking his braided goatee in what was obvious puzzlement.
 
The Archlord stepped forward with a sweep of his robes, stopping directly in front of his massive visitor.
 
“It’s good to see you, old friend.”

“I might have missed you a bit too, ye ol’ bastard,” Oenghus admitted, tugging his beard gruffly before pulling his old master forward and slapping his back in a hug that threatened to break the rangy Archlord.
 
“You haven’t changed a bit.”

“I wish I could say the same of you.”
 
Marsais stepped back to study his face.
 
“Is that a bit of grey in your—” he cut off abruptly, glancing over Oenghus’ shoulder.
 
“Ah, that answers the why.
 
I assume you know you have a stowaway peeking out of your rucksack?”

There was no hiding the nymphling now.
 
Resigned, Oenghus unslung his rucksack and set it carefully down.

Isiilde untangled herself from the container and stood, gaping up at Marsais with wide, curious eyes.
 
The timing could not have been worse, but books always made her sneeze, and the nymphling did just that, accenting every sneeze with a burst of flame that puffed from her pointed ears.

Marsais blinked in surprise and batted at his robes where they had caught fire.
 
Smoke trailed from the fabric as he stooped to study the redhead.
 
And a knot settled between Oenghus’ broad shoulders.

Oenghus cleared his throat.
 
“Sprite, this is the Archlord of the Isle.”

“Oenghus,” Marsais said slowly, transferring his gaze from faerie to man with a sharp turn of his head.
 
“This isn’t a sprite; she’s a nymphling.”
 
The knot between Oenghus’ shoulders tightened.

“Could I talk to you in private?”

“Hmm.”
 
Marsais gestured towards the far wall of the chamber with an expressive hand.
 
Oenghus picked up Isiilde and set her on the gleaming white rug in the center of the study.

“Stay here and don’t move,” he stressed, “and no singing.”
 
Oenghus turned to leave, but stopped short.
 
“Do not touch anything.”
 
Isiilde tilted her head up at him, looking perplexed, but instead of voicing her confusion, she obediently thrust her hands into her pockets.

Marsais walked over to the corner he had indicated and wove an Orb of Silence so they might converse freely without curious ears.
 
Marsais opened his mouth to speak, his brow furrowing deeply in a look that Oenghus knew all too well.

“Look,” Oenghus quickly interrupted.
 
“Before you say anything, I brought her here because I didn’t know what else to do with her.”