A Thread in the Tangle (57 page)

“I
THOUGHT
THIS
was supposed to be a bloody inquiry.”
 
Oenghus glared at the Inquisitor.
 
The pale blonde who sat behind the desk in the corner of the interrogation room looked up from her notes and arched a thin eyebrow.

“O, a thousand apologies, cursing is part of my bloody vocabulary.
 
A savage like me can’t much help it,” Oenghus said, offering the woman behind the desk a smile, and then turned to growl at the golden robed Inquisitor who was laying his instruments on the table with the precision of a Mearcentian servant.

Oenghus Saevaldr had been kept waiting for four hours without his pipe in a windowless room.
 
The paladin had called it a room of ‘reflection’, however, the Nuthaanian Berserker called it tedious.
 
The only thing he had reflected on was who he was going to bash over the head first.
 
Oenghus didn’t have anything personal against Zahra—she was what she was—but her Blessed Order of Paladins was a constant thorn in his side.

The barbarian’s patience was running thin.
 
His chair was damn uncomfortable (not that he fit in most chairs).
 
And the room itself was a source of irritation.
 
In the typical paladin fashion, they had decorated with sparse opulence, seeing no need for a fireplace or rug.
 
Instead, a massive gold statue of the Radiant One, Goddess Of All That Was Just, Guardian of Good, the Divine bloody Savior Zahra filled the majority of the room.

The golden robed Inquisitor adjusted the last of his tools and turned to leave, pausing to scrape and grovel at the statue’s feet.
 
Oenghus snorted and rolled his eyes, having no patience for reverence of any kind.
 
A Nuthaanian was more apt to pick a fight with one of his own gods than bow at the deity’s feet.

Oenghus eyed the tray of trinkets.
 
They were mostly for show, purposefully left out in an attempt to intimidate the unrepentant.
 
The implements had no affect on Oenghus.
 
He had been through the test many a time and knew the ritual by heart.

First, they would check him for signs of a taint.
 
Once they determined that he was not a Voidspawn masquerading as a quarrelsome Nuthaanian, then they would weave an Orb of Truth
around him, asking him the same bloody questions about his supposed desecration of the temple.
 
All of which would take an extremely long time.

A low rumble echoed in the room as he sighed.
 
His poor sprite.
 
She had hardly left her room since the emissaries rudely inspected her.
 
He didn’t blame her one bit, however, he could hardly coax her to eat, let alone speak.
 
She had a right to be angry.
 
The two people who she trusted most in her life had subjected her to a humiliating ordeal.
 
Marsais had cautioned him of other paths and consequences, but by the gods he wanted to pummel the Seer and his visions.

Still, Oenghus had to agree, the time for flight had not been ideal.
 
As any seasoned warrior knew—sometimes timing was the difference between life and death.
 
Even with that knowledge, it had taken every ounce of his self control to keep from ripping those bastards limb from limb.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to lean back, but the bloody armrests were in the way.
 
His patience with the chair had come to an end.
 
He gripped the wood, yanking the armrests clear off, flinging them to the floor before leaning back for the first time in four hours.

The woman behind the desk looked up from her notes with a tight-lipped frown, but showed no further reaction before returning to her writing.
 
Oenghus returned to his thoughts.
 
There was still a good chance that Mearcentia would win the bid, and all in all, the Sea Lord was a good man.
 
Oenghus could live with the knowledge that his daughter was safe in the hands of King Syre II, and he hoped—prayed that his own plans would not be tested.
 
A life on the run was no life for his daughter.

Oenghus tugged on his braid, prodding the splintered wood with his boot.
 
Curse the future, it would come in its own bloody time.

At present, he was worried what would happen if he wasn’t home by nightfall.
 
Isiilde was terrified of the darkness in the Spine and his heart ached at the thought of her sitting in that cold tower alone.

Unreasonably, he blamed all his troubles on the cursed woman who was currently scratching away on an endless supply of parchment.
 
Knight Captain Acacia Mael of the Blessed Order.
 
The slight point to her ears, slanting eyes, and pale blonde hair, marked her as Kamberian.
 
That she was a warrior, was clear, possessing a hard physique and an alertness to match.
 
She might have been an attractive one if she let her hair down and made some effort to smile.

She was Antony’s replacement.
 
The old captain, who had been a good friend of Oenghus, had finally retired to a warmer climate.
 
Sir Antony had been a bit more lenient than most paladins, and Oenghus wondered how this inquiry would go.
 
Considering the amount of time he had been kept waiting—things definitely weren’t off to a promising start.

Two Inquisitors glided silently in, bowing at the large feet of the ridiculous statue before taking their places beside the table.
 
The Knight Captain pushed her chair back and stood with a clink of golden mail.
 
She walked to the center of the room, clasped her hands, and studied Oenghus for a silent minute.

“I am Acacia Mael, Knight Captain of the Chapterhouse here in Drivel.”

“Oenghus Saevaldr, my lady, or should I call you, your holiness?”
 
He flashed her his most charming grin.

“You may call me Captain Mael.”

“You may call me Oenghus,” he nodded graciously.

Captain Mael ignored him.
 
“This was to be a mere inquiry, however, I’ve discovered this isn’t your first offense.”

“Can we skip the flirting and get on with it?” he growled.

“I had not realized you were in a hurry, Oenghus.”

“Aye, a bit of one.”

“Then perhaps you will think twice before destroying a temple dedicated to Zahra.”

“I wasn’t much thinking at all,” he grunted.
 
“Should I have stood by and let the fiend piss all over Zahra’s head?”

The Inquisitors jerked, eyes blazing with righteous indignation, but the Knight Captain quickly cut their impending tirade off with a gesture.

“I would rather you use more sense,” the Knight Captain replied, evenly, nodding to the Inquisitors to continue.

“Finally,” Oenghus muttered, leaning back in the abused chair and planting his powerful legs to either side.
 
The Knight Captain glanced at the unfortunate view his kilt offered, but remained unflustered.
 
The Inquisitors began their complicated ritual of prayers, which was their equivalent of the Wise One’s Lore, only bloody irritating.

“I assume you know the drill since this is not your first inquiry?”

“As you say,” Oenghus nodded, extending his hand, palm up.
 
The Knight Captain stepped forward and took his wrist in her firm, calloused grip.

“Nice hands.”
 
His compliment was sincere.
 
She ignored him and began chanting in the flowing tongue of her Order.
 
When she had completed the ritual, a pure, pristine light flared to life, hovering over the palm of his hand, revealing the essence of his spirit.
 
Surprise flickered across the Knight Captain’s light blue eyes, however, she recovered quickly, studying the swirling orb of gold until it dissipated.

“Can’t get further from Void tainted than that, aye?” Oenghus smirked.
 
The Knight Captain met his gaze with cool appraisal.
 
“Let me guess—you’ve never seen its like before.
 
It’s because I’m blessed.”

“I have seen it before.”

“You served on Iilenshar?”
 
It was Oenghus’ turn for surprise.

“Yes, I did, but I doubt a ‘blessed man’ would be caught urinating on our temple wall.”
 
The Knight Captain walked over to her desk, selecting a stack of reports.

“I was drunk and got lost,” he defended.
 
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had one too many.”

The Knight Captain ignored his question, shuffling through the papers, but if he were any sort of judge of emotion, he’d wager that she was buying time so she could decide how to proceed with the inquiry.
 
A pure essence was a rare thing.
 
Unfortunately, it appeared that the Knight Captain was a stickler for protocol, because she continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

“Your list of grievances are extensive.
 
Drunkenness, disorderly conduct, destruction of property—well I could continue, but it’s safe to say you’ve started fights in just about every tavern on the Isle.
 
Three of which were with paladins.”

“They got in my bloody way.”

“Six paladins and a shrine to Asmara ‘got in your way’?
 
The details of that fight are rather obscure,” she noted with a disapproving quirk of her lips.

“I had a good reason for that.”

“Let me guess—you were drunk?”

“Aye, and a bloody good reason that is,” he grunted, tugging on one of his braids before continuing, “That, and I was bored.”
 
It sounded a lot like something his daughter would say.

“You will find, Oenghus Saevaldr that I am not as lenient as the former captain.
 
I warn you, with a reckless and uncivilized record such as yours, this inquiry will be far more thorough than my predecessor’s.”

Thirty-four

A
THIRD
,
POUNDING
demand reverberated in the stairwell at the top of the tower, jangling the heavy iron handle.
 
There was no answer.
 
The nymph clenched her fist again, slamming it against the wood, heedless of the pain shooting along her forearm as she willed Rashk to appear.
 
But the Rahuatl did not answer and Oenghus was still absent.
 
Isiilde was suffocating, and there was no one to help her climb from beneath the stone.
 
Her blood boiled, confusion reigned, and she felt like a dam about to burst.

Marsais could help her, but Isiilde would not—could not face him again.
 
Hadn’t he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her?

The persistent guard eyed the redhead nervously, wishing that her charge had not shaken off the rest of the escort, but as it was, she had barely managed to keep up with the nymph’s wild flight up the stairwell.
 
Torches flickered restlessly in their sconces, and the guard gripped the hilt of her sword.

“Lass,” the guard said, slowly.
 
“Just calm down.
 
We could go to the infirmary.
 
Morigan will know what to do.”
 
Emerald eyes shifted to the guard.
 
There was fear in the guard’s voice, in her stance, and Isiilde nearly laughed at the absurdity of it, but she was right, Morigan could help.