A Thread in the Tangle (70 page)

“It’s important that I know exactly where she came from.”

“If you’re wondering, then you probably already know.”

Oenghus was right, he already knew, but he needed to hear the confirmation with his own ears, because his taxed mind reeled at the implications.
 
“Did you know before you bonded with Yasine?”

“I did,” Oenghus sniffed, gazing into the fire with distant eyes.
 
“I know the women who I take to my bed, or in her case, who sometimes comes to me in the dead of the night.
 
I’d know her spirit in any form, in any body.
 
To a certain degree, we’re always connected—a part of our Bond lingers.
 
Such things are stronger than life and death.”

“Of course,” Marsais murmured.
 
“You should have told me.”

“You should have remembered,” Oenghus defended.

“My mind is as shattered as this realm, Oen.
 
I have dwelled in the dregs of madness for centuries and my spirit is far,
far
older than yours.
 
As you can imagine, there is a great deal of memories to sift through.”

Oenghus hissed him to silence, and reverently touched his flask of sacred Brimgrog, warding off Marsais’ words.
 
“It’s ill luck to speak of such things and I’ll not go blathering on about what lives I’ve lived.
 
Leave the past in the past.”

“Except the past has a way of creeping up on the present.
 
We can’t afford to ignore such things, not if this realm is to survive,” Marsais lectured through clenched teeth.
 
With every passing year, the veil thinned between lives, and memory whispered in dreams, especially for the ancients.

“I’m not bloody ignoring anything,” Oenghus growled, jabbing the stem of his pipe at Marsais.
 
“I wasn’t aware you were planning on bedding my daughter—I know who you are, and I know what you’re capable of, so don’t think I’m all right with this, you manipulating bastard!”

“What I’m capable of?” Marsais asked, incredulously.
 
“Says the brute who once abducted the Sylph.”

“Good to see you finally remember, but your memory still has holes in it, because she came with me willingly.”

“You hit her over the head and tossed her over a shoulder.”

“It was for her own bloody good,” Oenghus defended.
 
“And besides, she stayed with me willingly afterwards.”

“As does Isiilde with me.”
 
Marsais pronounced each word with biting precision.

“Bollocks,” Oenghus grumbled under his breath.
 
After some moments of consideration, he finally settled back in his chair with unwilling acceptance.
 
“Fine, we’re even, but don’t think I’ll let you take my daughter on one of your romps through the realms.”

“I won’t be romping anywhere—Curse it!
 
I have a duel today and I can barely stand.”

As the air cooled between the old rivals turned friends, the large Nuthaanian shifted in his chair, having the decency to look ashamed.

“Oenghus,” Marsais began at length, “you don’t need me to tell you that Isiilde is a direct link to the essence of life.
 
If anyone with an inkling of knowledge got a hold of her—” he paused, exhaling slowly as a formidable weight settled on his shoulders.
 
“Do you realize the power that such a man would have if he took her by force?”

Oenghus nodded solemnly.
 
“Why do you think I didn’t take her to the Guardians?
 
I thought it best to keep her hidden for as long as possible—even from you.”

“You should have told me.”

“Why?”
 
Oenghus shrugged.
 
“What difference would it have made?”

“A great deal of difference,” Marsais said, sharply, biting back the inclusion of ‘fool’.
 
“It would have explained much, though looking back, it seems so obvious.
 
Still, I can’t believe the Sylph took such a risk—especially now.”

“What’s done is done, and you’ll have to bloody excuse me if I don’t exactly trust you with the well being of our daughter.”

“You are, and always have been utterly narrow-sighted.
 
The scales have tipped, they favor the Void in this realm, and balance
must
be restored, or all will be lost.
 
I make the choices that I must for the good of all.”

“I know you do, and always have, but some things shouldn’t be sacrificed, Scarecrow,” Oenghus said, holding his gaze as relentlessly as a crag.

“Isiilde lies at the center of this tangled mess.
 
I can’t change that, believe me, I would if I could, but I no longer know what her future holds.”

“And that’s just it, that’s what I’m afraid of—your relentless meddling,” Oenghus whispered.
 
“All your deeds, all your manipulating runs together, until you can’t even recall the threads of life you weave and snip.
 
You probably don’t even remember why I left the Isle and didn’t speak to you for ten years, do you?”

Marsais stared silently at his old friend.

“That town on the border of the Fell Wastes,” Oenghus reminded.
 
“You knew it was going to be attacked by Wedamen, and yet you said nothing.
 
Instead, you tricked me into leaving, knowing that I’d change the tide of the battle.
 
That I’d interfere with the course you plotted through your sea of visions.
 
Afterwards, while we were sifting through the tortured remains of the massacred, you told me that one child needed to die—
one
, out of thousands!”

The stones shifted in answer to the Nuthaanian’s bellow.
 
When the tremors died, Oenghus continued, lowering his voice, “And you wonder why I didn’t tell you about Isiilde’s mother.
 
Why I’m less than pleased that my daughter is bound to you.
 
I’ve seen what you’ll sacrifice for your schemes, and I’ve never been able to stomach it.”

“I don’t expect you to, Oenghus,” Marsais whispered.
 
“The ocean of blood on my hands is mine to bear, and mine alone.
 
But I
do
remember.
 
I do.”
 
His voice was worn with endless time and boundless grief.
 
“I would do anything to safeguard Fyrsta.
 
You must at least believe that of me.
 
If this realm falls to the Void, then the Sylph will perish, and that includes her daughter—
your
daughter.”

Oenghus stared long and hard at the white-haired ancient, searching for any signs of deception or trickery.
 
In the end, he nodded, satisfied.

“Fine, I’ll accept that, but stop talkin’ about things that shouldn’t be talked about.
 
I don’t like to think about the past—not
my
past, but further, beyond the ol’ River.
 
It makes my head hurt.”

“Not to worry, Oenghus, you were never much of a thinker, in any life.
 
I have no intention of overtaxing your brain.”

“And you’ve always been an annoying bastard, so don’t think I’m apologizing for the—” Oenghus gestured towards the bag of ice.

“Lack of an apology accepted,” Marsais said with a pained grunt.

Silence fell over the two men.
 
Marsais slumped in his chair with a sigh, running a weary hand over his face as if he could erase the past, the present, and future, wishing to wipe the slate clean and begin anew.
 
Unfortunately there was no going back, only forward, and if the stakes had not been high enough already; they had just gone up considerably.

“How did you survive after Yasine died?” Marsais finally asked, breaching the silence.
 
“Until last night, I feel as if I have been dead all these years.”

“For the same reason you’ll be fighting the Hound—for Isiilde.
 
I’ve stayed alive for my little sprite.”

“Speaking of your little sprite,” Marsais began, clearing his throat.
 
“I’d appreciate it if you brewed an ample supply of fire resistant potions for me.
 
The more potent the better.”
 
Oenghus narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending.
 
“You know what happens when she sneezes—” Marsais hinted.

“Aye, but it’s easy enough to dodge.”

“Hmm, well the rest of your little sprite is just as flammable.”

“What do you—” Oenghus cut off abruptly, eyes widening in realization; beard twitching with mirth.
 
“And you’re gonna bloody trust me to mix up some protection for your bony carcass?”

Laughter rumbled through the room like a symphony of thunder.

Forty-six

G
UTHRE
D
RAGONBANE
.
 
T
HE
name sent a shiver of fear through Isiilde.
 
But her fear was justified.
 
The Emperor’s champion bore an impressive list of titles that had been earned on the battlefield: Champion of Kambe, Right hand to the Emperor, Devout of the Blessed Order, and the highest of honors, Knight of the Sylph.
 
Guthre Dragonbane was feared by his enemies, and rightly so.

Legend claimed that he lost his eyes while battling Indrazor, Guardian of War, and as a reward for his fearless stand against a god, the Sylph blessed him with sight keener than any living creature.

Isiilde’s stomach twisted as she sat on the bed watching Marsais get ready for his duel, because at the moment, her own champion did not look very fear inspiring.
 
Marsais was tall and rangy rather than powerful, and his ribs showed through his weathered flesh.
 
He reminded her of a winter wolf who was half starved—all bone and sinewy muscle without an ounce of meat on him.

Currently, her wolf was rummaging through the clutter, muttering under his breath as he searched for something to wear.
 
So far, he had located boots and trousers, but was having difficulty selecting a suitable shirt.

“Marsais, have you checked in your armoire?”
 
He started in surprise, looking up at her with glittering grey eyes.

“Hmm, I have an armoire?”
 
Isiilde pointed to the elegant piece of furniture in the corner of his bed chamber.

“O, I don’t think I’ll find what I’m looking for in there,” he said, slowly, eyeing it suspiciously.

“If there aren’t any clothes in there, then what is in there?”

“An excellent question!”
 
His gaze fell on a chest at the foot of his bed, and he brightened, flinging the top open to rifle through the contents.
 
Ordinarily, curiosity would have seized Isiilde, propelling her towards the mysterious armoire, but at present, she didn’t feel like doing much of anything.

“Can’t we just stay up here so you won’t have to fight the Hound?”

“As tempting as that is—I believe we would eventually get hungry.”
 
He gave her a lopsided grin before lifting a bundle of dark green cloth from a tangle of clothes.
 
Isiilde couldn’t bring herself to smile back, instead, she hurried over, burying her face against his chest.
 
His long arms encompassed her and she breathed in his scent: sharp and strong and sure.