A Thread in the Tangle (71 page)

“Isiilde,” he murmured against her hair.
 
“Do you remember what I promised you last night?”
 
She remembered everything from last night; all of it wonderful.

“But I can feel you, and you’re afraid.”
 
It never occurred to her that Marsais, or Oenghus might be afraid of anything.

“I fear only what my failure will mean for you.
 
So with that said—I
cannot
fail.”
 
He lifted her chin, kissing her softly before stepping back to slip the garment over his head.
 
The dark tunic fit him perfectly.
 
Runes, the color of autumn, swirled up the slim arms like leaves.
 
She helped him lace the sleeves, which tapered to the back of his hands, secured by a ring on the end of each that slipped around his middle fingers.

She stood back to survey the foreign garment.
 
The effect was impressive.
 
It emphasized his leanness, making his arms seem impossibly long.
 
All in all, he looked like a snake that was poised to strike.

Marsais thanked her, and then limped gingerly over to his mirror.
 
A swath of velvet concealed the glass—all of his mirrors were covered.
 
She had always thought it odd, but had never thought to ask.
 
He squared his shoulders, reaching up with a hesitant hand to brush the fabric.
 
A moment later, he steeled himself and snatched off the covering, letting it drop to the floor, forgotten as he stood gazing at his reflection.

Isiilde joined him, standing on the footstool to peer over his shoulder.
 
With his gleaming white hair and steely eyes, she thought that perhaps he stood a chance against the Hound after all.

“What do you see?” she whispered in his ear.

His reflection grinned roguishly.
 
“A beautiful woman who is staring at me with eyes that could stop a heart.”
 
At his words, a blush spread to the tips of her ears and a smile danced in her eyes.

Forty-seven

T
HE
CAVERNOUS
THRONE
room made Isiilde uneasy at the best of times, and this was not the best of times—far from it.
 
This was the last place where she wanted to be.
 
The prospect of having to face anyone save Marsais and Oenghus made her tremble.
 
She wanted to bury her face against Marsais and hide in his arms, but now was not the time.

The Archlord, her Bonded, sat straight-backed on his imposing throne, tapping rhythmically against the dark stone of his armrest.
 
She huddled in her heavy cloak and backed against the bear of a man behind her, taking some comfort in the massive arms that crossed protectively around her, holding her close.

Oenghus wore his kilt in battle fashion, with a breastplate of banded leather and greaves strapped to his shins.
 
A spiked shield was slung over one shoulder along with a brace of knives crossing his chest.
 
The massive, rune-etched war hammer,
Gurthang
, hung at his side.

She had only seen him garbed for battle three times in her short life.
 
Once during their hurried journey to the Isle, which was a dim memory of boredom, because she had spent most of the voyage in hiding.
 
And then twice more when pirates had worked up the nerve to raid Coven.
 
She had been cloistered in the Spine during the attacks, curled on the frost bear pelt while Marsais watched the battle through the Gnomish crystals.
 
She remembered when Oenghus had returned, and would never forget the gore that covered him, nor the glint of enjoyment in his eyes.

The ornamental gate at the end of the hall opened smoothly and Isek led a procession inside.
 
A squad of Isle Guards fell in behind him, followed by paladins of the Blessed Order whose armor echoed with the grate of duty.
 
The emissaries, officials, and Wise Ones came next and what appeared to be every apprentice and novice inside the Order.
 
The latter whispered in hushed voices, gazes darting to the nymph, and so did everyone else for that matter.

All her instincts screamed at her to bolt.
 
She wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the paladin’s Law, which stated that all parties involved had to be present for a challenge.
 
As such, Isiilde had no choice but to witness the upcoming bloodshed.
 
But if she had the choice not to watch, would she take the coward’s route and allow Marsais to fight in her absence?
 
Fear filled her as she studied his profile, not for herself, but for him.
 
At the very least, she would stand with him and face what lay ahead.

The Isle Guards fanned out, turning towards the attendants, watching the crowd as they jostled one another for a good position.
 
Isek stepped into the empty space before the dais, bowing respectfully to the Archlord.

“Archlord, I present High Inquisitor Multist of the Blessed Order.”

Multist clanked forward, inclining his head, more to the audience than Marsais.

“Knight Captain Mael of the Blessed Order,” Isek announced, gesturing towards a stern woman who stepped forward lightly despite her armor.

“Lord Champion Guthre Dragonbane of Kambe.”

The man who stepped forward was more fearsome than she had ever imagined.
 
He was nearly as tall as Marsais, though his broad shoulders made him seem the taller of the two.
 
Along with his height, he wore armor, crafted from jade dragon scales.

It was his uncovered head that frightened her most.
 
His pale blond hair was trimmed close, displaying the pointed ears of a Kamberian, while his square jaw whispered of Nuthaanian blood and his eyes—his eyes, or lack of, drew her in.
 
A jagged scar sliced across the bridge of his nose, beginning and ending in his eye sockets.
 
They lacked the normal optical organs, instead, silver liquid filled the fleshy basins, shifting like pools of mercury.

Guthre’s nostrils flared, sniffing the air like the hound for which he had been named. His presence was formidable, a warrior who had been honed for battle and stripped of all else.

“And Stievin Maxwell of Coven.”
 
The name rolled off Isek’s tongue like a curse.
 
Two paladins marched Isiilde’s attacker forward.
 
Stievin focused on her with a look of the truly insane.

At the sight of Stievin, she went numb.
 
Oenghus’ arms tightened protectively, and Marsais’ spirit stirred inside of her, wrapping around her heart, glowing with warm reassurance.

“All parties are present,” Isek announced, inclining his head to a paladin whose belt was stretched to its limits.
 
“You may proceed, Inquisitor Multist.”

“By the Blessed Order’s ruling and declaration regarding nymphs,” the Inquisitor began, unfurling an official looking scroll.
 
“The said property, being referred to as Isiilde, was stolen and seized by Stievin Maxwell of Coven on the 23
^rd
day of the Reddened month, 2010 After the Shattering.
 
By order and law, Emperor Soataen Jaal III has right of challenge.
 
By his request, Knight of the Sylph, Guthre Dragonbane will stand in the Emperor’s stead as champion.”

Guthre Dragonbane stepped forward, handing a sealed scroll to the Inquisitor.
 
“The victor will claim the property and no other challenges will be recognized as written in the Law and Decree of Damien Caal.”

“I issue challenge!”
 
An enraged outburst silenced all else.
 
“The nymph was taken from me!”
 
Stievin pounded on his chest, spittle spraying from his mouth.
 
“Who took her from me?
 
The nymph is
mine
.”

A ripple of shock traveled through the crowd.
 
Everyone looked to the other for answers, amidst a swell of confusion.
 
Stievin’s fevered eyes latched onto her, and his next, fervent words made bile rise in her throat.
 
“Come back to me, Isiilde.”
 
Her knees buckled, but Oenghus’ arms kept her upright.

“Silence!”
 
Marsais’ voice cut through the murmuring crowd like a scythe through wheat, reverberating powerfully through the hall, as every mutilated face that decorated the pillars cried out in unison.
 
All eyes turned to the Archlord as he rose with purpose; a single, clear chime issued from the coins weighing down his goatee.

“I hold the nymph’s Bond.”
 
His soft confession reached all ears.
 
He held up his hand, displaying the head of her mark nestled in his palm.
 
There was a universal intake of air from the sea of wide eyes.
 
“I accept your challenge Stievin, moreover, I appoint Oenghus Saevaldr as my champion for the duel.”

“Unacceptable!”
 
The High Inquisitor stepped forward.
 
“The barbarian is not involved in this matter.”

“Lord Saevaldr has the right,” a harsh, damaged voice interrupted.
 
It was the Hound who spoke up, blatantly overruling the Inquisitor.
 
“He was her appointed guardian when she was stolen.
 
Justice will be upheld.”

Multist opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it, taking a step back and bowing to the Knight’s interpretation of the Law.
 
The Hound’s liquid gaze focused on Marsais.

“I was ordered to fight he who holds her Bond.
 
Although I am saddened that it is you who I must fight, it will be a great honor to face you in battle, my old friend.”

The Archlord stepped off his dais to stand before the Hound.

“It would have been a greater honor to stand beside you against the Void once again, Guthre,” Marsais said, gripping his forearm in the gesture of comrades.

“May our spirits drift side by side in peace when we meet in the great River,” the Hound intoned, stepping back to clench a fist to his heart in salute.
 
“If you are ready, then I would like to get this over with.
 
I was pulled from the Fell Wastes for this errand.”

“O, by all means,” Marsais mused.
 
“I can’t stand waiting for my death to come either.
 
Hmm, the hours before are spent in useless contemplation.”

“To the arena!” Isek’s voice boomed in the throne room.

Forty-eight