A Thread in the Tangle (74 page)

Isle Guards cleared the way, keeping the crowds at bay as Marsais returned to his private balcony.
 
The moment he walked through the curtain—his knees buckled.
 
Oenghus caught him, hoisting an arm over his own shoulder to keep him upright.

“Heal him, Oen,” Isiilde urged, scanning Marsais with concern.
 
He was coated head to toe with a layer of sand that masked his wounds from the audience, but up close, the extent of his injuries were more than apparent.
 
His clothes were saturated with blood, and the skin beneath was raw from multiple burns.

“Not here.
 
There are dangers lurking.”
 
Marsais’ voice was brittle and cracked with pain.

“The Isle Guards have their hands full with the crowd, we will escort you to the Keep if you wish,” Captain Mael offered, sending a group of her paladins to clear a path through the throng.
 
She turned to the two paladins who had guarded Isiilde during the fight.
 
“Lucas and Rivan, stay with me.”

Oenghus spared a moment to wrap a tight bandage around Marsais’ torso.
 
The clean linen instantly soaked through with blood.
 
Isiilde moved under his arm to offer additional support.
 
With some effort, Marsais straightened, gritting his teeth, however, he kept his arm across her shoulders, and for that matter, much of his weight.

“It’s unwise to show weakness when predators are hunting,” he explained to her questioning eyes.

Isiilde wasn’t exactly sure to whom he was referring, because of late, they had ruffled far too many feathers.
 
Regardless, they walked out together, and that was all that mattered.

As the paladins bullied everyone out of the way, Marsais arranged a stern face, nodding to the cheering crowd as if he were not on the verge of collapse.
 
Clearly concerned, Oenghus stayed close to Marsais.

“Not bad, Marsais!” Isek called, breaking free of the pressing crowd to fall in step beside them.
 
The assistant tossed a heavy pouch to Oenghus.
 
“The Scarecrow made us all a small fortune.”
 
Oenghus hefted the pouch with a satisfied grunt before tucking it into his belt.

“Guthre worked you over good though.
 
I was starting to think I made a poor choice,” Isek admitted.
 
He moved beside Isiilde, squinting uneasily at Marsais’ wounds, weaving the ever present coin between his fingers.

The arena was located in one of the outer baileys.
 
To escape the crowds, they passed through the gates that led into the inner courtyard and main Keep.
 
The knot in the back of Isiilde’s neck was slowly unwinding.
 
When they climbed the steps, moving past the four guardian statues and into the main hall, the knot unwound completely.
 
Here, a teleportation rune would quicken their journey to Marsais’ chambers.
 
She was lightheaded with happiness, hardly believing the outcome of the last months, and looking forward to spending her days as a free nymph; bonded to a man whom she loved.

The seven passed the threshold of the Keep, striding into the columned entrance hall, whose golden heights swirled with animated paintings that mimicked the night sky.

Her dream shattered, and a nightmare descended.

The Storm Gate slammed shut, Marsais’ coins chimed, and Isiilde was ripped from his side by none other than Isek Beirnuckle.
 
A rush of sharp air signaled their downfall.
 
Eiji materialized with a blowpipe already raised to her lips.
 
Her dart nailed Oenghus in the neck.

A number of things happened at once, in a flurry of cause and effect, rippling uncontrollably outwards.
 
The Nuthaanian ripped the dart from his neck, the paladins drew their swords with a rasp of steel, and another pair of hands grabbed Isiilde, pressing something cold to her throat as Isek stuffed a gag between her lips.

“Stop, or the nymph dies!” a voice hissed from behind.

“Stop!” Marsais shouted, dropping the attack that he had already begun to weave.
 
His eyes were wide with dread, fixed on the blade pressing against her throat.
 
Oenghus’ eyes fluttered towards her weakly.
 
He was breathing harshly and sweat beaded on his sallow skin.

“Put your weapons down,” the voice of Tharios ordered, and as if by some prearranged cue, ten cowled Wise Ones dropped their Weave of Invisibility, materializing along with a host of Isle Guards.
 
Isek quickly retreated, moving behind the Rahuatl who had her by the throat.

“Do it!” Oenghus bellowed.
 
At his command, the paladins dropped their swords and shields with a clatter of metal on marble.

“I see you’re both familiar with this dagger,” Tharios said, stepping to the forefront and lowering his cowl.
 
“A Devourer of the spirit.
 
One prick from the blade will leave your nymph drifting the realms for all time as one of the Forsaken.”
 
The immaculate Wise One walked slowly over to her, keeping his eyes focused on Marsais.
 
“Never to be reborn again, offering her a cold, remorseless existence of endless torture.”

Marsais ignored the pale Wise One, addressing Isek instead, “Why?”
 
The sting of betrayal clouded his grey eyes.

“You’re the Seer, you should have foreseen it,” Isek replied.
 
“They would have done it anyway, Marsais.
 
This way I’ve guaranteed Isiilde’s safety, but you have to do what you’re told.”

“Ah!” Marsais rasped.
 
“So you get the nymph—you’re right, I should have foreseen it.”

“And you should have warded your conversations, as I’ve always warned you.”
 
Isek’s words struck like a slap and Marsais flinched with realization.
 
Isek Beirnuckle, former spy, had been doing what he does best, listening to conversations.

Tears rolled down Isiilde’s cheeks as she struggled against the Rahuatl’s hold.
 
But N’Jalss put a quick stop to her futile fight, yanking her painfully back by the hair, nearly lifting her off her feet.

“Enough,” Tharios cut in.
 
“Get on your knees, and put your hands down.
 
All of you—
now
!”

“I’m surprised Grimstorm’s still standing,” Eiji remarked with morbid excitement.
 
“Stone adder venom could drop a bull.”

The gag was so intrusive that Isiilde couldn’t even whimper.

“My Order will investigate,” Captain Mael declared.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Tharios said with a polite smile.
 
“On your knees, hands down, or N’Jalss will gladly bleed her.”
 
Oenghus gasped for air, his muscles seizing a moment before he collapsed to his knees, falling forward with a thud.

“Looks like he’s a bit sturdier than a bull, but it still works,” Eiji said, kicking the Nuthaanian roughly in the ribs.

A guard stepped forward, clouting Marsais on the back of the head, shoving him to the floor, and pressing a foot to the side of his face.
 
The Archlord struggled as his wrists were bound and then yanked forward by a rope, stretching his arms and holding his hands in place.

Shimei Al’eeth stepped forward, swinging his mace.
 
The spiked mace slammed into Marsais’ vulnerable hands, crushing bone and flesh with ruthless force.
 
Marsais howled in agony.
 
Again, the mace was brought up, and then brought down with enough force to crack the marble floor.
 
Isiilde thrashed, but it was useless, N’Jalss had her by the hair like a dangling fish.

“How could you serve him, Shimei?” Marsais screamed hoarsely.
 
The guard let go of the rope, and Marsais jerked his arms in with a whimper, cradling his mangled hands protectively against his chest.

“You are weak, and once were a king of Vaylin.
 
Imagine when your friend Isek let your name slip, Marsais
zar’Vaylin
.”
 
The Kilnish lord spat in his face.

“Bind them, and bring them,” Tharios ordered.

“Do you know what he plans?”
 
Marsais’ face was twisted with pain and he had to force every word past his lips.
 
“Ask him about his plans to summon Karbonek, Shimei.”

“You were always a raving lunatic, Marsais.
 
Did you have another vision?”
 
Tharios was all poise and confidence.
 
“They know my plans.
 
That was always your problem, old man, no one could ever fathom how your mind worked.”
 
It was clear who the traitors believed.

The cowled Wise Ones gagged the prisoners, and the guards bound their wrists, dragging them forward.
 
However, the guards didn’t bother with Oenghus, because every muscle in his body was convulsing and spittle dripped from his lips.
 
He struggled to draw a single breath.

N’Jalss sniffed at the nymph’s neck, before running a grating tongue up her ear.

“She’s mine,” Isek hissed, stepping forward.

The Rahuatl sneered at the little man before pushing her forward with a growl.
 
She fell into Isek’s arms.
 
He clamped her wrists together with one of his hands, and bound them tightly with the other, ignoring the desperate plea in her emerald eyes.
 
Isek had been Marsais’ trusted friend for hundreds of years.
 
How could he betray Marsais so completely?

“I’m not going to hurt you, Isiilde,” Isek whispered.
 
“You know you’ll be safe with me.”
 
He reminded her of Stievin and she closed her eyes against his hungry gaze.

It was pointless to fight, but she did, just as she had done with Stievin.
 
Isiilde brought her knee up and Isek jumped back with a grin, then moved forward, hoisting the kicking nymph over his shoulder.

Peering upside down as she was, she could see little from her awkward vantage point as Isek followed after the group of betrayers.
 
Oenghus’ feet dragged limply along the stone between two muscular soldiers who were struggling with his bulk.
 
Marsais was staggering between Shimei and N’Jalss.
 
He glanced over his shoulder, catching her eye.

Isiilde had never seen fear in his eyes, until that moment.
 
She called out to him in panic through their Bond, but there was no reassuring answer, only the distance that he had kept her at since the beginning of his duel.

Captain Mael and her two paladins were being prodded with spears.
 
For the Captain’s part, there wasn’t a flicker of fear in the woman’s stern face.
 
To all appearances, she looked at her captors like pigs who were about to be slaughtered.
 
Isiilde certainly hoped that that was the case.

The group walked for a long time—long enough for Isek’s shoulder to become uncomfortable.
 
She squirmed, struggling for breath, as she tried to lessen the pressure on her stomach, finding little relief.

The party entered a narrow stairwell that plunged into the earth.
 
The passage was dank and smelled of mold, with torches fluttering fitfully in their rusty sconces.
 
She tried to call her flame, to summon it to her aid, but without the power of her voice, the fire only sputtered weakly.

Isiilde did not recognize this part of the castle.
 
She was forbidden to explore the lower levels.
 
But then she had had no desire to do such a thing.
 
The press of stone had always smothered her curiosity.
 
Even now, the walls were closing in and she felt as trapped as she had ever been.
 
Mold tickled her nose, causing her to sneeze painfully around her gag.
 
Isek cursed, setting her down to pat out the flames that had caught on his cloak.

“You said a gag would take care of that,” N’Jalss hissed.

“It’s just an involuntary reaction.
 
She can’t help it,” Isek explained, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her forward.

“We can’t afford any surprises, Isek.”

“And you’ll have none.”

The narrow stairwell ended, flowing into a passage that sloped downwards.
 
They were led through a series of twisting chambers.
 
A spiderweb of passages branched off into darkness.
 
Muffled noises of turning cogs and hissing steam filled the air with the dull hum of activity.

Isiilde glimpsed rooms filled with alchemy equipment, giant cauldrons, and walls of shelves, which were packed to the brim with herbs and other dubious ingredients.
 
One room held the remains of a monstrous animal, its bleached bones propped against the walls like fallen timber.

Another stairway, and they went deeper still, the weight of stone crushing her chest.
 
She tried to bolt back up the stairwell, tugging against her captor, but Isek hoisted her over his shoulder again.