Spark of Chaos (Spark of Chaos #1)

Prologue (Part 3)

A battle raged above the sprawling palace of Whitemount. Wind and sleet dueled flame and smoke, engulfing the entire east wing with smoldering fury. Every able-bodied person in the palace strived to quench the unnatural blaze.

Oenghus Saevaldr raced towards the palace infirmary. He was a hard man to miss—a mountain that rivers flowed around—and the lords and soldiers of Kambe scattered like so many startled chickens at his approach.

He ducked beneath the infirmary door and surveyed the wounded. He counted nineteen people; nine were already dead, their charred bodies covered with white linen shrouds. Another five wounded appeared to be well on their way to the same end.

A woman pulled herself from the wounded. Short for a Nuthaanian, but every bit as sturdy, she barely came up to Oenghus' chest.

"Oen," she breathed in relief.

"The children, Morigan?"

"Aristarchus and Sarabian were both injured, but nothing serious." She glanced at the dying. "I can't say the same for their bodyguards."

"Isiilde?" Oenghus asked, bracing himself for the answer.

"I don't know," Morigan admitted. "The guards can't find her. I suspect she ran off, and it's a good thing because the Emperor is furious. His heirs nearly burned tonight."

"Isiilde is his daughter too," Oenghus snapped.

A guard by the door shifted with a jangle of armor. Morigan's eyes slid to the listening guard, and back to Oenghus. When she spoke, her voice was tight with control. "You should remind him of that, because he ordered his guards to throw her in a dungeon until she's old enough to sell."

Oenghus wanted to pummel the emperor. He clenched his fists, imagining flesh transforming to pulp beneath his blows.

"I'm sure she didn't mean to start the fire. But does she ever?" Morigan asked. "After the disaster with the gardens, the library, and the banquet—it's clear she's more dangerous than we imagined. But tossing a four-year-old nymphling into a dungeon..."

Oenghus knew that look in Morigan's eyes. He'd watched her wade into battle to heal the dying and kill enough men to cover a battlefield. Once the woman got something in her mind, there was no stopping her.

"The bastard is not putting her in a dungeon," Oenghus rumbled.

"He's the Emperor," Morigan reminded. "We can't fight the army he has. You need to think of something that doesn't involve bloodshed. Otherwise, your head will be on the chopping block."

"It's my head," Oenghus growled.

"So use it and stop thinking with your bollocks."

He bared his teeth and stalked out of the infirmary, growling at the guards as he passed. They reached for their swords, but he ignored the men.

Oenghus stepped outside into a chilling sleet. It nearly cooled his temper. Then his gaze fell on the army of bucket-wielding servants fighting a hopeless battle. Only Isiilde could have started a fire in this weather. The east wing looked like a bonfire at The Feast of Fools.

Where would the nymphling hide? Morigan was the first answer that came to mind. But not with guards in the infirmary. The kitchens and forges, then. But no—too many people.

The palace garden was Isiilde's favorite place to roam. The gate was usually locked, but Oenghus knew better. A fox had tunneled beneath the wall, a perfect fit for the nymphling.

With a glance over his shoulder, he pressed his hand against the garden gate, and uttered the Lore of Unlocking. The lock clicked, and he slipped into the walled garden.