A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “You’re no fool, Soataen,” Oenghus hissed. “You know the truth as well as I. The Sylph has always favored nymphs. Your fading health is punishment for the suffering you inflicted on one of the Sylph’s beloved children.” Oenghus unhooked his war hammer—a clear warning that he did not intend to go down without a fight.

  “Think,” he urged. “Why can’t you escape the Keening’s touch?” Guilt flickered across the Emperor’s pale blue eyes and Oenghus knew he had touched a sore spot.

  The guards advanced cautiously, spreading out before their towering opponent who had, up until now, only put as much effort into the fight as he might expend while swatting a swarm of flies.

  “What would your subjects think of their beloved Emperor if the truth of the matter came out?” Oenghus pressed as he hefted his war hammer.

  The guards came at Oenghus in a rush. He drove his bulk into the closest before the man could finish his swing, knocking the soldier’s breath violently out of his body. Oenghus grabbed the stunned soldier’s collar, spun him around, and used him as a shield against his fellows. They scrambled to avoid their comrade, but one soldier was a split second too late, plunging his blade through Oenghus’ human shield.

  “Enough!” the Emperor snapped and his guards retreated eagerly. Oenghus tossed their dying comrade at them with one heave of his powerful arm.

  “What would you have me do, Wise One? Shall I keep the nymphling in my palace and pray that she doesn’t burn my kingdom down? Or do you think her a tame, innocent little faerie who presents no threat to my subjects?” Soataen asked with a calmness that brought to mind his former self—the epitome of reason and justice.

  “I’m not saying she isn’t,” Oenghus replied, trying and failing to hide his disappointment over the Emperor’s four hounds being collared. He had just been warming up.

  “If not a dungeon, then where do I keep her? Answer me that.”

  “Send her with me to the Isle,” Oenghus blurted out suddenly, as surprised at his own suggestion as the Emperor.

  “They don’t accept faerie.”

  “I’ll deal with the details,” Oenghus grunted, wondering if he had a chance of persuading the Council of Nine to accept her.

  “No, absolutely not,” Soataen said, shaking his head. “The nymphling is worth far too much. You’re nothing but a barbarian. How do I know you won’t sell her yourself, or take her for yourself when she comes of age? Your fondness for women and debts are well known in my court.”

  “How dare you question my honor, you bloody bastard!” Oenghus barked, struggling with an urge to toss the Emperor out the window. Soataen would surely fit through the narrow space with some forceful pushing and a bit of imagination.

  Oenghus clenched his fists, the veins on his neck bulged, and his sapphire eyes burned with threat. “I was the only one who Yasine let near her after you got through with her, Soataen. Who sat by her deathbed for three nights? Who helped her hold her daughter when she had no strength? By the gods, I was the only one who she trusted and now you question my intentions towards her daughter!” Oenghus’ voice echoed off the stone, beating in the air, and rising above the storm without.

  “Get out of my kingdom, Wise One, and take that nymphling from my sight. When she comes of age, bring her back, or by the gods, I will summon an Interrogator from Ghast to prolong your torment,” Soataen threatened. “Captain, I want them out of Kambe before the sun rises.”

  Oenghus might be reckless, but he wasn’t going to tempt luck by squabbling over details. He hooked his war hammer on his belt, hastily threw travel necessities into a rucksack, and shrugged his cloak on before picking up the sleeping nymphling. Oenghus strode proudly from his chambers, severing his ties to Kambe as easily as one might shrug off an ill fitting cloak; leaving his books, his potions, and all his belongings save the rucksack on his back and the combustible creature in his arms.

  As he walked briskly down the hallway, the Guard Captain fell in step at his side. “Is it true, Oenghus?”

  “Ask his bloody bodyguards,” Oenghus replied. “They dragged her back into his bedchambers when she tried to flee.” Yasine had refused Soataen, despite his attempts at winning her trust, and so the Emperor impatiently took her in a lustful rage. Oenghus remembered the night well. As the Royal Healer, he had been summoned to Yasine’s chambers to tend the resulting injuries.

  “That’s not what I was asking; she’s a nymph after all. We both know the laws don’t apply to them. I didn’t even know the creature had a name,” Darius murmured. “Still, I wouldn’t have thought it of our Emperor, especially with the songs they sing. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “The same reason you’ll come to on further thought of the matter,” Oenghus sighed, feeling as sick as he had then. “This isn’t the way to the front gates.”

  “You’ll need more supplies,” Darius said, gruffly. Oenghus nodded in gratitude.

  “One more thing,” Oenghus rumbled, which was his equivalent of a whisper. “If you don’t mind sticking your neck out for me again—tell Morigan that I’ve taken Isiilde to the Isle. She’ll worry otherwise.”

  “Consider it done,” the Guard Captain stated without hesitation, and then he took a deep breath, glancing over his shoulder and lowering his voice to a whisper as if the very stones had ears. “Tell me—is it true about nymphs being favored by the Sylph, the Goddess of All?”

  “Course it is,” Oenghus answered. “You didn’t hear the Emperor arguing, did you?”

  “No, but—” Darius hesitated, smoothing his mustaches. “Nymphs aren’t our equals.”

  “You’re bloody right they aren’t. They’re something far above us, Captain. Don’t forget that.”

  “If that were the case then the Blessed Order would treat them as such. Your claims do not make sense,” Darius defended.

  “They sure in the Void don’t, but it’s the truth.”

  “Oenghus,” Darius gripped his arm and drew him to a halt. “The Blessed Order serves the Goddess. If nymphs are favored by the Sylph then the Order wouldn’t have decreed them property.”

  “The Blessed Order doesn’t serve the Sylph,” Oenghus glowered down at the man.

  “They serve the Guardians, and in turn, the Guardians serve the Sylph.”

  “So the Guardians of Iilenshar claim.”

  “Careful, Oenghus,” Darius hissed in warning, “comments like that border on heresy.”

  “You going to run and babble to the first Inquisitor you find?”

  “Of course not, but you’ve burned many bridges here tonight. You’ve made a powerful enemy in the Emperor and there’s no point in adding the Blessed Order to your list.”

  “The Blessed Order can rot,” Oenghus snorted.

  “You might say that now, but one day you might find yourself backed into a corner without an ally in sight, my friend.”

  Oenghus bared his teeth. “Then I’ll turn around, lift up my kilt and bend over real nice like so they can all kiss my arse right before I drag the lot of them into the Pits o’ Mourn.”

  “Spoken like a true Nuthaanian,” Darius sighed.

  Three

  “ARE WE GOING in there, Oen?” A timid little voice whispered from the Nuthaanian’s rucksack. He twisted his neck around to study the freckled face poking from beneath the flap.

  “Keep your head down, Sprite,” he growled for the hundredth time since arriving on the Isle of Wise Ones.

  “It’s very scary.” The nymphling shivered before she ducked back into his rucksack, pulling the flap closed like a turtle hiding in its shell.

  “This tower is called the Spine. This is where the Archlord of the Isle lives.” Oenghus squeezed his bulk between the shrubbery at the base of the monstrosity and scanned the strange stone.

  “There’s no door,” Isiilde pointed out from her concealment.

  “It’s a secret one. Now hush.” A well concealed one, Oenghus thought, searching for the invisible rune with a clumsy eye.

  After a
time, he grunted with triumph and placed his hand on the cool, wind worn stone, sliding his rough palm around the general area where he vaguely remembered the door being hidden. A slight tremor in the stone brought him up short. He spread his fingers and uttered the words that would awaken the dormant power.

  The stone had not changed, but Oenghus knew better. The shrubbery offered ample cover, but all the same, he glanced over his shoulder, searching for watchful eyes before stepping into the teleportation rune. A cold, ancient weight embraced him, sucking him through its cracks like a strain before spitting him out a heartbeat later.

  Oenghus emerged from the enchantment, shaking the uncomfortable chill from his bones, and stepped into a thick sheet of cobwebs that stretched from one end of the empty alcove to the next. A gasp had risen from his rucksack, but he thought it more excitement than fear. The nymphling poked her head from the rucksack with an inquisitive tilt of her ears.

  “You have to be on your best behavior, Sprite,” Oenghus instructed as he emerged from the alcove into an equally deserted hallway.

  “I’m always good,” she stated, puzzled as to why he would even say such a thing.

  “Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Oenghus walked straight into an identical alcove waiting at the opposite end of the corridor and placed his hand on another unspectacular bit of stone, summoning the Lore. The familiar chill tugged him through the stone.

  Another empty corridor greeted him, however, with this passage, there was a large, ornate door waiting at the end. Oenghus strode purposefully towards the door, taking it as a good sign that his old master and friend hadn’t taken him off the guest list to his private chambers in the Spine. He stopped in front of the stately wood, gathering his wits and resolve.

  The Archlord of the Isle was completely immune to Oenghus’ bullying, therefore he’d need all his meager powers of persuasion to convince his old master to let Isiilde remain. Perhaps blunt honesty would do.

  “Keep quiet ‘til I tell you different,” Oenghus murmured over his shoulder.

  Obedient silence answered. He took a deep breath and pounded his fist against the wood. At his persistent knock, the door opened swiftly. Isek Beirnuckle, advisor to the Archlord, stood at the threshold. Isek reminded him of a balding weasel with dark, calculating eyes, and taut muscles that were perpetually poised to flee at a moment’s notice.

  “Oenghus,” the wiry Wise One said with a startled breath. But the Archlord’s assistant recovered quickly, offering a smooth grin as he grasped Oenghus’ hand in greeting.

  “By the Pits o’ Mourn, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Isek said, stepping aside as Oenghus ducked beneath the lintel.

  “Me either, but it appears I’m still welcome,” Oenghus said, directing his comment to the back of a gaunt man who stood in front of a crystal window that filled an entire wall of the circular chamber.

  The oval window glowered down at the Isle and the ocean beyond like some monstrous, multi-faceted eye watching its surroundings. The Archlord did not immediately stir at the sound of his former apprentice’s rumbling voice. Instead, he continued his silent vigil, standing in a pool of bluish light. Moonlight streamed through the crystal, illuminating a collection of artifacts, each a power in their own right, along with a formidable hoard of books, most of which contained knowledge best left on the shelves.

  Oenghus stepped into the center of the study, eyeing the Archlord’s narrow back. The Archlord had not changed during the long years of their acquaintance—he was as timeless as the crystal window and older than most of the books spilling from their disorderly shelves. His long, elegant hands twitched. And finally he stirred from his contemplation, causing his snowy hair to brush lightly over the back of his crimson robes.

  “Isek,” the Archlord said without turning. “Leave us please.”

  “Right then,” Isek muttered, sourly. “We’ll have a drink later and catch up on the past ten years, aye?”

  “If you’re buying.”

  “I’ll have to if I want to find out what’s so important.” Isek bounced his gaze from the Archlord to Oenghus, shrugged, and then vacated the study. The Archlord waited until the door closed and the echoes of Isek’s footsteps faded before turning to regard Oenghus. The damn goatee that he insisted on wearing had grown since Oenghus last saw him, but that was the only apparent difference in a span of ten years.

  “Marsais.”

  “Oenghus,” Marsais replied, nodding in greeting.

  “Are we good, then?”

  “Were we ever not?” Marsais asked, arching a sharp eyebrow, but the corners of his long lips and a pair of glittering grey eyes betrayed his amusement.

  Oenghus grunted, thinking the bastard probably forgot the specifics of their disagreement. Either way, he certainly wasn’t going to dredge up old arguments, so he asked instead, “I take it you know why I’m here?”

  “Hmm, I knew you were coming, but not why,” Marsais mused, stroking his braided goatee in what was obvious puzzlement. The Archlord stepped forward with a sweep of his robes, stopping directly in front of his massive visitor. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”

  “I might have missed you a bit too, ye ol’ bastard,” Oenghus admitted, tugging his beard gruffly before pulling his old master forward and slapping his back in a hug that threatened to break the rangy Archlord. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “I wish I could say the same of you.” Marsais stepped back to study his face. “Is that a bit of grey in your—” he cut off abruptly, glancing over Oenghus’ shoulder. “Ah, that answers the why. I assume you know you have a stowaway peeking out of your rucksack?”

  There was no hiding the nymphling now. Resigned, Oenghus unslung his rucksack and set it carefully down.

  Isiilde untangled herself from the container and stood, gaping up at Marsais with wide, curious eyes. The timing could not have been worse, but books always made her sneeze, and the nymphling did just that, accenting every sneeze with a burst of flame that puffed from her pointed ears.

  Marsais blinked in surprise and batted at his robes where they had caught fire. Smoke trailed from the fabric as he stooped to study the redhead. And a knot settled between Oenghus’ broad shoulders.

  Oenghus cleared his throat. “Sprite, this is the Archlord of the Isle.”

  “Oenghus,” Marsais said slowly, transferring his gaze from faerie to man with a sharp turn of his head. “This isn’t a sprite; she’s a nymphling.” The knot between Oenghus’ shoulders tightened.

  “Could I talk to you in private?”

  “Hmm.” Marsais gestured towards the far wall of the chamber with an expressive hand. Oenghus picked up Isiilde and set her on the gleaming white rug in the center of the study.

  “Stay here and don’t move,” he stressed, “and no singing.” Oenghus turned to leave, but stopped short. “Do not touch anything.” Isiilde tilted her head up at him, looking perplexed, but instead of voicing her confusion, she obediently thrust her hands into her pockets.

  Marsais walked over to the corner he had indicated and wove an Orb of Silence so they might converse freely without curious ears. Marsais opened his mouth to speak, his brow furrowing deeply in a look that Oenghus knew all too well.

  “Look,” Oenghus quickly interrupted. “Before you say anything, I brought her here because I didn’t know what else to do with her.”

  “Oh, well that certainly clears up everything, Oen,” Marsais snapped and then took a deep, calming breath, holding up a placid hand. “Just start at the beginning; wherever that might be.”

  Oenghus began with the night of the fire. When he recounted his confrontation with Emperor Jaal, Marsais began pacing, continuing this restless habit throughout the narrative, and finally, scratching his chest in agitation when Oenghus explained how he had smuggled Isiilde past the Isle guards. Long minutes passed in silence before Marsais finally spoke.

  “I can’t grant her sanctuary,” he said, abruptly. “The nymphling is Empe
ror Jaal’s daughter, he is her rightful owner, and you know as well as I that the Isle doesn’t link itself with the kingdoms.”

  “I’m not asking for the Isle to sign a treaty with Kambe. I’m only asking for sanctuary and protection,” Oenghus reasoned.

  “You know the Nine won’t see it like that.”

  “What about all the nobles training here? How is that any different?”

  “Hmm, they aren’t nymphs,” Marsais pointed out. “Nobles don’t usually bring the Blessed Order’s attention upon us, and a nymph will do just that. Our relations with the Order are strained at the best of times.”

  “How can you turn her away? The bastard was going to throw her in a dungeon. Look at her,” he hissed, pointing at the tiny girl who was currently studying them with large almond-shaped eyes that shone bright and fresh as spring. “Only a cold hearted bastard would leave such an adorable thing out in the cold.”

  “You’re forgetting that an adorable nymphling will mature into an intoxicating nymph in a few, scant years,” Marsais replied, his voice hard and sharp as steel. “What will happen when she Awakens? Allow me to refresh your memory, since you seem to have forgotten that minor detail. The nymphling will mature and her blood will begin to stir and then every man on this Isle will be drooling after her—including you and me.

  “Blast it! We could very well be at each other’s throats over this adorable creature. I can’t believe you were foolish enough to involve yourself in this affair. You know as well as I that a nymph belongs with her kin, with her father, until she’s of age. A nymph’s family is immune to the creatures’ allure. You should never have taken her from Soataen—no matter what he planned!” Marsais barked, grey eyes turning to flint, challenging the Nuthaanian to argue the obvious.

  Oenghus turned his back on Marsais, tugging roughly on his beard. Marsais’ words rang true and that was the rub of it; a nymphling should stay with her kin until she’s of age.