A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Isiilde looks exactly like her mother,” Oenghus whispered, hoarsely. “You know how Soataen always had a thing for redheads.” Marsais stared blankly at his back for a few seconds and then blinked as realization dawned.

  “Oh, by the gods, you bloody fool,” his former master breathed in disbelief. Oenghus turned to find Marsais massaging the bridge of his sharp nose. “What in all the realms were you thinking when you bedded a nymph who belonged to the Emperor of Kambe, much less get her with child?”

  “Not much thought was involved, trust me,” Oenghus admitted. “I’d like to see how you would have fared if you woke up to find a nymph standing over your bed. I’d wager not too well, ‘specially considering your incident in Mearcentia. So don’t get all high and mighty with me, you bloody bastard.”

  Marsais held up his hands in peace. “Point taken. Forgive me, it’s just a bit of a shock, which is saying a lot for a seer.” He turned to study Isiilde who had become bored with the two men, and was now entranced by the crystal window. “Does she know you’re her real father?”

  Oenghus shook his head stiffly.

  “Let us assume for one moment that I can persuade the Nine to let her stay. Without revealing her—connection to you. What happens when she comes of age, Oenghus? What happens when her ‘father’ sells her?” Marsais asked, cutting to the heart of the matter with his usual foresight.

  “I’ve thought a lot about it,” Oenghus began, slowly. “We could make a run for it, she and I, and I could keep her hidden for a time, but even I’m not so foolish to think one man can protect a nymph forever. As much as I hate to admit it, a nymph with royal blood will be sold as such and she’ll have a better chance of being sold to someone who can protect and care for her—hopefully. If the lords of Mearcentia or even Kiln made a bid for her, then I think at least she’d be comfortable. I’m afraid it’s her best chance.” The words left a foul taste in his mouth.

  “That’s very wise of you, but will you be able to let her go, old friend?” Marsais asked, gently.

  “I’m not the bloody seer,” Oenghus grunted.

  “Well, then, allow me to meet this—daughter of yours.” Marsais made a slight gesture that dispelled his weave. He walked over to stand before the nymphling who tilted her head up, meeting his searching gaze.

  “Do you have a name, nymphling?” Marsais asked, politely even though he wasn’t expecting an answer, since the creatures rarely spoke, especially ones so young.

  “Isiilde Jaal’Yasine,” she replied with a voice as sweet and soothing as honey. She chewed on her lip in thought before boldly asking, “Does the Archlord have a name?”

  “Marsais,” he supplied, concealing his surprise by offering her a formal bow. The nymphling stared at him expectantly, waiting for more.

  “Just Marsais?” Isiilde finally asked. Marsais inclined his head in reply. “It’s a very nice name,” she offered, and after a few moments of consideration, added, “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

  “Hmm.” Marsais arched an eyebrow. “How do you know I’ve decided to let you stay?”

  “Because I think you’re a very good man and Oen told me you have a soft spot for faerie.”

  “Oh, did he?” Marsais turned a suspicious eye on the Nuthaanian, but Oenghus only shrugged, offering him a wide grin. Marsais sighed, inwardly bemoaning the drawbacks of being associated with someone for so many years. He turned his attention back to the captivating little nymphling who could converse, which was a rare trait in any creature, to say nothing of her strange affinity with fire.

  “Are you fond of the ocean, Isiilde?” The nymphling nodded eagerly. “That is fortunate, because I know of a little cottage on the beach that would suit you and Oen well.”

  “Are there strawberries by the cottage?” Isiilde asked, hopefully.

  Marsais started to shake his head, but then her pointed ears wilted and he quickly amended his answer against his better judgment. “I’m sure we can arrange something.”

  The nymphling’s ears perked up at his unlikely answer and she offered him a smile that lit up the entire room. The Archlord of the Wise Ones’ Isle did not know precisely what he could arrange, or how for that matter, but he determined that she would have all the strawberries she desired.

  Four

  2010 A.S.

  OFF THE TORRENT coast of the Fell Wastes lay a misty isle. A mere speck of ink on the maps of Fyrsta. Over three thousand years ago, when civilization stretched to the far corners of the realm, the tiny isle had not been worthy of a name. However, time has a way of changing even the most inconspicuous of places.

  History turned its eye on the island when a band of nine, seeking solitude, landed on its humble shores. Their quest for isolation gave birth to an athenaeum of fame—one founded on the noble aspirations of acquiring and preserving knowledge. As is so often the case, an ideal became something more, until out of this lonely island rose an army of formidable scholars who called themselves Wise Ones. For they alone possessed the knowledge of runic power; the most consistent way to draw from vast energies that move in shifting currents throughout the realms.

  Fyrsta took note, history remembered, and the once unknown isle became legendary. As did its stronghold and monolithic spire.

  The sprawling stronghold of the Wise Ones was hewn from a stalwart crag that overlooked the harbor town of Coven. A thing of rising towers and thick battlements that sat like a stone sentry against time, silent and brooding, as it watched the bustle of people carrying out their meager lives under its imperious gaze.

  Secrets dwelled in its foundations, ancient powers roamed its drafty corridors, and knowledge was entombed within a labyrinth of libraries. All carefully catalogued and safeguarded by hunched back scribes who painstakingly etched their treasured Lore into tomes bound by iron and leather.

  That was, of course what the Order wanted everyone to believe. Things generally worked this way, history was accurately recorded—most of the time. But when the so called keepers of the past disagreed with history, then events were conveniently forgotten.

  However, much to the Order’s shame, there was one such exception that could never be forgotten. Try as they might, masters and scribes could not conceal the creature from their dull tomes of yellowed parchment or erase the eccentric Archlord who granted her entrance, because time was such a fickle thing and history even moodier.

  In one of the countless, drafty chambers set high in a jutting spire, a group of the chosen few sat listening in rapt attention to Yasimina, a willowy, fair-haired Wise One. Twenty-two stoic apprentices dutifully scribbled notes as she lectured on the realms beyond in soft, cultured tones that had misled many a student into thinking her a lenient teacher.

  The apprentices were evenly spaced, sitting attentively on giant stone steps that pooled into the amphitheater’s center. They dipped their quills into inkwells, wiped off the excess ink with harmonious precision, and put tips to parchment like a hive of busy drones.

  This perfect concert of flowing ink was broken by a discordant pupil who never did anything dutifully. The source of discord came from the very back of the chamber, on the highest bench, where no other apprentice cared to venture lest they be contaminated by the careless creature behind them.

  Everyone: masters, apprentices, novices, guards, servants, and stable boys alike, tended to give the nymph a wide berth. She was a conundrum that was best ignored, a nuisance and outcast—a temptation who was coveted by all.

  Currently, the nymph was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows while she doodled aimlessly on her parchment. She seemed a dream, a vision, and the only thread connecting the nymph to reality was a cascade of vibrant red curls, spilling over her slender shoulders before pooling on the harsh stone beneath her body.

  Isiilde paused to study her work, quill poised above parchment while her feet kicked lazily in the air. Satisfied, she dipped the quill with supple grace into the inkwell, stirring the black liquid with curious wonder before begin
ning anew.

  “Isiilde!” The sharp tone of her instructor finally penetrated Isiilde’s concentration and she looked up, startled to find every pair of eyes in the amphitheater fixed upon her. Clearly, Yasimina had been trying to get her attention for some time.

  “Yes, Wise One?” she inquired, innocently. Yasimina fixed her with a cool stare, a calculated scrutiny that would have made any other student uneasy, however, the nymph was far too distracted by her drawing to notice much of anything.

  “If you want to waste your time, then that’s your decision, but I will not tolerate singing during my lecture,” Yasimina reprimanded.

  Isiilde blinked, scanning the assembled students in search of the miscreant, but unfortunately, all eyes pointed back to her. “I’m sorry,” she said, hastily. “I didn’t realize I was singing, but I was paying attention.”

  A wave of murmuring rippled around the amphitheater, including a muffled snort from Zianna, who relished the nymph’s frequent misfortunes. Isiilde ignored the scornful woman and rose fluidly to her feet.

  “I was drawing a picture of the realms and their interconnecting domains,” she explained, passing her parchment down the line for Yasimina to examine. Numerous, overlapping circles filled the page, each labeled in the nymph’s flowing script. Their realm was called Fyrsta and it sat like a bloated spider in the center of a spiraling web.

  “I wasn’t aware that there were monkeys floating in the Spirit River,” Zianna remarked when the parchment reached her hand.

  Laughter filled the amphitheater, mostly from the men. The voluptuous woman smirked at Isiilde before handing her paper to Yasimina. It was a well known fact that Zianna—an exotic, raven-haired beauty with a quick mind and an inordinate talent for the Gift—had had her dark eyes set upon becoming the Archlord’s apprentice. But Marsais had been kind enough to choose Isiilde, a fact for which Zianna had never forgiven her.

  Isiilde decided not to comment on Zianna’s remark. No one but the gods knew who was floating in the Spirit River. If men and women had spirits, then why couldn’t monkeys?

  “This is an excellent representation, Isiilde,” Yasimina commented. The class fell silent. The Wise One might be firm, but she was also fair. “It’s obvious by the amount of detail in your drawing that you’ve already been lectured on the realms beyond. Perhaps you can answer my next question: why is Fyrsta commonly known as the Realm of Gods?”

  Yasimina handed her drawing to the nearest student and the apprentices began passing it around, eagerly sketching the nymph’s representation (minus the monkeys). Isiilde chewed her lip in thought, made a mental note to ask Marsais about monkeys, and then turned her mind to Yasimina’s question.

  “Fyrsta is known as the Realm of Gods for three reasons,” she began with a lilting voice that danced around the chamber. “The Sylph blessed Fyrsta and honored it by bestowing us with her Gift; the ability to channel her essence.

  “Secondly, inhabitants of Fyrsta live as long as they have the will to do so, barring sickness or violence, and when they die, their spirits return to the ol’ River where they may be reborn again,” Isiilde paused, resisting the urge to point out that this supported her representation of monkeys floating in the Spirit River, however, she didn’t comment, because everyone was staring (probably at her ears), and she did not like being the center of attention. It was tiresome and tedious and she wanted to disappear.

  “The last reason is because the Sylph favored this realm above all others. The Goddess of All placed her daughters on Fyrsta, where they were to grow and live, until they were gifted to a god who found favor with the Sylph.” Isiilde liked this reason most of all.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Mindle Sorethumb stood on the stone seat, fuming, and although the gnome was tall for his kind, he still managed to be shorter than his seated confederates.

  “That is certainly cute, but it’s a childish fantasy,” Zianna cut in before Mindle could further his tirade. “If it makes you feel better, please, go on believing it. But how do you account for the numerous laws regarding your kind? If the Sylph favored nymphs, then they would hardly be bought and sold like horses—granted, expensive horses, but sold nonetheless,” Zianna reasoned, garnering a round of suggestive chuckles.

  The older woman’s lush lips curved in spiteful delight. Zianna was never one to pass an opportunity to remind the nymph of her impending enslavement.

  “Ask the Archlord if you doubt me,” Isiilde shrugged, feigning an indifference she did not feel.

  “I would love to. Unfortunately the Archlord has been gone for some time and only a fool would take the word of a nymph.” Zianna might as well have said filth for all the disgust contained in that single word.

  “A fool answers, but a wise man questions,” Isiilde replied, quoting her master.

  “You are the fool, nymph,” growled Lord Kulthin, a formidable, arrogant apprentice who alternated between leering and sneering at the nymph, a trait that his Kilnish master, Shimei Al’eeth, greatly encouraged.

  “Nymphs are not human,” Kulthin continued. “They are property, deemed as such by the Blessed Order of Zahra, the Guardian Of All That Is Good.” He paused to touch fingertips reverently to lips. “The Guardians of Iilenshar serve the Sylph. If the Sylph favored nymphs, then I would not be in the market for one.”

  Lord Kulthin smiled, a sickly leer that made Isiilde’s skin crawl. The ever tedious chorus of accompanying chuckles rippled through the room.

  “I keep forgetting you have to buy all your women, Kulthin” Isiilde taunted, knowing the comment would earn her another reprimand. The other students shifted, attempting to conceal their laughter from the lord, but a few failed, earning them imperious glares.

  “How dare you talk to me in that manner, you insolent little—”

  “Kulthin!” Yasimina snapped before he could finish the insult. “Both of you will be reported to your masters,” she stated, coolly.

  Isiilde stifled a sigh, nodded respectfully to Yasimina, and sat back down. She idly wondered how long it would take Marsais to sort through her letters of reprimand when he returned to the Isle. With as many as she had accumulated already, what was one more?

  She was tempted to leave the amphitheater and earn her second reprimand for the day. Unfortunately, she had been skipping her lectures more often than not, and Oenghus had finally scolded her for disappearing, because every time she deviated from her carefully monitored schedule, her protector, along with a number of guards were forced to drop everything and go look for her.

  What, she thought, was the point of having guards posted around the castle for her protection, if they could not keep up with her, let alone find her?

  Yasimina picked up the lecture where she had left off, using the nymph’s drawing to illustrate the correlation between each of the known realms. Fyrsta was surrounded by Somnial’s Realm: the realm of dreams. The veils were thin between the two realms and it was common for the inhabitants of Fyrsta to drift into Somnial’s domain while they slept. All realms shared a foothold with the realm of dreams and all manner of creatures could be found there; so went the tale of Galvier Longstride, the wanderer whose feet never stopped moving.

  Circling Fyrsta like four faithful moons, were the realms of fire, water, wind, and earth: Firˇdum, Aegirˇdum, Aesirˇdum, and Golˇdum. And from those four, stretched innumerable realms, fanning out like a giant web, each sharing a juncture with the next.

  The other apprentices could believe her, or not, she didn’t much care what they thought. It was a necessary lesson that she had learned early on in her young life. They could ask the Archlord when he got back, that was of course, if he returned.

  She sighed forlornly at the thought of Marsais, absently plucking at an ink stain on her skirt. Her master had been gone nearly six months, time enough for her to turn sixteen. It seemed a lifetime, because her world was brighter when Marsais was about.

  In the twelve years since Oenghus had brought her to the Isle, Marsais had become her
closest friend, but then she didn’t have many, which made his absence even harder to bear, especially since he hadn’t bothered to say goodbye.

  According to Isek Beirnuckle, he woke up one morning and left. No one knew where Marsais had gone, not even Oenghus, however, the Order wasn’t alarmed or inconvenienced by his sudden disappearance. Apparently, Marsais disappeared every few years, leaving no word or indication of when he planned to return. Isiilde missed him terribly and she bleakly wondered if he even remembered her, or worse, had he left because of something she had done?

  An invigorating breeze swept through the amphitheater, bringing the salt and sea to the old, musty stone. Torches flickered unsteadily in their sconces, their fires wavering for a heart pounding moment, and then they rallied, hissing themselves back to life with renewed vigor. The chill, ocean air swirled restlessly in its stone cage before discovering the path to freedom, whistling through the narrow windows whence it came.

  Isiilde’s eyes, as brilliant as an emerald flame, were drawn like a moth to the nearest torch. The fire’s hypnotic dance soothed her like an old, intimate friend. She longed to sing, coax the flames to life, until they knew no boundary, but for some reason Oenghus had forbade her from singing to her fire while she was in the Wise One’s fortress.

  The nymph would have to suffer through the day and wait until she returned to their cottage. In the meantime, she let her imagination drift, dreaming of Firˇdum and its everlasting heat, a realm where the sky rained fire and the sun was rumored to dwell beneath the earth. That, she thought, sounded like bliss, and if the secrets of the Gateways were ever rediscovered, she’d be the very first to step through.

  “Isiilde.” Yasimina’s voice finally pulled her from the fire’s allure. Isiilde blinked, glancing around in wonder. The chamber was empty, save Yasimina and herself. She had missed the entire lecture.

  “I meant to pay attention,” Isiilde hastened to explain before realizing that her excuse was rather pathetic. “I’m very sorry, Wise One.”