A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  Earlier in the day, when she had tried to pet one of their pups, they had charged after her with throaty bellows and bared molars. She was still annoyed with the tiresome beasts. In her opinion, they were being rude—she had only wanted to pet the fuzzy white pup.

  “Put some clothes on, Isiilde!” Another, familiar bark interrupted her peace, and Isiilde rolled onto her stomach, sweeping ears twitching in irritation, as she sought out the source of the order. Oenghus stood by the wood pile of their cottage, and although a significant amount of distance separated them, she could feel his disapproval by the way his hands were planted firmly on his kilted hips. But he wasn’t alone—a rangy vagabond stood in his shadow. Her irritation was forgotten in a breathless moment.

  “Marsais,” she breathed, hopping to her feet.

  “Not without your bloody clothes!” Oenghus bellowed his exasperation over the grassy dunes. Isiilde cast about, searching for her wrap, and found it laying some paces down the beach in a sandy heap. She wound it about her waist, tucked it in place, and darted towards the cottage as flitting and graceful as a hummingbird.

  The day had been perfect a moment before, and now it was exquisite. If the Feast of Fools and the Sylph’s Fortnight were put together—although amusing—it couldn’t have excited her more. The Archlord of the Isle, her master and friend, had finally returned. The nymph’s feet barely touched the sand as she raced across the beach, over the dunes, and across the tall grass to stand before Marsais, brimming with pure, simple delight.

  “Hello, my dear,” Marsais greeted, gracious and gentle as the sun’s caress. His smile warmed her from the inside out, and as usual, she had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him, although it was far more difficult than usual considering how long he’d been absent.

  The Archlord did not give hugs, at least to her knowledge, but for her alone he stepped back and favored her with a flourishing bow. Despite his tattered white hair and travel worn clothes, he seemed as elegant as a court minstrel.

  Isiilde returned his bow with a bobbing curtsy and a large, stupid grin, staring up at him in disbelief. A myriad of questions warred on the tip of her tongue, but the tumult of emotion rolling in her gut robbed her of the ability to articulate any of them.

  “How many times have I told you to keep your blasted clothes on?” Oenghus brought her back to reality with a weighty gaze.

  “No one else was on the beach, Oen,” she defended. Marsais’ grey eyes glittered down at her in amusement.

  “What do you call the fleet of fishing boats leering offshore?” Oenghus growled.

  “They weren’t leering—they’re fishing.” She narrowed her eyes up at him. “Are we going to offer Marsais some food?”

  “Not dressed like that. Get inside and get something presentable on. A loincloth doesn’t constitute clothing.”

  “I’m dressed the same as you,” she pointed out.

  “I’m not a bloody woman,” he bit back. Isiilde huffed at the hulking giant and stomped inside. It was far too beautiful a day to be hampered by the confines of cloth. Besides, her fiery curls more than covered her breasts. All the same, her guardian might send Marsais away if she didn’t put something on.

  A ball of fuzzy black was curled on top of her sheepskin blanket. Isiilde softened her footsteps the instant she caught sight of Mousebane sleeping on her bed. Taking care not to interrupt the napping feline, she searched through the small chest at the foot of her bed as quietly as an irritated nymph could manage. Isiilde muttered something rude as she rifled through her belongings, discovering that everything she owned was suited for cold weather. Her oath disturbed Mousebane, and a single green eye cracked open to regard her with feline annoyance.

  “You should be outside, you lazy cat,” she replied to his silent disdain, and finally settled her fashion dilemma by wrapping a cotton scarf around her breasts. After all, it was only Marsais, and she didn’t have a whole lot to cover. She threw a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and the last of her strawberries into a basket before hurrying outside.

  “—quiet for the most part. Everyone’s high strung, especially along the Golden Road. The lack of an enemy has them nervous, so they’ve taken to fighting each other,” Marsais was saying as he sat, perched on the edge of a stump that Oenghus had been meaning to remove for the past two years.

  “The Ardmoor’d aren’t even out and about?” Oenghus asked. He scanned the nymph with disapproval as she emerged, but he did not order her back inside to change her attire.

  “Oh, there have been raids on the outlying settlements and towns, but nothing organized. Alrik seemed to be under the impression that they were all on holiday,” Marsais replied with thoughtful amusement.

  “Aye, well Alrik’s even more of a crazed bastard than you are.”

  “Oen.” The nymph glared at her guardian, offering the basket to Marsais to make amends for the rude comment.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Marsais inclined his head, reaching in to break off a chunk of bread and cheese.

  “You can have some strawberries,” she offered, generously. Marsais plucked one of her favorite berries from the basket, and then his grey eyes sharpened on her for the first time.

  “You look different, Isiilde,” he said, sounding puzzled by his own observation.

  “I put a shirt on.”

  “Hmm.” Marsais stroked his braided goatee in thought. She offered the basket to Oenghus, batting his hand away from her strawberries.

  “You take too many,” Isiilde glared at the giant, bullying him aside to make room for her on a the latest deadfall destined for kindling. She sat down, used Oenghus for an armrest and turned her attention back to Marsais. “I turned sixteen while you were away.”

  “Already?” Concern spread over the Archlord’s weathered features.

  “Well, you’ve been gone forever. Where did you go?”

  “I went for a walk to stretch my legs.”

  “That must have been some walk. You’ve been gone for six months.”

  “I have long legs,” he quipped.

  “Marsais.”

  “I travelled to Cirye to visit a friend by the name of Alrik.”

  “In the Bastardlands?” Isiilde’s eyes widened. “Did the Grawl or Reapers attack you? Isn’t it dangerous beyond the Gates?”

  Over two thousand years ago, the Keeper had trapped the Dark One and the Guardians of Morchaint on a landmass that was now known as the Bastardlands; a stretch of wild land, an isle of exile, fenced in by two bottomless chasms sealed with powerful wards. Voidspawn plagued the forests, anarchy ran rampant along the Golden Road, the Dark One’s minions roamed untethered, and civilization huddled behind thick fortifications and massive armies. It was said that all manner of barbarism was committed in the lawless continent.

  “Sprite, who’d want to rob a scarecrow? Even a Reaper wouldn’t want to gnaw on his leathery hide.”

  “My greatest defense,” Marsais grinned.

  “Starving yourself to death isn’t much of a defense,” Oenghus replied, eyeing his gaunt form critically. “Did you forget to eat again?”

  “I can never decide whose mothering is worse—yours or Isek’s,” Marsais mused.

  With a snarl, Oenghus chucked a wood chip at Marsais who caught it with trifling ease, deftly weaving an enchantment that was too quick to follow. He uncurled his long fingers, revealing a butterfly fluttering on his palm. The nymph nearly fell off her perch with delight. She watched it fly away, half wondering how a man capable of such feats occasionally managed to get lost in his own tower. Unfortunately, there had been truth to Oenghus’ jest.

  “Did you cross the channel safely? Have you heard about the new dread pirate?” Isiilde asked around a mouthful of bread.

  “Ah, yes, I think the bards have coined him the Bastard Prince.”

  “I like the ballads they sing about him,” she admitted and began to sing the latest drunken lullaby about the infamous dread pirate.

  “O’er the seas sai
ls the fiercest of men,

  Hail the prince and his bastardly swagger!

  His eyes are a smolder,

  with the lust of a rover

  he’ll woo your wives,

  and steal your wine,

  But still we think him a pleasure!

  O’er the seas sails the fiercest of men,

  Hail the prince and his bastardly swagger!

  Blade gleaming afire,

  bright burning and red,

  swift as a viper,

  he’ll take off your head,

  And still he’s a man to admire!”

  “I think it’s supposed to be sung a bit grittier, Sprite, by a room full of drunken louts.”

  “I was trying to sing like that,” Isiilde said, ears wilting miserably.

  “My dear,” sighed Marsais, opening his eyes, “your enchanting voice could make a curse sound like a Harper’s melody. I have sorely missed the sound of it.” At this unexpected compliment, the tips of her ears heated.

  “Have you heard the rumors drifting about?” Oenghus asked, slipping his pipe from his belt.

  “Hmm, probably not near as many as you have.”

  “They say he was the Widow’s Recluse.” Marsais tensed in surprise, eyes narrowing, alert and calculating as a wolf on the hunt.

  “You’re joking?”

  “Who’s that?” Isiilde asked even as she wondered if she wanted to know. Considering Marsais’ reaction, she likely didn’t, but while nymphs were not known for their courage, they were known for their insatiable curiosity, and not inquiring would go against everything that she was.

  “One of the Widow’s Own,” Marsais supplied, automatically assuming his role as her master. “He was a notorious assassin, second only to the Widow herself. Mention of his name made kings shudder. Among some circles, it’s rumored that he was the one who assassinated King Syre of Mearcentia, and the Viscount, Isiig Vauth of Vaylin. He is sometimes referred to as the King’s Bane, or as he was later known, the Widow’s Bane for defying the ancient guild and its mistress. He was hunted, and as legend goes, killed by his own assassins.”

  Isiilde shivered in fear, huddling against the reassuring crag at her side. Marsais’ grey eyes flickered over to her. “Hmm, but enough about rumor. Has anything of note happen while I’ve been away?”

  “The usual bickering nonsense,” Oenghus shrugged, blowing out a harsh breath of smoke. “Nothing Isek hasn’t been able to handle—not that you handle much anyway. If I were you, I’d stay away a bit longer.”

  “Don’t give him ideas, Oen.”

  “Trust me, the last thing I want him to do is leave again. I’ve had my hands full trying to keep your faerie arse out of trouble.”

  “I haven’t gotten into any trouble,” she bristled.

  “Oh, really?” Oenghus’ dark beard twitched. “I suppose last week’s incident in the infirmary has already slipped your faerie mind, or the week before that, and do I dare mention the month before last?” Isiilde pursed her lips in thought. Instead of answering, she rose to politely offer Marsais more strawberries, deftly changing the subject.

  “Will you come to the festival tomorrow? There’s a troupe who has come all the way from Xaio. There will be a tournament too. Oen spent all his coin again so he’s taking me to sell his brew, and if you come with us then you won’t have to go back to the tower so soon.”

  “How could I possibly say no to such sound reasoning?”

  “Marsais?”

  “Hmm.”

  “If you’re going to stay, then I would appreciate it if you bathed first.”

  Six

  IN THE NYMPH’S humble opinion, on such a day, a moment spent indoors was a wasted moment. Isiilde hurried back to her beach to enjoy what little time she had left under the elusive sun. A whimsical tune drifted from her lips as she watched a pair of otters floating beyond the breakers, bobbing up and down, swaying with the kelp forests beneath the sea.

  Despite the lovely day, she was distracted, and her gaze kept drifting back to the cottage, impatient for Marsais to finish. If she had known that Oenghus was going to chase her away, then she would have never suggested a bath. Although on further thought, her master did look rather dingy and smelled of fish. After a few impatient minutes of waiting (which in her mind stretched longer than the past six months) the nymph became unbearably bored.

  The herd of walruses had reestablished their hierarchy, and the giant mounds of slumbering blubber offered no amusement of which to speak. Disappointed, Isiilde ventured over to a shallow tide pool, carefully avoiding the slimy mussels that clung to the rocks, to balance across the slippery surface, peering beneath the water to the rock bed below.

  The starfish weren’t very entertaining and after she had worked up the courage to touch one a few years back, she decided never to try something so foolish again. So presently, she poked around the pool with a stick, wrinkling her nose at the slimy sea life. As much as Isiilde dreamt of traveling, the merekind and their watery abode was a place she had no desire to visit.

  A tiny crab skittered out of the rocks, moving with an awkward, lopsided gait caused by a single claw that was disproportionate to the rest of its armored carapace. Isiilde’s ears perked up with curious wonder as she watched it scurry about its business amidst the algae. Whether the crab sensed the looming nymph or its path naturally took it beneath the water, she couldn’t say, but she was sorely disappointed when the awkward creature disappeared beneath a rock.

  Isiilde glanced down the beach, brightening when she saw Marsais walking towards her. She quickly hopped from rock to rock and in her eager excitement, slipped. The nymph fell into the tide pool, splitting open a toe in the process. A whimpering oath flew from her lips and she scrambled upright, climbing over the rocks to the safety of the sand, where she stood, shivering and hopping on one foot, clutching her toe in misery. Bright, warm blood covered her big toe and dripped onto the sand, making her lightheaded.

  “It’s bleeding, Marsais!” The nymph plopped onto the sand. She was sure nothing had ever been so painful.

  “It’s not such an uncommon occurrence as you might think,” Marsais remarked, covering the distance between them with long, quick strides. Now that he was washed and groomed, his long white hair shone in the sun, falling past his shoulders as he crouched at her side. Isiilde lifted up her bloody toe and stuck it in his face. He studied the wound with sharp, grey eyes that always twinkled for her, as if a field of fireflies danced within.

  “I’m no expert, but I believe you’ll live, and I have just the cure.” Marsais produced a pristine handkerchief from his travel stitched trousers. Isiilde squirmed as he carefully wrapped it around her toe.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, folding her legs to cradle the injured member.

  Marsais dropped his worn rucksack next to her and sat on the opposite side. The nymph studied him as he stretched out his long body, propping himself on his elbows to gaze at the sea. She wanted to reach across the leather pack and poke her master, just to assure herself that he was really sitting beside her, but the throbbing ache of her cut was reminder enough that she wasn’t dreaming, so she sniffed at him instead.

  “Do I meet with your satisfaction?” Large patches were haphazardly sewn onto his billowing cotton shirt and the lacing hung in tatters, leaving the sleeves loose and dingy. He still looked like a vagabond, but at least the fishy odor was gone, leaving a trace of soap that mingled with his strong, familiar scent.

  “Much better,” she beamed. Marsais always made her think of a hot summer day.

  “I had some interesting reading to catch up on during my bath. I can’t say I’ve ever been so entertained.” The nymph’s heart sunk as he produced an impressive stack of letters, all stamped with the familiar sigil of the Wise Ones; an open palm bearing a watchful eye. “You’ve been busy.” She had been, and still was, to busy poking at her toe to catch the quirk of his lips and the mirth in his gentle voice.

  “Marsais,” she said, sudde
nly, ears perking up at an urgent thought. It was always best to change the subject. “I think someone is mutating the crabs and doing an awful job of it.”

  Marsais cast about in confusion, wondering if he had missed something, which was often the case. She quickly supplied a description of the disproportionate crustacean.

  “Hmm.” Marsais stroked his braided goatee. “That’s one possibility, although it could be a foul attempt at a Fomorri graft.”

  “They’re on the Isle?” Isiilde squeaked at the mere mention of the twisted race. That wasn’t an option she had considered. Marsais held up a calming hand.

  “An option, however unlikely, is still an option, my dear,” he mused. “However, I believe in this case, it might be a natural occurrence, by the name of a fiddler crab. Although I’ll certainly keep my eyes open in case the obvious is a disguise for some seedier plot.”

  Marsais’ promise quenched her fears like a soothing balm. Not much could get past a seer (even an absentminded one).

  Satisfied, she lay on her back, folded her arms behind her head, and stretched out beneath the sun, happy to lounge in its heat with her closest friend. Seagulls circled the distant boats, croaking their rude noises over the melody of the ocean’s tide, and after a time, Isiilde opened her eyes to make sure Marsais was still there. Unfortunately, he was propped up on an elbow reading through her letters of misconduct.

  “I missed you horribly, Marsais.” The long months of her misery were contained in those five simple words.

  “Apparently,” he agreed. “I think I like this one best.” Marsais gestured at the stack of letters and the nymph chewed nervously on the inside of her cheeks. “Thira has accused you of setting Crumpet on fire.” He paused, fixing her with a questioning eyebrow.

  “You didn’t say good bye.” There was more hurt than accusation in her tone.

  “Oh, I can’t stand goodbyes, most especially when you’re concerned. If I took such a risk, then I never would have gotten on the boat. Your tears are unbearable.”