A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Her whispered words seemed inadequate for such a gift. No one had ever put so much thought into something for her. Isiilde reached forward to give Marsais a hug, but he stood abruptly, smiling down at her instead.

  “I always thought a gift should do its receiver justice, but for you, my dear, everything falls miserably short.” Isiilde tilted her head, confused by his behavior.

  “Now then,” Marsais said, rubbing his nimble hands together with anticipation. “I wonder what to do with a certain nymph and her various acts of misconduct.”

  “You could rub her feet!” The edges of his lips twitched at her suggestion.

  “Hmm, somehow, I don’t think that will satisfy Thira’s anger.” Isiilde whimpered softly. “Answer me this—did you intend to harm Crumpet?”

  “Lord Kulthin made a rude comment,” Isiilde blurted out in a weak attempt to distract him.

  “Kulthin is an egotistical bastard,” Marsais snorted, waving dismissively. “He’s too proud to admit that a nymph took a jab at him, an accurate one, I might add. However, I’m referring to Thira. Now, she is a formidable woman and her charges against you aren’t light, Isiilde.”

  “Are you asking as my master, the Archlord, or my friend?”

  Marsais’ eyebrows rose sharply in surprise. “Hmm, what an intriguing question. One that I freely admit has roused my curiosity—not a common occurrence, that.”

  “It seems to happen often enough with me,” Isiilde pointed out, to which he did not argue, but held up a long, graceful finger, and continued in a stern voice that he only summoned for the gravest of matters. “First, as the Archlord.”

  “I did not do it on purpose, Archlord.” She bowed her head, but failed to stifle a giggle.

  “Now as your master,” he grinned.

  “Crumpet attacked me, I gave him ample warning, but I still didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “And your friend?” This was a careful question.

  “I don’t know what happened, Marsais,” she moaned. “I swear it on whatever you hold sacred. I just wanted him to leave me alone and the next thing I knew he was on fire. I didn’t feel very bad though—if that matters.”

  “Hmm.” Marsais gazed out to sea for a long moment. “Well, I was inquiring for my own curiosity. I doubt Thira will care if it was an accident or if you had been plotting the attack for a month, however, as your Archlord, master, and most especially your friend—I’m happy to hear it wasn’t intentional.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Unfortunately, since I’m both your master and the Archlord, I will have to punish you.” The nymph whimpered and scooted backwards when he started rifling through his rucksack. “Oh, by the gods, Isiilde, have I ever hurt you?”

  “I’ve never set Crumpet on fire before.”

  “An excellent point,” Marsais admitted, returning his attention to the contents of his pack as he absentmindedly mumbled his thoughts aloud. “Hmm, let me see—a suitable punishment for a faerie—no strawberries?” She squeaked in dismay. “Waking up at the crack of dawn perhaps?” He looked up in question and quickly shook his head. “No, no, that’s far too lenient.”

  “Lenient—that’s torture, Marsais!” Isiilde spluttered.

  “Ah! I have the perfect punishment.” Marsais ignored her smoldering gaze and plucked a crystal lens from the extra-dimensional pocket, holding it up like a treasured trophy to the sunlight before polishing it on a relatively clean section of his shirt. “We will sit here and swelter in the sun until you’ve burned each and every one of these reports—using this lens.”

  Isiilde stared at him in puzzlement and he quickly demonstrated the punishment, plucking the top most parchment off the stack and laying it on the sand. Marsais positioned the lens above the parchment, catching the sunlight and directing a scorching ray towards the vulnerable print. A trailing wisp of smoke wafted into the air, searing a hole through the dry parchment. The edges curled and caught and the ring of fire spread.

  Her heart quickened.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be my punishment?” Marsais reluctantly handed the lens to the eager nymph who wasted no time in accepting her punishment. They watched the flames curl along the reports in silence for a time, then through a haze of smoke, Isiilde pulled her bright emerald eyes from the flame and met her master’s gaze. “I missed you, Marsais.”

  “I believe you mentioned that,” he said with a gentle smile and fond grey eyes. “Let me fetch some kindling and see if we can arrange a bonfire. It looks like a perfect evening for supper on the beach and I’m sure we can persuade Oen to bring some of his special brew to our impromptu feast.” Isiilde beamed, grinning so hard that her cheeks began to hurt. Marsais always managed to make her feel better.

  Where ale and Oenghus were involved, it never took very much convincing. By the time Marsais and Oenghus arrived with an armload of wood, the nymph had a fine fire started, using her letters, scraps of driftwood, and her master’s lens.

  Without question, starting a fire was one area in which she excelled. As the sun fell, her fire rose, leaving little doubt in her mind that the raging beacon could be seen clear to the shores of the Fell Wastes.

  The food was fair, the drink good, and the company exquisite. Marsais entertained her with stories and at one point during the evening—much to her delight—he took a long draught of ale and touched a fiery brand to his lips before breathing out a gout of flame. Oenghus grumbled at the waste of good ale, but was coerced into reproducing the feat when Marsais offered him a wager he couldn’t resist.

  In the end, Oenghus was two crowns poorer and had singed a good portion of his beard.

  When darkness fell, a lilting song drifted from Isiilde’s lips. She danced around the blaze, urging it to reach as high as it dared; to lick the glimmering heavens and set the stars alight.

  The fire licked her supple flesh as she twirled around its roar in a dazzling display that hypnotized her audience, filling their ancient hearts with wonder. For a little while at least, the nymph forgot who she was and what she was. She was alone with her flame, in a realm woven from her voice, a place of wild abandonment and freedom. And at long last, when her body shook with exhaustion, she stilled. The dream faded, the world sighed, and their hearts ached for its absence.

  Isiilde sat beside her giant protector, resting her head against his arm. He smoothed her hair back with a massive hand. There were no words with which to praise her performance. Applause would be a crude sound that bordered on insult, so they sat and basked in the memory of it.

  By the time Marsais and Oenghus recovered, Isiilde had fallen asleep. They exchanged exploratory words of conversation, speaking of days long past and avoiding the ones to come, because neither of the ancients could speak of a future where the nymph was absent from their midst.

  Seven

  ISIILDE RARELY REMEMBERED how she got anywhere, most especially to bed. She assumed that some sort of little known band of kindly creatures carried anyone who fell unexpectedly asleep to their respective beds. She had spent many a night feigning sleep in hopes of luring them out of their concealment. But to her considerable disappointment, her efforts were counter-productive, since she always fell asleep before she could spring her trap.

  Whenever she questioned Oenghus about these creatures, he grunted, rolled his eyes, and muttered something rude under his breath. On the other hand, Marsais admitted that there was a definite possibility of their existence (she tended to side with Marsais on such matters). Regardless, she didn’t know how she got to her bed that night, but she did know when she was being woken up too early.

  “It’s time to get up, Sprite.” She cracked a reluctant eye open. The kilted giant looming over her bed bared his teeth in a smile.

  “The sun isn’t out,” she moaned, pulling the covers over her head. Besides, it was impossible for her to get out of bed because Mousebane was purring contentedly against her stomach. If she got out of bed, he might attack h
er, and the threat of angering such a fearsome beast was reason enough for the nymph to stay exactly where she was.

  “It’s three hours walk to Drivel and if we wait until midday then the Glass Goblet won’t get my brew in time.” It was too early in the morning for such sound reasoning.

  “Can’t you load the wagon first?” Her request was muffled by the blanket.

  “Already done,” Oenghus grunted. “The Scarecrow is waiting with the wagon for your leisure, your highness.”

  “Tell him I’ll be up at midday.”

  “I, on the other hand, wait for no one’s leisure. Up with you, ya lazy girl.”

  “Oen,” she sighed, fighting to retain her covers. “Have you no respect?”

  “I’m your guardian; not your bloody nursemaid.”

  “One more hour,” she bartered.

  “If you want to spend it in the trough.”

  “You wouldn’t!” the nymph gasped, throwing off the covers to glare at him.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Sapphire eyes glittered darkly in challenge. “Look, if you want to go to the festival then you have to get ready—otherwise you can stay here with the Scarecrow and miss out on the whole celebration. Your choice, Sprite,” Oenghus announced, turning to leave. Isiilde muttered sourly, recognizing defeat when it was stomping determinedly away.

  “Can you at least bring me my clothes, Oen?” The boots stopped, then stomped back into the room. Fabric rustled, Oenghus muttered, and a pile of clothes were deposited on top of her warm haven. When the door closed, Isiilde smiled. A small victory was still a victory.

  It was cold enough to make her bones ache and she dressed beneath the covers, awkwardly donning woolen leggings, shift, skirt, and bodice while Mousebane expressed his irritation. As she wrestled with her clothes, she endured the feline’s claws, all for the sake of staying warm.

  Eventually, Isiilde stumbled out the front door, gazing in dismal wonder at the dense fog drifts. She decided the heat from the day before had been some fanciful dream.

  “Good morning, my dear,” a familiar, welcome voice drifted from the fog. She followed the sound to its source. Marsais was leaning against the wagon. His grey cloak blended with the mists, making him seem an apparition.

  “I wouldn’t call this morning and I most certainly wouldn’t call it good,” she muttered, stumbling over to the wagon. One could hardly call the eerie half light morning.

  “It’s called dawn,” Oenghus grunted, checking the lashings on his kegs for the fourth time. Isiilde noted the heavy war hammer hooked onto his belt. The weapon made her uneasy. He only brought Gurthang along if he expected trouble. She tried to pretend that the Nuthaanian used it to pound fence posts, but even for a nymph, it was a strained stretch of the imagination.

  Marsais climbed onto the wagon seat with nimble ease and took the reins of Applehead and Carrothead. Oenghus hadn’t been too happy when his charge renamed the massive draft horses, but quite frankly, Isiilde thought her names were far superior to Sleipnir and Gungnir.

  “There’s a blanket under the seat and a sack of food when you decide to wake up.”

  “Thank you, Oen,” she said, kissing his bristly cheek before accepting his offered hand. He helped her up into the wagon and she settled on the seat beside Marsais.

  Isiilde regarded her master in a sleepy daze. He offered her a quick smile before urging the horses forward. The wagon jerked, jolted, and lurched forward.

  The sight made her giggle. She was fairly certain that Marsais was the first Archlord of the Isle to drive a wagon. But it was too early for humor, and by the time they reached the road, the nymph was curled in a thick blanket beneath the wagon seat, virtually unaware that her peaceful slumber had ever been interrupted.

  A particularly nasty dent in the road smacked her awake prematurely. She glared at the seat above her head as if it had secretly slammed against her and not the reverse. The wagon hit another pothole and her head collided with the seat again.

  “Scarecrow, you have to get that blasted count to do something about these roads,” Oenghus remarked, as he strode easily beside the jostled wagon, sucking on the stem of his long pipe.

  Isiilde braced herself as the front wheel dipped and bounced out of a rut. When the wagon had settled, she took advantage of the lull to climb swiftly on top of the seat, rubbing her head in pain. Unfortunately, the countryside did nothing to help her mood and any hopes of a sunny day were quickly dashed when she studied their dismal surroundings. Thick fog rolled down the hillsides like slow moving waves and the farmsteads were little more than shadowed outlines.

  “Sorry about that, my dear.” Marsais scooted over to make room for her. He reached back and grabbed a sack of provisions, placing it between them on the seat before addressing Oenghus’ demands. “Hmm, the count seems to be under the impression that it’s the Order’s responsibility, but since we provide this island with protection I think it’s only fair that he sees to the upkeep of the roads.”

  “Aye, exactly, it’s not like he has to fund an army. He’s just a greedy bastard living off his father’s legacy.”

  “Excuse me, is my head bleeding, Oen?” Isiilde interrupted, cringing in anticipation as he reached over to probe the bump.

  “Aye, it turned your hair all red.” Oenghus ignored her glare.

  Seeking solace, she turned towards the sack of provisions. And her mood brightened considerably when she saw that Oenghus had remembered to bring strawberries.

  “You know I’m not quite sure if it’s greed or pure laziness,” Marsais continued their discussion. “If it was greed, then he’d be investing his wealth, instead, after he became lord mayor, he sits in his manor reaping the rewards. It’s almost slothful.”

  “That sounds familiar,” Oenghus chuckled heartily. “Although I’d interject Archlord and tower in there.”

  “Hmm, that’s an awfully big word for a barbarian.”

  Oenghus ignored the remark. “You should lend him Isek Beirnuckle for a month. Your assistant would have this whole Isle looking like a Mearcentian trade port.”

  “O by the gods, no! I’d be forced to deal with every petty squabble and irksome question that came along.”

  “If you don’t like it, then why are you Archlord?” Isiilde asked, offering Marsais a strawberry.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Aye, Marsais, tell her why you’re the Archlord,” Oenghus urged, baring his teeth in an ominous grin.

  “Because Isek likes to know what’s going on,” Marsais answered, but before he could continue, something caught his attention and he trailed off. Despite his distraction, Carrothead and Applehead kept plodding dutifully down the road while their driver stared into the dense mist. Isiilde followed his gaze, squinting at the spot that he was studying, but since there was nothing there (except a puff of fog that faintly resembled a rabbit) she couldn’t imagine what held his attention.

  “Don’t bother, Sprite,” Oenghus grumbled with impatience. “I doubt even the gods know what he bloody sees.”

  “See what?” Marsais blinked, clearly disoriented.

  “What were you looking at?” Isiilde asked.

  “Was I looking at something?”

  “You were looking at the mist,” she reminded him.

  “Ah, well then, I guess that answers your question,” Marsais beamed and waved an elegant hand in dismissal. “Where was I?” Isiilde tilted her head, shrugged, and then bit into another strawberry.

  “Isek and his rumor hoarding ways,” Oenghus kindly supplied as he side-stepped a dung heap.

  “Ah yes, you see, Isek is a ravenous collector of information and this addiction of his drove him to cast my name as Archlord without my knowledge. What’s it been—eighty, or has it been a hundred years already?”

  “I stopped keeping track of years in general,” Oenghus shrugged. Isiilde mulled this statement around her mouthful of berries.

  “So—you didn’t want to be Archlord, but Isek did, so he’d know everything the Ar
chlord knew?”

  “Precisely!” Marsais’ grey eyes twinkled with appreciation as he regarded Isiilde.

  “Why didn’t he just cast his own name?”

  “Because my friend has a rather nefarious reputation and prefers to lurk in the shadows. As he put it to me so many years ago, a seer born before the Shattering sounds better as Archlord than a former spy.”

  “And you get your own tower,” she pointed out.

  “Exactly.” Marsais looked pleased.

  “And since Isek is a cowardly bastard, whenever something dangerous comes along he throws it on Marsais,” Oenghus interjected.

  “Then I throw it on Oen,” Marsais explained.

  “So everyone’s happy, Sprite.”

  “Then what do you do exactly?” Isiilde asked.

  “Entertain you.” The nymph couldn’t help but laugh at his flippant reply.

  Eight

  THE TOWN OF Drivel was poorly named by a man who was unburdened both by foresight and a merchant’s enterprising spirit. The first explorer to discover the horse-shoe shaped bay was a pessimistic soul who saw only the mudflats and pathetic fishing huts speckling the sheltered coast, evidently lacking the imagination to give a proper name to what would eventually become the largest port on the Isle of Wise Ones.

  While there was no comparison with the elegance of Whitemount, Kambe’s capital, Drivel certainly had its own charm. Numerous docks stretched from the curving shore like thin fingers, reaching into the calm, deep waters that allowed massive merchant vessels to drop anchor. Along the curving shore, wooden shanties littered the mudflats, tilting in the shadows of the solid piers and rickety planks that led to stout warehouses, stores, taverns, and cobblestoned streets, lit with blue, ever-glowing lamps.