A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  The nymph brightened when one of the bubbles drifted overhead. She eagerly shot upwards, heedless of the fifteen-feet of empty air below. This new vantage point offered her the chance to inspect the floating orb closely. She gasped in shock, nearly losing concentration.

  The source of light wasn’t fireflies, or even flames of everlight bouncing within, but rather, tiny, shimmering Wisps. The naked faerie women zipped around like trapped birds, eyes wide and terrified as they threw themselves at the walls of their glass cage.

  Horror erased any semblance of thought. Gravity yanked her downwards, and she belatedly remembered that she had been floating in midair. Frantic, she grabbed for the nearest thing, which happened to be the floating orb. Nymph and orb fell.

  As luck (of which the nymph possessed an inordinate amount) would have it her fall was broken by the pile of fish heads. However, the orb of Wisps did not fare so well. It rolled from her hands onto the hard ground, cracking open on the edge of a crate as easily as an egg. Streams of light poured out of the crack, and the Wisps soared into the air with a gleeful flutter of wings.

  The Wisps raced to free their captive kin. As quickly as it took for the nymph’s ears to wilt, another glass prison was liberated, and the escaped prisoners fanned out to free the rest.

  Shouts of warning rose over the hum of bartering voices as the enraged faerie zipped through the bazaar, wreaking havoc on their captors’ livelihood. Stands toppled, precious vials shattered, and caged animals were loosed from their confinement.

  As beasts ran rampant through the tent, the Wisps turned their attentions to the armored guards, swarming them with suicidal fury. Between the swarm of wings and the panicked crowds, the guards were quickly overcome.

  Isiilde wrestled herself free from the slimy pile of fish, gagging with revulsion, and searched for something to wipe her hands on. It was only after she finished cleaning her hands on a tattered grey cloak that she realized it was Marsais’, and as it turned out, he was still wearing it.

  “Hmm, someone freed the Wisps, how thoughtful of them,” his familiar voice mused above her. She cringed when something crashed, wood splintered, and half of the roof caved in.

  “It was an accident Marsais,” she whispered.

  “Well, I sincerely doubt you intended to fall onto a pile of rotten fish,” Marsais remarked, casually brushing orb fragments into a pile of rubbish with his foot. Witman appeared from wherever it was where they had been, and the dwarf’s mouth fell open. Chaos rippled through the screeching crowd.

  “Marsais?”

  “Hmm.” A smile spread across his long lips as a swarm of Wisps turned a guard’s helm around, rendering him blind while other’s unbuckled his belt, toppling the large man.

  “Have I mentioned how much I missed you?” she asked, rising to stand at his side.

  “Probably not as much as I missed you,” he admitted softly, for her ears alone.

  “You did?”

  “Very much, my dear. Where else could I be so entertained? Life is rather dull without you.” Grey eyes twinkled down at her, and then master and apprentice perched on a crate, sitting shoulder to shoulder, watching chaos reign.

  Twelve

  FOG ROLLED OVER the land like a slow moving wave, crashing upon the populace and drowning the sun, tucking darkness firmly into place. It was beneath this chilling cloak of blindness that Isiilde and Marsais returned to the orphanage, seeking warmth and food.

  Dinner was always entertaining at the orphanage. There were over a hundred children under Brinehilde’s care, and they were a constant whirlwind of activity. Although the older children helped to lighten the priestess’ load by caring for the younger, Nuthaanians were not overly concerned with their children’s safety. As a result, wrestling and rough housing were perfectly acceptable in the orphanage, barring sharp weapons. As such, Oenghus spent the evening being attacked by a swarm of screaming children attempting to wrestle him to the ground.

  While Oenghus struggled with the pint-sized warriors, Marsais escorted Isiilde through his old manor. The building was rife with secret passages and hidden rooms, most of which had not been discovered since he vacated the house.

  Forgotten belongings remained untouched, tucked neatly inside unmarked storage crates. She helped him sort through the containers, searching for anything of interest. He was thrilled to rediscover a number of trinkets. But one stood out above all the rest: a dusty little music box. A forest of minuscule trees had been carved onto the birch wood, and their leaves seemed to sway in an unfelt breeze.

  Isiilde opened the box. A joyful melody, reminiscent of chirping birds, leapt into the room. The box was empty of jewels, but it safeguarded another type of treasure: a folded piece of parchment. Curious, she removed it, carefully smoothing the paper. A keen-eyed woman with sharp ears looked out from the time worn sketch. The woman was beautiful in her own, unique way, her features were neither soft nor elegant, but fine and proud with fierce intelligence and beguiling eyes.

  Marsais stilled, listening to the melody with closed eyes and a frozen heart.

  “It’s one of your sketches, Marsais. Who is she?”

  Moving like an old man, he rose, walked over to Isiilde, gently removed the parchment from her hand and folded it, tucking it back into the box and shutting the lid without a word. With reverent care, he wrapped the box in an old shirt, placing the bundle in his rucksack. Isiilde no longer wondered who the woman was.

  Later on in the evening, Brinehilde asked Isiilde to calm the children. The nymph’s melody drifted through the halls as she sang of blissful realms and slumbering dreams. And one by one, the children stumbled off to find their beds without protest.

  A blanket of peace settled over the sleeping children, but Isiilde did not join them. A rare restlessness prevented her from sleeping. Her stomach ached. She felt strange and unsettled, so she left the warmth of her little room to find Marsais.

  As she wandered the manor in search of her master, she found Brinehilde in the kitchens, conversing with one of the older girls as they prepared bread for the next morning. Brinehilde did not know where Marsais was, but she told her that Oenghus was outside in the Sylph’s shrine. When Isiilde mentioned her ailment, the priestess sent her off with a mug of warm milk.

  Isiilde found Oenghus sitting beneath an ancient oak on the bank of a placid pond. The heady scent of tobacco filled the air. Oenghus leant against the tree, sucking lazily on the long stem of his pipe.

  Fog clung to the ground, its penetrating chill clutched her bones, knocking her teeth together. She hurried over to her protector, snuggling beside him for warmth. He draped a heavy arm over her shoulders, tucking her in close.

  She watched the fog curl over the still pond for a time, then glanced up at Oenghus. His eyes were shrouded with sadness.

  “Are you all right, Oen?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, Sprite. I was just thinking,” he said, lightly, but it was forced. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Cold,” she sighed, sipping her milk. “And my stomach hurts.”

  “Teach you to eat a basket of chocolates.”

  “Marsais ate just as many,” she pointed out. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He went back to the tower.”

  “In the dark?” Her ears wilted.

  “He likes to walk.”

  “Will he be all right?” The thought of him traveling alone at night sent her heart racing.

  Oenghus chuckled, low and rumbling as a bear. “Don’t worry about the Scarecrow, he can manage just fine by himself.”

  “He didn’t say goodbye,” she murmured, prodding a stick on the ground with her boot.

  “He has a lot on his mind.”

  “Like you?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “The girl who is sick, is she going to be all right?” Isiilde asked.

  Three glowing Wisps appeared, drifting through the dense fog, dancing lightly over the pond’s watery glass. Thanks to Isiilde, the tiny winged fae
rie were all over the Isle.

  “I think she will be—with time.” He took a long draught from his pipe before letting a line of smoke drift from his lips.

  One of the Wisps darted over to the nymph, hovering in front of her wide, emerald eyes. The tiny woman leant forward, kissing Isiilde on the tip of her freckled nose. The whispering touch tingled her toes, but as fast as the Wisp appeared, she darted off, landing on Oenghus’ shoulder to flutter happily in his ear. Isiilde grinned, craning her neck to study the tiny woman.

  “I think she likes you. They all do,” she corrected as the other two zipped over to play in his unruly hair.

  “It’s ‘cause I’m warm.” One of the Wisps sprinkled glittering dust over the bowl of his pipe. The embers dimmed, and then died, leaving the Nuthaanian grumbling sourly under his breath.

  “Did you have a good day with Brinehilde and Galvier?”

  “Aye,” he answered.

  “I like her, Oen. You should ask her to take an Oath with you.”

  “I’d never ask her to leave here, because she wouldn’t, and I’m too stubborn to stay in one spot,” he admitted. “But it never hurts to have a kinswoman around to polish off a jug.”

  “Do you miss your home, in Nuthaan?” she asked. As long as Oenghus remained her guardian, he was as trapped on the Isle as she.

  “I’ll get back there eventually.” One of the Wisps disappeared down his shirt front, and he squirmed, chuckling despite himself. With more care than most would credit the berserker, he loosened his buttons and gently plucked the scowling Wisp out before letting her loose into the night. “I wouldn’t mind seeing my brood though. You haven’t seen a clan gathering ‘til you’ve seen the Saevaldr’s together.”

  “I’d love to meet them all!” she exclaimed, but her excitement died when she realized that it was a mere dream, which would never be. Oenghus sniffed and hugged her closer.

  “Tell me about my mother,” she whispered softly against his broad chest.

  “You look just like her, Sprite. With eyes like emeralds and hair as brilliant as fire.” The nymph had heard these words a hundred times and she could hear them a hundred more. “I’ve never seen anyone or anything more beautiful. Your mother could make a man weep just by looking at her. Although she was a bit taller than you, and she wasn’t near as mischievous—not a whipcord lookin’ for trouble like you,” he smiled, ruffling her hair.

  “She looked more like Zianna?”

  “That ungainly thing has nothing on your mother. Everything about her was perfect, but what was more, she was gentle and kind. Spent most of her time in the gardens.”

  “The one I burned down?” she said with dismay.

  “Things grow back. She would’ve understood,” Oenghus hastened to say.

  A sudden thought occurred to Isiilde. All the nymphs who she had read about were forced to bond with the men who took them, but the bards sang of the Emperor’s love for her mother, and hers for him.

  “Was my mother happy with the Emperor—my father? Did she love him?” Isiilde had never asked this question before and the deep, brooding silence that answered, twisted her insides.

  “Please tell me the truth, Oen,” she whispered into the silence.

  “No,” he said, harshly. “Your mother wasn’t happy with him—not at all, and she most certainly didn’t love him, nor did he love her, but for his own selfish desire.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she scrubbed them frantically from her cheeks. It had been a dim hope—a naïve dream—amidst the cruelty against her kind. The thought that one nymph had found love, meant that perhaps, one day, she would as well.

  “Did you love her?” she asked, scanning his face. Oenghus met her gaze, sapphire eyes glistening in the dark.

  “With all my heart,” he replied, fervently. “I still do—I always will.”

  “Then she was happy, because you were her friend,” Isiilde said, laying her head on his chest, offering what comfort she could. Oenghus said nothing more, he did not trust himself to speak.

  “I wish you were my father,” she confided, softly.

  The silence deepened, the great heart beating beneath her ear quickened, and a shudder swept through his body. When he bent to kiss her forehead, cold tears dripped onto her skin.

  Thirteen

  IF THERE WAS one thing that Isiilde excelled at, it was sleeping in, and she did so with impressive dedication, sleeping well past sunup and nearly to noon. However, her stomach was still unsettled and she silently swore off chocolates for the rest of her life.

  Oenghus and Isiilde left for home after midday. Despite the poor roads, they made good time with their empty wagon. Although the dreary landscape went by at a swifter pace, the journey seemed much longer, because she half expected to find Marsais, lying unconscious in a ditch, or worse, dead.

  The Isle had its share of bandits who preyed on travelers, and although the attacks were rare, the danger was always present, especially for a lone traveler at night. She scanned the grey countryside, chattering with Oenghus about her trip to the festival. Her breezy conversation was more of an attempt to distract herself from her worries and ailments, but that all changed suddenly when she mentioned Coyle’s invitation.

  Isiilde was utterly unprepared for her guardian’s reaction.

  “You aren’t going to have lunch with that swine,” Oenghus bit the words out with restrained fury.

  “Coyle’s not a swine—he’s a man,” she pointed out reasonably enough.

  “Exactly!”

  “I thought you liked Coyle?”

  “Aye, until I find out he had the gall to ask you for lunch.”

  “And what’s the matter with that?” Isiilde demanded, leaning to the side, distancing herself from him on the cramped wagon seat. “Why can’t I have friends?”

  “It’s not friendship that’s on his mind. Trust me,” he grumbled, tugging on his beard in irritation.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m a bloody man. I forbid you from seeing him.”

  “I will see him if I like,” she stated with all the bearing and poise of the blood flowing through her veins.

  “You will not, Isiilde Jaal’Yasine. I’m your guardian, and you’ll do as I say.” It was never a good sign when he used her full name. “I’m dead well serious, if I catch you near that lad, I’ll make him wish he never looked at you. This matter is finished. I won’t hear another word against it.”

  The nymph bristled at his ultimatum. She turned away from Oenghus, staring straight ahead in tight-lipped fury. If he didn’t want her talking back then she wouldn’t talk at all.

  The silence deepened, with only the creak of the wagon and the ocean breeze to interrupt the chasm between them. They passed three lonely cottages before Oenghus finally took a deep, calming breath.

  “Look, Isiilde, you can’t go fooling around with the lads. I gave an oath to the Emperor to keep your honor intact. You go fooling around and it’s not just my head on a block, but you’ll be sold first chance and it might not be to one of the larger kingdoms.”

  Her mouth fell open in shock. Where in all the realms did he get such ideas from wanting to have lunch with someone? And for that matter, it made no difference what kingdom bought her, she would still be sold as a slave.

  “I just want to have lunch with him, Oen. I don’t want to—bed him,” she explained. “Am I not allowed to have friends?”

  “Not if they piss standin’ up,” he replied. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you eyeing him up at the forge, so don’t talk to me about friendship, because I don’t catch you staring at the other lads like that.”

  Isiilde stared at Oenghus in misery, speechless and confused. She looked at Coyle because he was nice to look at, but she hadn’t thought anything beyond that. Regardless, when Oenghus used her name, it was pointless to argue. Through the years she had discovered that she had better luck arguing with a rock.

  “Crying isn’t going to work. You can’t se
e him anymore.” His final words echoed as grimly and hollowly as a trap door opening beneath a gallows. Isiilde bit her lip in frustration, and despite his attempts to coerce her into conversation, she kept her eyes firmly ahead. Oenghus finally gave up trying to make amends.

  They spent the rest of the journey ignoring each other while Isiilde struggled to make sense of his anger. It wasn’t as if she had never tried to make friends with other girls her age, but for some odd reason, flaming sneezes unnerved the village girls. As if being a nymph weren’t bad enough, she was further ostracized for being the youngest apprentice on the Isle, even Zianna, for all her pettiness, was double the nymph’s age.

  The majority of men just gawked at her, never uttering a word in greeting (largely in part to her guardian’s tendency to inflict bodily injury). And the few Wise Ones who actually conversed with her were usually peppering her with questions, trying to dissect every detail of her life for the Order’s libraries.

  However, Coyle was different, he always had been. Since the time they were children he had treated her as he might any other girl who was a year younger than he. He was one of the few on the Isle who treated her like a human, not a big-eared faerie who was of a lesser species only belonging in a bedchamber.

  When Oenghus pulled the horses to a stop in front of their tiny cottage, Isiilde climbed off the wagon seat and darted into the house. She slammed the door behind her, but owing to her meager strength, only managed a dull thud instead of the defiant bang for which she was hoping. This only fueled her frustration.

  Mousebane cracked an irritated eye open when the nymph stormed in, disturbing his nap. The hearth was cold, but she didn’t care. She slipped out of her clothes, tugged on warm leggings and a nightgown, and crawled beneath the covers. Mousebane flicked his ears, but in the end, forgave her, slinking under the covers to primly settle himself against her body.

  Whenever Isiilde was confused, she ached to find Marsais, because he always helped her understand things when they made no sense. She felt safe in his study, high in his tower, away from all the prying eyes. Unfortunately, the hour was late and Oenghus would never let her travel to the castle alone, so she huddled under her blankets wallowing in misery.