Marsais gathered Isiilde’s limp body in his arms, carrying her outside, where he lay her on a dry patch of earth near the garden wall. Oenghus knelt beside her, running a healer’s eye over his daughter. Her clothes had been completely burned off, yet her body was unharmed by the fire’s touch. A jagged piece of wood protruded from her chest, blood seeped from the wound, carving paths through the ash that had settled on her skin.
Oenghus would have to wait until she was stronger to deal with the foreign object, because it was far too close to her lung for his liking, and once he pulled it out, the wound would have to be cleaned before it could mend. He finished his assessment in a blink of an eye, resting one massive hand on her forehead and the other on her stomach, linking spirit and body to his own. The Lore sprang to his lips as he directed the Gift into his daughter, mending her broken ribs and bolstering her strength. Under the circumstances, it was all he could do for her, until they carried her to the infirmary.
Oenghus returned to the present. Grim-faced and silent, he stood to summon the horses. Marsais carefully wrapped the nymph in his cloak, taking great pangs not to jostle her unduly, all too conscious of the jagged shard protruding from her body. When she was bundled tightly in cloth, he lifted her in his arms, waiting for Oenghus to swing onto Gungnir’s bare back. Marsais passed the nymph to her father, and vaulted atop Sleipnir.
Together, the two ancients spurred their mounts towards the castle. And Oenghus muttered a silent prayer to the Sylph, wondering what in all the realms he was going to do with his combustible daughter.
Fifteen
FIRE AND ASH filled the darkness, singing as softly as a mother’s lullaby. Time stagnated, becoming a word never uttered, a concept never born. Isiilde floated in a vast, uncharted sea. Pain lay on the horizon, but familiar voices kept it at bay as she drifted above a body that was unreachable and cold. Eventually, when the fever burned out and the pain had lost its bite, she surfaced like a swimmer who had been long under water, frantically clawing her way towards the wavering light.
The nymph stirred, fighting to surface against the ache of her body, and when her eyes fluttered open she was greeted by a kindly face and warm eyes. Morigan smelled of the earth, of chamomile and thyme, and she moved with the gentleness of a heartbeat, constant and reassuringly predictable. A rebellious strand of hair worked itself free from Morgian’s bun as she rubbed a poultice into the nymph’s bruised flesh. The ointment smelled like jasmine and lavender, as sweet and calming as the healer who had mixed the ingredients.
“Don’t try to talk, Isiilde. You’ve been mostly unconscious for four days.” Morigan slipped a hand behind her neck, and gently lifted her head, pressing a cup to her lips. Isiilde was only allowed a few sips before the healer pulled the cup away, leaving her wanting for more.
“You can drink more in a few minutes.” Isiilde felt hollow, an empty shell of broken glass. She fought to keep her eyes open. “The timbers broke four of your ribs. A length of wood impaled you here,” Morigan said, pointing to the large patch of salve covered flesh. “Oen healed most of the damage, but you’ve been fighting a fever. You always have to be careful with a healing when there’s a fever, and I’ll tell you, Oenghus had a time of it, so the bruising will just have to mend on its own.”
“Where is Oen?” Isiilde rasped, and then coughed, sending a spasm of pain through her ribs.
“Resting.” Morigan studied the nymph. “I finally managed to chase him away.” The herbs woman was probably the only one who could manage such a feat.
“Who has been attending to me?” Isiilde asked, dreading the answer.
“Only myself and Greta, who I trust.”
“Does Oen know I’ve come of age?”
“Didn’t see much reason to mention it.” Isiilde sighed with relief.
“Please don’t tell anyone, Morigan—please,” she begged. “Oen is bound by honor, so he must tell the Emperor and then I’ll be sold.” Tears streamed from the corner of her eyes, falling freely into the lush, red curls framing her face.
“Hush, child.” Morigan sat on the edge of her bed, wiping the nymph’s tears. “Just you calm down. I won’t say a thing, but I think it’s foolish keeping secrets from him.”
“I don’t want to be sold,” she whispered.
“No, I don’t imagine you do.” Morigan smiled sadly, smoothing damp curls away from her face as she continued with words of quiet wisdom, “There’s worse ways to end up. Kambe and Nuthaan are unique, but for the vast majority of the realm, women have little say in matters.”
“This isn’t Kiln, Morigan.”
“No, it’s not, and it doesn’t make it right, but even in Kiln—there’s still laughter and joy to be found.”
“I am to be sold,” the nymph repeated, anger flashing across her emerald eyes, but her fury was quickly smothered beneath a stream of cold tears.
“Yes, but you’ll still have your heart and your head. Both Oenghus and Marsais have gone to great lengths to make sure there’s plenty in there to last you a lifetime. It’s not the end of the world, Isiilde, it’s no reason to try to end your life.”
“I wasn’t trying.”
“Then what happened?”
“I discovered that I had come of age and I was scared—nothing more. I don’t know what happened.” It was the truth, plain and simple, and it was all she had.
“It’s your choice what you tell him, but Isiilde—” Morigan sighed wearily, and then squared her shoulders, “You destroyed Oen’s distillery and if you give him the same excuse that you always give him, then it’s only gonna make things worse.”
“I’m not going to lie to him. He can lock me in a dungeon if he likes, but I won’t tell him.” Strength lay in her voice, and her battered body trembled with conviction.
“Oh, child, it won’t come to that. Oen loves you with all his heart, and he has a fair-sized one, though he won’t admit it. All you need to worry about right now is regaining your strength.”
They spoke no more on the matter as Morigan finished dressing Isiilde’s wounds—something the nymph would have preferred to sleep through considering the pain involved. After swallowing a few spoonfuls of warm broth, she let the soft mattress claim her hollow body, sinking into its feathers and spiraling into a dreamless slumber.
❧
The following day found her stronger, recovered enough to sit upright, propped against a mountain of plush pillows. Greta sat by her bedside, feeding her a tasteless broth at a tedious rate considering the demands of her stomach. But it hurt to move, so she remained at the healer’s overcautious mercy.
A bouquet of wild flowers sat cheerfully on her bedside table. It was the only bright spot in the room, offering a distraction from the solemn, grey healer and her gruel. Marsais had visited while she slept, and along with the sunburst of color, he had rescued his first gift: the Orb of Memories that she had fallen asleep with so many nights before. There wasn’t (she was happy to note) a scratch on its rune-etched surface.
The door opened and Oenghus ducked beneath the lintel, straightening on the other side to fill the room with his massive presence. He had been asleep in the chair beside her bed when she awoke earlier in the morning, but before he could lecture her, Morigan had ushered him out to see to Isiilde’s personal needs.
“You’re looking brighter, Sprite.” He smiled down at her, a rare, easy smile that curved his lips with affection and smoothed the creases of worry. “I’ll take over, Greta, thank you.” The attendant nodded, handed him the bowl of broth and left without complaint.
“You look better too.”
“Aye, but it’s not me I’ve been worried about.” He studied her carefully and she knew the look in his eyes well. Here it comes, she thought. “What happened, Isiilde?”
“I don’t know, Oen.” The moment the words left her lips, his eyes narrowed, and she was sure he was trying to read her mind.
“You’re a poor liar, Isiilde Jaal’Yasine,” he stated, flatly. “You always ha
ve been.” The silence deepened, his eyes sharpened, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Finally he spoke, and she was able to breathe again. “I’m not going to get upset if you tell me the truth—no matter what it might be, but I bloody well want the truth.”
“The room caught on fire—it just exploded, Oen. I wasn’t even singing to it.”
“A few smoldering coals just exploded?” Isiilde did not like Oen’s low, rumbling tone. Oenghus Saevaldr meant business when he was quiet. “That’s always your excuse, girl. The nursery, the gardens, the banquet, Miera Malzeen—”
“That wasn’t my fault, Oen,” Isiilde defended. “Mistress Malzeen was the teacher, and she Linked with me. How was I to know she’d be burned to a crisp?”
Over two years had passed since the accident, and she still felt a queasy twist of remorse. The practice of Linking was a routine matter, where one acted as a vessel for the Gift while the other controlled the weave. It was supposed to have been a safe way for a novice to sense the Gift for the first time, only with Isiilde, things had gone terribly wrong. Miera Malzeen had lit up like a torch. No one could explain what had happened and no one had attempted to Link with Isiilde since, not even Marsais.
“Aye, well, I’ll give you that,” Oenghus relented grudgingly before continuing, “There’s still the library, Flappers, Crumpet, and that’s not even counting the suspicious amount of charred objects that I’ve found laying about our property through the years.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping count,” she said, sullenly, ears wilting, however, he was unaffected by the pathetic sight through long exposure and forged on.
“No, Isiilde. I’m not gonna take that bloody excuse again. It’s time you started taking responsibility for the destruction you cause, faerie or no.”
“Yes, sir.”
Oenghus blinked, startled by the meekness in her voice. He looked confused, even a little worried, but cleared his throat and continued gruffly, “So out with it, what happened?”
This time, since she did not have any other excuse to give, she kept her lips pressed together. Oenghus directed his unwavering gaze on her. She blinked innocently back, contenting herself by counting the grey hairs in his beard. Instead of lightly peppered, as it had been in her childhood, he now had jagged streaks of grey interspersed with the black.
Oenghus ground his teeth, and Isiilde chewed on her lower lip, idly wondering why his hair would begin to grey now, more then eight-hundred years into his life.
Oenghus was the first to break their silent battle of wills. “You want to know what I think happened?” She nodded eagerly. “I think you were angry with me and you did this out of spite.” Isiilde’s mouth fell open, caught off guard by the preposterous accusation, but she had backed herself into a corner, and held no hope of wiggling out of it.
“If you say so,” she whispered.
“Ah, bollocks,” he snapped and stood up, turning his broad back to her to take ten, very deep breaths. When he turned to face her again, he was as impassive as an Inquisitor.
“When you are well, you’ll help me rebuild the cottage that you destroyed—stone by bloody stone. We’re gonna start at sunup, and every spare moment you have is going to be spent rebuilding our cottage until its either done, or you tell me what happened. I don’t want to hear a word of complaint either, that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s it? No argument? You’re not even going to try to wheedle your way out of it?”
She tilted her head, feeling very confused. “You just said I shouldn’t complain—did you want me to?” Oenghus tugged on his dark beard and grumbled something rude under his breath about daughters.
“I’m sorry about your distillery and workshop.” All of his equipment for brewing and his stock of potions had been stored in the barn. Oenghus shrugged his massive shoulders, settling on the edge of her bed, too puzzled by Isiilde’s silent surrender to notice the alarming groan of wood as it strained to support his weight.
“They can be replaced. You can’t, so I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Is Mousebane—” she started to ask, but Oenghus was already shaking his head.
“Marsais went back to look for him. There’s nothing left ‘cept the horses.”
“Even the sheep?” Isiilde asked, twisting her blanket between her hands in horror.
“They were in the barn. Nothing at all left of them, not even for the crows.”
“What are we going to do, Oen?” Without his distillery and workshop, he had no way of making coin that she knew of unless he started charging people for his healing. To say nothing of their lack of housing, although she supposed he’d be fine with sleeping on the ground.
“Don’t worry about it, Sprite. Marsais has already offered us a place in his tower until we can rebuild.” She brightened at this bit of news.
“Where is he?”
“He’s been in council since he got back. Right now he’s trying to keep your faerie arse in this Order after your latest—combustion. You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”
“Thank you for saving me, again.”
“By the Sylph, what am I going to do with you, girl?” Massive arms encircled her, and she sunk eagerly against his gentle strength, clinging to the moment as if it were her last, because the nymph was all too conscious of the future. She knew there were precious few grains of freedom left in the top of her hourglass.
Sixteen
A LONE SEAGULL circled the fishing town of Coven, wings outstretched, feathers smoothed by the ocean’s breeze. The bird had taken advantage of the lull in the storm, drifting through the cold drizzle of the day in search of its next meal to pilfer from the markets below.
The bird of white on a backdrop of grey was as conspicuous in the sky as the slip of green moving through the mud splattered streets of Coven below, neither girl, nor woman, but something more. She was as unfettered as the bird overhead to the townsfolk, drifting like a dream through their drab little fishing town.
Their eyes were fixed upon her, but they found it difficult to wrap their minds around her presence, so it came as a shock when she stopped in front of the tobacconist’s shop. The motivation behind her action was as much of a mystery to the townsfolk as that of the seagull, which abruptly turned away from the market and flew towards the sea. Their confusion was perfectly understandable, because dreams are for the sleeping; not for the minds of waking men.
Isiilde Jaal’Yasine huddled against the porch of the tobacconist shop, watching the building across the road, or rather those who came out of the building. Isadora’s Closet was the only pleasure house on the East side of Coven, and as such, it ran a good business, day and night, benefiting from its location along the main road and its proximity to the Wise Ones’ stronghold. Isiilde blew a fiery tendril of hair away from her face as she watched the patrons coming and going, but unfortunately, there were eyes on her as well. She glanced nervously at one such pair, and secured her warm cloak about her body, hoping that the fine wool fabric would deter their lingering stares.
A gust of wind threatened to blow her cowl back. She reached up to pull it down, concealing her face and ears, but the meager bit of cloth did nothing for the shock of vibrant curls that refused to be confined. The cloak was well made, and therefore expensive, which attracted far more attention than she liked. Isiilde vowed to wear a less conspicuous cloak the next time she undertook an errand of secrecy, but this one was warm—a gift from Marsais after she burned down the cottage.
The accident seemed like a lifetime ago. But at other times, it felt as if she were stuck in the moment when the fire had surged from the hearth to consume her body. The memory was both breathtaking and terrifying, and the nymph pushed it out of her mind, focusing on the task at hand. Trouble had found her yet again, or rather, she had found it.
Isiilde sighed, running her thumb over the rune-etched flagon hidden beneath her cloak. The sort of trouble she had found this time was an entirely di
fferent sort than she had fallen into before (perhaps not as serious as killing Miera Malzeen). Regardless, there was no going back now. She had already skipped her lessons, slipped past the guards, out of the castle, and into town. Since it was only a matter of time before the guards alerted Oenghus that they had lost the nymph (again), she was sure he would be furious if she didn’t have a proper excuse. She desperately hoped her excuse would be Marsais (if he ever came out of the pleasure house).
By the Jack of Fools, what could possibly be taking him so long? She muttered under her breath, cursing her foolishness, and wished her troubles would disappear, however, they remained, and so she stood on the muddy street, willing her master to appear.
Her luck had went sour an hour before noontime, while she was tinkering with the Gnomish Crystals in the Spine. She had been spying on the town from her private perch when she happened to see Marsais walking through the streets of Coven, in the rain, without a hood. Amused with this bit of luck, she had followed his progress through town—first to the tobacconist shop and then directly across the street where he had disappeared inside the pleasure house.
Surprised, she had watched the building for a time, eventually growing bored. She’d moved on to other amusements, which had unfortunately landed her in this current predicament.
Doubt wiggled its insidious suggestions into her thoughts, and she had to admit that they held considerable merit. While she was getting into mischief, Marsais might have slipped out of the building. And despite the direness of her situation, a part of her hoped he had already left, because her errand might garner his wrath.
But what choice did she have? Marsais was the only one who could help her.
Two men, Kamberian traders by the look of them, staggered out of the pleasure house. She watched with mild curiosity as one of the men sauntered over to a nearby wall. He slumped against the sturdy stone for support, unbuttoned his trousers, and began pissing on his boots with all the stoic pride of a drunkard.
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