A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Choose one.” Isiilde uncorked each in turn, sniffing warily at the contents. The first smelt of wood, and the other of ash, which she quickly chose. He nodded in satisfaction and guzzled the first vial—the one she hadn’t chosen. Marsais shivered and shook himself as if he had been doused with cold water.

  “Good thing you chose correctly.” The other vial vanished inside his pack.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Did I say I’d drink the one you picked?” He arched a brow to emphasize his point and she clicked her mouth shut. Marsais led her up and out, using a back door rather than the front, which deposited them into an empty alleyway behind the pleasure house. She took his offered arm, biting back a swell of questions as they wound their way through the midday bustle. Although she attracted numerous stares, no one recognized the Archlord of the Isle without his crimson robes. There was, she realized, benefits to being a recluse. A question was on the tip of her tongue when he froze in mid-step.

  “The cottage,” he breathed. There was understanding in his words. She knew immediately to what he was referring. It startled her so badly that a burst of flame spouted from her ears. Marsais patted the flames out on his shirt, smothering their bite through long practice and barely a pause. “That’s why you burned it down. If I’m not mistaken, you came of age and you were frightened?” How could he know?

  “Did Morigan tell you?” she whispered, numb with shock, and then a sudden, irrational thought burst into her mind. The dull thud, of a closing iron door, caged her heart. “Has the Emperor already sold me?” Panic gave way to tears.

  “No, my dear, not to my knowledge,” Marsais said with gentle reassurance, but her tears continued to fall; the ancient feeling as helpless as she. “You’re not having a very good day are you?” She shook her head pathetically. He said no more, until they had walked to the edge of town and stopped beneath the limbs of a twisted old oak—away from prying eyes and curious ears.

  “Isiilde.” Careful not to touch her skin, he dabbed at her tears with the billowing sleeve of his shirt. “You’re sixteen, nearly seventeen, but I’m sure we can fool Caitlyn Whitehand into believing you’re not of age for another few years. Some nymphs don’t mature until they’re nearly a hundred. Hmm, and it helps that you’re so—” He gestured towards her, searching for the proper word. “—slight,” he settled uncomfortably.

  Isiilde frowned up at him, eyes narrowing. Her indignation was so acute that her skin heated in response.

  Marsais wisely feigned ignorance. As she was formulating a scathing retort, he turned away, distracted by a faint rustle in the leaves of the tree. Isiilde sighed, following his gaze.

  There was nothing of interest at all in the branches.

  “How odd—of course not!” Marsais snapped at the tree. “Do you mind, old one, I’m speaking with my apprentice.”

  Isiilde forgot about her tears and irritation, glancing from Marsais, to the tree, and back again.

  “Well, we are terribly sorry, she’s under quite a strain you see—” he cut off mid-sentence as if the tree had made a rude remark, shut his mouth with a click and motioned her to follow, turning his back on the oak. Isiilde twisted around to look at the tree and her master growled, “Don’t provoke him.”

  “Provoke who?”

  “That rude old fellow,” he replied. She did not question him further, nor could she, because all of her breath was focused on keeping up with his long-legged stride as he stalked up the steep road leading to the Wise Ones’ stronghold. She was forced to run, and then half way up the hillside, her master stopped so suddenly that she ran into him.

  “Marsais?”

  “Oh, hello, my dear, why are you running in this foul weather?” he asked, truly puzzled.

  “We were talking about—” she hesitated, gesturing helplessly. Her cheeks turned pink. “Coming of age,” she finally managed.

  “Of course, I need to talk to you about that.” Marsais frowned in thought, stroking his goatee before continuing, “Isiilde, you’re not a woman, but a nymph, which is a fact you are reminded of daily, I’m sure. Now, there’s a very big difference between the two. When a nymph comes of age, it’s known as an Awakening, which I’ve just pieced together happened three months ago. Am I correct?”

  “I didn’t burn down the cottage on purpose, I swear, I was just scared. Oenghus gave his word that he’d return me when I came of age, I couldn’t tell anyone, Marsais,” she pleaded, desperate for his understanding.

  “Calm down, my dear,” he urged, gently. “Your reaction is understandable.” She looked up into his grey eyes, soft with kindness, and felt the burden of her secret lifting at long last.

  “Now, on to other matters, which require a blunt tongue, as wary as I am to delve into this subject.”

  “Which is?”

  “I knew you came of age the moment you touched my back.”

  “I didn’t mean to anger you—”

  “Anger is far, far, far from the word I would use, my dear,” he admitted with an unsteady tremor in his voice. “You must be extremely careful, because a brush from your fingertips can drive a man insane.”

  “Insane?” She tilted her head up at him. Confusion, it seemed, was her lot for the day.

  “A single touch from a nymph can fill a man with an insatiable lust,” he explained. “I assure you, if you had touched any other man in such an intimate setting, then events would have gone much differently.”

  Isiilde shivered, wrapping her cloak about her, feeling exposed on the hillside. She inched closer to Marsais, wanting more than anything to hide in his arms. “I don’t mean to scare you, but a loss of innocence can be a brutal thing—far more brutal than the knowledge of it.”

  “But Marsais,” she said, softly. “I wouldn’t have gone inside for any other man.” Marsais froze, eyes fixed upon her for a long moment, and then he shook himself, hastily taking a step back.

  “I know,” he acknowledged. “But it was very unwise of you to go into town alone—let alone a pleasure house. Your safety is far more important than anything contained in a flagon, my dear. So with that said, I ask that you promise not to leave the castle grounds unescorted by myself or Oenghus for any reason.” Isiilde chewed on her lip, carefully considering the implications.

  “I don’t think I can make such a promise,” she replied, truthfully.

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m going to run away. I don’t want to be sold.”

  “Neither would I. May I inquire as to where you were planning on going?”

  “I hadn’t quite worked out the details,” she admitted. Marsais sighed, turning towards the tendrils of mist swirling in the grey haze. He seemed at a loss and some minutes passed before he spoke again.

  “My dear, I have always been an ardent supporter of running away from most situations. Unfortunately, there are very few options for you and if my opinion means anything, then trust me when I tell you that running away would be a very unwise course in your case.”

  “I hate being a nymph, Marsais.” His only reply to her vehement declaration was to offer his arm. She slipped her arm through his, resting her hand on the sleeve of his forearm as they continued their journey towards the looming castle.

  “You do realize that if any of the other novices, apprentices, or Wise Ones snuck into my private chambers and opened a warded flagon, then they would be ousted from the Isle without question.” She clicked her mouth shut at his matter-of-factness. “Which brings up an interesting point, hmm, if you weren’t a faerie, you would not, I hope, be foolish enough to open it in the first place.” She frowned up at him, wondering if she should take his words as compliment or insult. “Besides, have you ever considered that you might be worse off being Oenghus or Thira, or even stuck in my boots for that matter? I’m a firm believer in taking what you can get and praying you don’t get anymore.”

  Marsais drew up short, his gaze snapping towards the wind bent grass, past the smoking chimneys of Coven, and o
ut to the turbulent sea. Isiilde squinted through the fog, hugging her cloak to her while she puzzled over what had startled him this time.

  A gust of wind nearly knocked her off her feet and she moved on the other side of her master, letting his lean form buffer the chilling wind. Sea mist settled on his weathered face and the wind tugged at his cloak as he pointed his sharp nose like a weather vane towards the horizon. As far as the nymph could tell, there wasn’t anything out there.

  “As the seas churn, an ill wind breathes into the hearts of men. Its turmoil has spread. Blast it!” he cursed, darkly, turning towards the castle and breaking into a jog.

  Isiilde stared at the failing sun. She thought she might have glimpsed a black bird or shadow between the clouds, but that meant nothing to her. With a forlorn sigh over her perpetual confusion, she turned and ran after him.

  “Marsais,” she called when she caught up to him, vaguely wondering if she drove others to an equal level of exasperation as Marsais was currently doing to her.

  “Hmm?”

  “What is it?” she asked, glancing back the way they had come.

  “What is what?”

  “You were saying something about the sea and you saw something—”

  “Did I?” He was as intrigued by this revelation as she was.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know, my dear, you said I did and I dare not argue with a nymph.”

  “But—”

  “Never you mind,” he interrupted, waving an impatient hand. “If we linger in this cold any longer, then the tips of your ears will freeze and crack off.”

  Isiilde crossed her arms and snorted at him, which produced another spout of flame from her ears. Her master made it very clear that he was done conversing (not that it ever deterred her), but before she could pursue the matter, he quickened his step and it was all she could do to keep up.

  When they reached the inner bailey, Marsais turned away from the main gate and took the long way around the courtyard to his tower. She thought it might have something to do with the group of Wise Ones who were bickering with each other in front of the Storm Gate.

  The unnecessarily massive double doors that led into the Keep were made of witchwood and bound with Kilnish steel. If that were not defense enough, the doors were covered with warding runes from top to bottom. She often stood on the curtain wall, tracing the runes with her eyes, while she dreamt of unraveling the complex ward. Oenghus had told her in no uncertain terms that she was never to touch the doors (with her hand, fingers, foot, or elbow), because the challenge it presented was too much of a temptation for the nymph.

  The Storm Gates were a formidable deterrent for invading forces, made doubly so by the four guardian statues flanking the wide stone steps. They were carved from solid obsidian, in the likeness of champions long dead, their names but a scratch in history. It was rumored that they would come alive if an invading army ever threatened the Keep, but as of yet, no army had had the nerve to try.

  Marsais stopped by an overgrown hedge at the base of his tower. She was about to point out that the secret entrance was five feet to the left, but she recognized the familiar posturing of a man about to empty his bladder.

  Isiilde craned her head back to study the unparalleled heights of the tower known as the Spine. She swayed from the effort, feeling lightheaded as she squinted through the mist, straining to see the Spine’s pinnacle high overhead. She was overwhelmed by the same dizzying sensation that occurred whenever she stood on the battlements to look down the cliffs and the sea below.

  The Spine was a formidable landmark, an ancient monument befitting the Order of the Wise Ones. In her studies, she had learned that Hengist Heartfang, first Archlord of the Isle, had raised the spire straight from the sea bed. It was a solid, twisting stretch of pale grey, nearly white stone, appearing to have grown from the hilltop like a tree from the earth.

  Over three thousand years of harsh winds had shaped the stone, stripping the rock of irregularities until it was worn to a glassy sheen. Precious Quartz swirled up its length like veins in a body, pulsing with light whenever the sun touched its surface. Inhabitants of the Isle often boasted that the Spine was visible from the shores of the Fell Wastes, claiming it kept the vicious Wedamen in their place.

  Every Archlord in the Isle’s history had lived in the Spine. Oenghus had once remarked that they lived there in an attempt to make up for other shortcomings. She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, so she had asked Marsais, who only laughed in reply. Now, three years later, she finally understood the crude jest and wondered why Marsais had found the insult so amusing.

  The first drop of yet another grim storm fell into her open mouth, sliding down her throat with a chilling tingle, and like a pebble heralding a landslide, the heavens opened up, unleashing a downpour of icy missiles. A series of violent sneezes gripped the faerie, and by the time she had stopped spouting flame, her hair was soaked and her teeth were chattering.

  “Don’t stand there glaring, my dear, I didn’t expect you to wait for me.” Marsais brushed passed her with a twinkle of mirth in his eye.

  This time he stopped in front of the correct hedge. She followed him through the shrubbery and he splayed his fingers on the hidden rune, uttering the Lore under his breath. After twelve years on the Isle, using Runes of Teleportation was a familiar routine, but she still found the method of travel as thrilling as the first time.

  When Marsais took his hand away, the stone remained the same, but she was accustomed to the lack of change. Marsais stepped aside to usher her through and she let the enchantment embrace her body. She was pulled into the stone like sand sliding through the heart of an hourglass. A single step took her from the Spine’s base to the floor below the tower’s peak. Isiilde ducked beneath the ever present cobwebs, which had been made by a spider that she had never seen.

  The nymph tore off her cloak with numb hands and shook the water from it.

  “I hate the rain,” she managed between another series of sneezes as Marsais squeezed passed her, timing it between bursts of flame, to continue down the empty corridor. Isiilde folded her damp cloak over her arm and followed on his heels, thoroughly wet and as irritated as a cat.

  As it turned out, Marsais did not go directly to his study, but rather into one of the extensive libraries located inside the Spine. Dusty tomes, manuscripts, and ancient lore books lined the walls like a catacomb of skulls with only a single, round window to light the eerie crypt of forgotten ink. The nymph watched curiously as Marsais searched the shelves, but she stayed outside, since she was forbidden to enter any of the archive rooms. For some odd reason the other Wise Ones believed she posed a threat to a room full of rare books.

  “Marsais?” He didn’t seem to hear her, so she tried again. “Marsais, are you looking for the Imp in here?”

  “Imp!” His face appeared from behind a shelf, sniffing the air, as he searched the room with wary eyes. “Where?”

  “Perhaps not here, but certainly somewhere,” she replied.

  “Hmm, everything is somewhere, but the rub is when it can be anywhere,” he stated, and then walked to the center of the room, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints on the priceless Mearcentian rug. Marsais turned in a complete circle, and then stopped, staring out the round window high on the wall.

  “The Shadows of Dawn,” he breathed. “We stand at a crossroad.”

  Isiilde risked a few timid steps into the forbidden library. As she passed the threshold, she half expected to trip off a Ward of Alarm or alert a squad of Order guards, but nothing more exciting than her footsteps on the plush carpet occurred.

  Bolstered by her anti-climatic entrance, she ventured in farther, standing at Marsais’ side. The window held him entranced, but aside from the steady streams of rain beating against the thick glass, it was unremarkable.

  “What do you see, Marsais?” she whispered. He jerked as if she had shouted in his ear.

  “Oh, hello, my dear, what brings
you here?” he inquired, pleasantly.

  “I’ve never left.”

  “Then what am I doing here?”

  “Don’t you remember the warded flagon that I opened? You were looking for the Imp.”

  “That was ages ago,” he murmured, shaking his head, clearly disoriented.

  “No, Marsais. It was today.” Uncomprehending eyes answered her, and his gaze was drawn back to the window, following the branching rivulets of water running down the pane.

  Marsais could be absentminded at times, but he was acting even odder than normal today, and it worried her so much that she took his hand. At her soft touch, his head whipped around, locking her with an impenetrable gaze.

  “O, yes, of course. How foolish of me.” He delicately extracted his hand from hers and roughly cleared his throat. “Now then, where am I—Aha yes, I remember!” He launched himself at the sliding ladder that was attached to the shelves, hopped onto a rung, and let momentum carry him clear to the end of the wall length bookshelf. When the ladder stopped, he nimbly climbed to the very top, ran a questing finger along the spines, plucked a book from the shelves, ignored the five feet of empty space as if it were a mere inconvenience and dropped off the ladder, landing softly.

  Marsais dumped the heavy tome in her arms and hurried out, leaving her to stumble after him with her burden.

  Isek Beirnuckle rounded the second corner and Marsais drew up short, casting about for a place to hide as if his assistant hadn’t already seen his tall, unmistakable form standing in an empty corridor void of adornment.

  Isek, short and balding as the day she met him, took a deep, patient breath. “Marsais, the Circle of Nine have been searching for you since morning.” His deep, baritone voice didn’t fit with the rest of his wiry body. Isiilde caught the unspoken sentence underneath his words.