“Isiilde. Look at me.” She met his eyes and they drew her in, away from the crushing stone and stifling fear. “Everything will be all right,” he gently reassured.
The nymph was dimly aware of approaching footsteps. Marsais stiffened, his hands tightening around her waist as he focused on a distant point over her shoulder.
“Take my arm,” he ordered. She did as he asked, leaning weakly against him for support. She soon saw who had caught his attention.
“Archlord.” Stievin stopped in the corridor, bowing easily despite the heavy tray in his hands.
“Cook’s Steward Stievin,” Marsais muttered.
“I was just preparing a tray for Lady Jaal’Yasine and Master Oenghus. I managed to get your strawberries before the commotion,” Stievin added, glancing at the nymph who was swaying slightly on Marsais’ arm.
“Hmm.” Was all Marsais said, however, he was staring at the cook as if he had sprouted wings. Stievin shifted uncomfortably beneath his impenetrable grey gaze.
“Did you require food as well, Archlord?” Stievin inserted into the uncomfortable stretch of silence.
“Food?” Marsais inquired, truly puzzled for a moment, but then he shook off his disorientation and came back to himself. “No. I’ve just come from the kitchens.” With this odd remark he took the tray from Stievin, balancing it easily in one hand, and stared at the young man, waiting for him to leave.
“Archlord.” Stievin bowed, hastily, and turned to Isiilde, repeating the formality.
“Where are we going?” she whispered after Marsais missed the turn that would take them past the great hall and temples to the infirmary.
“Hmm?” Marsais replied studying the tray balanced on his hand. She sighed at his answer, deciding she didn’t care where they were going as long as she could stay with him.
As they walked, the panic that had seized her subsided, her breath returned, but the wash of emotion had left her exhausted. Clinging to his steady arm was all she could currently manage.
“I thought we might take the short cut through the gardens,” he said at length.
“Isn’t it still raining?”
“Perhaps,” he shrugged, unconcerned by such trivialities.
As it turned out, it wasn’t raining; it was storming. A sheet of icy water charged from its dark concealment, cut through the air, and pounded the earth with relentless energy.
“I don’t have a cloak, Marsais,” she beseeched, squinting through the narrow arrow loop.
In answer, he unwound his arm from hers. The Lore sprang to his lips, a soft whisper that was drowned out by the heavy beat of raindrops as he traced a series of quick runes over the tray in his hand. When he had completed the weave, he tugged on invisible strands and the tray rose from his fingertips, floating solidly in midair.
Marsais removed his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. “But you’ll get wet,” she protested.
“That is generally what happens when one goes out in such weather.” He sniffed at his robes. “Besides, I think I’ve forgotten to bathe.”
The nymph gasped as he threw the door open. A sheet of chilling water pelted her, and she leaned into Marsais, using him as a buffer against the wind. With the tray drifting obediently in their wake, he hurled them into the fray.
It was wet, cold, and for once, she didn’t mind. For every step they took down the twisting garden path, her head cleared, the weight of stone lifted from her breast, and she inhaled the sharp air, feeling as if it had been her first full breath all day.
Marsais led her beneath the broad limbs of a pine grove. Soft moss clung to the coarse trunks, clothing them in a garment of lush green. Gentle raindrops slipped slowly from the protective canopy overhead. He let the tray drift safely to the ground, and then helped her sit beside the tree. She rested against its softness, breathing in the scents of rebirth and gentle decay, listening to the pulse of the earth—one beat drifting to the next, calming her fluttering heart, until the worries of the day faded into memory.
Senses renewed, curiosity restored, she opened her eyes to discover that she had been abandoned. Her master stood some distance away on the unsheltered path: his shoulders were thrown back, gaunt face raised to the tumultuous sky, swaying like a reed in the wind.
The sight of him brought a smile to her lips. Greatly cheered, she plucked the cover off the tray, surveying the feast that Stievin had prepared before applying herself to the hearty selection of delicacies. Half way through her honey-smeared bun, Marsais returned, soaked to the bone, resembling a wet wolf (fortunately he did not smell like one).
“I don’t think that counts as a bath,” she remarked, licking sweet stickiness from her fingers.
“You sound like my mother.” He shook himself off, sending a spray of droplets her way, ignoring her glare as he squeezed the excess water from his hair and robes.
“Well, if you’ve forgotten to bathe, then I’m sure you’ve forgotten to eat.” She offered him the rest of her bread when he joined her. “You can have some strawberries too. Stievin gave me more than enough.” Her words brought Marsais up short, caught midway between wringing out his braided goatee.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, carefully.
“Much better, but I’m not really sure what happened. I—” She trailed off, unable to articulate what she did not understand.
“We forget that we didn’t always live under these stone monstrosities of mortar and timber. In times past, long forgotten days, people slept beneath a blanket of stars, on a soft mattress of moss and earth.” Marsais settled beside her, leaning his back against the tree.
“It sounds wet.” Her accompanying sneeze singed a patch of moss.
“Regardless, a little fresh air will do wonders for the mind and body. Hmm, especially for a faerie, even if it’s wet,” he quipped, tossing a strawberry into his mouth, stem and all (he seemed not to notice, so she didn’t bother pointing it out). She eyed the strawberry tart sitting innocently on the tray, and after a brief internal debate, broke it in half to share with him.
“Marsais?”
“Isiilde?” She cleared her throat, ignoring his twinkling eyes.
“Who was your mother and where were you born?” She had never thought to ask him before, and this embarrassed her, because she had not considered that her friend had started life much the same as everyone else.
“My mother—” he began between mouthfuls. “Was a woman.” At this unhelpful answer, Isiilde inhaled her tart, and her coughing soon gave way to helpless laughter.
“I gathered that much,” she finally managed, recovering her breath along with a small measure of composure.
“I’m trying to remember,” he grumbled, stroking his goatee. After a few thoughtful minutes, which Isiilde spent finishing her tart before applying herself to a warm, baked apple, sprinkled with cinnamon, he finally elaborated.
“My mother was a beautiful woman, although that’s not especially rare. Hmm, most creatures of womanly nature are. She was a Druid who was Oathbound to the king of the land. I suppose she was a queen of sorts.”
“Your father was a king and your mother a Druid?” Her eyes went wide and the cinnamon apple would have fallen from her fingers if Marsais hadn’t reached out to save it.
“I believe I just said that,” he remarked, stealing a bite. As Marsais had told her at the festival so long ago, Druids were once respected, but now their names were whispered like a curse, reviled alongside the likes of Voidspawn and Wedamen barbarians, or Vaylinish scum.
“Yes, but a Druid—are you part Lindale, Marsais?”
“Of course, but as I said, so are most Kamberians. However, my ancient blood is not so thinned. Regardless, as I’ve explained in the past, not all the Druids aided Ramashan when he opened a Gateway to the Nine Halls. Time has a way of muddling things and people like to group them together.”
“It’s convenient,” she repeated his words back to him, and the memory of that day brought a smile to her lips.
/> “Precisely.”
“So you were a king?” She cocked her head to the side, studying him beneath this curious new light.
“I was, before the Shattering,” he answered, softly.
Marsais rarely talked about the cataclysmic event, at least not in any detail, but he had been there, lived through a time of horrible legend over two thousand years ago. Try as she might, the nymph could not wrap her mind around her master’s age. Her efforts usually ended with a headache.
Simply put, it was hard to imagine, especially considering how much she enjoyed his company. She studied him now, the white of his hair, the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes that creased when he laughed. Marsais was as solid and welcoming as the tree at her back. She sensed that her question had sparked some long buried memory, because his eyes were filled with an impenetrable mist. A pang of sadness gripped her, and she sorely regretted reminding him of a past that he worked hard to forget.
“Where was your kingdom?” she asked, softly, nudging him away from the darkness of his thoughts.
“It’s long faded, my dear. Most of my kingdom was destroyed during the Shattering, swallowed up by the chasms that split the realm. One half lies at the bottom of the Eastern Gap, and the other sits along a river in Vaylin that once flowed into the seas of the Bitter Coast. It was a beautiful land; thick with redwood groves and ferns taller than me. We were simple people who lived along the rivers: fishermen and trappers who worshipped the spirits that shared their lands. There’s nothing left of them,” he whispered, distantly. His body was here but his mind was lost in memory.
“You are left and I am glad of it.” Sympathy moved her, compassion commanded, and desire demanded that she breach the space. The nymph reached out to him, running her fingertips along the back of his elegant hand, wishing she could take his pain away. His skin was warm, inviting, and the single caress of his weathered flesh tingled along her nerve endings, melting her insides.
Marsais sucked in a sharp breath, like a man long under water, only just emerging. His hand quivered beneath her touch and then he snatched it away, rising to his feet with an abruptness that startled her.
“Oenghus’ food will get cold,” he said, hoarsely, lifting the tray from the ground with a sharp gesture. His clear dismissal wounded her, and she stared at his boots, feeling at a loss, wondering why he would react so strongly. If she had angered him, then why didn’t he say so?
“Are you staying?” he inquired, briskly, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. In reply, she rose to her feet, pulling down the cowl of her borrowed cloak to hide her confusion. Marsais didn’t offer his arm, but took off down the path with long strides, leaving her to hurry in his wake.
They walked clear across the garden courtyard. When they arrived at a side door, he politely opened it for her, and she hurried inside, seeking refuge from the rain. Ever optimistic, the nymph chose to pretend that the awkward moment had never occurred.
“Marsais?”
“Hmm.” She nearly slipped on the water that dripped from his robes. He slowed his pace, matching her stride so they might walk side by side.
“How did you make the tray float? It looked different from the Weave of Levitation that you showed me, but I missed most of the runes.”
Marsais stopped suddenly, surprised by her interest. “Oh, splendid, this will be your lesson today.” He interrupted their course, heading directly to a cushioned bench across from a tapestry depicting a peaceful glade. Marsais dipped two long fingers inside his belt pouch, and brought forth a gold crown.
“Do you recall the feather rune?” Isiilde nodded, untying her soaked cloak, and laying it neatly to the side. “Good. One rune that I have failed to show you is the binding rune. I levitated the tray and then bound it to me, hmm, much like leading a horse.” His fingers moved with graceful confidence as he traced the binding rune, leaving a gossamer outline floating in midair.
It always helped her to imagine the rune mark as something else and this one reminded her of a knotted rope, which made perfect sense (as usual).
“You must be careful when you bind a rune to an object. This particular one is very gentle, but if I used a stronger bind on a feather rune, then it would crush the feather, which could backfire and result in an ill occurrence.” His brows formed a sinister V as he regarded the nymph, making sure that she had grasped the seriousness of it. But Isiilde’s quick mind had already leapt ahead with understanding, and she plucked the coin from his fingers before he could stop her, weaving the feather rune deftly around the coin as she recited the Wise One’s Lore. Its guttural tones grated on her delicate ears, however, the discordant tune did not stop her from wading into the surging currents of power.
The binding rune was a complicated mark and the weave took some concentrated effort on her part. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she let her voice fade, and felt the wash of power perish with it.
There was always danger when one used the Gift. Many found it difficult to drag themselves from the strong currents of energy. The promise of power, Marsais had once explained, was a deadly lure. In their greediness, they waded deeper and deeper, drawing more of the Gift than they could handle, until it was impossible to return to their bodies. However, the Gift held no such temptation for Isiilde. It paled in comparison to the siren call of her fire.
The last command left her lips, and she let go of the coin, proudly watching it float in midair, bound to her fingertips by an invisible thread.
“Perfect as always.”
“Not quite.” She gave him a secretive glance and then began to sing. This was what her blood yearned for; not the harsh language of the Wise Ones that bullied the streams of power, but her pure, flowing voice melding flawlessly with the Gift. Her voice was a gentle breeze, an intimate whisper, tickling the ears of all who breathed. There was no place for cumbersome words on her tongue, but rather, thoughts and emotion mingled to form sound.
She sang to the flickering torches set along the wall, luring a tendril of flame to her outstretched palm as one might coax a sparrow with seed. The nymph’s blood stirred, hot and vibrant in her veins as she watched the flame’s seductive dance. And with her voice, she won its devotion.
Sensitive to her whims, the flame sprang eagerly from her palm, hovering beside the coin in midair. She stirred her finger in its blazing heat, and it danced around the suspended coin for her delight, creating a gleaming halo of fire around the circle of gold.
The flaming torches surged, crackling for her attention. With a call of her voice, she allowed her subjects to join in the spinning dance. The gold was surrounded by a cage of flaming bars, rolling one over the other.
The lonely coin was helpless. The flame’s intensity melted its metal. Liquid gold swirled with fire, and Isiilde gasped with pleasure—a sound more suited to a bedchamber.
The intimate merging aroused her desire, feeding her passion, and therefore her fire. Her voice rose with intensity, fevered and hurried. Every torch in the corridor leapt to her whim, merging to create a swirling ball of flame that entranced her with its complexities, and in turn, it was entranced by her voice.
Another voice interrupted her melody, overshadowing her song with harsh, discordant tones. As quick as she had formed it, Marsais wove a bind to her creation and plucked it from her control. She felt like a mother whose child had just been snatched from her arms. Emerald eyes blazed in response, the tone of her voice became fury.
The torches on the wall sprang to her defense, hurling themselves towards this new, unwanted master. But Marsais was prepared, and with a quick flash of his deft hands, her fire dispersed, sending a shower of harmless sparks scattering against the stone. All that was left of the coin swirled to the ground; a mere pinch of silt.
Isiilde cried out in response, collapsing to the stone in a quivering heap. The air was cold, and her lungs constricted with terror, leaving her struggling to draw breath. Every inch of her body ached, her skin sizzled with heat, and she thought her he
art would burst in her chest.
“Isiilde,” Marsais’ commanding voice broke through her panic. “Look at me. You must calm down.” But her fire blinded her, and the memory of its seductive roar consumed her, leaving her body unsatisfied and aching for more.
Marsais cursed under his breath, grabbed the wet cloak from the bench, and draped it over her back. Steam hissed angrily into the air as moisture touched her flesh, cooling her skin and leaving her shivering on the floor. She was dimly aware of Marsais kneeling beside her to loosen the laces of her bodice. When the confining garment was undone, her breath came easier.
“What’s happening to me?” she coughed. She looked to the grey eyes so close to her own, and they softened. A hand reached out to comfort her, however, his touch fell short, brushing the air over her cheek instead.
“I’d say you owe me a crown,” he replied matter-of-fact. The nymph let out a shuddering breath and promptly passed out.
Twenty
THE GENTLE PATTER of rain sang softly to her ears, easing her from the darkness into the haze in between. The music might have lulled her back to sleep if not for the hushed conversations lingering at the edge. The nymph sighed with contentment and snuggled into warmth. There was no reason to leave the in between. Her lids were heavy and the bed was so very soft, cradling her body in a tender embrace. A calm hand rested on her forehead and she cracked her eyes open with sleepy hope.
“Have a drink, child.” Morigan’s kindly face smiled down at her, but it was not the face she wished to see. Isiilde tried to get up, quickly discovering that she was too weak to lift her head. The motherly healer lifted it for her, pressing a cup to her lips. Smooth liquid slid down her throat, tasting of lemon, spice, and honey.
“Do you know, Isiilde, I have never encountered a child who attracts more trouble than you.”
A Thread in the Tangle Page 23
