A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “You’ve made a mess, Oen,” Isiilde pointed out. Zahra’s serene head lay some distance from her body. “I don’t think Zahra and the Sylph will be happy with you.”

  “She’s never happy with me,” he muttered. “And you’re not one to be talking, Sprite.” He gestured toward the smoke filled chamber where the paintings were being consumed, their canvases curling as her fire licked at the oiled flesh. Despite the loss, she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel remorseful—the paintings were far more stunning on fire.

  “I suppose we better find someone to clean this mess up.”

  As it turned out, someone had already heard the commotion and smelled the smoke. Clerics and acolytes came rushing into the temple; the first weren’t happy with Oenghus, and the latter were sent scurrying for buckets.

  The remaining clerics turned on Oenghus, who ignored their righteous wrath, pushing through through the lot of them with the Imp thumping against his leg.

  Isiilde followed, poking miserably at her chin. Without warning, the Imp sprang back to life, chattering angrily at Oenghus who was taken by surprise. The creature raked its claws and teeth against his thigh, freeing its tail from his belt.

  She was too shocked to scream as the Imp flapped wildly away with a squeal of delight. They both stood, watching its flight in gaping silence.

  “I thought it was dead,” she finally whispered when it had flown out of sight.

  “It was,” Oenghus said, and then shrugged one of his massive shoulders before continuing to their rooms. His robes were torn and shredded at his thigh, and a stain of blood was spreading on the dark blue cloth, but he seemed not to notice.

  “You’re bleeding, Oen,” she observed. His only response was the deep, rolling grumble of an irritated bear.

  Twenty-two

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING brought a renewed sense of determination. High in the Spine, the sun shone weakly through her little window. She felt absolutely wonderful. After hurrying through her morning rituals, the nymph stood in front of her wardrobe in serious contemplation. If she was going to catch the Imp, then her skirts would only get in the way (as she had discovered yesterday).

  It wasn’t quite warm enough to wear the flowing dress that Marsais had bought her from the festival after she had burned all of her other clothing, so she wisely settled on a pair of trousers that she had won off a stable boy in a game of dice. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to wash his shirt. Since it still smelled of sweat and horse dung, she decided on her bodice and the ruffled shirt that she usually wore.

  The effect was quite lovely. Her outfit reminded her of something that Eiji might wear. She gazed at herself in the full length mirror, turning this way and that, until she was satisfied that the outfit would not hamper her mobility—for she was going hunting today.

  In a rare, daring mood, she tamed her hair into two tight braids and tucked them behind her sweeping ears. She threw Binding and Baiting into her leather knapsack, along with the rune-etched flagon and her report, and then flitted across their spacious chambers to Oenghus’ workshop. He was standing beside his worktable in the neatly arranged area, puffing violently away on his pipe as he watched a foul smelling concoction boil and sputter in a delicate glass tube that sat on a heating stone.

  “Good morning, Oen!” He glanced over at her sprightly greeting and smiled around the stem of his pipe. She threw her arms around his thick waist, and much to her delight, he lifted her off her feet as he had often done in her childhood.

  “You look mischievous,” he said, giving her a crushing hug before setting her down.

  “The sun is out,” she purred, tilting her chin towards him so he could inspect the cut. “I don’t know why you just don’t heal it.” She wrinkled her nose as he spread some foul smelling ointment over the wound.

  “Your body will forget how to heal itself if you always rely on the Gift, and besides, it might teach you to bloody listen to me.”

  “But it hurts horribly,” she moaned.

  “It’s a scratch, Sprite.” She blinked up at him, eyes wide and doleful, and while he did not relent to heal it with the Gift, his gruffness melted. He bent down to kiss her terrible wound. It felt a little better.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I have to give my report to Master Tulipin,” she paused to wrinkle her nose. “and then I’m off to the kitchens to eat before Thira’s class.”

  This earned Oenghus another sour face. Much to her dismay, Marsais had persuaded the Vulture to let her attend the Alchemy lectures. Fortunately, Thira barely acknowledged Isiilde’s existence, which thrilled her to no end.

  “After that I’m headed to my lessons with Marsais.” Her eyes lit up with anticipation, because the sun would positively be glowing in his study today.

  “Well, be careful and don’t leave the grounds.” Oenghus tugged on his beard. She wondered if Marsais had told him about her outing to the pleasure house, although that seemed uncharacteristically unwise of her master. Isiilde decided not to mention it.

  “If you see that blasted Imp—run.” The potion boiled over the top of the glass vial and Oenghus snatched it off the stone with a curse, setting it carefully in a rack of similar tubes. He turned to his shelf of supplies, searching through the vials for a desired ingredient. The nymph peered curiously at another boiling pot on his work bench, tracing the twisting tubes of his alembic and sniffing warily at the pulverized contents in the mortar.

  “Do you have your dagger with you?”

  “No,” she sighed. “I hate carrying it, Oen.”

  “You should always have a blade on you.”

  “But you told me to stay away from sharp objects, remember, I keep cutting myself.”

  “That was years ago,” he growled. “And what I say hardly matters when I turn around and give you a blade, now does it? Better to have one than not, trust me.”

  Less than a month ago, she had accidentally cut herself on a pair of shears, but it would be useless to point that out to her protector. Despite her misgivings, she fetched her dagger and attached the sheath to her belt. After all, the slender dagger had been a gift from Oenghus and although she disliked weapons, the gesture had touched her deeply.

  After suffering through another tedious lecture of precautions she must take and places where she was not to venture, the nymph kissed Oenghus on the cheek, and darted off towards Tulipin’s tower, eager to be about her business.

  Thedus was sitting in the doorway to the gnome’s workshop when she arrived. He was stark naked, very sun burnt, and worried at the doorpost with raw fingertips, dropping his pilfered wood into a tiny mound by his feet. A very agitated gnome hovered beside him, prodding him with a stout staff.

  “I swear that I’ll summon the Archlord if you don’t move!” Tulipin threatened, however, Thedus paid him no heed, entirely focused on his rhythmic scraping.

  “Good morning, Thedus,” Isiilde greeted, stopping beside the sun burnt man to beam down at him. What Tulipin’s staff could not accomplish, her smile did. Thedus stopped, long enough to look up at the nymph, blink once, and then return to his curious task. Tulipin glanced at her with a look of irritation.

  “I’m sorry about the other day, Master Tulipin,” she said in the humblest of tones, presenting him with her paper. Surprise flashed across his face, because every Wise One knew that the nymph never completed an assignment.

  “I’ll look this over.” Tulipin’s voice was gruff, but overall, he appeared pleased that she had taken his reprimand to heart. Isiilde noticed Eiji, who was standing inside the cluttered workshop, arms crossed, regarding her coolly. Even though the pink-haired gnome was only three feet tall (the nymph had a full foot and a half on the gnome), her calculating eyes were unnerving, as were the brace of throwing knives and short sword strapped to her glossy outfit. The way Eiji looked at Isiilde made her feel like an oddity in a cage, as if the enterprising gnome were appraising her value for a sale. Isiilde offered her a smile, but she received nothing in return,
and hastily left to avoid those unfriendly eyes.

  In an attempt to loosen the knot worrying between her shoulder blades, she hummed her favorite verse of the Mule King as she wove through the midday bustle of the castle. The whimsical tune was a favorite song of Marsais’ and no matter her mood, it always managed to bring a smile to her lips, because her master couldn’t sing to save his life.

  As she moved through the maze of stone passages, she attracted eyes. They followed her swaying form, caught up in the vision drifting across their path. But she was oblivious, even when one of Eldred’s apprentices tripped over his own robes. A Wise One with his nose in a book glanced up at her approach and dropped an ancient tome on the newly scrubbed floor, committing an unforgivable sin when the pages got wet.

  The women who passed her were no less affected; they stared as well, and when there was more than one together, they began whispering amongst themselves in hushed voices. But Isiilde’s mood could not be diminished, and she noticed not, drifting aimlessly down the hallways, dazzled by the sound of her own melody. She moaned with pleasure when she caught the enticing scents drifting from the kitchens.

  The two guards who were posted at the arch straightened, watching her hurry past as if they expected the Imp to appear, for everyone knew that trouble followed the nymph.

  Isiilde waded into the busy kitchen, searching for Stievin. He wasn’t hard to miss. He stood a head taller than most, and whereas everyone else was covered in flour and grease, he always managed to remain clean. To her delight, she discovered that Stievin had been waiting for her with a prepared tray.

  “I missed you yesterday,” he said, gazing upon her like a parched man thirsting after a pool of water.

  “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “If I’d known, then I would have called. Are you feeling better?”

  “More than better.”

  “I have a present for you.” He opened the covered platter and picked out a plump strawberry. “I handpicked it especially for you.” Her eyes lit up and she eagerly took it from his hand, biting into the succulent berry. Its sweetness elicited an appreciative moan.

  The platter in Stievin’s hand quivered slightly. She thought the tray must be very heavy.

  “What happened to your chin?” His fingertips brushed the cut, trailing lightly down her throat. Startled, Isiilde took a step back, a frisson of fear racing down her spine, urging her to flee.

  “The Imp attacked Oenghus and me,” she explained, retreating backwards. “Thank you Stievin, I have to get to my lessons.” She turned to go, but was detained by a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “Let me carry the tray for you,” Stievin said, harshly, more command than offer.

  “No need,” she said, firmly. Even as she tried to escape his persistent grip, her fingers flashed, deftly weaving a feather rune around the tray. With a tugging gesture, she bound the tray to herself, and it floated from Stievin’s hand, startling him.

  Isiilde shook off his hand and hurried away. When she passed the guards at their post, she glanced over her shoulder, but Stievin was lost in the flurry of cooks, kitchen maids, and Spit boys. With every step, the thunder in her ears diminished, until at last her heart quieted.

  It was foolish, she thought, an overreaction to such a simple thing as a touch, but she could not shake the feeling of wrongness. Stievin had made her uncomfortable. His touch crawled down her throat like a creeping insect.

  He was only concerned about your wound, she told herself firmly. After all, she had known the man for most of her life, even considered him a friend. And it had been very thoughtful of him to prepare a tray.

  The encounter left her confused, so she decided to do what she always did in such a state: find Marsais. With her course decided, her mood brightened, especially since it meant skipping her Alchemy class.

  The Spine was considered the Archlord’s domain, set aside for his personal use, and since Marsais didn’t care for the pomp and ceremony of his predecessors, much of it was empty. The throne room was located on the ground floor, while the middle levels housed the archives, filled with scribes who bent over their desks for endless hours, meticulously copying and preserving the ancient books preserved within. Much to her disappointment, the scribes chased her out whenever she tried to peek at their work.

  There were other chambers dedicated to other pursuits, but Isiilde couldn’t quite fathom what all those Wise Ones and apprentices were doing (not that she tried very hard). As far as she was concerned, they hurried back and forth from chamber to chamber with scrolls and reports passing from hand to hand. It seemed a grandly dull game.

  Above the archives, was the rookery, which had an obvious function. Messenger birds came and went, carrying messages to and from scouts and armies who did not possess a Whisperer. Weaving messages into the wind took talent, and the Wise Ones who could manage such a feat did not come cheaply. So great hawks, owls, and dull-eyed pigeons shared the Archlord’s lofty perch. Unfortunately, the game keeper never let her enter, claiming that Isiilde made the birds nervous.

  Throughout her life, Marsais and Oenghus had strived to provide her with a measure of freedom, even if most of it was illusion. At times, she felt as if she was forbidden to venture where everyone else went. But she had never minded overly much, because she was allowed where very few were permitted.

  The three top levels of the Spine were used exclusively by the Archlord. Very few inhabitants of the Order knew of their existence. Everyone thought that the tower’s pinnacle was solid rock. Stairwells stopped where many believed the top most level to be, which was a beautiful chamber ringed by natural stone pillars that created an open-aired terrace. The spacious area held a number of Gnomish spy glasses, some dazzling fountains, and a lush garden.

  The only way to reach the pinnacle was by teleportation runes that bore the Archlord’s runic eye, and to her knowledge, the only people allowed access were Isek, Oenghus, and herself.

  Since the sun was shining, she walked to the Spine by way of the curtain wall. By the time she was half way across the battlements, the brisk sea breeze had raised goose bumps on her shoulders, leaving her shivering and cold. Despite her discomfort, she stopped to lean over the wall, watching the waves crash against the cliff face far below.

  A hand seized the nymph’s belt, pulling her to safety just as she had decided to try levitating down for a closer inspection. Isiilde straightened, but the scolding she was prepared to deliver died on her lips the moment she saw who had ruined her planned expedition.

  “I know that look, foolish fire Imp.”

  “I am not an Imp, Rashk,” Isiilde said, crossing her arms. “I’m a nymph.”

  “So you say, but I begin to wonder,” Rashk mused, leaning casually against the battlements. The Rahuatl’s bronze skin gleamed beneath the sun, highlighting her ritual scarring and the ceremonial needles of ivory poking through her exposed skin. She wore her sun bathing outfit, a sparse loincloth and little more. No one ever told the Wise One to put her clothes back on as they did Isiilde, and what was more, Rashk had far more to display than the faerie.

  “If I were a fire Imp then I’d have flown from here long ago.”

  “True,” Rashk said, giving one of her braids a firm tug—a rare gesture for the otherwise unaffectionate Rahuatl. Rashk glanced at the floating tray behind her and arched a hairless brow that had been imbedded with ivory studs. “You go to your master?”

  “If I can find him.”

  “He is in audience and smells restless,” the woman warned, studying her claws. “I have heard of your hunt with Grimstorm. Too bad for us that the Imp lived. Tell him to bite its head off next time. Mice play dead and so do Imps.” Isiilde tucked that bit of information away, however, she didn’t think she’d try it when she caught the fiend. Rashk’s dark eyes narrowed and her black lips thinned. She touched Isiilde’s cheek with one cool claw, running the flat of the little blade down her skin in a manner more caressing than threatening.

  “Yo
u smell different, child, not so young anymore,” Rashk grinned knowingly, showing off a row of pointed teeth. “Your scent is ripe.”

  “It is?” Isiilde frowned, wondering what the Rahuatl meant. “Is that bad?” Sometimes their language didn’t translate well, but then again, that was true of their entire culture. Once they were as reviled as Voidspawn, but in actuality, the Rahuatl detested the Void as much as the Blessed Order.

  Rashk cocked her head to the side and then began to laugh, a sound that rumbled from her taut belly. “For you maybe. Keep your claws on today and stay close to Grimstorm, but if you value my advice, then stay closer to your master.”

  “I had planned as much.”

  “Go then, and when next we meet, I hope your teeth are sharpened.” Rashk chortled softly at this last, but instead of questioning her further, the nymph pressed her palm against the woman’s in the ritual of farewell and headed inside.

  The throne room was located on the first floor of the Spine, so she skipped lightly down a winding stairwell, appreciating the echo of her singing in the spiraling emptiness. A door from the little used stairwell led into a connecting hallway, which she took, making her way down two more corridors until she arrived in the Grand Entrance Hall.

  Isiilde took a moment to gawk at the domed ceiling, which had been subsequently painted and enchanted with a myriad of constellations that mirrored the cycle of the night sky. A successful use of the Gift, unlike Lispen’s whirlpool of chaotic energy churning above the floor in the adjoining chamber. Beyond the outer sanctum, sat the Hall of Judgment, where the Nine held council.

  Steeling herself, she walked past the archway that led to Lispen’s folly, setting her eyes on the throne room, which was flanked by two guardian statues that dominated the end of the hall.

  The prodigious twin doors were imposing, two solid barriers of titan metal, smooth as glass and nearly seamless, unadorned save a circle of runes. Surprisingly, they were not wards, but rather runes of warning, cautioning all who dared to enter against ill intent, lest the hounds awaken.