A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isiilde pondered his words until she got bored with thinking. It was too much effort to think about things she only slightly understood to begin with. The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to be sold.

  In the meantime, she had other matters with which to distract herself: the Imp. With a forlorn sigh she pulled out the thick book, Baiting and Binding, and began reading where she had left off, which was clear to the second page. With every tedious turn of the page she gave another sigh and shifted positions, bemoaning the arduous task.

  Marsais was making far better progress on his pile of books, taking numerous notes in the process. The sun was falling when he finally abandoned his desk to stand before the crystal window in quiet meditation. Although she was saddened by the sun’s demise, the hues of dusk were brilliant, and the whole of the study was on fire with a warm, orange glow that reminded her of a furnace.

  To her dismay, she hadn’t learned anything that would help her put the Imp back into the flagon (the opening wasn’t even big enough). However, she had learned about different types of Imps, which would have been far more useful if the author had included a sketch of each sub-species. Instead, their diet, cultural structure, and even mating habits (again she would have preferred pictures) was all included. None of which was of any practical use for her needs.

  She flipped through the book, searching for the chapter on Baiting. Immediately, she came across a word with which she wasn’t familiar. She opened her mouth to question Marsais, but her question died on her lips. He was still standing in front of the crystal window, hands clasped behind his back, which meant it wasn’t a good time to interrupt. Instead, she took advantage of his distraction.

  With a yawn, she stood, and wandered over to his desk, settling herself in the high-backed chair to peruse his notes. Through the years she had learned to decipher his hurried handwriting and chaotic thought process (it was not uncommon for her to decipher his own notes for him). Today, it was mostly notations of names that she didn’t recognize, however, a few stood out: the Kingdom of Vaylin far to the East, along with the jumbled names of Thanes in the South, which often changed from month to month. But one thing was apparent, Marsais was interested in Lachlan’s heritage. He had traced his lineage through the ages.

  Many of the names were neither people nor kingdoms, but by the sound of them, artifacts of legend: the Dawn’s Dead Scythe, the draught of Salisthane, and Soisskeli’s Stave. The last was circled.

  Her master’s thin silhouette began to pace, and she thought it a good time to interrupt.

  “Marsais?” she called softly. Startled, he whirled around, searching for the owner of the voice until he spotted her at his desk.

  “I didn’t see you behind all those books,” he said, running his hands over his head. “My keen observations whisper to me that you have a question.”

  “What’s a fetish?”

  “Hmm.” He stroked his goatee. “I should ask in what context you’re referring to before delving into this subject.” She hopped up and went over to her book, which she had left on the rug, and read the sentence aloud.

  “It says, It is common for Imps to have fetishes. This will often direct their course of action.” She looked up at him in question. “There’s more than one meaning?” Marsais nodded and picked up his braid, shaking the coins in front of her eyes.

  “These are fetishes, or talismans—trinkets if you will—most commonly associated with enchantments.” She took his braid in hand, studying the coins, surprised to find the hair soft and lightly scented with oils. The coins were ancient, tinged with green and faded with time, each carefully woven into his hair through their hollow centers. Isiilde narrowed her eyes.

  “Are these the same trinkets that you showed Witman?”

  “Why ever would you think that, my dear?”

  “There are three coins and they are the same size as the pearlescent discs you showed to Witman. And you only just started wearing these. They may look different but they feel familiar.”

  “How do they feel?”

  Isiilde shrugged. She could not precisely say why. Marsais appeared disappointed with her inability to answer, but said nothing.

  “You had Witman disguise them, didn’t you?”

  “You seem to think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “They are very likely something that you should not have.”

  His brows lifted. “Ever suspicious of your old master.”

  “Curious, perhaps, but never suspicious. What do these trinkets do?”

  “It would be far easier for me to explain what they do not do.” Grey eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “And what is that?”

  “Deter you from asking questions.”

  “Questions are the stepping stones to wisdom,” she recited sonorously.

  “The Sacred Texts Of Oshimi?”

  “A Study In Vagueness: A Work In Progress, by the Archlord of the Isle.”

  “Sounds tedious.”

  “Diverting, more like.”

  “Better diverting than dull, I suppose,” Marsais sighed wistfully. “I’d prefer captivating.”

  “You may prove to be if you answer my questions.”

  “Hmm, coerced with flattery. You have me cornered—do your worst.”

  Determined not to be side-tracked by another circular line of questioning, she knocked her Master back on topic. “So what kind of talisman does the Imp have?”

  “Well, both meanings can be applied to these creatures.”

  “The other being?”

  “Why is Oenghus never around when you ask these questions?” he muttered. “It has to do with desire—what gets your blood pumping.”

  “Mine would be fire?” she asked, staring up at him expectantly.

  “Erm—I suppose,” he said, slowly, eyeing her warily. “It’s usually of a more intimate nature and slightly less dangerous.”

  “You mean like what arouses a man?”

  “Nicely put.”

  “You know I do have a basic understanding of how that sort of thing works. I learned a lot at the pleasure house.” Marsais closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Does your head hurt?” she asked with sudden concern.

  “Now it does.”

  “Marsais?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that why the woman was putting her foot in the man’s mouth?” Marsais groaned, bringing his hands up to massage his temples. “I could ask Oen,” she offered, brightly. His eyes widened in alarm.

  “I’m only jesting, Marsais,” she grinned. “By the gods, where is your sense of humor today?”

  “Gone with the vision of my death. It wouldn’t be much of a jest after Oen beat me to a bloody pulp.” His tone was grave, but his face relaxed, and a hint of a smile played at the corner of his long lips. “I suppose the erm—woman is one example, although everything becomes muddled when you throw Primrose spirits into the mix. That particular wine has some very potent side effects,” he confided with a roguish grin.

  “May I try some?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, firmly. “I shudder to think how it would affect a nymph.”

  “You’re a man,” she blurted out.

  “That’s very observant of you.”

  “What arouses you?” Her curiosity couldn’t be contained. Marsais blinked at her question, completely caught off guard. His mouth worked silently for long moments before he finally cleared his throat, recovering enough to answer.

  “That’s not something one asks during casual conversations.”

  “I wouldn’t call any of our conversations casual,” she replied. Marsais pursed his lips, eyes narrowing while he considered her observation.

  “You have a point, but your question will go unanswered.” She opened her mouth to ask another, but he held up a hasty hand, putting a halt to her line of inquiry.

  “Come, my dear, I think it time I escort you home before you wheedl
e anymore unscrupulous information from me.” He stuffed her book into her knapsack and slung it over a shoulder. “Perhaps Oenghus will have something for my headache,” he sighed.

  ❧

  As it turned out, Oenghus did have something for Marsais’ headache. There was never really a question that he wouldn’t, because whenever Marsais joined them for supper, the evening transpired much the same as it always did: the Archlord and Berserker got soused. Isiilde found it highly amusing, and in turn, the two ancients found everything else amusing.

  Oenghus currently had his feet propped up on the table, leaning back with pipe in hand, while he and Marsais roared out a drinking song about the inevitable subject of drinking. The nymph was lightheaded with laughter as she watched the blurry sitting room sway (she had been sneaking sips from both their mugs and was tingling pleasantly with warmth).

  Their song came to an abrupt end when Oenghus tipped his chair one degree more than he ought to have, falling backwards. Despite his height, the giant executed a fine drunken roll and hopped to his feet, spinning around to give an exaggerated bow. Marsais applauded with hearty enthusiasm, sloshing ale all over his disheveled shirt.

  “I’ll wager you five silver that I could weave a Rune of Holding around this mug before it falls.” Isiilde brightened at Oenghus’ mighty declaration. She always enjoyed their wagers.

  “My friend, you can’t weave that rune when you’re sober!” Marsais slammed his mug down in challenge. Oenghus snorted and gathered himself with all the wobbly dignity of the truly inebriated.

  “Ready?” Oenghus asked, cracking his fingers. Marsais chugged down his ale in one long swallow and then tossed it in the air. Oenghus slurred the Lore, his fingers a sloppy blur. When the cup was a pace from the floor it shattered, bursting apart.

  “Aha!” Marsais slapped his hand on the table.

  “That was bloody successful,” Oenghus defended.

  “Your hand was too heavy; the mug hath been slain. That’s five silver, but I’ll give you a chance to win it back. I’ll wager that I can stop a full mug with the same weave, without spilling a drop, and what’s more—you can throw it at me.”

  “Make it fifteen, you fool,” Oenghus grinned, dangerously.

  Marsais stood up, bowed to Isiilde, and stoically tried to wipe the crumbs off his shirt. The rangy Wise One squinted at Oenghus for a moment before taking a long step back. He swayed from side to side as if he were on a deck at sea, shook out his arms, and held his hands at the ready, fingers poised.

  With a satisfied grunt, Oenghus brought back his arm. Isiilde closed one eye. And the heavy mug sped towards Marsais, slamming into his face, knocking him off his feet in a wash of ale. She squeaked in alarm.

  Oenghus doubled over, roaring with laughter. Despite the swaying walls, Isiilde hurried over to Marsais. He was sprawled on his back, bleeding thoroughly from a gash on his forehead.

  “That was very foolish,” she scolded, kneeling beside him to press a handkerchief against his wound.

  “My dear, all men are pathetic fools,” he said, taking her hand in his, and then to her amazement, he brushed his lips against her knuckles, grey eyes wide with wonder, drinking in the vision of her.

  “I’m up twenty silver!” Oenghus staggered over. “He’s an old bastard, Sprite, he’ll live.” The Nuthaanian helpfully kicked Marsais in the ribs to demonstrate his living state.

  “Blast you, Oenghus!” Marsais let her hand slide from his grasp. “I never said ready.”

  Twenty-five

  AN ANGRY TITAN must have been knocking on the tower, because the whole room was throbbing with rhythm. Isiilde moaned and rolled over, encountering empty air and a hasty descent to the floor, softened by a thick rug.

  “Bollocks,” she murmured, cracking her eyes open. Daylight sent needles stabbing into her eyeballs. She moaned again, realizing there was no titan, but rather, her own throbbing skull.

  Isiilde lay curled on the floor for a time, wishing the kindly band of creatures that carried her off to sleep would come and put her back on her bed. It seemed so very far away and hazardously high, however, they never came, and the nymph was forced to pick herself up off the floor.

  She was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and she staggered out of her room, stumbling towards Oenghus’ bedchamber, where she found him snoring loudly.

  “Oen,” she moaned, pathetically. He growled and scratched at his belly. How he could stand to sleep without blanket, or shirt was beyond her. It was freezing and he had thrown open all the windows in his room. “Oen!” Isiilde tugged on one of his braids and he started awake, reaching for his war hammer, Gurthang. She shuddered, batting his hand away before he could grab the fearsome weapon.

  “What?” he growled.

  “My head hurts,” she moaned.

  “That’s what happens when you drink too much.”

  “Can’t I have some of that potion you and Marsais drink all the time?”

  Oenghus snorted in answer.

  “Why not?” she pouted.

  “I had eight hundred years worth of hangovers before I discovered the potion and Marsais had eighteen bloody hundred years worth. I’m not about to give it to you after your first rough night. Maybe you’ll think twice before stealing a man’s grog. Take a bath, drink some water, and let me sleep.”

  Isiilde narrowed her eyes, but he was already snoring, which infuriated her even more. She glared mightily at his slumbering mass and then stomped out of the room to do as he suggested.

  The bath helped, although her head still throbbed. She stared irritably out the window, watching the silvery drizzle collect on the glass before it slid down in rivulets like cold tears. Isiilde sighed, leaning against the rim of her copper tub. She closed her eyes, soaking up the warmth from the water and the fire that burnt brightly in the large hearth. The heat caressed her exposed skin with a delicious flicker of flame.

  Autumn was fast fading. Harsh winter storms were already brewing off the coast, preparing to unleash their fury on the dreary isle. Another summer gone, and the sun had barely graced its shores. She did not know if she could bear another cold winter. Isiilde sunk lower into her steaming bath, letting the heat soothe her frayed nerves. Her gaze drifted to the tray, sitting on a table by her tub. Despite her foul mood, she smiled.

  Just as Marsais had promised; a tray fit for a queen had been waiting in front of her bedchamber door. Laden with cheese, grapes, fresh biscuits and honey, but best of all, a bowl of strawberries topped with whipped cream. As if that were not a feast enough, a mug of apple cider sat steaming on a Heat Stone.

  She reached for the cider, letting the clay mug warm her hands as she reflected on the previous evening. It was mostly a blur of singing and laughter, however, she remembered one thing very clearly, the feel of Marsais’ lips on the back of her hand; a feather’s light touch that sent warm chills rippling through her body.

  She studied the spot where he had kissed her, marveling at how such a little thing could feel so wonderful. Coyle’s kiss had felt like nothing, while Stievin’s touch had been disturbing, but Marsais—his touch had felt like the sun’s caress.

  Isiilde tilted her head as a question floated to the forefront of her thoughts. Did he have an Oathbound, did he ever? She remembered the woman in his drawing, and thought the answer, yes, but he never spoke of her, or any other woman. And for that matter, did he have any children, which seemed extremely likely over a course of two thousand years.

  Oenghus had fathered a clan in half the time. He had had so many Oathbounds that he had trouble keeping them straight. Of course, he usually took an Oath for a mere twenty years, or less, claiming that was the maximum amount of time a woman could tolerate him.

  Isiilde knew that Oenghus had over a hundred children, but only sixteen were still living. She had met a few of them when they came to visit their father. All of them were as tall and loud as he.

  Oenghus also entertained women on the Isle, inviting them over to supper and escort
ing them to various festivals. Isabella, who owned a dairy farm close to their cottage, used to stay over quite a bit, however, once they stopped getting free milk and cheese, Isiilde assumed that they had had a falling out.

  Conversely, she had never seen Marsais entertaining a woman, nor had she ever seen him kiss the hand of a Lady, not even the Mearcentian Princess who had once visited the Isle. He obviously went to the pleasure houses, but not for companionship, rather for whatever had been in that pipe.

  She tried to imagine Marsais kissing one of the women at Isadora’s Closet, or any for that matter, and found it hard going, even for her voracious imagination. But his touch, and his soft words, tingled up her own spine easily enough—so powerfully that the fire suddenly roared from its hearth, sending a wave of heat rippling into her bedchamber.

  Isiilde screamed and scrambled over the side of her tub. Fire raced across the rug, climbing her bed curtains with unnatural fury. In desperation, she batted uselessly at the flames.

  Oenghus charged into her bedroom, took stock of the situation, and ripped the curtains down, tossing the burning fabric onto the rug. Angry heat licked at his arms. He gripped one edge of the copper tub, and heaved it over, sending a wave of water crashing onto the fire. The fire sizzled, spitting angrily, until it was robbed of its fury. All that was left was a soaked heap of charred fabric.

  “What in the Nine Halls happened?” Oenghus asked of his shivering daughter, but she was numb, staring fearfully at the drenched fireplace.

  “I didn’t do anything, Oen. I swear it. The fire—it just exploded.” Even as the words left her trembling lips, she knew the excuse sounded pathetic, but she didn’t have anything else to offer. Isiilde fully expected to receive another stern lecture, or some further punishment, but instead, Oenghus wrapped her in a robe and pulled her into a protective embrace.

  “It’s all right, Sprite,” he uttered as softly as his voice permitted.

  “I wasn’t even singing to it!” She sobbed against his broad chest.

  “There’s no harm done,” he soothed. “Everything can be replaced.” But he was wrong, there was harm done, Oenghus’ hands and forearms were red with blisters from the fire’s touch. The sight of his arms drove her to uncontrollable tears. Oenghus glanced nervously towards the fireplace before scooping her up and carrying her out of the room.