A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  The sound of his daughter’s laughter was bliss, however, to hear her weep was a heart wrenching affair that could drag a man into the darkest depths of despair. It was said that the whole of the earth groaned, and all men took note when a nymph wept. Oenghus wasn’t sure about all that, but one thing was certain, he had never become accustomed to his daughter’s tears, nor would he ever. For now, he could only clutch her frail body and pray to the Sylph for help, because he had no idea what was happening to her.

  Twenty-six

  THIS HABIT OF visiting the infirmary was becoming tiresome. And this time, the visit was worse than all the others combined, because she wasn’t the one injured. As Isiilde watched Morigan bandage Oenghus’ arms, she began to feel better. The burns weren’t serious, at least nothing that one of the healer’s famous salves couldn’t mend. It would have been easier to use the Gift to heal his wounds, but healing took a lot from both the body of the healer and the patient, demanding rest from the patient afterwards.

  Currently, there were too many patients who required healing. Oenghus could hardly ignore them and sleep his own healing off in one of the infirmary beds.

  The Imp had been very busy. And as Isiilde scanned the victims of his pranks, she couldn’t help but notice that no matter what trick the fiend had played, each had had at least one tooth ripped out. She remembered its haphazard grin of mismatched teeth along with the reference to fetishes in her book, and an idea began to form in her mind, one that brightened by the second, until it blossomed into a plan.

  “Now don’t overdue yourself, Oen. Even you have limits,” Morigan warned as she finished tying his bandages. She slapped his knee playfully, and then bustled off like a mother hen to tend to her next charge.

  “See, nothing to worry about, Sprite.”

  “I’m so sorry, Oen.” She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and planted a kiss on his bearded cheek.

  “Will you do something for me?” he asked, squeezing her back.

  “Hmm.”

  “Stay around here for a bit—at least until your lesson with that old dog, and a smile might make me feel better.” She smiled for him, but her heart was heavy with concern.

  “Whatever you wish, Oen, it looks like you could use some help here.”

  Healers of the Order were renown, and highly sought after by nobles and common folk alike. Even at the best of times there was an endless stream of sick and injured. Countless traveled from the farthest reaches of the realm to be healed on the Isle. And what with the Imp’s attacks, the regiment of Wise Ones whom Morigan commanded had been pushed to their limits. Unfortunately, Isiilde could only help in a limited capacity, since her only attempt at healing had ended with a helpless pigeon bursting into flames. However, an extra pair of hands was always appreciated.

  As the day wore on, her feet began to hurt and her arms were shaking from the heavy trays that she carried from one bed to the next. Despite her fatigue, she did not utter a word of complaint, because the wounded were in far worse shape, especially the guard who Oenghus was currently healing. Isiilde wrinkled her nose and tried not to look at his ruined flesh.

  The Imp had stolen a vial of acid and doused the guard with it while he was on duty. His mail shirt had melted, destroying the padding underneath and burning a good portion of his torso. Oenghus was not having an easy time separating flesh from steel.

  Hands that could crush a man’s skull were laid ever so gently on the soldier’s wounds. Words of power, of healing, and renewal flew softly from Oenghus’ lips while an apprentice scraped the melted metal off the ruined flesh.

  Sweat beaded on Oen’s brow, moistening his beard, and pain was etched upon his face; a mirror of the moaning soldier beneath his hands. It took a great deal of sacrifice to heal, because in doing so, the healer took the injured’s pain upon himself. Wielding the Gift in such a manner took tremendous concentration. Wounds like this would send a weaker Wise One reeling in shock. At best, the healer wouldn’t be able to tap into the Gift, and at worst, he’d lose consciousness, which could result in ‘ill occurrences’.

  Isiilde felt a pang of guilt as the soldier writhed on the bed. She should have never opened the flagon

  Oenghus broke the connection and took his hands from the soldier, bracing himself on the bed, ill with exhaustion. The wounds weren’t quite healed, but the foreign metal had been successfully removed from the flesh.

  “Here, Oen.” She pressed a waterskin into his hands and he nearly drank the skin dry.

  “Put a layer of salve on him, Leimen, and then wrap it well until he’s recovered enough for another healing.” The solemn, blue robed apprentice nodded and set to work.

  “Come on, Sprite,” Oenghus sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “We have one more.”

  “You should rest,” she said. If she had felt how he looked, she’d be passed out on the floor, but he only shrugged.

  “This one won’t require the Gift.”

  She followed him down the long, bed filled ward, which was bustling with orchestrated order that only Morigan could direct so effortlessly. They passed the candle shrouded shrine to Chaim, Guardian of Life. For every spirit saved, a candle was lit. Today, thanks to the Imp, a pool of flame flickered around the wooden representation of the Guardian. The nymph glanced curiously up at the statue’s cowled head, studying the serenely carved features of ebony wood, wondering if the god was as compassionate as everyone claimed.

  Of late, she felt as though she had been given a new pair of eyes and wasn’t at all positive if she liked how the world now appeared.

  Their next patient was in one of the private rooms, small, but adequate. A woman slept in the single bed. She looked ever so worn, like an old garment, threadbare and used. Despite her young age, she was fading.

  “Gwendilynn. Time to wake up, lass.” Oenghus sat on the edge of her bed, placing a comforting hand on her forehead. His call was firm, but full of warmth, and she stirred at his voice, eyes fluttering open. Isiilde stood against the wall, feeling awkward and useless.

  “How are you doing?” Oenghus asked, smoothing her auburn tresses away from her face. “Have some water, perhaps a bit of food. Wine if you like.” He smiled hopefully, but the woman only shook her head, and then the tears came unbidden, silent and full of misery. She clutched her stomach beneath the heavy blankets.

  “Where is she, m’lord?” the woman whispered, hoarsely.

  “Gone to the Spirit River. Safe and sound.”

  “I will join her soon.” At this prophecy of death, a grim hope entered her eyes.

  “Why would you want that, lass? There’s a lot of life you haven’t lived and a lot of hearts that haven’t been broken by those eyes of yours.”

  “I am tired, please, just let me go.”

  “As you wish, but I’ll be back to bother you later,” he replied. “Sweet dreams, lass.” Oenghus bent forward and placed a fatherly kiss on her forehead. Gwendilynn did not respond, but stared dimly at the stone wall, her chest moved steadily with breath, but there wasn’t an ounce of life in her eyes. A shadow hung in the room, a canopy of death, shrouding the woman in silence.

  After they exited the room, Isiilde asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She lost her baby in childbirth, and then her Oathbound up and left. She’s in the last stages of the Keening.”

  The Keening. Inhabitants of Fyrsta did not die of old age, they died when the will to live left them, and not before. Their spirit slowly faded, drifting back to the Spirit River. Nearly everyone felt its sting from time to time, and some, due to hardship and toil, never even made it to the prime of their life.

  It had happened with the Emperor, her father. He had been nearly two hundred, strong and youthful, until she came along. The nymphling had survived, but the mother had not. The Emperor had been struck with the Keening—all because of Isiilde. Tales were sung of the Emperor and his nymph, of their mutual love and devotion, but as Isiilde had recently learned, the story was yet another lie
in an increasingly long list of falsehoods.

  “Where’s her other family?”

  “She doesn’t have any, Sprite. It’s been near a month. A kindly traveler brought her in when he found her lying in a ditch on the side of a road.” Isiilde’s ears wilted, and a sudden tightness seized her throat.

  “Why doesn’t she just—tell herself to get better?”

  “You’ve never felt the Keening’s touch.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s not as simple as that. Life’s not always fair and sometimes death seems an easier path.”

  Isiilde frowned. It was difficult to understand, something her heart couldn’t fathom. She became sad sometimes, but she certainly didn’t want to die. The Spirit River sounded cold, wet, and lonely.

  She thought of the woman lying all alone. “Can I sit with her?” she asked. “If it wouldn’t be a bother.”

  “You can’t do any harm to her at this point, Sprite.”

  Isiilde wasn’t so sure about the impossibility of doing more harm, since she had had a rather poor record of late. All the same, she slipped into the room again and sat by the woman’s side, watching her dull eyes, and wondered what the dying saw. Perhaps she saw her child in the distance. Would a baby recognize its mother in the ol’ River?

  After a moment of hesitation, Isiilde took Gwendilynn’s hand in her own. It was as cold as the sea. No wonder the woman wanted to leave this place—a place where the sun rarely touched the ground and the seas were ever churning.

  The nymph thought that Gwendilynn should be able to see the sun and feel its heat one last time before she drifted away, so she sang, in a pure lilting voice that soared into the scant room, weaving a melodious picture of impressions rather than words. Isiilde sang of the sun, the warmth of its touch, and its lazy caress. She sang of the trickling streams and swaying hillsides draped with a blanket of wildflowers.

  Her song drifted from the room like a breeze rustling through leaves, traveling along the hallways, whispering in every ear.

  The darkness of the stones brightened, as they remembered a time when they had been part of the earth, not thrown one atop the other by a mere mortal. Healers paused, babes calmed, and the injured quieted, listening to the voice of life.

  Oenghus glanced around the infirmary. The bustle had slowed to a soothing trickle. Peace prevailed. He leaned against a wall, closed his eyes and let his daughter’s voice tickle his ears. The ache, the pain, and all the worry lifted from his heart. He smiled as memories of her mother became vibrantly clear, and a ghost of a caress flitted across the back of his neck.

  “Light of my life,” he whispered, “what will become of our daughter?”

  Isiilde’s song eventually faded, but its subtleties lingered in the hearts of all, and she left Gwendilynn much brighter than before. When the nymph stepped into the hallway, she was surprised to find it so quiet. A rare calm had settled over the infirmary, but she did not credit her singing as the source.

  She went in search of Oenghus, ignoring the eyes that followed her across the ward, wondering if they had discovered that she released the Imp. Even the sick lulled their heads to the side to watch her pass. She tried to cover her ears up with her fiery tresses, but the tips stubbornly poked through in defiance.

  “Oen?” She found him leaning against a wall with his pipe in hand. His eyes shone down at her and she moved closer to his bulk so the others couldn’t stare. “Do you have any teeth?”

  “What in the blazes are you talking about? Of course I have teeth.” He curled his lips back to demonstrate, and although there were a few gaps, they were in fairly good shape considering his penchant for brawling.

  “No, I mean extra—like in a jar, or something.” She shifted and smiled sweetly up at him. “It’s for a potion.” He narrowed his eyes and scratched at his beard suspiciously.

  “I can’t say I keep spare teeth around. Rashk might. Seems like the sort of thing a Rahuatl might have.”

  “Why would they keep teeth?”

  “You’re the one who’s asking for them.”

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips, realizing it was an odd request. “I suppose I’ll go check with her then.”

  “Which potion are you trying to brew?”

  “It’s uhm—” She shifted nervously. “For Marsais.” The nymph disliked lying, but in a roundabout way the teeth were for her master. Before Oenghus could question her further, she hugged him and hurried down the hall.

  Isiilde questioned a number of Wise Ones before she learned that Rashk was tinkering in her workshop, so she began the long trudge up the circular staircase. Rashk’s quarters were located on the topmost floor of the second highest tower in the castle. Rahuatl either liked to be up very high or slinking in the shadows. And it was well and good that Rashk preferred the former, otherwise, she would have never worked up the courage to visit her friend. The darkness and weight of stone terrified her.

  The nymph suspected that Rashk had chosen the farthest point in the castle from N’Jalss. He lived in the lower levels, on the same floor as the dungeons, a place where Isiilde was forbidden to venture (not that she had any intention of doing so). She did not like N’Jalss, and for that matter, neither did Rashk. The two Rahuatl loathed each other.

  Half-way up the stairwell, she stopped to rest, staring miserably at the spiral of stone. She had been on her feet all morning, and what was worse, a low grumble reminded her that she had forgotten to eat lunch. There was little chance that Rashk would have edible food for her, since Rahuatl preferred fresh meat that was still quivering. Resigned to suffer, Isiilde continued the long climb, stopping to peek through the arrow loops at every opportunity.

  The sky was gloomy with drizzle, but she had a bird’s eye view of the outer bailey, which was bustling with activity. The Isle Guard was in the middle of their drills. From her vantage point, they looked like little wooden soldiers. The grunts and clash of wooden sparring swords echoed in the courtyard while a steady stream of horse drawn carts, messengers, and robe clad Wise Ones hurried about their business.

  A bellowing command pierced the drone of activity. The soldiers in the bailey parted, forming rank and snapping to attention. Isiilde stood on her toes, trying to get a better view of what was happening below. She spotted Kreem Wyrmbane, the Isle’s sharp-tongued Quartermaster, marching crisply up the line before falling in beside his troops, and then a moment later, the gates were pulled open, revealing a parade of colors.

  A stream of brilliantly decorated horses galloped through the gates. Standards bearing the red and gold Phoenix of Xaio glistened like gems in the mist. Two figures rode in the center, cloaked and hooded in bright silks while their armored bodyguards rode at their side, adorned with golden helms that bristled with steel feathers and sharp, visor like beaks.

  Mearcentian Ship Lords rode on their heels, standards billowing like the sails of their swift ships, breathing life into the symbol of Nereus, god of the seas. The group rippled like the waves, clad in flowing fabrics of grey, blues, and deep greens that blended in graceful union.

  The thunder of hooves that followed the Mearcentian diplomats were terrifying in comparison, and the black standard bearing a silver dragon named them as Kilnish. Their armor bristled, and their mounts were massive, arrogant beasts that cared not what they trampled.

  The diplomatic parties reined in their horses. Hooves stamped, armor settled, and harnesses jingled as the groups dismounted, sizing each other up with wary glances. Stablehands bolted forward to take the reins.

  Lord General Ielequithe of the Isle Guard strode down the great steps of the Keep to greet them, black cape billowing like a storm cloud behind her. Isiilde assumed words were spoken, but she could not hear their exchange, only observe the brief bows of protocol. Ielequithe turned on her heel, and under the watchful gaze of the great guardian statues, the diplomats followed the General past the Storm Gate, disappearing into the Keep.

  The nymph’s mouth had fallen open at some point, and she clicked it sh
ut. What in all the realms was going on? It was common for emissaries to visit the Isle, but never so many at once.

  Isiilde thought that it must have to do with events unfolding in the South. It seemed all the kingdoms had either something to gain, or lose, if the southern coast organized itself. At any rate, Marsais was sure to hold audience with them, so she’d find out soon enough. Meanwhile, she had other matters to attend to, and she was determined to make up for her mistake by catching the troublesome Imp.

  Rallying her strength, she finished the long trek up the stairs and knocked on the door at the top of the landing. It opened, revealing the copper hued face of Rashk. Her slitted eyes softened when she saw the nymph and she brandished her pointed teeth in greeting.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Isiilde said when she saw the greasy spots on the Rahuatl’s fingers. Her fingertips appeared naked without her caps and the long, curving claws that her people favored. Clearly, she had caught Rashk in the middle of a project.

  “You are always welcome, fierce one. I was just tinkering. The sun is hidden and Mother Gyrrn sleeps.” Rashk urged her in and closed the door, slinking back to her worktable with a sway of wide hips.

  Mother Gyrrn was the Rahuatl’s mother Goddess who was often represented as a wild, bronzed woman with ten breasts, four arms, pointed teeth, wielding an array of deadly weapons. Isiilde was not sure why Gyrrn’s slumber was of significance, but she had learned not to inquire too deeply about the Rahuatl Goddess, because the answers always made her ill.

  Rashk’s workshop was eternally interesting. She was a collector of oddities, and had been amassing a hoard of unlikely treasure for years. A stunning collection of exotic feathers were displayed on the wall; banners hung from the rafters, some from thriving kingdoms, some from kingdoms long buried; insects hummed in the bottom of glass jars, and a mound of bleached skulls from creatures that she could not identify were piled in a far corner.