A Thread in the Tangle (22 page)

D
USK
CAME
SWIFTLY
, their time dwindling, and in the very last hour, Isiilde finally came across something that gave her pause.
 
The nymph froze, her teeth poised to sink into a caramel coated apple, transfixed by the vacant area before her.
 
She looked around at the magnificent pavilions, all evenly spaced, and found the irregular void an odd sight.
 
Her rangy escort had a slight smile on his lips as he picked out a chocolate from her basket.

“This is certainly fascinating,” he remarked.
 
“Hmm, and what may I ask would hold a faerie so enchanted with an empty spot?”
 
She realized she was drooling caramel and quickly completed her bite.

“It doesn’t seem right,” she realized aloud.

“And why is that?”
 
His sharp eyes twinkled down at her, expectant and inquiring.
 
Everyone was giving the vacant area a wide berth, however, no one was inclined to walk across the space.

“It doesn’t
feel
empty.”
 
The words sounded foolish to her own ears.

“Have a bit more confidence in your instincts, my dear.”
 
Marsais’ deft fingers flashed with movement before he swept a hand over her eyes.
 
The weave tickled her skin, and she giggled in response, but her delight ended a moment later when a drab, grey pavilion shimmered into existence.

“You’ve found what I was looking for.”
 
Marsais brightened and popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, which was followed by an appreciative grunt.
 
“The Xaionian lifestyle does have its advantages.”

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Why would a shop be hidden?” she asked, studying the unremarkable pavilion.

“Why do you think?”
 
They started walking towards the entrance, but she felt a strange desire to avoid the tent.
 
The area was warded, she surmised, however her curiosity dominated the lesser enchantment.

Isiilde pondered his question for a moment, and then brightened, saying, “So ordinary people won’t find it.
 
They only want those with an arcane sight to enter, such as Wise Ones.”

“Precisely,” he nodded with approval.

“I should have known you’d want to go to the most interesting shop.”

“Hmm, I find every shop interesting when you’re exploring it.
 
I thought that poor clothing merchant was going to have a heart attack when you insisted on donning half the garments in his shop.”

“Well, if he didn’t charge such outrageous prices, then I would have liked the pale gold dress and the green cloak,” she admitted.
 
Further conversation on the matter fell to the wayside when they stepped into the tent.

As with Marsais’ enchanted rucksack, the tent was far larger on the inside than out.
 
An entire bazaar sprawled inside, where anything and everything that might interest a Wise One could be found.
 
Instead of having the temporary feel of a cloth pavilion, it felt solid, as if it had been built with wood, stone, and mortar.

The guards posted at the entryway had ordered everyone to remove their masks as they entered.
 
And as a result Isiilde recognized many of the faces present.
 
She took her cue from Marsais and pulled her cowl down, concealing her features.

Too many people from the tower would recognize the Archlord, vagabond or no, and she doubted he wanted to deal with his fellow Wise Ones just yet.
 
She certainly didn’t want to be recognized.
 
It had been over a week since her incident with Crumpet and she hadn’t been back to the castle since, nor had Oenghus for that matter.
 
It was highly unlikely that everyone would be as understanding as Coyle.

The translucent orbs full of fireflies drifted in the air, as they had without, but their brilliance was magnified in the darkness of the tent, casting an ominous glow over the bustling bazaar.
 
And while the festival outside had had a blithe atmosphere, in here, things were grave and intense with an undercurrent of powerful forces seething below the surface of her awareness.

When she asked Marsais about the change, he bent low, warm breath brushing her ear as he explained that Xaio was not restricted by the Blessed Order’s laws.
 
There were few boundaries to their practices, which was part of the reason that the tent was obscured, they certainly didn’t want the paladins sniffing around their wares.

The unknown put Isiilde on edge.
 
She gripped Marsais’ arm, sticking close to him as they strolled through the shadowed tent.
 
Outside, Marsais’ eyes had glittered with amusement as he watched her curious exploration.
 
He had indulged her endless string of questions with whimsical replies, but in here, he watched everything, answering her questions in grave, hushed tones.

Isiilde was studying a jar of red dragon egg fragments at an apothecary when she heard a familiar voice.
 
The nymph cringed, overtly locating the source of the voice, wondering how she could have missed the curvaceous apprentice who was stuffed into a satin dress of periwinkle blue.
 
The edges of Zianna’s bodice were trimmed with intricate lace, which put her bosom on display like a garnished tray.

Zianna’s master, Taal Greysparrow was dressed in matching waist coat and breeches that were snuggly tailored to his chiseled form.
 
When it came to choosing an apprentice, Taal Greysparrow had a penchant for beauty over skill.
 
It was common knowledge that every apprentice who he had trained in the last two hundred years ended up sharing his bed—not that the women seemed to mind.
 
Taal was as dapper as a prince.
 
All in all, they were a striking couple who looked more suited for a banquet than a fair.

Isiilde muttered an oath under her breath and stood on her tippy toes, searching for Marsais in the busy shop.
 
She spotted his tattered grey cloak in the crowd, where he was conversing with an ill-mannered Xaionian.
 
She started towards him when the Fates conspired against her.
 
Someone chose that inopportune time to open a jar of grave ash.
 
A fit of sneezing overtook her, accompanied by three bursts of very noticeable flame puffing from her ears.

“Isiilde,” Zianna exclaimed, loudly.
 
“Why if it isn’t everyone’s favorite
nymph
.”
 
Every pair of eyes in the shop looked to Zianna and followed her calculating gaze to the redhead.
 
“We’ve all missed you this past week.”
 
Zianna detached herself from Taal’s arm, leaning in to kiss the air over Isiilde’s cheeks.

“You have?” Isiilde asked, carefully, wanting more than anything to believe the older woman.

“Of course, lectures are so dull when you’re not around.
 
It’s been quiet without you—almost peaceful.”
 
Most of the onlookers had moved on, but a few eyes lingered on the faerie.

“Isiilde, you’re looking lovely today,” Taal Greysparrow said, greeting her with a bow, which she returned with a bobbing curtsy.

“Taal, what was that assistant telling us about faeries?” Zianna inquired ever so sweetly.
 
The Wise One seemed hesitant to answer, so his apprentice answered for him.
 
“See that jar of Wisp wings over there?
 
It fetches a small fortune.
 
Anything from a faerie is particularly potent in a potion.
 
Your race is highly sought after for a source of ingredients.
 
I wonder what a nymph would fetch?”
 
Before Isiilde could protest, Zianna wrapped her arm amiably around her slender shoulders, and turned her towards the counter, catching the assistant’s eye.

“Tell me, what potions are being made out of nymphs?”

“A single strand of their hair makes a powerful love potion.”
 
The tattooed Xaionian fixed his hungry gaze on the nymph, studying her exposed features with the same fascination that people reserved for oddities at a performance.

“Really, a love potion?
 
How quaint,” Zianna purred.

“There’s nothing trivial about it, m’lady.
 
A single strand of her hair would fetch ten crown and if she be a virgin, then a hundred,” the assistant supplied.
 
Isiilde paled at his words and her skin crawled with revulsion.

“Of course you’re a virgin, aren’t you dear, or Oenghus’ head would be on a pike,” Zianna remarked, laughing at her own observation.
 
“You could start selling yourself a piece at a time, Isiilde.
 
I think that’s splendid news, don’t you, Taal?”

Isiilde pressed her lips together, swallowing down a lump in her throat.
 
Taal frowned, and then his eyes widened with surprise when he noticed the vagabond who stepped beside Isiilde.
 
It took a long moment before recognition shone in Zianna’s glittering eyes.
 
Isiilde edged closer to her master, wiping away the single tear that had escaped.

“Hmm, please don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of wasting your precious time with trivial matters, Archlord,” Zianna replied, smoothly, offering Marsais a hand and a curtsy, putting her attributes fully on display for his perusal.
 
However, Marsais ignored the swath of pale bosom, staring instead at her offered appendage as if it were blighted.
 
Zianna smiled charmingly back and withdrew her hand.

“I wasn’t aware you were back, Archlord.
 
You look like you just got off the boat,” Taal interjected, diffusing the awkward moment.

“Oh, I got off ages ago,” Marsais muttered.

Zianna ignored his vague remark.
 
“Did you have a pleasant trip?”

As much as the woman made her life unpleasant, Isiilde was ever in awe of the way she carried herself.
 
The suggestive eyes and coy smile that she directed at the Archlord were impressive.
 
As was the subtle way she put her attributes in full view, so any man would be hard pressed to miss her sweeping neckline as they bent to kiss her hand.
 
The effect appeared to be lost on Marsais.

“Not until I arrived on a small beach yesterday,” Marsais replied, slipping Isiilde’s arm through his.
 
“Would you excuse us?”
 
Taal nodded and Marsais turned to leave when a muffled scream pierced the air.
 
Startled, Isiilde turned to find the Xaionian assistant curled at her feet, clutching his hand in agony, which was as black and cracked as a charred log.

“Stealing is illegal, sir,” Marsais informed him calmly, gazing down at the man with thoughtful contemplation.

“What’d you do!” the Xaionian gasped.

“Did I do something?”
 
Marsais glanced around in surprise.

A ring of customers formed around the scene, calls of alarm rippled through the tent, and the guards soon appeared, pushing past the gathered crowd.

“I only wanted a strand!” the assistant screeched.
 
Isiilde scuttled behind Marsais, all too aware of the gathered crowd and their stares.

“So you admit to attempted theft?” Marsais mused.

“She’s only a nymph,” the assistant snarled through clenched teeth.

“Did you do this?”
 
A fearsome guard, encased in armor modeled after a scorpion, stepped forward.
 
The guard only came to the Archlord’s chin, and tried to make up for the difference with his threatening posture.

“Hmm, I was conversing with these two and my back was to the fellow.
 
If I did do anything, then it’d be quite a feat, wouldn’t you agree?
 
Perhaps it was divine intervention.”
 
The guard turned to Taal looking for confirmation.

“It’s true.
 
When it happened, he was conversing with my apprentice.”
 
Taal’s pale blue eyes flickered uneasily over to Marsais.

“This could get rather troublesome,” Marsais remarked, as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
 
“Where nymphs are involved, paladins must be.
 
I’m sure they’d love an excuse to gain entrance into this particular pavilion.”
 
This reasoning, along with the Xaionian’s admittance to attempted theft, quickly settled the issue.

“Move along then,” the armored scorpion ordered.
 
“All of you, get moving, there’s nothing more to see.”

“I’m no expert, but this fellow might benefit from serving a month of penance at a temple dedicated to Chaim.
 
I’m sure everything will clear itself up.”
 
That said, Marsais led her away from the gathered crowd as she fought against a wave of threatening tears.

“O come now,” Marsais sighed.
 
“If you start crying then I’ll be forced to sing.”
 
Isiilde laughed through her tears, dabbing at them with his offered handkerchief.
 
Unfortunately, her tears didn’t dry up fast enough so he cleared his throat and launched into his favorite ballad about the Mule King.