A Thread in the Tangle (24 page)

The nymph brightened when one of the bubbles drifted overhead.
 
She eagerly shot upwards, heedless of the fifteen-feet of empty air below.
 
This new vantage point offered her the chance to inspect the floating orb closely.
 
She gasped in shock, nearly losing concentration.

The source of light wasn’t fireflies, or even flames of everlight bouncing within, but rather, tiny, shimmering Wisps.
 
The naked faerie women zipped around like trapped birds, eyes wide and terrified as they threw themselves at the walls of their glass cage.

Horror erased any semblance of thought.
 
Gravity yanked her downwards, and she belatedly remembered that she had been floating in midair.
 
Frantic, she grabbed for the nearest thing, which happened to be the floating orb.
 
Nymph and orb fell.

As luck (of which the nymph possessed an inordinate amount) would have it her fall was broken by the pile of fish heads.
 
However, the orb of Wisps did not fare so well.
 
It rolled from her hands onto the hard ground, cracking open on the edge of a crate as easily as an egg.
 
Streams of light poured out of the crack, and the Wisps soared into the air with a gleeful flutter of wings.

The Wisps raced to free their captive kin.
 
As quickly as it took for the nymph’s ears to wilt, another glass prison was liberated, and the escaped prisoners fanned out to free the rest.

Shouts of warning rose over the hum of bartering voices as the enraged faerie zipped through the bazaar, wreaking havoc on their captors’ livelihood.
 
Stands toppled, precious vials shattered, and caged animals were loosed from their confinement.

As beasts ran rampant through the tent, the Wisps turned their attentions to the armored guards, swarming them with suicidal fury.
 
Between the swarm of wings and the panicked crowds, the guards were quickly overcome.

Isiilde wrestled herself free from the slimy pile of fish, gagging with revulsion, and searched for something to wipe her hands on.
 
It was only after she finished cleaning her hands on a tattered grey cloak that she realized it was Marsais’, and as it turned out, he was still wearing it.

“Hmm, someone freed the Wisps, how thoughtful of them,” his familiar voice mused above her.
 
She cringed when something crashed, wood splintered, and half of the roof caved in.

“It was an accident Marsais,” she whispered.

“Well, I sincerely doubt you intended to fall onto a pile of rotten fish,” Marsais remarked, casually brushing orb fragments into a pile of rubbish with his foot.
 
Witman appeared from wherever it was where they had been, and the dwarf’s mouth fell open.
 
Chaos rippled through the screeching crowd.

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”
 
A smile spread across his long lips as a swarm of Wisps turned a guard’s helm around, rendering him blind while other’s unbuckled his belt, toppling the large man.

“Have I mentioned how much I missed you?” she asked, rising to stand at his side.

“Probably not as much as I missed you,” he admitted softly, for her ears alone.

“You did?”

“Very much, my dear.
 
Where else could I be so entertained?
 
Life is rather dull without you.”
 
Grey eyes twinkled down at her, and then master and apprentice perched on a crate, sitting shoulder to shoulder, watching chaos reign.

Twelve

F
OG
ROLLED
OVER
the land like a slow moving wave, crashing upon the populace and drowning the sun, tucking darkness firmly into place.
 
It was beneath this chilling cloak of blindness that Isiilde and Marsais returned to the orphanage, seeking warmth and food.

Dinner was always entertaining at the orphanage.
 
There were over a hundred children under Brinehilde’s care, and they were a constant whirlwind of activity.
 
Although the older children helped to lighten the priestess’ load by caring for the younger, Nuthaanians were not overly concerned with their children’s safety.
 
As a result, wrestling and rough housing were perfectly acceptable in the orphanage, barring sharp weapons.
 
As such, Oenghus spent the evening being attacked by a swarm of screaming children attempting to wrestle him to the ground.

While Oenghus struggled with the pint-sized warriors, Marsais escorted Isiilde through his old manor.
 
The building was rife with secret passages and hidden rooms, most of which had not been discovered since he vacated the house.

Forgotten belongings remained untouched, tucked neatly inside unmarked storage crates.
 
She helped him sort through the containers, searching for anything of interest.
 
He was thrilled to rediscover a number of trinkets.
 
But one stood out above all the rest: a dusty little music box.
 
A forest of minuscule trees had been carved onto the birch wood, and their leaves seemed to sway in an unfelt breeze.

Isiilde opened the box.
 
A joyful melody, reminiscent of chirping birds, leapt into the room.
 
The box was empty of jewels, but it safeguarded another type of treasure: a folded piece of parchment.
 
Curious, she removed it, carefully smoothing the paper.
 
A keen-eyed woman with sharp ears looked out from the time worn sketch.
 
The woman was beautiful in her own, unique way, her features were neither soft nor elegant, but fine and proud with fierce intelligence and beguiling eyes.

Marsais stilled, listening to the melody with closed eyes and a frozen heart.

“It’s one of your sketches, Marsais.
 
Who is she?”

Moving like an old man, he rose, walked over to Isiilde, gently removed the parchment from her hand and folded it, tucking it back into the box and shutting the lid without a word.
 
With reverent care, he wrapped the box in an old shirt, placing the bundle in his rucksack.
 
Isiilde no longer wondered who the woman was.

Later on in the evening, Brinehilde asked Isiilde to calm the children.
 
The nymph’s melody drifted through the halls as she sang of blissful realms and slumbering dreams.
 
And one by one, the children stumbled off to find their beds without protest.

A blanket of peace settled over the sleeping children, but Isiilde did not join them.
 
A rare restlessness prevented her from sleeping.
 
Her stomach ached.
 
She felt strange and unsettled, so she left the warmth of her little room to find Marsais.

As she wandered the manor in search of her master, she found Brinehilde in the kitchens, conversing with one of the older girls as they prepared bread for the next morning.
 
Brinehilde did not know where Marsais was, but she told her that Oenghus was outside in the Sylph’s shrine.
 
When Isiilde mentioned her ailment, the priestess sent her off with a mug of warm milk.

Isiilde found Oenghus sitting beneath an ancient oak on the bank of a placid pond.
 
The heady scent of tobacco filled the air.
 
Oenghus leant against the tree, sucking lazily on the long stem of his pipe.

Fog clung to the ground, its penetrating chill clutched her bones, knocking her teeth together.
 
She hurried over to her protector, snuggling beside him for warmth.
 
He draped a heavy arm over her shoulders, tucking her in close.

She watched the fog curl over the still pond for a time, then glanced up at Oenghus.
 
His eyes were shrouded with sadness.

“Are you all right, Oen?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Sprite.
 
I was just thinking,” he said, lightly, but it was forced.
 
“How ‘bout you?”

“Cold,” she sighed, sipping her milk.
 
“And my stomach hurts.”

“Teach you to eat a basket of chocolates.”

“Marsais ate just as many,” she pointed out.
 
“Do you know where he is?”

“He went back to the tower.”

“In the dark?”
 
Her ears wilted.

“He likes to walk.”

“Will he be all right?”
 
The thought of him traveling alone at night sent her heart racing.

Oenghus chuckled, low and rumbling as a bear.
 
“Don’t worry about the Scarecrow, he can manage just fine by himself.”

“He didn’t say goodbye,” she murmured, prodding a stick on the ground with her boot.

“He has a lot on his mind.”

“Like you?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“The girl who is sick, is she going to be all right?” Isiilde asked.

Three glowing Wisps appeared, drifting through the dense fog, dancing lightly over the pond’s watery glass.
 
Thanks to Isiilde, the tiny winged faerie were all over the Isle.

“I think she will be—with time.”
 
He took a long draught from his pipe before letting a line of smoke drift from his lips.

One of the Wisps darted over to the nymph, hovering in front of her wide, emerald eyes.
 
The tiny woman leant forward, kissing Isiilde on the tip of her freckled nose.
 
The whispering touch tingled her toes, but as fast as the Wisp appeared, she darted off, landing on Oenghus’ shoulder to flutter happily in his ear.
 
Isiilde grinned, craning her neck to study the tiny woman.

“I think she likes you.
 
They all do,” she corrected as the other two zipped over to play in his unruly hair.

“It’s ‘cause I’m warm.”
 
One of the Wisps sprinkled glittering dust over the bowl of his pipe.
 
The embers dimmed, and then died, leaving the Nuthaanian grumbling sourly under his breath.

“Did you have a good day with Brinehilde and Galvier?”

“Aye,” he answered.

“I like her, Oen.
 
You should ask her to take an Oath with you.”

“I’d never ask her to leave here, because she wouldn’t, and I’m too stubborn to stay in one spot,” he admitted.
 
“But it never hurts to have a kinswoman around to polish off a jug.”

“Do you miss your home, in Nuthaan?” she asked.
 
As long as Oenghus remained her guardian, he was as trapped on the Isle as she.

“I’ll get back there eventually.”
 
One of the Wisps disappeared down his shirt front, and he squirmed, chuckling despite himself.
 
With more care than most would credit the berserker, he loosened his buttons and gently plucked the scowling Wisp out before letting her loose into the night.
 
“I wouldn’t mind seeing my brood though.
 
You haven’t seen a clan gathering ‘til you’ve seen the Saevaldr’s together.”

“I’d love to meet them all!” she exclaimed, but her excitement died when she realized that it was a mere dream, which would never be.
 
Oenghus sniffed and hugged her closer.