A Thread in the Tangle (27 page)

“You know I barely sleep,” Marsais muttered, gazing to the ocean.

“Aye, well maybe that’s the problem.”
 
Oenghus leaned against the stone wall with a sigh and fished his pipe out of his pouch.
 
His old master had always been a bit of a hermit, of course Oenghus couldn’t blame him, it wasn’t easy having friends when you were a seer.
 
To say nothing of his age.
 
As soon as anyone discovered that Marsais had lived through the Shattering, the questions began, and they grasped for gritty details like merchants striving after a copper.

“You didn’t shake the Keening, did you?”
 
Marsais’ silence was answer enough.
 
“Tell you what.
 
We’ll go back to Drivel and take Maira up on her offer.
 
We’ll find you a few busty lasses and get you drunk out of your wits.”

“Ah, the answer to every Nuthaanian’s ailment.
 
I sincerely doubt I’ll find a good woman in a whore house, although you seem to find an ample supply.”

“You might be right, probably wouldn’t work for you with your tastes.
 
Why’d you come back, then?”
 
Six months was a short time for Marsais to be away.
 
It wasn’t surprising to discover he hadn’t shaken the tempting whisper of Death’s embrace.

“The farther I went the worse it became,” Marsais answered, scratching at his chest.
 
“My visions followed me with a vengeance.”

“They’ve been bad?”

“When are they not?” Marsais whispered, bitterly.

Oenghus had learned long ago not to ask for details.
 
If there was something his old master wanted him to know, then he’d tell him, and not before.
 
Trying to get anything out of Marsais was near impossible.
 
He’d have better luck convincing Gungnir that he wasn’t gelded.
 
At some point through the years, Oenghus finally realized that he didn’t want to know what tomorrow would bring, because his old friend’s foresight was more curse than gift.

“Is Isiilde still sleeping?”
 
Marsais squinted through the mist, over the fields, and towards the cottage.
 
“I have another audience this afternoon, but I thought she might be in the mood for a lesson.”

“She’ll be in a foul mood, is what she’ll be.”

“I certainly hope I was not the cause,” Marsais said, looking to Oenghus for answer, and when he saw the regret in the Nuthaanian’s eyes, he asked, “What’d you do now?”

“I told her to stay away from Helwick’s apprentice.”

“Oenghus,” Marsais hastily began, “I swear, I only turned my back on her for a few minutes, and the next thing I know some young man was kissing her hand.
 
For what it’s worth, he seemed very respectful.”

“That’s the bloody problem,” Oenghus spat, and then sighed, sitting on top of the stone wall.
 
“He’s a good lad, with more of a head on his shoulders than I ever had.
 
I’d be thrilled if one of my other daughters had sense enough to find someone like him.
 
By the gods, Scarecrow, you should’ve met some of the louts I’ve caught my daughters fooling around with.”

“She’s an unawakened nymph, Oen, too innocent for the idea to even occur to her, which is why you did what you had to.”

“Aye, but I can’t stop thinkin’ that she’s never going to be with a man she loves, or wants for that matter,” he rumbled, emphasizing his distaste with a harsh exhalation of pipe smoke.
 
“You remember what you were doing at sixteen?”

“Hmm, you’re asking a man who forgot his own name for a number of years, but I can guess what you were up to.
 
Fighting, carousing, and—Oenghus!” Marsais exclaimed, grey eyes widening with horror.

Oenghus followed his gaze to the source of his distress.
 
The two men reacted in the same instant, racing towards the cottage, which was being consumed by a dark cloud of billowing black smoke.
 
They were halfway across the field when the fire surged, ripping through the roof with an exuberant hiss.
 
Timber groaned, splintered, and the cottage crumbled.

“Isiilde!” Oenghus uselessly bellowed, running towards the fire with every ounce of power that he possessed, quickly outdistancing Marsais.
 
Fire curled along the ground and shot up into the air with unnatural ferocity that could only come from his daughter.

The barn was already ablaze.
 
It was only a matter of time before the flames found his distillery.
 
Heedless of his own safety, Oenghus kept running, vaulting over the little fence that protected the garden.
 
The combustible compounds within the barn ignited.
 
The shockwave caught him in midair and like a child’s doll, slammed him easily to the ground.
 
He shook off the blast and surged to his feet, ignoring the wooden shards embedded in his flesh.

Oenghus reached the cottage door as Marsais’ chanting voice filled the air, and a moment later, a storm swirled to life, beating back the flames with icy determination.
 
He kicked the door in and a breath of heat roared from the doorway.
 
He twisted to the side, avoiding the fireball.
 
Summoned shards of woven ice ripped into the cottage at Marsais’ command.
 
Oenghus followed on the storm’s heels, wading through the flaming wreckage, searching for his daughter.

“Isiilde!” he coughed, squinting through the suffocating smoke.
 
He fought his way into her room, or rather what was left of it.
 
The white shards of ice managed to smother the blaze, leaving a smoldering maze of timber and stone that he scanned with hard, desperate eyes.
 
A shock of red hair poked from beneath the rubble.

“Marsais, get in here!”
 
Oenghus heaved the timber and debris to the side, revealing more of his daughter’s battered body with every shifting piece.
 
The timbers were still hot, burning his hands as he frantically worked to free her.

“By the gods,” Marsais breathed from the doorway, however, he recovered quickly, scrambling over the timbers.
 
He crouched beside her, pressing his fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse.
 
“She’s alive—for now, but she’s pinned.”

Oenghus grunted, dragging another heavy piece of timber off the pile and tossing it aside.
 
He paused to survey the remaining rubble, and then got into position, gripping a thick rafter beneath the tangle of wood.

“Ready?”
 
Marsais nodded.
 
Oenghus lifted the wooden support with a surge of power, supporting a good portion of the collapsed roof while Marsais dragged the nymph to safety.
 
When she was clear, Oenghus released his burden and it fell with crushing finality.

Marsais gathered Isiilde’s limp body in his arms, carrying her outside, where he lay her on a dry patch of earth near the garden wall.
 
Oenghus knelt beside her, running a healer’s eye over his daughter.
 
Her clothes had been completely burned off, yet her body was unharmed by the fire’s touch.
 
A jagged piece of wood protruded from her chest, blood seeped from the wound, carving paths through the ash that had settled on her skin.

Oenghus would have to wait until she was stronger to deal with the foreign object, because it was far too close to her lung for his liking, and once he pulled it out, the wound would have to be cleaned before it could mend.
 
He finished his assessment in a blink of an eye, resting one massive hand on her forehead and the other on her stomach, linking spirit and body to his own.
 
The Lore sprang to his lips as he directed the Gift into his daughter, mending her broken ribs and bolstering her strength.
 
Under the circumstances, it was all he could do for her, until they carried her to the infirmary.

Oenghus returned to the present.
 
Grim-faced and silent, he stood to summon the horses.
 
Marsais carefully wrapped the nymph in his cloak, taking great pangs not to jostle her unduly, all too conscious of the jagged shard protruding from her body.
 
When she was bundled tightly in cloth, he lifted her in his arms, waiting for Oenghus to swing onto Gungnir’s bare back.
 
Marsais passed the nymph to her father, and vaulted atop Sleipnir.

Together, the two ancients spurred their mounts towards the castle.
 
And Oenghus muttered a silent prayer to the Sylph, wondering what in all the realms he was going to do with his combustible daughter.

Fifteen

F
IRE
AND
ASH
filled the darkness, singing as softly as a mother’s lullaby.
 
Time stagnated, becoming a word never uttered, a concept never born.
 
Isiilde floated in a vast, uncharted sea.
 
Pain lay on the horizon, but familiar voices kept it at bay as she drifted above a body that was unreachable and cold.
 
Eventually, when the fever burned out and the pain had lost its bite, she surfaced like a swimmer who had been long under water, frantically clawing her way towards the wavering light.

The nymph stirred, fighting to surface against the ache of her body, and when her eyes fluttered open she was greeted by a kindly face and warm eyes.
 
Morigan smelled of the earth, of chamomile and thyme, and she moved with the gentleness of a heartbeat, constant and reassuringly predictable.
 
A rebellious strand of hair worked itself free from Morgian’s bun as she rubbed a poultice into the nymph’s bruised flesh.
 
The ointment smelled like jasmine and lavender, as sweet and calming as the healer who had mixed the ingredients.

“Don’t try to talk, Isiilde.
 
You’ve been mostly unconscious for four days.”
 
Morigan slipped a hand behind her neck, and gently lifted her head, pressing a cup to her lips.
 
Isiilde was only allowed a few sips before the healer pulled the cup away, leaving her wanting for more.

“You can drink more in a few minutes.”
 
Isiilde felt hollow, an empty shell of broken glass.
 
She fought to keep her eyes open.
 
“The timbers broke four of your ribs.
 
A length of wood impaled you here,” Morigan said, pointing to the large patch of salve covered flesh.
 
“Oen healed most of the damage, but you’ve been fighting a fever.
 
You always have to be careful with a healing when there’s a fever, and I’ll tell you, Oenghus had a time of it, so the bruising will just have to mend on its own.”

“Where is Oen?” Isiilde rasped, and then coughed, sending a spasm of pain through her ribs.

“Resting.”
 
Morigan studied the nymph.
 
“I finally managed to chase him away.”
 
The herbs woman was probably the only one who could manage such a feat.

“Who has been attending to me?” Isiilde asked, dreading the answer.

“Only myself and Greta, who I trust.”

“Does Oen know I’ve come of age?”

“Didn’t see much reason to mention it.”
 
Isiilde sighed with relief.