A Thread in the Tangle (3 page)

The palace garden was Isiilde’s favorite place to roam.
 
The gate was often locked, so the guards never bothered searching for the elusive nymphling within its walls, however, he knew better.
 
An industrious fox had tunneled beneath the wall so it might take advantage of the bountiful garden.
 
And Isiilde, ever curious, had discovered the overgrown breach.
 
It seemed a good place to start.

Oenghus stopped at the garden wall, pressing his hand against the iron gate, uttering the Lore of Unlocking
in harsh, guttural tones.
 
The lock clicked, and he pushed the gate open, slipping into the walled garden.

The nymphling tended to avoid the inhabitants of the palace—save for a select few.
 
She had become quite skilled at playing Raven and the Prey, and Oenghus knew every one of her hiding places, because he was the only one with whom she played.

Her favorite perch in the branches of a sprawling oak was empty.
 
And the grouping of rocks where she often climbed offered insufficient shelter from the storm, so he went straight to the fallen tree into which she liked to crawl.

“Isiilde?” Oenghus called, squinting into the darkness of the hollowed out deadfall.
 
He squatted, pawing in the muddy soil until his fingers curled around a small pebble.
 
A low murmur of words left his lips, weaving a Rune of Light
around the pebble, and then he exhaled into the palm of his hand, breathing warmth into the cold stone.

When the stone began to glow with a faint light, he tossed it into the hollow, peering into the dark depths.
 
A tiny form huddled in the center, sitting chest deep in a cold pool of muck and water.
 
His breath congealed in his throat.

By the gods, she had stopped shivering.

“Sprite,” he called, reaching in, but he was too large, and she was too far away.
 
“It’s Oenghus, come out of there.”
 
The nymphling did not move.

“Isiilde!” he roared over the howling wind.
 
A rare sensation of panic clutched him when she did not stir at his command.
 
He squeezed himself farther inside, stretching his fingertips towards her.

She’s not dead, she’s not dead,
he silently repeated, praying to the Goddess that it was so.
 
His fingers brushed her arm.
 
A little hand touched his own and relief slammed into his heart.
 
Oenghus seized the nymphling’s hand, which was as cold as the air about, and dragged her out.

“You’ll have to find a better hiding place than that,” he said, attempting to keep his voice light as he gathered her up in his arms.

“I’m in trouble, Oen,” Isiilde moaned, weakly.
 
Her emerald eyes fluttered open for an instant, but even that simple movement required more energy than she had to spare.
 
Her eyelids fell shut, heavy and defeated.

“You’re always in trouble, Sprite,” he grunted.
 
“It’s nothing to worry about now, is it?
 
We’ll get you nice and warm first, all right?”

Isiilde did not answer.
 
Her silence concerned Oenghus, to say nothing of how limp and cold she felt in his hands.

He quickly stripped off her soaking nightgown, tossed it aside, and tucked her beneath his shirt; against the heat of his skin and the rhythm of his heart.
 
He stood, wrapped his cloak tightly around them both, and hurried back to the palace, hoping no one would notice the tiny bundle that he concealed.

The desire to walk straight out of the palace, into the sprawling streets of Whitemount, and continue north until he reached Nuthaan was nearly overwhelming.
 
But the uncomfortable question which he had asked himself many a time during these past four years nagged at his practical nature yet again: how can a single man protect a nymph?

Oenghus Saevaldr was a formidable warrior, but even he, Wise One of the Isle, Bone Mender, Skull Crusher, the Bloody Berserker of Nuthaan and the Grimstorm of the Fell Wastes could not single-handedly protect a nymph from men and gods alike.
 
His mind supplied the same worn answer, familiar and distasteful, that he had always settled upon in the end: Isiilde’s best chance was here, in Kambe, as the daughter of an Emperor.
 
The alternative was too wretched to contemplate.

 
Oenghus pushed the future, an irritating thing to contemplate at the best of times, from his mind and resolutely focused on the foremost task.
 
The first being to get Isiilde warm.
 
If he could not accomplish that then everything beyond was pointless to consider.
 
It was the Berserker’s way, his way, to focus on crushing the enemy in his path, and to the Void with everything else.

Halfway to his rooms, Isiilde started shivering, which bode well for her health and eased the knot of worry between his shoulders.

Oenghus rounded the last corner and muttered an oath when he caught sight of the Guard Captain pacing in the hallway.
 
Additionally, two guards flanked the door to his chambers, making it apparent that this was not a chance meeting.

Of all the ranking officials in this damnable palace, Captain Darius was tolerable, but Oenghus figured that was because the captain was built more like a keg than a Kamberian—a short, muscular build with a tuft of grey circling his bald pate.
 
The veteran campaigner had the look of an old grizzled bear who had tried to make himself presentable by trimming his mustaches, but what was more, he had the temperament to match, which was exactly why Oenghus liked the Guard Captain of Whitemount.

Oenghus did not slow, but kept up a steady, unrelenting pace towards the two guards.
 
At his approach, the guards barred the door with a pair of crossed spears, more symbol than threat, because they all knew trying to stop a Berserker was about as useless as damming a river with two twigs.

“Oenghus,” Darius began with the tense expectation of a soldier about to charge.
 
“Emperor Jaal has ordered that the nymph be found and brought before him.”
 
The Guard Captain nodded towards the small lump under the Nuthaanian’s shirt.

“Why,” Oenghus growled.
 
“So he can order you to throw a child,
his daughter,
who is near to freezing, into a bloody dank dungeon?”
 
He stopped in front of the guards’ crossed spears, managing to scowl at the men simultaneously.
 
Both of the guards tried to take a step back, but were brought up short by the stone wall at their backs.
 
Oenghus smirked.

“The Emperor’s word is law,” Darius stated without hesitation.
 
Oenghus turned slightly, eyeing the honorable Guard Captain of Whitemount.
 
Darius, he realized, might prove a powerful ally.

“All I ask is that you let me heal her.
 
Go get the Emperor if you must, but I will not hand this child over, because if you take her from me then you’ll be throwing a dead nymphling into the dungeon,” Oenghus said in his most reasonable tone.
 
Then he threw reasonableness to the winds and took a step towards Darius, glowering down at the man’s balding head like a storm cloud about to unleash its fury.
 
“Besides, you’re going to need a lot more than two raw recruits to subdue me.”

Darius was too seasoned to betray his fear, but even he knew the threat to be true; Oenghus Saevaldr wasn’t called Grimstorm without reason.

“The nymphling cannot leave my sight,” Darius relented.
 
He turned to his men and sent one running down the corridor to inform the Emperor of the nymphling’s recovery.

Oenghus swatted the remaining guard’s spear to the side and barged into his chambers, leaving the door open for the captain to follow.
 
He stalked over to the hearth, grabbed a vial from the mantle and doused the wood.
 
A spark from his flint sent the logs blazing.
 
He set the shivering nymphling in front of the fire and quickly wrapped her in a warm blanket.

“I didn’t mean to,” Isiilde whispered, inching closer to the fire.
 
Oenghus quickly shrugged off his drenched cloak and scooped her up.
 
Fire and the nymphling were never a good combination.

“I don’t wanna go in a dungen, Oen,” she pleaded, eyes filling with tears.
 
“I was cold.”

“You’re not going to a dungeon, Sprite,” Oenghus said, firmly, and sat in front of the hearth, rubbing the nymphling vigorously to restore warmth.
 
Her curly red hair was plastered to her face, exposing the unmistakable ears of her race; slender, sweeping elegance that rose to a sharp point above her head, only at the moment, the tips were wilted and alarmingly blue.
 
Mud caked her face, her hair, every exposed part of her body, save the long tracks of tears on her cheeks.
 
She reminded him of the miserable, half drowned kitten he had once rescued (not that he would ever admit to doing such a thing).

Oenghus didn’t hold any illusions that Darius would defy his liege lord for the child in his arms.
 
After all, Isiilde was a nymph, a faerie, and by the decrees of the Blessed Order, she had no more rights or privileges than a dog.

Nymphs were born into slavery, members of a lesser race who were treated as property and nothing more, yet their irresistible allure and beauty made them both dangerous and highly sought after commodities.
 
A single nymph was worth more than a king’s ransom and a thousand wars had been fought over their possession.

A wracking cough interrupted Isiilde’s chattering teeth.
 
She moaned weakly, resting her head in the cradle of his arm.
 
Oenghus slipped a hand over her stomach and placed the other across her forehead, linking him to both spirit and flesh.
 
The Wise One’s Lore sprang easily to his lips as he summoned the Sylph’s Gift, plunging into the nymphling with his mind’s eye, leaving the physical realm behind, until only power and life pulsed hypnotically around him.

It was easy to lose one’s self while invoking the Gift, especially when healing another—many a neophyte had done just that.
 
However, healing had always come naturally to the Nuthaanian and he anchored himself with an intangible thread, as he always did, to find his way back into his own body.

Oenghus had a knack for healing, nearly as much as he did for killing, but then the two deeds shared a number of similarities to his straightforward mind—both killing and healing involved pain.

A healer had to share their patient’s injuries for a time and the pain from a mortal wound could, and often did, shatter the healer’s focus, consuming them completely.
 
An unfocused healer was likely to kill his patient, and if they bungled it badly enough, themselves too.
 
However, mending injuries to the spirit presented more insidious risks, and most healers, the sensible ones, stayed clear of the challenge, because bolstering another’s spirit could send the healer spiraling into the Keening—a pit of despair from which he or she would never emerge.

Nuthaanian Berserkers weren’t known for their healing talents, but their tolerance for pain was as legendary as their sacred Brimgrog.
 
On the eve of the Reddened month, countless warriors undertook the Berserker’s rite, drinking the sacred brew.
 
Many died, most suffered, and the honored few survived.
 
Legend claimed that forever after, the survivors were immune to pain, but that wasn’t quite the case; Berserker’s felt pain as much as the next person.
 
However, instead of incapacitating the crazed Berserkers, pain fueled their fury, which made them far more dangerous than a simple immunity.

Oenghus had welcomed and become intimately acquainted with pain long before he ever uttered a single word of the Lore, so while others had been surprised by his talent, he was not.
 
He could mend wounds to the heart, broken bones, even disembowelments if caught quickly enough.
 
However, there was little he could do for fever and sickness, except bolster the spirit, which was precisely what Isiilde presently needed.

The healer and killer maneuvered his awareness towards the nymphling’s spirit.
 
Every spirit was unique and every healer perceived them differently—some were vast and empty, others dark and cold, but Isiilde’s was always a bright flame, suffusing her bones with a warm, cheerful glow.
 
Only now, her flame was dim and flickering and it appeared that the slightest exhalation would snuff out her life.

Oenghus forced himself to remain calm, shoving fear aside to focus on the task at hand.
 
He carefully wrapped his power around the weak flame, shielding rather than suffocating her, and fanned the fire with his own spirit, opening himself to all her pain.
 
He took her misery upon himself, relieving her of its stifling presence.

He thought his heart would tear in two.

After the flame was strong and steady, he pulled himself reluctantly along the tether to his own body, wishing he could do more for his little sprite.