A Thread in the Tangle (36 page)

“From Isiilde’s
father
.”

Oenghus picked up the letter and began to read.
 
The same steady hands that had wielded a war hammer against hordes of Wedamen, now shook like a trembling old woman.

“She’s not of age yet!” Oenghus roared, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet in a dangerous fury.
 
He crushed the loathsome letter in his massive fist, as if that alone could erase the searing words.
 
“Why send emissaries to inspect her if she’s not a woman yet?
 
The Pits o’ Mourn would be too good a place for that sheep buggering louse.
 
Curse the bastard, I should have ripped him apart when I had the chance.
 
And to the Pits with the consequences!” Oenghus’ words reverberated in the small Orb of Silence.

Marsais winced from the ensuing effect on his ears.
 
The Berserker cast about for something to hit and since he was the only person within range, he took a calculated step back.

“Isiilde
is
of age,” Marsais said, smothering the barbarian’s rage with quiet strength.

“No,” Oenghus said, hoarsely, shaking his head.
 
“She can’t be—not yet.”

“Isiilde came of age three months ago.
 
The very morning she burned down the cottage.
 
She was scared and lost control.”

“You’re bloody serious,” Oenghus breathed, recognizing the undeniable truth in his old master’s words.
 
“By the gods, why didn’t she just tell me?
 
I wouldn’t have punished her.”

“She was under the impression—a correct one—that you were honor bound to tell the Emperor,” Marsais explained.

“Bollocks,” the barbarian snorted.
 
“Well, why in the bloody Pits did she tell you?”

“She didn’t.
 
I only just found out before I came to council.
 
She took my hand in the library,” he lied, but only partially.
 
“You know how careful I am with her, Oenghus.
 
I was lost in a vision when she touched me.”

Marsais exhaled, slow and controlled, trying to keep the memory at bay even as it shuddered through his body.
 
He had nearly lost control when she caressed his back in the pleasure house.
 
Hours had passed, yet he still felt her fingertips tingling down his spine, whispering of temptation and desire.

“Her blood has already begun to stir and I’m sure I’m not the only man to notice.”

“Already?” Oenghus asked, startled by the thought.
 
“This soon after—you’re sure?”

“You know how—intoxicating nymphs are.”
 
Marsais perched on an armrest, absentmindedly stroking his goatee.
 
“With her blood stirring; she can’t remain unbound for much longer, my friend.”

Marsais’ words had the same effect as a dagger thrust, and Oenghus leaned heavily against the table, sniffing like a wounded bear.

“You knew this day would come.
 
We both did.”

“Not this quick,” Oenghus grunted.
 
The braids in his black beard twitched and his fists curled.
 
He turned away from his friend, fighting against a wave of strong emotion.

Marsais studied a tear in his robes while his friend regained his composure, and when he did, Oenghus continued, voice still hoarse, “You say she didn’t tell anyone?
 
Then there’s either a spy in the tower, or the bastard would sell her before it’s proper, which would come as no surprise, considering he threatened to sell her when she was four.”

“I would be more surprised to learn that Soataen did
not
have spies among the staff, as does the Blessed Order.
 
Regardless, sixteen has always been the popular age to shove daughters out of houses and into the arms of utter strangers for profit or alliance.
 
She’s well past the age.
 
Hmm, unless of course you’re on the Isle of Winds, where I’m sure you’ll recall that nothing under a hundred is proper.”
 
Marsais couldn’t resist the friendly jab and he received a baleful glare for his amusement.
 
Oenghus had been banished from the island, and as far as Marsais knew, was still wanted in the distant land.

A long stretch of silence filled the chamber, and finally Oenghus said, “I can’t allow this, Scarecrow.
 
It’s not right.”

“Hmm, and here we come back to our conversation of twelve years past.
 
The question I posed to you—the question of which I already knew the answer.
 
Will you be able to let her go?”

“Curse it, Marsais!”
 
The Nuthaanian flexed his arms.
 
“It’s not as if it’s an arrangement between two nobles.
 
My sprite will be sold as a slave and nothing more.
 
She won’t even have the status of a concubine or fifth Oathbound for that matter.
 
Even a whore has more choice than she’ll have.”

“Do you think this is any easier for me?
 
There isn’t a soul who I care for more, but what options are left to her?” Marsais asked sharply, cutting through the booming echo of his friend’s rage.
 
“By your own words, this is the best chance she has, and what you had hoped for has happened.
 
Emissaries are being sent from Kiln, Mearcentia, and Xaio; the wealthiest and most powerful kingdoms of the realm.
 
Have things changed in this realm since you brought a nymphling to my tower some twelve years back?”

“There’s more at stake than you know.”
 
Marsais nearly missed the half muttered remark.

“What exactly is at stake, Oenghus?”
 
But the Nuthaanian ignored his question, and moved blithely on to a subject intended to distract and disarm.

“You’re being a bit stubborn ‘bout all this.
 
I assume you’ve had visions about her?”

“I have,” Marsais whispered, closing his eyes to the barrage of possibilities.
 
“They haven’t been—encouraging.
 
The sooner she is bonded the better.”

“What have you seen?”
 
Oenghus leaned forward, looming like a thundercloud.

“It’s complicated,” he admitted.
 
“Most of her paths are—unbearable to ponder.
 
I dare not speak them aloud.”
 
His voice faltered, but he quickly regained control.
 
“Mearcentia would be best for her, but somehow her Fate is intertwined with events currently brewing in the South.
 
I’m trying to sort them out.
 
It’s like navigating the Labyrinth of Pillars at high tide with a leak in the hull.
 
That creature who you call a daughter is the most perplexing woman I’ve come across for over a millennium.”

“I’d expect no less,” Oenghus chuckled, but he quickly sobered, voice grave and hollow as he said the next, “I suppose there’s no use telling her until they arrive.
 
Why spoil the time she has left.”

Marsais said nothing to this, because he didn’t trust himself to speak.

Nineteen

T
HE
HIGH
-
PITCHED
voice of Tulipin Tuddleberry grated on the nymph’s slender ears today.
 
She usually enjoyed attending lectures from the erratic gnome, even though his specialty was history.
 
Master Tulipin was a floating library, so his lectures were always crowded with apprentices and Wise Ones alike as their projects demanded.

The rhythmic scrape of quills screeched in her sensitive ears, adding further discomfort to an already tedious lecture.
 
Isiilde could not concentrate, she wanted to leave the freezing tower, and hide away in Marsais’ study, napping the day away.
 
Unfortunately, Oenghus had been very clear; as part of her punishment for burning down their cottage, she wasn’t to leave a single lecture.

“Isiilde Jaal’Yasine!”
 
She snapped to attention and found Master Tulipin hovering over her.
 
“What does an ungainly monkey with wings have to do with the founding of the Blessed Order?”
 
Isiilde’s ears heated as she tried to cover up her crude drawing, but it was too late, every pair of eyes in the lecture hall were focused on her.
 
She had no choice but to answer.

“I’m sure they have to slay Imps all the time,” she answered, hopefully.

“Bah, Imps,” Tulipin rolled his eyes.
 
“Do you think that the paladins of the Blessed Order have nothing better to do with their time than waste it on vermin?”

“Well, they do seem to be busy torturing people and running down faerie,” she agreed, but was dismayed to discover that this had not been the correct answer.
 
The gnome’s eyes widened with outrage.

“There are scrolls of petitioners begging to join our Order, and yet you scoff at what has been handed to you on a platter.
 
How dare you show such blatant disrespect for the Paladins.
 
Leave at once and don’t return until you’ve written a report on the
entire
history of the Blessed Order.”

Isiilde’s ears wilted, and somewhere in the lecture hall amidst the other disapproving faces, Zianna’s eyes flashed with spiteful delight.
 
Isiilde stuffed her scrolls into her bag, rushed past the pair of guards by the door, and hurried out before her tears began.

It wasn’t fair.
 
As far as libraries went, she was neither novice nor apprentice, but somewhere in between (or off to the side).
 
How in the Pits o’ Mourn could she write the entire history of the Blessed Order when she wasn’t allowed in the main libraries?
 
Furthermore, what was the point?
 
It was not as if she had a future, or any chance of becoming a Wise One.

Isiilde wiped her tears roughly away as two servants passed her in the hallway.
 
She could hear their hurried whispering, feel their eyes on her back as she rushed down the corridor.
 
She bit back the urge to turn around and shout at them to stop staring.
 
It wasn’t her fault that her ears were so big.

Two long days had passed since she let the Imp out.
 
By now everyone in the castle knew it was loose, but luckily they did not know how it entered the castle.
 
What was worse, she wasn’t any closer to catching the Imp, although admittedly, she hadn’t read past the first two pages of the incredibly large tome.

Mistress Thira, ever quick to blame every ill occurrence on the faerie, had already come accusing.
 
Oenghus had vehemently argued against her involvement and the two had engaged in another shouting match in the dining hall.
 
Their argument had nearly come to blows.

The nymph felt all the worse, because for once, Thira was correct.
 
The mess was entirely her fault, but she had already told Marsais, and as of yet, he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else, nor had he offered her any help beyond dumping the heavy tome into her arms.
 
All in all, the Imp was largely viewed as an irritating, if rather devious pest.

In the last two days, Isiilde had spent her time fretting over the Imp and uselessly searching the corridors for him, but mostly, she had been worrying about Marsais.
 
He had been so distracted of late, as if his body were present but his mind absent.
 
His lessons had been nonexistent, because every time she arrived at his study, her master stood in front of the crystal window and said almost nothing at all.
 
Not that she minded much, since she was accustomed to his contemplative moods, but it was clear that something was troubling him.