A Thread in the Tangle (39 page)

T
HE
GENTLE
PATTER
of rain sang softly to her ears, easing her from the darkness into the haze in between.
 
The music might have lulled her back to sleep if not for the hushed conversations lingering at the edge.
 
The nymph sighed with contentment and snuggled into warmth.
 
There was no reason to leave the in between.
 
Her lids were heavy and the bed was so very soft, cradling her body in a tender embrace.
 
A calm hand rested on her forehead and she cracked her eyes open with sleepy hope.

“Have a drink, child.”
 
Morigan’s kindly face smiled down at her, but it was not the face she wished to see.
 
Isiilde tried to get up, quickly discovering that she was too weak to lift her head.
 
The motherly healer lifted it for her, pressing a cup to her lips.
 
Smooth liquid slid down her throat, tasting of lemon, spice, and honey.

“Do you know, Isiilde, I have never encountered a child who attracts more trouble than you.”

“At least I keep things interesting.”
 
As she hoped, the healer began to laugh.

“Oh, child, you have no idea.”

“What happened to me, Morigan?”
 
Events were a dream that she could not quite grasp, flitting on the edges of consciousness, just out of reach, but she remembered some things vividly; fire, heat, and fear.

“I’m not sure anyone knows,” Morigan sighed.
 
“The Archlord carried you in.
 
You were cold as snow and just as pale.
 
I’ve never seen him so distraught.
 
Takes a lot to fluster that one, which reminds me that I best get Oenghus and send word to the Archlord.
 
We’ve all been worried about you.”
 
Morigan patted her cheek, and stood, straightening her apron before striding out the door.

Isiilde sighed, gazing ruefully around the private room in the infirmary, which was becoming more familiar to her than she would have liked.
 
She was surprised to see the dark blanket of night through the slats of the shuttered window.
 
It had been just after midday when she and Marsais strolled through the garden.

It wasn’t long before Oenghus ducked through the door.
 
Her looming protector made the room feel cramped and overcrowded.

Isiilde steeled herself for another harsh reprimand, wondering what new punishments she’d have to endure.
 
Surely, he would not take away her strawberries?

“How are you feeling?”
 
He sat on the edge of the bed and felt her forehead.

“Exhausted.”

“Drink up the rest of this then.”
 
He lifted her head, a feather’s weight in his massive hand, and patiently helped her finish Morigan’s herbal mixture.
 
When the cup was empty, Oenghus set it aside, and she untangled her hand from the covers to lay it delicately over one of his.

“Do you know what happened to me, Oen?”
 
It was evident that her question troubled him, because he tugged on a black braid woven into his beard.

“I don’t know,” he grunted. “and neither does Marsais.
 
If you were a horse, I’d say that someone tried to run you to death.”

“I sometimes wonder if you are trying to work me to death, however, I assure you that I was not running,” she said, sullenly.

“Bah, you know what I mean.
 
Least I know you’re all right, if you can be cheeky.”
 
Isiilde poked the back of his hand, and the two shared a smile before he continued, “Marsais mentioned that you lost control.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she began, but he silenced her with a shake of his shaggy head.

“There’s no harm done.
 
I’m just a bit worried about you is all.
 
You—you should have told me, Sprite, that you came of age.”
 
The nymph squeaked, clearly startled, and tried to rise, but Oenghus pressed her shoulder back to the bed.
 
“I’m not gonna bloody tell Soataen.
 
I’m a barbarian, remember?
 
We’re dishonorable as they come, so I can break my word when it pleases me.”

“You are the most honorable man I know.”

“Well, you don’t know very many,” Oenghus snorted, but the swarthy slice of skin above his beard darkened, and he shifted, averting his eyes.

“Please, Oen, don’t let him sell me,” she whispered, desperately.
 
He did not answer, only leaned forward to kiss her forehead.
 
The tears that fell were not her own.

Twenty-one

A
PALE
SUN
greeted her the following day.
 
The shutters had been wedged open by some thoughtful soul, inviting the crisp autumn air into her room.
 
A soft breeze rustled the leaves, tugging them gently from their summer perches, before hurling them towards the sea.

Isiilde could taste the salt in the air, hear the seagulls and their plaintive calls over the lull of the surf far below.
 
She pushed off the covers, stretching lazily beneath the weak light.

It would be a perfect day to visit Marsais’ study, to curl on the luxurious rug and bask beneath the crystal window.
 
On days like this, he gave her free rein of his study—to do as she pleased while he vacated it, which generally involved stripping down to her skin and wasting the afternoon away.
 
The nymph was trying to decide if it was warm enough to do that very thing in her current room, when the door opened.

“I thought it was ‘bout time for you to wake up,” Oenghus remarked, balancing tray in hand.
 
“You never could sleep past lunch.”
 
She brightened when he set the tray beside her bed and eagerly sat up, breaking off a chunk of cheese and bread before the cutlery had settled.

“You look exhausted, Oen,” she said around a mouthful of food.

“Aye, while you’ve been sleeping away the night, we’ve had an unusual amount of wounded.”

“You haven’t slept at
all
?”
 
The thought proved utterly impossible to comprehend, since she generally slept until noon, and took a nap after her midday meal.

“Not a bloody wink.”
 
He sat on the edge of her bed and stole one of her strawberries before she could save it from his greedy hand.
 
“The blasted Imp has been wreaking havoc on the castle.”

Isiilde choked on a mouthful of bread, coughing until her eyes watered.
 
Oenghus gave her a hearty slap on the back, which helped not at all, but left a bruise.

“Mostly minor injuries: broken bones, blows to the head, and a lot of people who had their teeth ripped out while they slept.”
 
He scratched at his beard, clearly perplexed by this last.
 
“But last night the fiend managed to weaken the chains to the portcullis and timed it so the gate fell on a guard.
 
Not much left of the poor bastard.”
 
A knot twisted sickeningly in her stomach.
 
“Oh, don’t worry, Sprite, it’s only an Imp—more pest than threat.”

“It killed someone,” she squeaked.

“So do ladders and slippery stairs.
 
Besides, I’ve warded this room, so it won’t be bothering you.”

“Hasn’t anyone tried catching him?”

“Every blasted Wise One is on the prowl, but their traps have caused just as many injuries as the Imp’s trickery.
 
He’s a slippery little fiend and the strange thing is—half of them claim they’ve killed him already.”
 
Oenghus shrugged, and he thought no more of it, reaching over to tap a thick stack of crisp parchment and scrolls.

“Since you’ll be resting for another day—”
 
She started to protest, but he would have none of it, and raised his voice in unyielding response.
 
“You might as well get busy writing the history of the bloody
Blessed
Order.”

The nymph moaned, ears wilting, and she did her very best to look pathetic.
 
Such a tactic
 
had not worked for years.

“Don’t start,” he growled.
 
“As if I didn’t have enough to do already, Tulipin came floating down this morning to chew me out for your behavior.”

“But—”

“You’re not going to weasel your way out of this one, Isiilde.”
 
Oenghus glowered down at her, doing his best to ignore her large pleading eyes.
 
A twitch of his beard betrayed him.

In the end he stalked out of the room, so disconcerted that he forgot to duck beneath the doorway, banging his head hard, leaving a dent in the wood.
 
Far from feeling sorry for him, Isiilde climbed out of bed and slammed the door shut on his heels.
 
She slipped out of her nightgown, tossed it on the floor, and sprawled on top of the bed, letting the sun soothe her agitation.

Isiilde seethed, silent tears fell, and eventually, annoyance with herself triumphed, motivating her to pen the history of the Blessed Order.
 
She ignored the scrolls on the bedside table, because Marsais had already told her all about the Blessed Order (in a wonderfully entertaining manner).
 
She decided to focus on the
noble
paladin, Damien Caal, who was responsible for the current laws pertaining to nymphs.
 
As her quill sped across the parchment, she found that she was enjoying herself very much.

The sun was fading faster than a barrel of ale when she finally finished her loathsome project.
 
She had closed the shutters some time ago and crawled beneath the blanket as the ocean breeze turned chilly.
 
The sheepskin felt divine against her silken body.
 
She was practically purring as she pushed her finished report onto the floor and stretched in her haven of warmth.

No one had come to visit all day (except a novice who entered to empty her chamber pot).
 
Isiilde was not surprised. She had few friends, and even the novice who was a good ten years older than she, stared at the basking nymph as if Isiilde were one of the Blighted.
 
Wise Ones were particularly keen to rumor, and even greedier for gossip, meaning everyone had undoubtedly heard of her incident with Marsais by now.

Isiilde sighed at the thought of him, and buried her head beneath her pillow.
 
Of all the people she wished to see, it was Marsais.
 
She had hoped that he might stop by for their afternoon lesson, but he had not.

The door rattled suddenly, groaning on its hinges in what the nymph recognized as one of Oenghus’ knocks.
 
The day had obviously been long for him, because he looked positively haggard.
 
She found that she could not stay angry with him any longer.

“I finished awhile ago,” she offered without prompting.

“Thank you.”
 
His soft reply confused her.
 
It wasn’t as if she had a choice.
 
“Do you want to sleep here or in your own bed?
 
I for one would like to get out of this damn place.”
 
The nymph beamed and hopped from beneath the covers, gathering her parchment.