A Thread in the Tangle (45 page)

“Do you trust me?” he asked at length, transferring his gaze on her.
 
Isiilde thought this an odd question, but she answered it without remark.

“You’re the only one who I trust, except for Oen, but that’s obvious.”

“If I ask you to do something for me, will you do it without question?”
 
She thought this request even odder, but nodded all the same.
 
“Please don’t go to any of the kitchens.
 
Swear to me you won’t go near them.”

Isiilde tilted her head.
 
“Can I ask one question that doesn’t involve specifics?”

“Hmm.”

“If I can’t go to the kitchens, then how will I eat?
 
Starving doesn’t seem like a good way to die.”

His countenance softened with amusement.
 
“I dare not inquire as to what you consider a good way to die, however, I assure you that you need not fear starvation.
 
A platter fit for a queen will be delivered to your door, morning, midday, and eve.
 
I will personally see to it—
if
you keep up your end of the bargain.”

“You would do that for me?”

“There is very little in this realm that I would
not
do for you, Isiilde.
 
But first, swear to me that you won’t set foot in the kitchens again.”

“I swear it, Marsais,” she said with all the conviction she possessed.
 
He studied her for a few moments before nodding in satisfaction and turned back to his books, forgetting the nymph entirely.

Isiilde watched his muttering lips and darting eyes for a time, puzzling over his strange behavior.
 
When he began scouring the dusty tomes, she returned to her rug, sprawling on the warm pelt.

Marsais rarely requested anything of her, which was puzzling, because he was her master, and she the apprentice.
 
The other Wise Ones were taskmasters who generally trained an apprentice in exchange for their servitude.
 
The work was grueling, or at the very least, tedious.
 
Whereas Marsais rarely gave her tasks, and when he did, they were always intriguing.
 
Upon further thought, she decided that he focused on whatever happened to spark her interest, such as the binding rune.
 
So why was he worried about the kitchens, of all places?
 
An answer came when her eyes fell on the remains of her half eaten lunch.

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Is it because of Stievin?”
 
After eavesdropping in the throne room, she had forgotten all about her uncomfortable encounter with the cook.

“I thought we agreed on no questions,” he mumbled from the depths of his book.

“I’m confused,” she explained.
 
“Oen forbid me to visit Coyle, and you have just forbid me to go to the kitchens—where Stievin is.”

“I’ve asked you not to go to any of the kitchens,” he said.
 
She wrinkled her nose and rolled onto her stomach.

“Well, since you didn’t want me to ask any questions, I’m assuming you just said that so I wouldn’t get suspicious.
 
Did Oen put you up to this?”

“No.”
 
He tore his gaze from his book to regard her over the mess of his desk.
 
“You’ve far exceeded your allotment of questions.”

“But I’m confused, Marsais.”
 
As if that were reason enough for anything.
 
“Coyle and Stievin both seem very friendly and are respected by others.
 
Are they not good men?”

At her question, Marsais sighed wearily, and after a moment, stood up, walking around his desk to perch on the edge.
 
Beneath his thoughtful eyes, a surge of warmth flooded through her and she rubbed her feet together, sucking on another strawberry while she waited for him to answer.
 
Unfortunately, another distraction found him.
 
His head suddenly snapped to the side, eyes narrowing on an empty spot half-way between desk and bookshelves.

“I don’t have the time,” he said, sharply.
 
“I’m sure it’s important.”
 
Marsais frowned at the empty spot, as if listening to the other half of a conversation.
 
As the silence deepened, his brows began to sink, forming a sinister
V
.
 
Isiilde looked from the empty spot and then back to her master.

“Look it up you fool!” he finally snapped in exasperation.

The nymph’s mouth dropped open and a chunk of strawberry fell onto the snowy carpet.
 
Marsais gave a dismissive wave, looking around the room with confusion.
 
He appeared lost.
 
Eventually, his gaze settled on the dumbfounded nymph, and he brightened.

“O, hello, my dear.”

“Who was that?” she asked, slowly.

“Who was who?”

“You were just talking to someone.”
 
She pointed to the empty spot.

“I was?”

“I think.”

“Perhaps it was you?”

“I hope not!”
 
Her eyes widened.

“Oh.”
 
He scratched at the scar that she now knew lay beneath his robes.
 
“Well, what were
we
talking about?”

“Stievin and Coyle.”

“O, yes, of course,” Marsais murmured, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time.
 
He scrutinized her for a moment, appeared relieved, and then continued, “
Ordinarily
Stievin and that young swordsmith would be good men, but where you’re concerned—it would be best not to trust any man, save Oenghus.”
 
Her ears wilted at this.

“So Tulipin was right.
 
Nymphs are a temptation who destroy good men?”

“In all fairness, most men find the majority of women tempting.
 
Look no further than Oenghus for proof of that, however, to be honest, his words were not without merit,” he admitted, and pushed himself off the desk to pace a worn path across his study.
 
“Remember what I told you on our way home from the pleasure house?”
 
She nodded, but had a difficult time believing that she could drive a man insane with a single touch.
 
“You see, nymphs are enticing by nature, my dear.
 
They can’t help being what they are, no more than a bird can keep from flying.”

“I don’t feel enticing,” she said, licking the strawberry’s juice from her fingertips.

Marsais cleared his throat, loudly.
 
“Nymphs are eternally innocent by nature.
 
That’s why the Druids were commanded to watch over them.
 
I told you earlier that you had entered what is known as an Awakening.
 
If you had been alive before the Shattering then you would have chosen a Druid the day you came of age.
 
It was a special time for a nymph.
 
Not a terrifying one as you experienced.”

“I would have bonded with a man?”
 
Isiilde knew about a nymph’s Bond, but since she had never been with a man, she had no idea what to expect.
 
Oenghus had told her once that the man and nymph merged; their spirits became one, but he was the only one who spoke of it in such a way.
 
Everyone else whispered of the unimaginable pleasures that the nymph bestowed on the man, making no mention of the nymph.

“Not in the way most people think.
 
Their spirits would have merged first.
 
You see, the Druids possessed knowledge that allowed them to bond with a nymph while leaving her untouched.
 
His purpose was to make the nymph feel secure and keep her safe from other men.
 
For men begin to take note of an Awakened nymph and it’s a very dangerous time for her.
 
A bonded nymph is not near as potent as one who is not.”

“You mean they didn’t—they weren’t intimate?”
 
She tilted her head in puzzlement.

“Not until her blood began to stir.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you remember when the mare across from your cottage was in heat?”
 
They always knew because Carrothead started tearing the fences down to get at her, and once, when he did, the stallion had nearly killed the mare.

“Well, that’s a close approximation to a man and a nymph,” he said, bluntly.
 
Isiilde gave a fearful squeak.
 
“If she wasn’t alluring enough after her Awakening, she becomes unbearably intoxicating.
 
Men forget themselves around her.
 
This was another reason why the Druids were needed.
 
Nymphs had someone to turn to whom they trusted and were helped through this—overpowering time.
 
It is not easy for the nymph either.”

“Is that what’s happening to me?” she whispered, fearfully.
 
“Is that why I feel so different?
 
I don’t know what happened with my fire, I swear.
 
It just—it felt—”
 
Just thinking of what she had done with the coin and her fire made her skin tingle and her heart flutter.
 
“I’ve never felt like that before,” she admitted, and then a sudden thought came to her.
 
She
had
felt it before, in the pleasure house when she touched Marsais.

“It’s part of what’s happening to you, but to be honest, my dear, I’ve never heard of a nymph with such an affinity with fire.
 
There could be more going on, but regardless, without a Druid as your guide your Awakening won’t get any easier.
 
I can’t stress how cautious you must be.”
 
Marsais was not reassuring her in the least.

“How long does an Awakening last?”

“Until a nymph matures,” he sighed, settling down in front of his desk again.

“Which is?”

“When does a nymph do anything, my dear?”
 
His eyes twinkled with mirth before answering his own question.
 
“When she feels like it.”

Isiilde pondered his words until she got bored with thinking.
 
It was too much effort to think about things she only slightly understood to begin with.
 
The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to be sold.

In the meantime, she had other matters with which to distract herself: the Imp.
 
With a forlorn sigh she pulled out the thick book,
Baiting and Binding,
and began reading where she had left off, which was clear to the second page.
 
With every tedious turn of the page she gave another sigh and shifted positions, bemoaning the arduous task.

Marsais was making far better progress on his pile of books, taking numerous notes in the process.
 
The sun was falling when he finally abandoned his desk to stand before the crystal window in quiet meditation.
 
Although she was saddened by the sun’s demise, the hues of dusk were brilliant, and the whole of the study was on fire with a warm, orange glow that reminded her of a furnace.

To her dismay, she hadn’t learned anything that would help her put the Imp back into the flagon (the opening wasn’t even big enough).
 
However, she had learned about different types of Imps, which would have been far more useful if the author had included a sketch of each sub-species.
 
Instead, their diet, cultural structure, and even mating habits (again she would have preferred pictures) was all included.
 
None of which was of any practical use for her needs.

She flipped through the book, searching for the chapter on Baiting.
 
Immediately, she came across a word with which she wasn’t familiar.
 
She opened her mouth to question Marsais, but her question died on her lips.
 
He was still standing in front of the crystal window, hands clasped behind his back, which meant it wasn’t a good time to interrupt.
 
Instead, she took advantage of his distraction.

With a yawn, she stood, and wandered over to his desk, settling herself in the high-backed chair to peruse his notes.
 
Through the years she had learned to decipher his hurried handwriting and chaotic thought process (it was not uncommon for her to decipher his own notes for him).
 
Today, it was mostly notations of names that she didn’t recognize, however, a few stood out: the Kingdom of Vaylin far to the East, along with the jumbled names of Thanes in the South, which often changed from month to month.
 
But one thing was apparent, Marsais was interested in Lachlan’s heritage.
 
He had traced his lineage through the ages.

Many of the names were neither people nor kingdoms, but by the sound of them, artifacts of legend: the Dawn’s Dead Scythe, the draught of Salisthane, and Soisskeli’s Stave.
 
The last was circled.

Her master’s thin silhouette began to pace, and she thought it a good time to interrupt.