A Thread in the Tangle (47 page)

“What?” he growled.

“My head hurts,” she moaned.

“That’s what happens when you drink too much.”

“Can’t I have some of that potion you and Marsais drink all the time?”

Oenghus snorted in answer.

“Why not?” she pouted.

“I had eight hundred years worth of hangovers before I discovered the potion and Marsais had eighteen bloody hundred years worth.
 
I’m not about to give it to you after your first rough night.
 
Maybe you’ll think twice before stealing a man’s grog.
 
Take a bath, drink some water, and let me sleep.”

Isiilde narrowed her eyes, but he was already snoring, which infuriated her even more.
 
She glared mightily at his slumbering mass and then stomped out of the room to do as he suggested.

The bath helped, although her head still throbbed.
 
She stared irritably out the window, watching the silvery drizzle collect on the glass before it slid down in rivulets like cold tears.
 
Isiilde sighed, leaning against the rim of her copper tub.
 
She closed her eyes, soaking up the warmth from the water and the fire that burnt brightly in the large hearth.
 
The heat caressed her exposed skin with a delicious flicker of flame.

Autumn was fast fading.
 
Harsh winter storms were already brewing off the coast, preparing to unleash their fury on the dreary isle.
 
Another summer gone, and the sun had barely graced its shores.
 
She did not know if she could bear another cold winter.
 
Isiilde sunk lower into her steaming bath, letting the heat soothe her frayed nerves.
 
Her gaze drifted to the tray, sitting on a table by her tub.
 
Despite her foul mood, she smiled.

Just as Marsais had promised; a tray fit for a queen had been waiting in front of her bedchamber door.
 
Laden with cheese, grapes, fresh biscuits and honey, but best of all, a bowl of strawberries topped with whipped cream.
 
As if that were not a feast enough, a mug of apple cider sat steaming on a Heat Stone.

She reached for the cider, letting the clay mug warm her hands as she reflected on the previous evening.
 
It was mostly a blur of singing and laughter, however, she remembered one thing very clearly, the feel of Marsais’ lips on the back of her hand; a feather’s light touch that sent warm chills rippling through her body.

She studied the spot where he had kissed her, marveling at how such a little thing could feel so wonderful.
 
Coyle’s kiss had felt like nothing, while Stievin’s touch had been disturbing, but Marsais—his touch had felt like the sun’s caress.

Isiilde tilted her head as a question floated to the forefront of her thoughts.
 
Did he have an Oathbound, did he ever?
 
She remembered the woman in his drawing, and thought the answer, yes, but he never spoke of her, or any other woman.
 
And for that matter, did he have any children, which seemed extremely likely over a course of two thousand years.

Oenghus had fathered a clan in half the time.
 
He had had so many Oathbounds that he had trouble keeping them straight.
 
Of course, he usually took an Oath for a mere twenty years, or less, claiming that was the maximum amount of time a woman could tolerate him.

Isiilde knew that Oenghus had over a hundred children, but only sixteen were still living.
 
She had met a few of them when they came to visit their father.
 
All of them were as tall and loud as he.

Oenghus also entertained women on the Isle, inviting them over to supper and escorting them to various festivals.
 
Isabella, who owned a dairy farm close to their cottage, used to stay over quite a bit, however, once they stopped getting free milk and cheese, Isiilde assumed that they had had a falling out.

Conversely, she had never seen Marsais entertaining a woman, nor had she ever seen him kiss the hand of a Lady, not even the Mearcentian Princess who had once visited the Isle.
 
He obviously went to the pleasure houses, but not for companionship, rather for whatever had been in that pipe.

She tried to imagine Marsais kissing one of the women at
Isadora’s
Closet
, or any for that matter, and found it hard going, even for her voracious imagination.
 
But his touch, and his soft words, tingled up her own spine easily enough—so powerfully that the fire suddenly roared from its hearth, sending a wave of heat rippling into her bedchamber.

Isiilde screamed and scrambled over the side of her tub.
 
Fire raced across the rug, climbing her bed curtains with unnatural fury.
 
In desperation, she batted uselessly at the flames.

Oenghus charged into her bedroom, took stock of the situation, and ripped the curtains down, tossing the burning fabric onto the rug.
 
Angry heat licked at his arms.
 
He gripped one edge of the copper tub, and heaved it over, sending a wave of water crashing onto the fire.
 
The fire sizzled, spitting angrily, until it was robbed of its fury.
 
All that was left was a soaked heap of charred fabric.

“What in the Nine Halls happened?” Oenghus asked of his shivering daughter, but she was numb, staring fearfully at the drenched fireplace.

“I didn’t do anything, Oen.
 
I swear it.
 
The fire—it just exploded.”
 
Even as the words left her trembling lips, she knew the excuse sounded pathetic, but she didn’t have anything else to offer.
 
Isiilde fully expected to receive another stern lecture, or some further punishment, but instead, Oenghus wrapped her in a robe and pulled her into a protective embrace.

“It’s all right, Sprite,” he uttered as softly as his voice permitted.

“I wasn’t even singing to it!”
 
She sobbed against his broad chest.

“There’s no harm done,” he soothed.
 
“Everything can be replaced.”
 
But he was wrong, there was harm done, Oenghus’ hands and forearms were red with blisters from the fire’s touch.
 
The sight of his arms drove her to uncontrollable tears.
 
Oenghus glanced nervously towards the fireplace before scooping her up and carrying her out of the room.

The sound of his daughter’s laughter was bliss, however, to hear her weep was a heart wrenching affair that could drag a man into the darkest depths of despair.
 
It was said that the whole of the earth groaned, and all men took note when a nymph wept.
 
Oenghus wasn’t sure about all that, but one thing was certain, he had never become accustomed to his daughter’s tears, nor would he ever.
 
For now, he could only clutch her frail body and pray to the Sylph for help, because he had no idea what was happening to her.

Twenty-six

T
HIS
HABIT
OF
visiting the infirmary was becoming tiresome.
 
And this time, the visit was worse than all the others combined, because she wasn’t the one injured.
 
As Isiilde watched Morigan bandage Oenghus’ arms, she began to feel better.
 
The burns weren’t serious, at least nothing that one of the healer’s famous salves couldn’t mend.
 
It would have been easier to use the Gift to heal his wounds, but healing took a lot from both the body of the healer and the patient, demanding rest from the patient afterwards.

Currently, there were too many patients who required healing.
 
Oenghus could hardly ignore them and sleep his own healing off in one of the infirmary beds.

The Imp had been very busy.
 
And as Isiilde scanned the victims of his pranks, she couldn’t help but notice that no matter what trick the fiend had played, each had had at least one tooth ripped out.
 
She remembered its haphazard grin of mismatched teeth along with the reference to fetishes in her book, and an idea began to form in her mind, one that brightened by the second, until it blossomed into a plan.

“Now don’t overdue yourself, Oen.
 
Even you have limits,” Morigan warned as she finished tying his bandages.
 
She slapped his knee playfully, and then bustled off like a mother hen to tend to her next charge.

“See, nothing to worry about, Sprite.”

“I’m so sorry, Oen.”
 
She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and planted a kiss on his bearded cheek.

“Will you do something for me?” he asked, squeezing her back.

“Hmm.”

“Stay around here for a bit—at least until your lesson with that old dog, and a smile might make me feel better.”
 
She smiled for him, but her heart was heavy with concern.

“Whatever you wish, Oen, it looks like you could use some help here.”

Healers of the Order were renown, and highly sought after by nobles and common folk alike.
 
Even at the best of times there was an endless stream of sick and injured.
 
Countless traveled from the farthest reaches of the realm to be healed on the Isle.
 
And what with the Imp’s attacks, the regiment of Wise Ones whom Morigan commanded had been pushed to their limits.
 
Unfortunately, Isiilde could only help in a limited capacity, since her only attempt at healing had ended with a helpless pigeon bursting into flames.
 
However, an extra pair of hands was always appreciated.

As the day wore on, her feet began to hurt and her arms were shaking from the heavy trays that she carried from one bed to the next.
 
Despite her fatigue, she did not utter a word of complaint, because the wounded were in far worse shape, especially the guard who Oenghus was currently healing.
 
Isiilde wrinkled her nose and tried not to look at his ruined flesh.

The Imp had stolen a vial of acid and doused the guard with it while he was on duty.
 
His mail shirt had melted, destroying the padding underneath and burning a good portion of his torso.
 
Oenghus was not having an easy time separating flesh from steel.

Hands that could crush a man’s skull were laid ever so gently on the soldier’s wounds.
 
Words of power, of healing, and renewal flew softly from Oenghus’ lips while an apprentice scraped the melted metal off the ruined flesh.

Sweat beaded on Oen’s brow, moistening his beard, and pain was etched upon his face; a mirror of the moaning soldier beneath his hands.
 
It took a great deal of sacrifice to heal, because in doing so, the healer took the injured’s pain upon himself.
 
Wielding the Gift in such a manner took tremendous concentration.
 
Wounds like this would send a weaker Wise One reeling in shock.
 
At best, the healer wouldn’t be able to tap into the Gift, and at worst, he’d lose consciousness, which could result in ‘ill occurrences’.

Isiilde felt a pang of guilt as the soldier writhed on the bed.
 
She should have never opened the flagon

Oenghus broke the connection and took his hands from the soldier, bracing himself on the bed, ill with exhaustion.
 
The wounds weren’t quite healed, but the foreign metal had been successfully removed from the flesh.