A Thread in the Tangle (7 page)

Isiilde paused to study her work, quill poised above parchment while her feet kicked lazily in the air.
 
Satisfied, she dipped the quill with supple grace into the inkwell, stirring the black liquid with curious wonder before beginning anew.

“Isiilde!”
 
The sharp tone of her instructor finally penetrated Isiilde’s concentration and she looked up, startled to find every pair of eyes in the amphitheater fixed upon her.
 
Clearly, Yasimina had been trying to get her attention for some time.

“Yes, Wise One?” she inquired, innocently.
 
Yasimina fixed her with a cool stare, a calculated scrutiny that would have made any other student uneasy, however, the nymph was far too distracted by her drawing to notice much of anything.

“If you want to waste your time, then that’s your decision, but I will not tolerate singing during my lecture,” Yasimina reprimanded.

Isiilde blinked, scanning the assembled students in search of the miscreant, but unfortunately, all eyes pointed back to her.
 
“I’m sorry,” she said, hastily.
 
“I didn’t realize I was singing, but I
was
paying attention.”

A wave of murmuring rippled around the amphitheater, including a muffled snort from Zianna, who relished the nymph’s frequent misfortunes.
 
Isiilde ignored the scornful woman and rose fluidly to her feet.

“I was drawing a picture of the realms and their interconnecting domains,” she explained, passing her parchment down the line for Yasimina to examine.
 
Numerous, overlapping circles filled the page, each labeled in the nymph’s flowing script.
 
Their realm was called Fyrsta and it sat like a bloated spider in the center of a spiraling web.

“I wasn’t aware that there were monkeys floating in the Spirit River,” Zianna remarked when the parchment reached her hand.

Laughter filled the amphitheater, mostly from the men.
 
The voluptuous woman smirked at Isiilde before handing her paper to Yasimina.
 
It was a well known fact that Zianna—an exotic, raven-haired beauty with a quick mind and an inordinate talent for the Gift—had had her dark eyes set upon becoming the Archlord’s apprentice.
 
But Marsais had been kind enough to choose Isiilde, a fact for which Zianna had never forgiven her.

Isiilde decided not to comment on Zianna’s remark.
 
No one but the gods knew who was floating in the Spirit River.
 
If men and women had spirits, then why couldn’t monkeys?

“This is an excellent representation, Isiilde,” Yasimina commented.
 
The class fell silent.
 
The Wise One might be firm, but she was also fair.
 
“It’s obvious by the amount of detail in your drawing that you’ve already been lectured on the realms beyond.
 
Perhaps you can answer my next question: why is Fyrsta commonly known as the Realm of Gods?”

Yasimina handed her drawing to the nearest student and the apprentices began passing it around, eagerly sketching the nymph’s representation (minus the monkeys).
 
Isiilde chewed her lip in thought, made a mental note to ask Marsais about monkeys, and then turned her mind to Yasimina’s question.

“Fyrsta is known as the Realm of Gods for three reasons,” she began with a lilting voice that danced around the chamber.
 
“The Sylph blessed Fyrsta and honored it by bestowing us with her Gift; the ability to channel her essence.

“Secondly, inhabitants of Fyrsta live as long as they have the will to do so, barring sickness or violence, and when they die, their spirits return to the ol’ River where they may be reborn again,” Isiilde paused, resisting the urge to point out that this supported her representation of monkeys floating in the Spirit River, however, she didn’t comment, because everyone was staring (probably at her ears), and she did not like being the center of attention.
 
It was tiresome and tedious and she wanted to disappear.

“The last reason is because the Sylph favored this realm above all others.
 
The Goddess of All placed her daughters on Fyrsta, where they were to grow and live, until they were gifted to a god who found favor with the Sylph.”
 
Isiilde liked this reason most of all.

“That’s ridiculous!”
 
Mindle Sorethumb stood on the stone seat, fuming, and although the gnome was tall for his kind, he still managed to be shorter than his seated confederates.

“That is certainly cute, but it’s a childish fantasy,” Zianna cut in before Mindle could further his tirade.
 
“If it makes you feel better, please, go on believing it.
 
But how do you account for the numerous laws regarding your kind?
 
If the Sylph favored nymphs, then they would hardly be bought and sold like horses—granted, expensive horses, but sold nonetheless,” Zianna reasoned, garnering a round of suggestive chuckles.

The older woman’s lush lips curved in spiteful delight.
 
Zianna was never one to pass an opportunity to remind the nymph of her impending enslavement.

“Ask the Archlord if you doubt me,” Isiilde shrugged, feigning an indifference she did not feel.

“I would love to.
 
Unfortunately the Archlord has been gone for some time and only a fool would take the word of a
nymph
.”
 
Zianna might as well have said
filth
for all the disgust contained in that single word.

“A fool answers, but a wise man questions,” Isiilde replied, quoting her master.

“You are the fool, nymph,” growled Lord Kulthin, a formidable, arrogant apprentice who alternated between leering and sneering at the nymph, a trait that his Kilnish master, Shimei Al’eeth, greatly encouraged.

“Nymphs are not human,” Kulthin continued.
 
“They are property, deemed as such by the Blessed Order of Zahra, the Guardian Of All That Is Good.”
 
He paused to touch fingertips reverently to lips.
 
“The Guardians of Iilenshar serve the Sylph.
 
If the Sylph favored nymphs, then I would not be in the market for one.”

Lord Kulthin smiled, a sickly leer that made Isiilde’s skin crawl.
 
The ever tedious chorus of accompanying chuckles rippled through the room.

“I keep forgetting you have to buy all your women, Kulthin” Isiilde taunted, knowing the comment would earn her another reprimand.
 
The other students shifted, attempting to conceal their laughter from the lord, but a few failed, earning them imperious glares.

“How dare you talk to me in that manner, you insolent little—”

“Kulthin!” Yasimina snapped before he could finish the insult.
 
“Both of you will be reported to your masters,” she stated, coolly.

Isiilde stifled a sigh, nodded respectfully to Yasimina, and sat back down.
 
She idly wondered how long it would take Marsais to sort through her letters of reprimand when he returned to the Isle.
 
With as many as she had accumulated already, what was one more?

She was tempted to leave the amphitheater and earn her second reprimand for the day.
 
Unfortunately, she had been skipping her lectures more often than not, and Oenghus had finally scolded her for disappearing, because every time she deviated from her carefully monitored schedule, her protector, along with a number of guards were forced to drop everything and go look for her.

What, she thought, was the point of having guards posted around the castle for her protection, if they could not keep up with her, let alone find her?

Yasimina picked up the lecture where she had left off, using the nymph’s drawing to illustrate the correlation between each of the known realms.
 
Fyrsta was surrounded by Somnial’s Realm: the realm of dreams.
 
The veils were thin between the two realms and it was common for the inhabitants of Fyrsta to drift into Somnial’s domain while they slept.
 
All realms shared a foothold with the realm of dreams and all manner of creatures could be found there; so went the tale of Galvier Longstride, the wanderer whose feet never stopped moving.

Circling Fyrsta like four faithful moons, were the realms of fire, water, wind, and earth: Firˇdum, Aegirˇdum, Aesirˇdum, and Golˇdum.
 
And from those four, stretched innumerable realms, fanning out like a giant web, each sharing a juncture with the next.

The other apprentices could believe her, or not, she didn’t much care what they thought.
 
It was a necessary lesson that she had learned early on in her young life.
 
They could ask the Archlord when he got back, that was of course, if he returned.

She sighed forlornly at the thought of Marsais, absently plucking at an ink stain on her skirt.
 
Her master had been gone nearly six months, time enough for her to turn sixteen.
 
It seemed a lifetime, because her world was brighter when Marsais was about.

In the twelve years since Oenghus had brought her to the Isle, Marsais had become her closest friend, but then she didn’t have many, which made his absence even harder to bear, especially since he hadn’t bothered to say goodbye.

According to Isek Beirnuckle, he woke up one morning and left.
 
No one knew where Marsais had gone, not even Oenghus, however, the Order wasn’t alarmed or inconvenienced by his sudden disappearance.
 
Apparently, Marsais disappeared every few years, leaving no word or indication of when he planned to return.
 
Isiilde missed him terribly and she bleakly wondered if he even remembered her, or worse, had he left because of something she had done?

An invigorating breeze swept through the amphitheater, bringing the salt and sea to the old, musty stone.
 
Torches flickered unsteadily in their sconces, their fires wavering for a heart pounding moment, and then they rallied, hissing themselves back to life with renewed vigor.
 
The chill, ocean air swirled restlessly in its stone cage before discovering the path to freedom, whistling through the narrow windows whence it came.

Isiilde’s eyes, as brilliant as an emerald flame, were drawn like a moth to the nearest torch.
 
The fire’s hypnotic dance soothed her like an old, intimate friend.
 
She longed to sing, coax the flames to life, until they knew no boundary, but for some reason Oenghus had forbade her from singing to her fire while she was in the Wise One’s fortress.

The nymph would have to suffer through the day and wait until she returned to their cottage.
 
In the meantime, she let her imagination drift, dreaming of Firˇdum and its everlasting heat, a realm where the sky rained fire and the sun was rumored to dwell beneath the earth.
 
That, she thought, sounded like bliss, and if the secrets of the Gateways were ever rediscovered, she’d be the very first to step through.

“Isiilde.”
 
Yasimina’s voice finally pulled her from the fire’s allure.
 
Isiilde blinked, glancing around in wonder.
 
The chamber was empty, save Yasimina and herself.
 
She had missed the entire lecture.

“I meant to pay attention,” Isiilde hastened to explain before realizing that her excuse was rather pathetic.
 
“I’m very sorry, Wise One.”

“Your master instructs you well, Isiilde, surprisingly so given his—well yes, at any rate, I’m sure there was nothing new for you to learn,” Yasimina replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.
 
She lifted the hem of her robes, and climbed the large steps, as graceful and elegant as a queen.
 
Isiilde stood expectantly as the Wise One approached, marveling at the way she moved, flowing like water over rocks.
 
Yasimina always made her feel woefully clumsy.

“I wished to have a quick word with you before you go to your next lesson with Mistress Thira,” Yasimina said, gliding to a halt in front of her student.
 
Isiilde’s heart sank, she had forgotten all about Thira’s lesson and even worse, she would be late for the dreadful class.
 
“I should warn you—some knowledge is better left buried.”

Isiilde stared up at the willowy woman in confusion.
 
“I don’t understand,” she finally admitted.

“I don’t doubt your claim for a moment.
 
I’m sure the Archlord told you that nymphs are daughters of the Sylph, however, when it comes to the Blessed Order, it is unwise to call their teachings into question,” Yasimina confided.
 
“As Kulthin pointed out, the Order has the Guardians backing and your master has always shown a blatant disregard for the younger gods.
 
Though he may be foolish, or brave enough to challenge them, I would not be so quick to, especially when he’s not here to support you.”

The cool voice of reason left the nymph even more confused.
 
Unfortunately, Yasimina didn’t offer anything more than that.
 
The Wise One folded her thin hands inside her robes and continued up the stone steps without another word.

Isiilde gathered her supplies, stuffed her parchment inside her knapsack, tossed the strap over her shoulder, and darted up the stairs, perplexed as ever.
 
Why would an esteemed Order, whose sole purpose was to preserve knowledge, be so quick to dismiss the truth of a matter?