A Thread in the Tangle (9 page)

Thira fussed over Crumpet, who was alive and snoring blissfully, and then met Oenghus’ unwavering gaze with equal distaste.
 
“I won’t let this go unpunished,” she swore harshly.

“You will,” Oenghus demanded.
 
“Or I’ll toss that rat off the highest tower and then you can try to kick my arse out.”

“I’d see you in the arena before bothering with such a nicety.”

If the infirmary had been still before, it was now as silent and chilling as a grave.
 
The breath froze in the audience’s lungs.
 
No one questioned Thira’s threat or Oenghus’ eagerness to answer such a challenge, but what was more, the odds in such a duel would be dead even.

“Don’t tempt me, hag,” Oenghus purred with a twitch of his beard.

“Both of you stop it this instant,” Morigan quickly interceded.
 
“Thira, I’ll ask you to take your leave, and tend to your companion.
 
He’ll need rest and a warm place to recover.
 
You should be grateful Oenghus was here, because there isn’t another healer capable of performing a healing of that magnitude.”

If this was intended to soothe Thira, then it failed miserably, because her cool gaze didn’t waver for a tense minute.
 
At long last the fear inspiring Mistress of Novices turned, and stalked out of the infirmary.

“The woman has some bollocks, I’ll give her that,” Oenghus murmured with grudging respect.
 
Isiilde peeked from the safety of Morigan’s arms.

“Did you do that on purpose, child?” Morigan inquired, firmly.
 
The nymph shook her head.

“Wouldn’t matter if you did, Sprite, truth be told, I was hoping you’d do it long before this.”

“I swear—I didn’t mean to, Oen.
 
I don’t know what happened.
 
Crumpet bit me twice,” she paused to point at her punctured boot, “and then a spark from the torch fell in a cauldron, started a fire, and then the cauldron fell on top of Crumpet.”

Morigan appeared dubious.
 
Unfortunately, this was not the first time the nymph had come in with a similar story.

“I can handle the load here,” the healer sighed.
 
“Take the rest of the day off and see to her bite, Oen.
 
And Isiilde, if I were you, I’d stay away from the castle unless you’re with Oenghus.”
 
Morigan gave the nymph one last hug before bustling off to tend to her patients.
 
Isiilde went straight to her guardian, craning her neck up to meet his gaze with shimmering eyes.

“I swear it, Oen, on my mother’s grave,” she pleaded.
 
“I didn’t mean to, and I’m so sorry I’ve caused you more trouble.”

“It’s not the first time me and Thira have gone at it.
 
We were at each other’s throats long before you came along—we go way back, her and me.
 
Besides, haven’t you ever heard, trouble follows a faerie?”
 
He gave her a wink and a grin, hugging her head to his gut with a massive hand.
 
“Come on, Sprite, let me have a look at that bite, and then we’ll get you home before you keel over.”

Five

T
HE
SAND
WAS
coarse against the nymph’s silken flesh, her body melted into its contours, and her bones soaked in the offered heat, storing the memory of bliss for the long winter to come.
 
Her fingers and toes curled with the hypnotic rhythm of the lazy tide, and Isiilde sighed, content, at peace, opening her eyes to an unabashed sun.
 
It was in a rare mood today.
 
The sun was victorious for the first, and probably the last day of the year, burning back the misty battlements of the isle, exposing the ancient stone and thick forests.

She purred with languid pleasure and rose to her elbows, squinting at the endless waters.
 
A small army of little lug sailed fishing boats drifted off shore.
 
Sails of white linen hung limp on their rigs.

On a day as calm as this, she was surprised the boats were staying so close to shore—not that they seemed very eager to be about their business.
 
The salty fishermen were no more immune to the effects of the sweltering heat than Isiilde, and it had lulled them into a slothful daze.
 
Their nets hung against the tiny hulls, mostly ignored and rarely gathered up.

A throaty bark disturbed the ebbing tide.
 
Isiilde turned a lazy eye on a herd of walruses who shared her beach.
 
Two of the bulls were arguing over a swath of sand, completely oblivious to the fact that a mile of vacant beach stretched in either direction.
 
Their barking grated on her sensitive ears and she pressed her lips together while they settled their posturing conflict.

Earlier in the day, when she had tried to pet one of their pups, they had charged after her with throaty bellows and bared molars.
 
She was still annoyed with the tiresome beasts.
 
In her opinion, they were being rude—she had only wanted to pet the fuzzy white pup.

“Put some clothes on, Isiilde!”
 
Another, familiar bark interrupted her peace, and Isiilde rolled onto her stomach, sweeping ears twitching in irritation, as she sought out the source of the order.
 
Oenghus stood by the wood pile of their cottage, and although a significant amount of distance separated them, she could feel his disapproval by the way his hands were planted firmly on his kilted hips.
 
But he wasn’t alone—a rangy vagabond stood in his shadow.
 
Her irritation was forgotten in a breathless moment.

“Marsais,” she breathed, hopping to her feet.

“Not without your bloody clothes!” Oenghus bellowed his exasperation over the grassy dunes.
 
Isiilde cast about, searching for her wrap, and found it laying some paces down the beach in a sandy heap.
 
She wound it about her waist, tucked it in place, and darted towards the cottage as flitting and graceful as a hummingbird.

The day had been perfect a moment before, and now it was exquisite.
 
If the Feast of Fools and the Sylph’s Fortnight were put together—although amusing—it couldn’t have excited her more.
 
The Archlord of the Isle, her master and friend, had finally returned.
 
The nymph’s feet barely touched the sand as she raced across the beach, over the dunes, and across the tall grass to stand before Marsais, brimming with pure, simple delight.

“Hello, my dear,” Marsais greeted, gracious and gentle as the sun’s caress.
 
His smile warmed her from the inside out, and as usual, she had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him, although it was far more difficult than usual considering how long he’d been absent.

The Archlord did not give hugs, at least to her knowledge, but for her alone he stepped back and favored her with a flourishing bow.
 
Despite his tattered white hair and travel worn clothes, he seemed as elegant as a court minstrel.

Isiilde returned his bow with a bobbing curtsy and a large, stupid grin, staring up at him in disbelief.
 
A myriad of questions warred on the tip of her tongue, but the tumult of emotion rolling in her gut robbed her of the ability to articulate any of them.

“How many times have I told you to keep your blasted clothes on?”
 
Oenghus brought her back to reality with a weighty gaze.

“No one else was on the beach, Oen,” she defended.
 
Marsais’ grey eyes glittered down at her in amusement.

“What do you call the fleet of fishing boats leering offshore?” Oenghus growled.

“They weren’t leering—they’re fishing.”
 
She narrowed her eyes up at him.
 
“Are we going to offer Marsais some food?”

“Not dressed like that.
 
Get inside and get something presentable on.
 
A loincloth doesn’t constitute clothing.”

“I’m dressed the same as you,” she pointed out.

“I’m not a bloody woman,” he bit back.
 
Isiilde huffed at the hulking giant and stomped inside.
 
It was far too beautiful a day to be hampered by the confines of cloth.
 
Besides, her fiery curls more than covered her breasts.
 
All the same, her guardian might send Marsais away if she didn’t put something on.

A ball of fuzzy black was curled on top of her sheepskin blanket.
 
Isiilde softened her footsteps the instant she caught sight of Mousebane sleeping on her bed.
 
Taking care not to interrupt the napping feline, she searched through the small chest at the foot of her bed as quietly as an irritated nymph could manage.
 
Isiilde muttered something rude as she rifled through her belongings, discovering that everything she owned was suited for cold weather.
 
Her oath disturbed Mousebane, and a single green eye cracked open to regard her with feline annoyance.

“You should be outside, you lazy cat,” she replied to his silent disdain, and finally settled her fashion dilemma by wrapping a cotton scarf around her breasts.
 
After all, it was only Marsais, and she didn’t have a whole lot to cover.
 
She threw a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and the last of her strawberries into a basket before hurrying outside.

“—quiet for the most part.
 
Everyone’s high strung, especially along the Golden Road.
 
The lack of an enemy has them nervous, so they’ve taken to fighting each other,” Marsais was saying as he sat, perched on the edge of a stump that Oenghus had been meaning to remove for the past two years.

“The Ardmoor’d aren’t even out and about?” Oenghus asked.
 
He scanned the nymph with disapproval as she emerged, but he did not order her back inside to change her attire.

“Oh, there have been raids on the outlying settlements and towns, but nothing organized.
 
Alrik seemed to be under the impression that they were all on holiday,” Marsais replied with thoughtful amusement.

“Aye, well Alrik’s even more of a crazed bastard than you are.”

“Oen.”
 
The nymph glared at her guardian, offering the basket to Marsais to make amends for the rude comment.

“Thank you, my dear.”
 
Marsais inclined his head, reaching in to break off a chunk of bread and cheese.

“You can have some strawberries,” she offered, generously.
 
Marsais plucked one of her favorite berries from the basket, and then his grey eyes sharpened on her for the first time.

“You look different, Isiilde,” he said, sounding puzzled by his own observation.

“I put a shirt on.”

“Hmm.”
 
Marsais stroked his braided goatee in thought.
 
She offered the basket to Oenghus, batting his hand away from her strawberries.

“You take too many,” Isiilde glared at the giant, bullying him aside to make room for her on a the latest deadfall destined for kindling.
 
She sat down, used Oenghus for an armrest and turned her attention back to Marsais.
 
“I turned sixteen while you were away.”

“Already?”
 
Concern spread over the Archlord’s weathered features.