A Thread in the Tangle (10 page)

“Well, you’ve been gone forever.
 
Where did you go?”

“I went for a walk to stretch my legs.”

“That must have been some walk.
 
You’ve been gone for six months.”

“I have long legs,” he quipped.

“Marsais.”

“I travelled to Cirye to visit a friend by the name of Alrik.”

“In the Bastardlands?”
 
Isiilde’s eyes widened.
 
“Did the Grawl or Reapers attack you?
 
Isn’t it dangerous beyond the Gates?”

Over two thousand years ago, the Keeper had trapped the Dark One and the Guardians of Morchaint on a landmass that was now known as the Bastardlands; a stretch of wild land, an isle of exile, fenced in by two bottomless chasms sealed with powerful wards.
 
Voidspawn plagued the forests, anarchy ran rampant along the Golden Road, the Dark One’s minions roamed untethered, and civilization huddled behind thick fortifications and massive armies.
 
It was said that all manner of barbarism was committed in the lawless continent.

“Sprite, who’d want to rob a scarecrow?
 
Even a Reaper wouldn’t want to gnaw on his leathery hide.”

“My greatest defense,” Marsais grinned.

“Starving yourself to death isn’t much of a defense,” Oenghus replied, eyeing his gaunt form critically.
 
“Did you forget to eat again?”

“I can never decide whose mothering is worse—yours or Isek’s,” Marsais mused.

With a snarl, Oenghus chucked a wood chip at Marsais who caught it with trifling ease, deftly weaving an enchantment that was too quick to follow.
 
He uncurled his long fingers, revealing a butterfly fluttering on his palm.
 
The nymph nearly fell off her perch with delight.
 
She watched it fly away, half wondering how a man capable of such feats occasionally managed to get lost in his own tower.
 
Unfortunately, there had been truth to Oenghus’ jest.

“Did you cross the channel safely?
 
Have you heard about the new dread pirate?” Isiilde asked around a mouthful of bread.

“Ah, yes, I think the bards have coined him the Bastard Prince.”

“I like the ballads they sing about him,” she admitted and began to sing the latest drunken lullaby about the infamous dread pirate.

“O’er the seas sails the fiercest of men,

Hail the prince and his bastardly swagger!

His eyes are a smolder,

with the lust of a rover

he’ll woo your wives,

and steal your wine,

But still we think him a pleasure!

O’er the seas sails the fiercest of men,

Hail the prince and his bastardly swagger!

Blade gleaming afire,

bright burning and red,

swift as a viper,

he’ll take off your head,

And still he’s a man to admire!”

“I think it’s supposed to be sung a bit grittier, Sprite, by a room full of drunken louts.”

“I was trying to sing like that,” Isiilde said, ears wilting miserably.

“My dear,” sighed Marsais, opening his eyes, “your enchanting voice could make a curse sound like a Harper’s melody.
 
I have sorely missed the sound of it.”
 
At this unexpected compliment, the tips of her ears heated.

“Have you heard the rumors drifting about?” Oenghus asked, slipping his pipe from his belt.

“Hmm, probably not near as many as you have.”

“They say he was the Widow’s Recluse.”
 
Marsais tensed in surprise, eyes narrowing, alert and calculating as a wolf on the hunt.

“You’re joking?”

“Who’s that?” Isiilde asked even as she wondered if she wanted to know.
 
Considering Marsais’ reaction, she likely didn’t, but while nymphs were not known for their courage, they were known for their insatiable curiosity, and not inquiring would go against everything that she was.

“One of the Widow’s Own,” Marsais supplied, automatically assuming his role as her master.
 
“He was a notorious assassin, second only to the Widow herself.
 
Mention of his name made kings shudder.
 
Among some circles, it’s rumored that he was the one who assassinated King Syre of Mearcentia, and the Viscount, Isiig Vauth of Vaylin.
 
He is sometimes referred to as the King’s Bane, or as he was later known, the Widow’s Bane for defying the ancient guild and its mistress.
 
He was hunted, and as legend goes, killed by his own assassins.”

 
Isiilde shivered in fear, huddling against the reassuring crag at her side.
 
Marsais’ grey eyes flickered over to her.
 
“Hmm, but enough about rumor.
 
Has anything of note happen while I’ve been away?”

“The usual bickering nonsense,” Oenghus shrugged, blowing out a harsh breath of smoke.
 
“Nothing Isek hasn’t been able to handle—not that you handle much anyway.
 
If I were you, I’d stay away a bit longer.”

“Don’t give him ideas, Oen.”

“Trust me, the last thing I want him to do is leave again.
 
I’ve had my hands full trying to keep your faerie arse out of trouble.”

“I haven’t gotten into any trouble,” she bristled.

“Oh, really?”
 
Oenghus’ dark beard twitched.
 
“I suppose last week’s incident in the infirmary has already slipped your faerie mind, or the week before that, and do I dare mention the month before last?”
 
Isiilde pursed her lips in thought.
 
Instead of answering, she rose to politely offer Marsais more strawberries, deftly changing the subject.

“Will you come to the festival tomorrow?
 
There’s a troupe who has come all the way from Xaio.
 
There will be a tournament too.
 
Oen spent all his coin again so he’s taking me to sell his brew, and if you come with us then you won’t have to go back to the tower so soon.”

“How could I possibly say no to such sound reasoning?”

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“If you’re going to stay, then I would appreciate it if you bathed first.”

Six

I
N THE NYMPH’S
humble opinion, on such a day, a moment spent indoors was a wasted moment.
 
Isiilde hurried back to her beach to enjoy what little time she had left under the elusive sun.
 
A whimsical tune drifted from her lips as she watched a pair of otters floating beyond the breakers, bobbing up and down, swaying with the kelp forests beneath the sea.

Despite the lovely day, she was distracted, and her gaze kept drifting back to the cottage, impatient for Marsais to finish.
 
If she had known that Oenghus was going to chase her away, then she would have never suggested a bath.
 
Although on further thought, her master did look rather dingy and smelled of fish.
 
After a few impatient minutes of waiting (which in her mind stretched longer than the past six months) the nymph became unbearably bored.

The herd of walruses had reestablished their hierarchy, and the giant mounds of slumbering blubber offered no amusement of which to speak.
 
Disappointed, Isiilde ventured over to a shallow tide pool, carefully avoiding the slimy mussels that clung to the rocks, to balance across the slippery surface, peering beneath the water to the rock bed below.

The starfish weren’t very entertaining and after she had worked up the courage to touch one a few years back, she decided never to try something so foolish again.
 
So presently, she poked around the pool with a stick, wrinkling her nose at the slimy sea life.
 
As much as Isiilde dreamt of traveling, the merekind and their watery abode was a place she had no desire to visit.

A tiny crab skittered out of the rocks, moving with an awkward, lopsided gait caused by a single claw that was disproportionate to the rest of its armored carapace.
 
Isiilde’s ears perked up with curious wonder as she watched it scurry about its business amidst the algae.
 
Whether the crab sensed the looming nymph or its path naturally took it beneath the water, she couldn’t say, but she was sorely disappointed when the awkward creature disappeared beneath a rock.

Isiilde glanced down the beach, brightening when she saw Marsais walking towards her.
 
She quickly hopped from rock to rock and in her eager excitement, slipped.
 
The nymph fell into the tide pool, splitting open a toe in the process.
 
A whimpering oath flew from her lips and she scrambled upright, climbing over the rocks to the safety of the sand, where she stood, shivering and hopping on one foot, clutching her toe in misery.
 
Bright, warm blood covered her big toe and dripped onto the sand, making her lightheaded.

“It’s bleeding, Marsais!”
 
The nymph plopped onto the sand.
 
She was sure nothing had ever been so painful.

“It’s not such an uncommon occurrence as you might think,” Marsais remarked, covering the distance between them with long, quick strides.
 
Now that he was washed and groomed, his long white hair shone in the sun, falling past his shoulders as he crouched at her side.
 
Isiilde lifted up her bloody toe and stuck it in his face.
 
He studied the wound with sharp, grey eyes that always twinkled for her, as if a field of fireflies danced within.

“I’m no expert, but I believe you’ll live, and I have just the cure.”
 
Marsais produced a pristine handkerchief from his travel stitched trousers.
 
Isiilde squirmed as he carefully wrapped it around her toe.

“Thank you,” she whispered, folding her legs to cradle the injured member.

Marsais dropped his worn rucksack next to her and sat on the opposite side.
 
The nymph studied him as he stretched out his long body, propping himself on his elbows to gaze at the sea.
 
She wanted to reach across the leather pack and poke her master, just to assure herself that he was really sitting beside her, but the throbbing ache of her cut was reminder enough that she wasn’t dreaming, so she sniffed at him instead.

“Do I meet with your satisfaction?”
 
Large patches were haphazardly sewn onto his billowing cotton shirt and the lacing hung in tatters, leaving the sleeves loose and dingy.
 
He still looked like a vagabond, but at least the fishy odor was gone, leaving a trace of soap that mingled with his strong, familiar scent.

“Much better,” she beamed.
 
Marsais always made her think of a hot summer day.

“I had some interesting reading to catch up on during my bath.
 
I can’t say I’ve ever been so entertained.”
 
The nymph’s heart sunk as he produced an impressive stack of letters, all stamped with the familiar sigil of the Wise Ones; an open palm bearing a watchful eye.
 
“You’ve been busy.”
 
She had been, and still was, to busy poking at her toe to catch the quirk of his lips and the mirth in his gentle voice.