A Thread in the Tangle (17 page)

“That was—certainly better,” Marsais encouraged.

“Oh!” Isiilde exclaimed, looking up with a sheepish smile.
 
“It was?”

“You kept the pebble in the air for nearly five-seconds, my dear.
 
Your attention span has moved up an entire second.
 
By a nymph’s standard that is monumental.”
 
Isiilde brightened at his compliment.
 
“But I think it’d be exceedingly unwise to try levitating yourself until you can sustain the weave for a full ten-seconds.”

“How about six?” she bartered.

“Fine, but only if I’m around
and
watching,” he quickly added.
 
Isiilde pondered this for a moment, and then decided that she could live with his terms, although she doubted she would attempt the weave again.
 
Those five-seconds had been exhausting.

When the barrels were unloaded, Sir Goodfellow offered to keep the horses and wagon at his stables while they were in town.
 
And a very skittish stableman returned to take the horses with admirable efficiency.

Without the wagon, their progress through the city was considerably faster, because the crowd parted like water flowing around a crag when Oenghus Saevaldr walked down the streets.
 
Men avoided the powerful Nuthaanian while women stopped to admire his stride.

Isiilde held Oenghus’ right hand and Marsais walked some paces behind, gawking at his surroundings like a country boy attending his first festival.
 
Hopefully he wouldn’t wander off and get lost.

She eyed the keg on Oenghus’ shoulder.
 
“I thought you and Sir Goodfellow had an agreement to sell your ale only to the Goblet?”
 
Oenghus released her hand to take the pipe from his mouth.

“Aye, we do, but this isn’t my Dragon’s Ale and I’m not selling it.
 
It’s for Brinehilde at the orphanage.
 
A drop of this will keep the little ones warm through the winter.”

“Did you save some for me?” she asked, brightening.

“Nothing manages to keep you warm, Sprite.”

“You do a fair job, but your potion helps too.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to make some more for you,” he said smiling down at her.

Aside from disorder, there was little rhyme or reason to the streets of Drivel.
 
Taverns, shops, and houses had sprouted like weeds along the slice of coastland and the roads were left to fend for themselves.

 
Isiilde and Marsais (more or less) followed Oenghus through the maze of streets towards the fishing district, which was a ramshackle assortment of shoddily constructed shacks along the less desirable mudflats.
 
The dwellings were drab and faded and the only color decorating the area was dropped by the seagulls circling overhead.
 
It reeked of rotting fish guts, filth, and stagnant water, mingling freely with the mud beneath rotting planks.
 
The district smelled like a giant privy pit.

Isiilde covered her nose with a scented handkerchief and tried not to dwell on what they were trudging through.
 
The trenches along the muck laden road were overflowing with the results of too many people packed into one place.

“What in the gods name is that fool doing with his taxes?” Marsais muttered under his breath, surveying the streets with concern.

“I hear the bastard erected a statue of himself,” Oenghus offered with goading cheer.
 
Marsais’ reply was cut short by three muck covered children who charged out of an alley, caught sight of Oenghus, and raced towards him shouting excited greetings.

“How’s your mum doing with the wee ones?” Oenghus asked when they had calmed down enough to stand still.
 
They craned their necks, grinning up at their giant friend.

“Well, enough, sir,” they answered as one.
 
The three boys were so filthy that it was difficult to see through the grime to the faces beneath, but their eyes were bright and alive.

Oenghus snorted, and reached into his pouch before dropping three gold crowns into the tallest boy’s hands.
 
“You give that to your mum, Zoshi, or I’ll come after the lot of you.”
 
The three boys stared wide-eyed and dumbfounded at the large coins in their brother’s hand.
 
Overcome with emotion, the smallest stepped forward and hugged Oenghus’ leg.

“Bah, Tuck,” Oenghus grimaced, looking embarrassed by the boy’s gratitude, but that didn’t stop him from reaching down to pat the boy on the back.
 
“Go on, get out of here and find some trouble.”
 
Oenghus watched them scatter, gruffly tugging on his beard before glancing at Marsais.

“The problem is, Scarecrow, most of the people in this quarter are squatters.
 
Take those three runts: their father died at sea, leaving their mother pregnant with twins.
 
Now she’s an honorable lass, and manages to scrape by, but if Count Regald decided to put in proper roads and drains, they’d be run out with nothing but the rags on their backs.
 
It’s mostly sailors’ women and their bastards—a good many who’ve never seen their father.
 
Best to leave it as it is.
 
There’s no other place for them to go.”

“You expect this sort of thing in the Bastardlands, but not on the Isle.
 
I don’t remember it being this bad.”

“It’s gotten worse in the last few years.”

“Hmm, remind me to have a word with Count Regald,” Marsais remarked, watching a drunken sailor stagger down a narrow lane.
 
He trailed off, frowning deeply, and then shook himself, making a conscious effort to tear his eyes from the alley.
 
But what he saw was for his mind alone, as fragmented and useless as a shattered hourglass.

Nine

T
HE
ONLY
ORPHANAGE
in Drivel also happened to be the only stone building in the dilapidated fishing district.
 
Some thoughtful soul had donated the large manor for such a use.
 
It was run by Brinehilde, a priestess of the Sylph, who always made Isiilde feel more than welcome.
 
Unlike the rest of the district, it was built on good, solid ground.
 
And on the banks of a small pond in the courtyard’s center, sheltered beneath a sprawling oak, was a shrine to the Sylph.

Shrines dedicated to the Sylph were always outside.
 
And while they lacked the formality of the Blessed Order, Oenghus had told her that what mattered most to the Goddess of All was how one lived their life, not the temples where they worshipped.

Oenghus pounded on the sturdy front door of the orphanage.
 
While they waited for an answer, Isiilde pulled her cloak around her, bracing against the cold ocean breeze.

“Before I forget,” Oenghus murmured, rummaging through his pouch.
 
He dropped fifteen silver coins and an entire crown into her hand.
 
“You should be able to get a dress with that, right?”
 
Isiilde nodded with an eager grin.

“Thank you.”
 
She tucked the coins safely into her own purse.
 
Then the metal slat slid back on the door and a suspicious green eye studied the three visitors.

“Why if it isn’t a bloody Saevaldr!” a booming voice echoed from within.
 
The door opened, revealing a square-jawed Nuthaanian woman who was as tall as Marsais and as sturdy as Oenghus.
 
A chubby cheeked infant sat on her hip, happily tugging her long red braid.

“Where’ve ya been, you bastard?”
 
She threw an arm around Oenghus and planted a kiss on his lips before motioning them through the door.
 
Warmth embraced them.

“The usual,” Oenghus answered.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard about
that
incident,” Brinehilde said.
 
“Thought you’d still be locked up.
 
Wipe your feet you big oaf!”
 
Isiilde stifled a giggle.
 
Brinehilde was the only one who talked to Oenghus Saevaldr as if he were a gangly boy.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat and quickly obeyed, lowering the keg onto the only piece of furniture in the entrance hall: a long wooden bench, crafted from sun bleached driftwood.
 
Brinehilde’s green eyes widened when she caught sight of the little barrel.

“Is that an entire keg of your cold ward potion?”

“Aye, the best I could brew.”

“May the Sylph bless you.”

“This is for the children.”
 
Oenghus handed her half of his recent earnings, and then unhooked the flagon that was swinging from his belt.
 
“And this is for you.”

“Oh, curse you, Oen,” Brinehilde swore, but considering the tears shimmering in her eyes, it wasn’t a very sincere threat.
 
“Here, lass, hold the wee one so I can give this lout a proper thanks.”
 
Brinehilde dumped the infant into Isiilde’s arms.
 
The chubby infant was every bit as heavy as he appeared.

Having seen a number of women kiss Oenghus before, Isiilde paid them no mind.
 
She began bouncing the baby while humming a merry tune.
 
Infants always went straight for her ears, as this one did now, but she didn’t mind, especially when he started drooling with infantile delight.

“I think he has your nose, Marsais,” Isiilde said, turning towards her master.

“O, the poor boy, he won’t grow into it for near a century.”
 
Marsais leaned down to study the chubby face.
 
The baby quickly abandoned her ear, grabbing Marsais’ hair.

“Where’s my manners?” Brinehilde exclaimed when she had finished thanking Oenghus properly.

“Isiilde—” the priestess began, but faltered when she looked at the nymph for the first time.
 
Isiilde froze, wondering if she had done something wrong.
 
“By the Sylph,” Brinehilde whispered in surprise.
 
“You look a proper woman and beautiful at that, but I’m sure you hear it enough so I won’t fill your head up anymore than it already is.”

Actually, Isiilde rarely received such compliments.
 
Oenghus was more likely to call her sprite or carrot top, and as far as she could tell, Marsais wouldn’t have noticed if the Sylph herself walked through a room.
 
Brinehilde extracted herself from Oenghus’ arms and brushed her lips across the nymph’s forehead in greeting and blessing.

“Your friend here looks like he could use a warm meal,” the priestess said, jerking her chin towards Marsais, who appeared more vagabond than Archlord, with his patched clothes and long hair, which was badly in need of a trim.
 
“I have warm stew—” Brinehilde trailed off, fishing for a name, but the object of her attention was staring at the ceiling, entranced by the interconnecting rafters.

“This is Marsais,” Isiilde supplied.

“Is he—a bit touched in the head then?” Brinehilde asked.
 
Oenghus erupted with laughter.

“He’s the bloody Archlord, Hilde,” Oenghus explained when he could draw breath.

“That’s nothing to jest about, you ill-mannered brute.”
 
Brinehilde huffed with exasperation, slapping Oenghus’ chest so hard it echoed in the empty chamber.
 
Isiilde started to correct the priestess, but Oenghus shrugged and took the baby from her.