A Thread in the Tangle (28 page)

“Please don’t tell anyone, Morigan—please,” she begged.
 
“Oen is bound by honor, so he must tell the Emperor and then I’ll be sold.”
 
Tears streamed from the corner of her eyes, falling freely into the lush, red curls framing her face.

“Hush, child.”
 
Morigan sat on the edge of her bed, wiping the nymph’s tears.
 
“Just you calm down.
 
I won’t say a thing, but I think it’s foolish keeping secrets from him.”

“I don’t want to be sold,” she whispered.

“No, I don’t imagine you do.”
 
Morigan smiled sadly, smoothing damp curls away from her face as she continued with words of quiet wisdom, “There’s worse ways to end up.
 
Kambe and Nuthaan are unique, but for the vast majority of the realm, women have little say in matters.”

“This isn’t Kiln, Morigan.”

“No, it’s not, and it doesn’t make it right, but even in Kiln—there’s still laughter and joy to be found.”

“I am to be sold,” the nymph repeated, anger flashing across her emerald eyes, but her fury was quickly smothered beneath a stream of cold tears.

“Yes, but you’ll still have your heart and your head.
 
Both Oenghus and Marsais have gone to great lengths to make sure there’s plenty in there to last you a lifetime.
 
It’s not the end of the world, Isiilde, it’s no reason to try to end your life.”

“I wasn’t trying.”

“Then what happened?”

“I discovered that I had come of age and I was scared—nothing more.
 
I don’t know what happened.”
 
It was the truth, plain and simple, and it was all she had.

“It’s your choice what you tell him, but Isiilde—” Morigan sighed wearily, and then squared her shoulders, “You destroyed Oen’s distillery and if you give him the same excuse that you always give him, then it’s only gonna make things worse.”

“I’m not going to lie to him.
 
He can lock me in a dungeon if he likes, but I won’t tell him.”
 
Strength lay in her voice, and her battered body trembled with conviction.

“Oh, child, it won’t come to that.
 
Oen loves you with all his heart, and he has a fair-sized one, though he won’t admit it.
 
All you need to worry about right now is regaining your strength.”

They spoke no more on the matter as Morigan finished dressing Isiilde’s wounds—something the nymph would have preferred to sleep through considering the pain involved.
 
After swallowing a few spoonfuls of warm broth, she let the soft mattress claim her hollow body, sinking into its feathers and spiraling into a dreamless slumber.

❧

The following day found her stronger, recovered enough to sit upright, propped against a mountain of plush pillows.
 
Greta sat by her bedside, feeding her a tasteless broth at a tedious rate considering the demands of her stomach.
 
But it hurt to move, so she remained at the healer’s overcautious mercy.

A bouquet of wild flowers sat cheerfully on her bedside table.
 
It was the only bright spot in the room, offering a distraction from the solemn, grey healer and her gruel.
 
Marsais had visited while she slept, and along with the sunburst of color, he had rescued his first gift: the Orb of Memories that she had fallen asleep with so many nights before.
 
There wasn’t (she was happy to note) a scratch on its rune-etched surface.

The door opened and Oenghus ducked beneath the lintel, straightening on the other side to fill the room with his massive presence.
 
He had been asleep in the chair beside her bed when she awoke earlier in the morning, but before he could lecture her, Morigan had ushered him out to see to Isiilde’s personal needs.

“You’re looking brighter, Sprite.”
 
He smiled down at her, a rare, easy smile that curved his lips with affection and smoothed the creases of worry.
 
“I’ll take over, Greta, thank you.”
 
The attendant nodded, handed him the bowl of broth and left without complaint.

“You look better too.”

“Aye, but it’s not me I’ve been worried about.”
 
He studied her carefully and she knew the look in his eyes well.
 
Here it comes, she thought.
 
“What happened, Isiilde?”

“I don’t know, Oen.”
 
The moment the words left her lips, his eyes narrowed, and she was sure he was trying to read her mind.

“You’re a poor liar, Isiilde Jaal’Yasine,” he stated, flatly.
 
“You always have been.”
 
The silence deepened, his eyes sharpened, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze.
 
Finally he spoke, and she was able to breathe again.
 
“I’m not going to get upset if you tell me the truth—no matter what it might be, but I bloody well want the
truth
.”

“The room caught on fire—it just exploded, Oen.
 
I wasn’t even singing to it.”

“A few smoldering coals just exploded?”
 
Isiilde did not like Oen’s low, rumbling tone.
 
Oenghus Saevaldr meant business when he was quiet.
 
“That’s always your excuse, girl.
 
The nursery, the gardens, the banquet, Miera Malzeen—”

“That wasn’t my fault, Oen,” Isiilde defended.
 
“Mistress Malzeen was the teacher, and
she
Linked with me.
 
How was I to know she’d be burned to a crisp?”

Over two years had passed since the accident, and she still felt a queasy twist of remorse.
 
The practice of Linking was a routine matter, where one acted as a vessel for the Gift while the other controlled the weave.
 
It was supposed to have been a safe way for a novice to sense the Gift for the first time, only with Isiilde, things had gone terribly wrong.
 
Miera Malzeen had lit up like a torch.
 
No one could explain what had happened and no one had attempted to Link with Isiilde since, not even Marsais.

“Aye, well, I’ll give you that,” Oenghus relented grudgingly before continuing, “There’s still the library, Flappers,
Crumpet
, and that’s not even counting the suspicious amount of charred objects that I’ve found laying about our property through the years.”

“I didn’t know you were keeping count,” she said, sullenly, ears wilting, however, he was unaffected by the pathetic sight through long exposure and forged on.

“No, Isiilde.
 
I’m not gonna take that bloody excuse again.
 
It’s time you started taking responsibility for the destruction you cause, faerie or no.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oenghus blinked, startled by the meekness in her voice.
 
He looked confused, even a little worried, but cleared his throat and continued gruffly, “So out with it, what happened?”

This time, since she did not have any other excuse to give, she kept her lips pressed together.
 
Oenghus directed his unwavering gaze on her.
 
She blinked innocently back, contenting herself by counting the grey hairs in his beard.
 
Instead of lightly peppered, as it had been in her childhood, he now had jagged streaks of grey interspersed with the black.

Oenghus ground his teeth, and Isiilde chewed on her lower lip, idly wondering why his hair would begin to grey now, more then eight-hundred years into his life.

Oenghus was the first to break their silent battle of wills.
 
“You want to know what I think happened?”
 
She nodded eagerly.
 
“I think you were angry with me and you did this out of spite.”
 
Isiilde’s mouth fell open, caught off guard by the preposterous accusation, but she had backed herself into a corner, and held no hope of wiggling out of it.

“If you say so,” she whispered.

“Ah, bollocks,” he snapped and stood up, turning his broad back to her to take ten, very deep breaths.
 
When he turned to face her again, he was as impassive as an Inquisitor.

“When you are well, you’ll help me rebuild the cottage that you destroyed—stone by bloody stone.
 
We’re gonna start at sunup, and every spare moment you have is going to be spent rebuilding our cottage until its either done, or you tell me what happened.
 
I don’t want to hear a word of complaint either, that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s it?
 
No argument?
 
You’re not even going to try to wheedle your way out of it?”

She tilted her head, feeling very confused.
 
“You just said I shouldn’t complain—did you want me to?”
 
Oenghus tugged on his dark beard and grumbled something rude under his breath about daughters.

“I’m sorry about your distillery and workshop.”
 
All of his equipment for brewing and his stock of potions had been stored in the barn.
 
Oenghus shrugged his massive shoulders, settling on the edge of her bed, too puzzled by Isiilde’s silent surrender to notice the alarming groan of wood as it strained to support his weight.

“They can be replaced.
 
You can’t, so I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Is Mousebane—” she started to ask, but Oenghus was already shaking his head.

“Marsais went back to look for him.
 
There’s nothing left ‘cept the horses.”

“Even the sheep?” Isiilde asked, twisting her blanket between her hands in horror.

“They were in the barn.
 
Nothing at all left of them, not even for the crows.”

“What are we going to do, Oen?”
 
Without his distillery and workshop, he had no way of making coin that she knew of unless he started charging people for his healing.
 
To say nothing of their lack of housing, although she supposed he’d be fine with sleeping on the ground.

“Don’t worry about it, Sprite.
 
Marsais has already offered us a place in his tower until we can rebuild.”
 
She brightened at this bit of news.

“Where is he?”

“He’s been in council since he got back.
 
Right now he’s trying to keep your faerie arse in this Order after your latest—combustion.
 
You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“Thank you for saving me, again.”

“By the Sylph, what am I going to do with you, girl?”
 
Massive arms encircled her, and she sunk eagerly against his gentle strength, clinging to the moment as if it were her last, because the nymph was all too conscious of the future.
 
She knew there were precious few grains of freedom left in the top of her hourglass.

Sixteen

A
LONE
SEAGULL
circled the fishing town of Coven, wings outstretched, feathers smoothed by the ocean’s breeze.
 
The bird had taken advantage of the lull in the storm, drifting through the cold drizzle of the day in search of its next meal to pilfer from the markets below.

The bird of white on a backdrop of grey was as conspicuous in the sky as the slip of green moving through the mud splattered streets of Coven below, neither girl, nor woman, but something more.
 
She was as unfettered as the bird overhead to the townsfolk, drifting like a dream through their drab little fishing town.