A Thread in the Tangle (49 page)

 
The nymph’s mouth had fallen open at some point, and she clicked it shut.
 
What in all the realms was going on?
 
It was common for emissaries to visit the Isle, but never so many at once.

Isiilde thought that it must have to do with events unfolding in the South.
 
It seemed all the kingdoms had either something to gain, or lose, if the southern coast organized itself.
 
At any rate, Marsais was sure to hold audience with them, so she’d find out soon enough.
 
Meanwhile, she had other matters to attend to, and she was determined to make up for her mistake by catching the troublesome Imp.

Rallying her strength, she finished the long trek up the stairs and knocked on the door at the top of the landing.
 
It opened, revealing the copper hued face of Rashk.
 
Her slitted eyes softened when she saw the nymph and she brandished her pointed teeth in greeting.

“Sorry to bother you,” Isiilde said when she saw the greasy spots on the Rahuatl’s fingers.
 
Her fingertips appeared naked without her caps and the long, curving claws that her people favored.
 
Clearly, she had caught Rashk in the middle of a project.

“You are always welcome, fierce one.
 
I was just tinkering.
 
The sun is hidden and Mother Gyrrn sleeps.”
 
Rashk urged her in and closed the door, slinking back to her worktable with a sway of wide hips.

Mother Gyrrn was the Rahuatl’s mother Goddess who was often represented as a wild, bronzed woman with ten breasts, four arms, pointed teeth, wielding an array of deadly weapons.
 
Isiilde was not sure why Gyrrn’s slumber was of significance, but she had learned not to inquire too deeply about the Rahuatl Goddess, because the answers always made her ill.

Rashk’s workshop was eternally interesting.
 
She was a collector of oddities, and had been amassing a hoard of unlikely treasure for years.
 
A stunning collection of exotic feathers were displayed on the wall; banners hung from the rafters, some from thriving kingdoms, some from kingdoms long buried; insects hummed in the bottom of glass jars, and a mound of bleached skulls from creatures that she could not identify were piled in a far corner.

“What are you working on?”
 
A sleek steel helm sat enticingly on the table, along with a pile of gems that were scattered around a bowl, which appeared to contain curdled blood.

“A paladin of Zahra has contracted my services.
 
It’s a helm that will help her identify those tainted by the Void.
 
Perhaps she won’t dam the river to catch one fish when this is finished.”

Isiilde sniffed at the bowl, instantly regretting her curiosity.
 
The putrid tang of coppery blood rolled her stomach.
 
She shifted her attention to the helm, poking it experimentally.

“Do not touch!” Rashk hissed in warning.
 
“Curiosity kills foolish faeries.”
 
Isiilde stuck her hands in her pockets as Oenghus always made her do when they went to market.

“Have you ever seen Voidspawn?”

“I have,” Rashk replied, sniffing the air with her flat nose.
 
“The Reapers have many lairs in Rraal—nests in the shadow; lairs in the dark.”

The nymph’s eyes widened.
 
She prayed that she would never meet a Reaper.
 
They were shadow and claw, feasting on the blood of the living.
 
It was one of the reasons she didn’t like sleeping in the dark.
 
One of the servants had told her that they live in every shadow, attacking anyone who left their room a mess, although if that were the case, then Oenghus would be overrun with Reapers.

Another knock interrupted the Wise One’s work.
 
Rashk growled, low and feral, from the back of her throat.

“I’ll get it.”
 
Isiilde skipped over and opened the door.
 
Tharios stood at the threshold, eyes narrowing on the unexpected presence of the nymph.
 
He wore a wide, leather belt of buckles and a Xaionian half robe of crimson that flared at the waist, leaving his chest bare.
 
Isiilde tilted her head to the side, studying his pale torso and the chaotic canvas of skin.
 
He was covered with a twisting maze of artwork.

One of the tattoos moved, and she squeaked, hopping back, however, the reality of it turned out to be far worse than shifting ink; it was a black snake, slithering over his shoulder, twining around his arm.
 
Its lidless eyes watched her with an intelligence that a serpent should not possess.
 
The Wise One brushed past her without a second glance.

“Rashk, I would speak to you in private.”
 
He held a scroll lightly in hand, sealed with a heavy circle of wax.
 
When Isiilde focused on the stamp that had been pressed into the circle of red, he moved it to his other hand, out of sight.

“I have already told you that I do not care what you humans do with your kingdoms.”

“This concerns another matter.
 
I require your expertise.”

“Isiilde was here first,” Rashk replied with a twitch of amusement in her slitted eyes.

“Erm—” Isiilde faltered when Tharios turned to regard her, annoyance plain on his pale features, but she swallowed and continued on undaunted, “I was wondering if you had any extra teeth laying around?
 
Unattached ones,” she added quickly.

Fortunately, Rashk was accustomed to bizarre requests.
 
As casually as if Isiilde had asked to borrow some sugar, she walked unerringly over to a shelf, plucking a grisly jar from the clutter.
 
In another life, the jar had been a small dog’s skull—now it was simply gruesome.
 
Clay plugged the openings, sealing the eye sockets, mouth, and nostrils.

“Why do you need teeth, nymph?” Tharios asked, twisting the last word like a foul curse.

“An errand for the Archlord,” she said with haughty abandon, before turning to escape the Wise One’s piercing gaze.
 
With her prize securely in hand, Isiilde sprinted down the stairwell, taking two steps at a time.

Now, only one question remained: where to place the bait?
 
The Imp could be anywhere in the castle.
 
She stood at a junction of hallways, poking at the jar full of bloody teeth, while she considered her options.

If she were an Imp then where would she go?
 
The answer was obvious: a place where no one wanted her to go—somewhere with priceless objects.
 
If she had learned one thing about humans, it was that they did not like things being broken.
 
However, in the nymph’s opinion, some things were more interesting that way.

Since she had been banned from entering the Hall of Artifacts some years ago, it seemed an excellent place to start.
 
The rarely visited museum was full of musty old tapestries and ancient pottery that dated from before the Shattering, and as such, the temptation for destruction would be immense for an Imp—or so she hoped.
 
Isiilde used her jar of teeth wisely, leaving a trail of gruesome bait at key junctures.

When she came to the entrance of the little used wing, she cracked the door open and crept into the long, narrow chamber.
 
It was cluttered with forgotten objects that had lost their splendor.
 
The tapestries hung thread bare and washed out by time, their threads clinging together with nothing more than long, stubborn habit.
 
A handful of the pottery pieces were of interest, but their delicate shapes were chipped and cracked, lying in pieces like a puzzle that could never be reassembled.

The nymph stood in the midst of a bygone age, and she thought of Marsais, of his lost kingdom, his dead people, and his weathered skin—scarred like the relics collecting dust in this lonely chamber.
 
It saddened her, this tomb of fading memories.

Before its weight could settle too heavily on her senses, she upended the grisly jar, dumping its contents onto the the floor.
 
She crouched to study the pile of assorted teeth like a Shaman searching for portents of the future in entrails and bones.
 
However, Shamans likely didn’t get the urge to be sick, as the nymph felt now.

Rashk had not cleaned her collection of teeth before stuffing them inside the jar.
 
Some were still attached to the rotting bit of flesh from which they had been yanked.

That done, she squeezed behind a nearby tapestry to wait.
 
Isiilde scrutinized her nails, adjusted her bodice, and gave an impatient sigh.
 
Whenever she was bored, Oenghus told her to count to a hundred, but five was as far as she managed before she inhaled a layer of dust.
 
Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought back the urge to sneeze.

Quickly, she dashed from her concealment, away from the brittle material.
 
Three quick puffs of flame burst from her ears.
 
When her body had finished with her, she whirled around, checking the tattered cloth.
 
The tapestry was unharmed, the relic hall silent and as cold as it had been a moment before.

Isiilde sighed with relief, choosing her concealment with more care, which placed her beneath a table that was free of flammable materials.
 
She rested her back against the stone and waited.

Long minutes stretched by uneventfully.
 
She was about to give up altogether when she heard tuneless humming.
 
She scanned the hall, ears perking up as the rest of her froze, and then the Imp appeared, skipping down the middle, picking up a tooth at a time.
 
It paused, holding its prize to the light, chittering with approval, before moving on to the next.

Isiilde’s heart skipped a few precious beats as she realized that she hadn’t gotten to the binding part of her book.
 
What in the Nine Halls was she going to do?
 
She cast around for something brilliant in her mind, but all she found was a blank, dull slate.

As the Imp approached the pile of teeth, it squealed with glee, and began dancing merrily around its hoard of ivory treasure.

Isiilde had a dagger, but the thought of stabbing something twisted her heart.
 
Besides, if Oenghus could not kill the Imp, then she certainly couldn’t.
 
Keeping her eyes on the troublesome fiend, she eased the flagon out of her knapsack, and considered using it to bludgeon the creature into unconsciousness.
 
But even if she could sneak up on it, the nymph found the idea as repulsive as her dagger.

The Rune Bind.
 
The idea came to her like a trumpet blast, proclaiming it brilliant.
 
The Lore sprang to her lips and her fingers flashed, tracing the complicated series of runes.
 
When the weave was complete, she flicked her wrist towards the Imp.
 
It shot off like an arrow, knocking the creature clean off its feet, but her triumph was short lived.
 
The air began to ripple around the Imp.

It spread outwards, gentle vibrations heralding something more.
 
Stone began to heave, shifting with a groan, the walls warped inwards, knocking pottery to the floor.
 
Shattered fragments slid towards the Imp with a scraping whisper.

Everything in the hall began to move, even things that should not.
 
Relics were caught up in a vortex of power, swirling towards the focal point of her weave.
 
The table overhead was plucked off the ground, sucked into the gathering tornado of artifacts.
 
It slammed into a chair, ripping the wood into jagged splinters that spiraled around the chamber, slicing the flapping tapestries into shreds.

Isiilde squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, willing the ensuing disaster to disappear.
 
Ruin was imminent, which brought to mind her precarious situation.
 
As the vortex tugged at her hair, she snatched flagon and knapsack to flee the chaotic weave, running side by side with an equally panicked Imp.
 
They reached the doors together, one flapping wildly and the other running for her life when thunder struck, hurling the nymph through the doors and into a wall.
 
The Imp careened off to the side.

The castle rumbled, shook, and then exhaled, settling on its foundations with a long shudder.
 
Silence hummed in her ears.
 
Eventually she worked up enough nerve to move, gingerly rolling to the side with a moan.
 
The inside of her skull throbbed, pressing against the back of her eyes.
 
She curled into a miserable ball.

Isiilde did not know how long she lay there, but by the time she cracked a tentative eye open, the dust had settled.

This must have been what Marsais met by ‘ill occurrences’, which was all very horrible, but it was nothing compared to the terror that seized her when she caught sight of the thin figure who was marching through the destruction with a puffball at her side.
 
The Vulture’s eyes widened in shock, which bled into outrage as they bounced from the ruined Relic Hall to the nymph, finally settling upon the rune-etched flagon in her hand.