A Thread in the Tangle (6 page)

“Oh, well that certainly clears up everything, Oen,” Marsais snapped and then took a deep, calming breath, holding up a placid hand.
 
“Just start at the beginning; wherever that might be.”

Oenghus began with the night of the fire.
 
When he recounted his confrontation with Emperor Jaal, Marsais began pacing, continuing this restless habit throughout the narrative, and finally, scratching his chest in agitation when Oenghus explained how he had smuggled Isiilde past the Isle guards.
 
Long minutes passed in silence before Marsais finally spoke.

“I can’t grant her sanctuary,” he said, abruptly.
 
“The nymphling is Emperor Jaal’s daughter, he is her rightful owner, and you know as well as I that the Isle doesn’t link itself with the kingdoms.”

“I’m not asking for the Isle to sign a treaty with Kambe.
 
I’m only asking for sanctuary and protection,” Oenghus reasoned.

“You know the Nine won’t see it like that.”

“What about all the nobles training here?
 
How is that any different?”

“Hmm, they aren’t nymphs,” Marsais pointed out.
 
“Nobles don’t usually bring the Blessed Order’s attention upon us, and a nymph will do just that.
 
Our relations with the Order are strained at the best of times.”

“How can you turn her away?
 
The bastard was going to throw her in a dungeon.
 
Look at her,” he hissed, pointing at the tiny girl who was currently studying them with large almond-shaped eyes that shone bright and fresh as spring.
 
“Only a cold hearted bastard would leave such an adorable thing out in the cold.”

“You’re forgetting that an adorable nymphling will mature into an intoxicating nymph in a few, scant years,” Marsais replied, his voice hard and sharp as steel.
 
“What will happen when she Awakens?
 
Allow me to refresh your memory, since you seem to have forgotten that
minor
detail.
 
The nymphling will mature and her blood will begin to stir and then every man on this Isle will be drooling after her—including you and me.

“Blast it!
 
We could very well be at each other’s throats over this
adorable
creature.
 
I can’t believe you were foolish enough to involve yourself in this affair.
 
You know as well as I that a nymph belongs with her kin, with her father, until she’s of age.
 
A nymph’s family is immune to the creatures’ allure.
 
You should never have taken her from Soataen—no matter what he planned!” Marsais barked, grey eyes turning to flint, challenging the Nuthaanian to argue the obvious.

Oenghus turned his back on Marsais, tugging roughly on his beard.
 
Marsais’ words rang true and that was the rub of it; a nymphling should stay with her kin until she’s of age.

“Isiilde looks exactly like her mother,” Oenghus whispered, hoarsely.
 
“You know how Soataen always had a thing for redheads.”
 
Marsais stared blankly at his back for a few seconds and then blinked as realization dawned.

“Oh, by the gods, you bloody fool,” his former master breathed in disbelief.
 
Oenghus turned to find Marsais massaging the bridge of his sharp nose.
 
“What in all the realms were you thinking when you bedded a nymph who belonged to the Emperor of Kambe, much less get her with child?”

“Not much thought was involved, trust me,” Oenghus admitted.
 
“I’d like to see how you would have fared if you woke up to find a nymph standing over your bed.
 
I’d wager not too well, ‘specially considering your incident in Mearcentia.
 
So don’t get all high and mighty with me, you bloody bastard.”

Marsais held up his hands in peace.
 
“Point taken.
 
Forgive me, it’s just a bit of a shock, which is saying a lot for a seer.”
 
He turned to study Isiilde who had become bored with the two men, and was now entranced by the crystal window.
 
“Does she know you’re her real father?”

Oenghus shook his head stiffly.

“Let us assume for one moment that I can persuade the Nine to let her stay.
 
Without revealing her—connection to you.
 
What happens when she comes of age, Oenghus?
 
What happens when her ‘father’ sells her?” Marsais asked, cutting to the heart of the matter with his usual foresight.

“I’ve thought a lot about it,” Oenghus began, slowly.
 
“We could make a run for it, she and I, and I could keep her hidden for a time, but even I’m not so foolish to think one man can protect a nymph forever.
 
As much as I hate to admit it, a nymph with royal blood will be sold as such and she’ll have a better chance of being sold to someone who can protect and care for her—hopefully.
 
If the lords of Mearcentia or even Kiln made a bid for her, then I think at least she’d be comfortable.
 
I’m afraid it’s her best chance.”
 
The words left a foul taste in his mouth.

“That’s very wise of you, but will you be able to let her go, old friend?” Marsais asked, gently.

“I’m not the bloody seer,” Oenghus grunted.

“Well, then, allow me to meet this—daughter of yours.”
 
Marsais made a slight gesture that dispelled his weave.
 
He walked over to stand before the nymphling who tilted her head up, meeting his searching gaze.

“Do you have a name, nymphling?” Marsais asked, politely even though he wasn’t expecting an answer, since the creatures rarely spoke, especially ones so young.

“Isiilde Jaal’Yasine,” she replied with a voice as sweet and soothing as honey.
 
She chewed on her lip in thought before boldly asking, “Does the Archlord have a name?”

“Marsais,” he supplied, concealing his surprise by offering her a formal bow.
 
The nymphling stared at him expectantly, waiting for more.

“
Just
Marsais?” Isiilde finally asked.
 
Marsais inclined his head in reply.
 
“It’s a very nice name,” she offered, and after a few moments of consideration, added, “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“Hmm.”
 
Marsais arched an eyebrow.
 
“How do you know I’ve decided to let you stay?”

“Because I think you’re a very good man and Oen told me you have a soft spot for faerie.”

“Oh, did he?”
 
Marsais turned a suspicious eye on the Nuthaanian, but Oenghus only shrugged, offering him a wide grin.
 
Marsais sighed, inwardly bemoaning the drawbacks of being associated with someone for so many years.
 
He turned his attention back to the captivating little nymphling who could converse, which was a rare trait in any creature, to say nothing of her strange affinity with fire.

“Are you fond of the ocean, Isiilde?”
 
The nymphling nodded eagerly.
 
“That is fortunate, because I know of a little cottage on the beach that would suit you and Oen well.”

“Are there strawberries by the cottage?” Isiilde asked, hopefully.

Marsais started to shake his head, but then her pointed ears wilted and he quickly amended his answer against his better judgment.
 
“I’m sure we can arrange something.”

The nymphling’s ears perked up at his unlikely answer and she offered him a smile that lit up the entire room.
 
The Archlord of the Wise Ones’ Isle did not know precisely what he could arrange, or how for that matter, but he determined that she would have all the strawberries she desired.

Four

2010 A.S.

O
FF THE TORRENT
coast of the Fell Wastes lay a misty isle.
 
A mere speck of ink on the maps of Fyrsta.
 
Over three thousand years ago, when civilization stretched to the far corners of the realm, the tiny isle had not been worthy of a name.
 
However, time has a way of changing even the most inconspicuous of places.

History turned its eye on the island when a band of nine, seeking solitude, landed on its humble shores.
 
Their quest for isolation gave birth to an athenaeum of fame—one founded on the noble aspirations of acquiring and preserving knowledge.
 
As is so often the case, an ideal became something more, until out of this lonely island rose an army of formidable scholars who called themselves Wise Ones.
 
For they alone possessed the knowledge of runic power; the most consistent way to draw from vast energies that move in shifting currents throughout the realms.

Fyrsta took note, history remembered, and the once unknown isle became legendary.
 
As did its stronghold and monolithic spire.

The sprawling stronghold of the Wise Ones was hewn from a stalwart crag that overlooked the harbor town of Coven.
 
A thing of rising towers and thick battlements that sat like a stone sentry against time, silent and brooding, as it watched the bustle of people carrying out their meager lives under its imperious gaze.

Secrets dwelled in its foundations, ancient powers roamed its drafty corridors, and knowledge was entombed within a labyrinth of libraries.
 
All carefully catalogued and safeguarded by hunched back scribes who painstakingly etched their treasured Lore into tomes bound by iron and leather.

That was, of course what the Order wanted everyone to believe.
 
Things generally worked this way, history was accurately recorded—most of the time.
 
But when the so called keepers of the past disagreed with history, then events were conveniently forgotten.

However, much to the Order’s shame, there was one such exception that could never be forgotten.
 
Try as they might, masters and scribes could not conceal the creature from their dull tomes of yellowed parchment or erase the eccentric Archlord who granted her entrance, because time was such a fickle thing and history even moodier.

In one of the countless, drafty chambers set high in a jutting spire, a group of the chosen few sat listening in rapt attention to Yasimina, a willowy, fair-haired Wise One.
 
Twenty-two stoic apprentices dutifully scribbled notes as she lectured on the realms beyond in soft, cultured tones that had misled many a student into thinking her a lenient teacher.

The apprentices were evenly spaced, sitting attentively on giant stone steps that pooled into the amphitheater’s center.
 
They dipped their quills into inkwells, wiped off the excess ink with harmonious precision, and put tips to parchment like a hive of busy drones.

This perfect concert of flowing ink was broken by a discordant pupil who never did anything dutifully.
 
The source of discord came from the very back of the chamber, on the highest bench, where no other apprentice cared to venture lest they be contaminated by the careless creature behind them.

Everyone: masters, apprentices, novices, guards, servants, and stable boys alike, tended to give the nymph a wide berth.
 
She was a conundrum that was best ignored, a nuisance and outcast—a temptation who was coveted by all.

Currently, the nymph was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows while she doodled aimlessly on her parchment.
 
She seemed a dream, a vision, and the only thread connecting the nymph to reality was a cascade of vibrant red curls, spilling over her slender shoulders before pooling on the harsh stone beneath her body.