“I don’t care about the creature’s safety. I’m concerned about the trouble their kind cause. This isn’t up to debate. You can do this the easy way or the hard way, Saevaldr.”
“With all due respect, Blessed One,” Marsais inserted calmly. “I do not recall any law that prohibits a nymph from appearing in public.”
“We are the law,” the paladin said, gripping her sword while her companion followed suit. “Now do as you’re told.”
“Hmm, since we haven’t broken any laws, I’d say you are getting ahead of yourselves,” Marsais reasoned.
“And what is your name, so I can charge you with disrespecting a paladin?”
“On the contrary, I specifically stated that I was speaking with respect,” Marsais mused, scratching at his chest in irritation.
“Your name, fool!” the scarred man barked in command, drawing his sword with a scraping flash of steel. Isiilde jerked in fear, and buried her face against Marsais’ shoulder.
“I’m Marsais,” he replied, “and unless you’re accusing us of consorting with Voidspawn, then I am the law on this Isle.”
“Now you’re claiming to be the Archlord?” the woman asked with the sort of disbelief reserved for the truly insane.
“I’m not claiming,” Marsais said, raising his left hand. A runic eye flared to life on his palm, the equivalent of a signet ring, although far more substantial and absolutely unquestionable. The paladins stiffened in shock. “This nymph is my apprentice and I’ll vouch for her. I suggest you let us go about our business. The Knight Captain won’t appreciate you harassing me.”
“This man is armed. Weapons are not allowed in town today,” the scarred paladin pointed out, making one last effort to save face.
“I’m the Archlord’s personal bodyguard. You can’t tell me the count’s walking around with an unarmed escort.” Oenghus tugged on his beard, managing to glare at both paladins simultaneously.
“We will report this to the High Inquisitor,” the woman threatened.
“Hmm, please do, it will save me the trouble of informing him that I’ve returned.” The paladins were not happy with these turn of events, but their hands were tied and they knew when to retreat. They sheathed their weapons and marched off without another word.
“And that’s why it’s good to be Archlord,” Oenghus muttered, gesturing crudely at their backs.
“Must you antagonize them?” asked Marsais.
“I was being diplomatic,” Oenghus defended. “More so than you, ya sparkly left-handed bastard.” The rest of his insults trailed off as he stomped to the back door of the Glass Goblet.
“I believe it’s safe now, my dear,” Marsais said, gently. Isiilde looked up from his shoulder and a long exhalation swept passed her lips. She realized she was clutching his arm and let go, placing her trembling hands in her lap.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s quite all right and nothing for which to apologize. The paladins were being rather hasty.” Marsais seemed about to add something more, but quickly secured the reins before hopping off the wagon.
“By the gods, I’ve forgotten how torturous these things are.” Marsais grimaced as he stretched a long body that was more accustomed to walking than riding.
“I’ve heard that the Mystics use flying carpets in Kiln. You should get a carpet.”
“I have one.”
“You do?”
“Yes, it warms my floor.”
“Marsais,” she warned.
“Really, you can make anything fly. It need not be an expensive carpet. It simply takes concentration.” Isiilde wrinkled her nose at the word, one she would be happy to never hear again. Concentrating on anything was far too much work in her humble opinion.
“Take this kind gentleman here.” Marsais gestured towards the stableman, who shifted from foot to foot, uneasy with the prospect of being noticed by the Archlord of the Isle. “If we had him lie down, then we could just as easily sit on him and fly as we could a carpet.”
“Could you teach me?”
“Hmm, I don’t think Oenghus would react well if he came out and saw you sitting on that fellow.”
“You’re right—he’d tear off his head,” she frowned, but quickly brightened. “You could turn him into a carpet and then we could try.”
The stableman abandoned the horses, darting off at a dead run. They watched the attendant’s rapidly departing form. And Isiilde managed to control herself long enough for him to race out of earshot before breaking down completely.
“Perhaps we’ll start with something smaller,” Marsais mused into the nymph’s helpless laughter. His nimble fingers moved swiftly, and then with one elegant gesture and a quiet command, he lifted her off the ground. Isiilde’s laughter was delightfully interrupted by a gasp as she gently floated off the seat, until she was eye level with her master.
“You always hide your runes from me,” she huffed.
“Only the ones that have ill occurrences when done improperly,” he replied, holding up a finger in defense.
“And how often do I perform a weave improperly?” She arched a brow at him.
“An excellent point,” he conceded. “Hmm, but a Weave of Flying requires a certain amount of control.”
“Oh, never mind then.” Self-control, was another troublesome ability that escaped the nymph.
“I thought you’d understand. Without control—the most desirable outcome would send you careening off into the sky.” That didn’t sound so bad. “Which Oen wouldn’t be happy with,” he added, taking note of her thoughtful interest, and quickly continued before she decided to attempt it. “At worst—too heavy a hand would crush you.”
“That sounds painful.”
“Hmm, messy would be a better description.” The nymph squeaked and conveniently pushed his warning out of her sensitive mind.
“So what are you going to teach me?” Isiilde knew her master well. At his beckoning gesture, she drifted closer, touching lightly upon the ground.
“Levitation.” Her ears straightened with excitement as her mind raced through all the wonderful things she could accomplish with such a weave. Although flying would have been far more useful, she’d take what she could get.
“Do you remember the feather rune that I taught you?”
“It tickles when I weave it.”
“Really?” Marsais’ brows shot up in surprise.
“It doesn’t tickle you?”
“Hmm, no, but I’m not a faerie.”
“Are you otherwise ticklish?” she asked, suddenly.
Marsais pursed his lips in thought before answering carefully, “Yes.” She opened her mouth and he swiftly interjected, “No, I’m not going to tell you where.”
“Why?” Isiilde grinned knowingly. Marsais took a hasty step backwards, clearing his throat.
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer, Marsais.”
“Questions hardly require an answer, only a reply, and that, my dear, was a reply.”
She lost her train of thought when Oenghus ducked under the doorway, stepping outside. He was trailed by the owner of the Goblet and two strong men. The group walked over to the wagon, where Oenghus poured a sample of his ale for the finely dressed proprietor, Haimon Goodfellow, who took as much pride in his oiled mustaches as he did with his inn.
The innkeeper took a hearty swig and gave a satisfied sigh as a trail of smoke wafted from his lips. Oenghus Saevaldr’s ale was renowned throughout the Isle, Nuthaan, and Kambe. The trip to the gullet was smooth, and the delayed bite was memorable, causing the drinker to exhale a puff of smoke a few seconds after swallowing the red liquid, hence the name, Dragon’s Breath Ale.
“I think that’s better than your last batch.” Haimon plopped a heavy purse into Oenghus’ hand, and he hefted the payment with a satisfied glint in his sapphire eyes. “I had a merchant from Mearcentia buy two barrels from that. You know, you could be a rich man if you put a bit more work into it.”
“That’s far more commitment than I’m after,” Oenghus grunted.
As the two laborers began unloading the wagon, Isiilde turned back to Marsais, discovering that he was besotted with a rose bush. After determining that nothing was concealed inside the bush and that it was unlikely to sprout wings, she decided he was having one of his usual bouts of disorientation.
“Marsais?”
“Hmm?” he replied, distantly. Isiilde had to repeat his name again, this time louder, before he snapped out of his trance, casting about until his grey eyes sharpened on her. “Oh, hello, my dear, what were we talking about?”
“You were about to tell me where you are ticklish.”
A suspicious glint entered his eyes, and he slowly stroked his goatee in thought before coming to a decision, “I think not.” This did absolutely nothing to satisfy her curiosity. She quickly reached for a spot under his ribs, but Marsais stepped back and held up his hands to ward her off.
“If I tell you it’s considerably lower, will you leave it at that?” The nymph tried to keep from smiling, but it was quite impossible for her.
“Do you get tickled often?”
“Hmm, I believe you’ve managed to side track us again.”
“I have a knack for that.”
“You have no idea, my dear,” he admitted with twitching lips that were threatening to betray his grave tone. Marsais cleared his throat, bending down to snatch a pebble from the ground. “Now then, pay attention, Isiilde. To levitate, you must weave a feather rune around the desired object and then layer an air and spirit rune overtop. Do you know why both air and spirit are needed?”
Isiilde contemplated his question as she watched the laborers hoisting the heavy barrels onto their shoulders. Their bare backs rippled with muscle and she was finding the powerful men highly distracting. When they disappeared into the nearby cellar, she turned back to Marsais who was watching her thoughtfully. A shadow of worry flickered across his steely eyes. The tips of her ears heated. And in an attempt to cover up her distraction, she said the first thing that popped into her mind.
“An air and spirit rune creates wind, and a feather will fall if there’s no wind.” From his slight nod, she gathered that her guess was correct.
“Precisely, and this is where concentration comes into play, because wind must be a constant if you are trying to keep your object in the air.”
“Is that why Master Tulipin is always so absentminded?” The gnome Wise One levitated everywhere—come to think of it, Isiilde had never seen his feet touch ground.
“Actually, he’s just like that,” Marsais explained. “Now then, would you like to watch the weave?”
Isiilde nodded eagerly, focusing on the pebble in his hand. She loved to watch her master trace runes, because his long, nimble fingers caressed the air with the same loving attention that a Harper showed to his strings. The Gift was his art, and he brought it gracefully to life, never clumsy or harsh, but always shaping its power with an impressive ease that left her breathless.
The Weave of Levitating was easy enough to follow. When the pebble was floating in mid-air, she invoked the Lore, feeling a rush of energy flow around her, tugging at her mind and spirit as steadily as a river’s current. Her fingers sped through the runes and a heartbeat later another pebble floated off the ground to join her master’s.
The weave lasted until a bright bumble bee bobbed past her ear, landing on a rose petal with clumsy interest. The nymph beamed with joy and hurried over to watch the fuzzy bug. Her pebble fell to the ground with a dull patter, entirely forgotten.
“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
THE 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.
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