A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “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.

  “Who’s this wee one?” He tossed the baby in the air, earning a gleeful squeal.

  “He was dropped off on my doorstep yesterday. Likely another whore’s son. I’m fairly sure he’s not yours, because he’s not near pig-headed enough.” Oenghus snorted. “Isiilde, why don’t you name him, I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Being named by one of the Sylph’s own daughters can’t bring anything but good luck.”

  Isiilde blinked, surprised at the priestesses’ reference to her race, and more confused than ever by Yasimina’s warning not to mention that nymphs were daughters of the Sylph. She briefly considered naming the baby after Marsais who was currently pacing slowly around the entranceway, lost in thought, but quickly discarded the idea—the name belonged to her master, and only him.

  “How about Galvier? He seems very adventurous already.” Galvier Longstride was a legendary figure, the traveling bard who had walked the realms twice over because his feet never stopped moving. His stories entertained taverns and royal courts alike, although the nymph questioned the authenticity of such tales since she couldn’t fathom how he managed to sleep.

  “That’s a fine name, Sprite,” Oenghus said, spinning the boy around to the mutual delight of both. “Makes me want another one.”

  “Well, ye can have him if you like, because this realm doesn’t need another Saevaldr.”

  “You’re just jealous because you haven’t had one of mine yet.”

  “I got a brood enough without your mule-brained offspring running around,” Brinehilde snorted, but then her firm features turned grave. “Say Oenghus—I know you’re here for the festival, but could you look at one of my girls?”

  “You know you don’t have to ask, Hilde. What’s a matter with her?” Oenghus asked, distracted by Galvier who was happily pulling on his greying beard.

  “I just found her a few days ago. I wouldn’t put her past ten. Drunk of a father whorin’ her out. Some swine roughed her up real good.” Oenghus growled and Galvier, who undoubtedly thought he was a bear, cackled with delight.

  “I already took care of the swine and then paid the father a pleasant visit,” Brinehilde said, pausing to crack her scarred knuckles, “but the girl’s already got the Keening and now a fever to boot. So I doubt it’ll be a quick healing.” Oenghus cringed, glancing at Isiilde, who had been looking forward to the festival for some months.

  “It’s all right, Oen,” Isiilde said, smiling despite her disappointment. “I can watch Galvier while you help her.” Marsais paused in mid-step and looked blankly at them both before his mind caught up with their conversation.

  “I could certainly escort her, Oenghus.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?” Isiilde beamed.

  “I’d be more apt to ask that of you, my dear.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t mind.” Marsais bowed formally and offered his arm, which she eagerly took, favoring him with a smile that she reserved for him alone.

  “You must really trust the fellow,” Brinehilde remarked, eyeing Marsais as if she were sizing him up for a coffin.

  “Hilde, I told you—he’s the bloody Archlord.”

  The priestess studied Marsais dubiously for a few moments before recognition shone in her green eyes. “By the gods, I’m daft enough to miss Zemoch’s bollocks today! I’ve only seen you from a distance and never had the chance to give you proper thanks for all this,” Brinehilde said, gesturing towards the walls. Marsais tensed at Isiilde’s side, no doubt fearing that she would decide to thank him properly as she had Oenghus.

  “Seeing my old manor put to good use is thanks enough, my lady,” Marsais hastened to say.

  “Aye, Hilde, a Nuthaanian woman would break him,” Oenghus chuckled.

  “Apparently.” Brinehilde scanned Marsais with a critical eye. “Don’t they feed you up there in that tower?”

  “Oenghus eats it all,” Marsais quipped. Brinehilde slapped the Nuthaanian’s gut with a hearty laugh.

  “He’s a typical Berserker. Then what you need is a good woman to fatten you up.”

  “Hmm, he takes all of those too.”

  “I’m not even going to get into that,” Brinehilde said, turning a baleful eye on Oenghus who conveniently turned his attention to Galvier. “Well, all the same,
it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Archlord.”

  “Likewise, and please, it’s just Marsais.”

  “You have a deal if you do me the same courtesy and drop that ‘my lady’ nonsense. Now then, if you see any of my brood running around, tell them to behave. I’m sure I’ll have to fetch a few of them from the jailhouse before the day is done. I should be watchin’ over the little bastards myself, but someone had to stay with the poor girl.”

  “You’re the only one here?” Oenghus inquired.

  “Aye, what of it?”

  Oenghus offered the priestess a charming smile. “Maybe I’ll stick around all day and help you look after the wee one.”

  “I could use the help, but I’ll warn you, there’s a lot to be done.”

  “I’m up for it.”

  “I’ll work ya hard, you brute.” Oenghus was not intimidated in the least by her threat. Isiilde tilted her head to the side, wondering why he’d rather be working here than enjoying the festivities. He wasn’t near as eager to work around their cottage. She shrugged slightly and opened her coin purse, plucking out the gold crown.

  “Here, Brinehilde, this is for Galvier. I think he’ll need it more than me.”

  “Bless your heart,” the priestess said, crushing the nymph to her bosom.

  Isiilde spluttered helplessly for a few moments, and finally inhaled when she was released, taking a hasty step backwards lest the priestess decide to suffocate her with more gratitude.

  Ten

  “I DIDN’T KNOW you owned the manor, Marsais,” Isiilde remarked as they left the orphanage, walking arm in arm.

  “You never asked,” he replied.

  “Do you own that shack over there?”

  “Hmm, no.”

  “What about that one?” Isiilde pointed to a shack that had obviously been built with the salvaged wood of an old ship. When he shook his head, she tried another.

  “I believe I have gotten your point, my dear,” he remarked, dryly.

  “Are you sure, because I could keep this up all day.” Her cheerful tone brought life to the grim surroundings.

  “Of that, I have no doubt.” His grey eyes glittered down at her for a moment and then he went on to explain. “I used to live there before I became Archlord. I never could stand the constant interruptions of castle life.”

  “You lived there all by yourself?”

  “A few friends, such as Oenghus, had leave to stay there when they needed.” He stroked his goatee in thought. “Truth be told, I was never there much myself. Allowing it to be used as an orphanage is hardly a sacrifice on my part.”

  “All the same, I think it’s very noble of you, Marsais.”

  “Coming from your lips, my dear, I’ll take that as one of the highest compliments which I have ever received.”

  Isiilde blushed at his sincere declaration, and a bubble of joy rose in her heart. She decided that the fishing district was far too dismal for her current mood. So she began to sing, a soft and quiet song that transformed their dreary surroundings into a shimmering dream.

  The world seemed brighter when her lilting voice mingled with the air. However, her words faded into memory when they turned onto the main road. The surreal veil parted, giving way to a tumultuous reality. The crowds were thick, heading like a herd of cattle towards the parade grounds, located in the center of the city.

  Marsais eased Isiilde into the pulsing streams of celebration, and they were pulled along its currents towards the heart of the festivities.

  The parade grounds were dressed in splendor with a myriad of brightly colored streamers and flags that chased back the grey drizzle of the day. It almost made the nymph forget the sun’s absence.

  Loud, forceful criers hawked their wares amidst the bustle of activity, competing for attention with the street musicians who played merry jigs for enthusiastic audiences. Mugs were raised, sloshing to and fro with drunken rhythm. She hopped with delight, darting from merchant to merchant.

  “Do you want to go anywhere, Marsais?” Isiilde asked as she surveyed a display of silver charms. The man behind the booth claimed the trinkets warded the wearer against Voidspawn, however, she had her doubts.

  “Just one place.”

  “Where?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know, but I’ll know when I see it.” Marsais dismissed the topic with a languid wave of his hand. “I’m sure you’ll find it.”

  There were too many distractions vying for her attention for her to question him further. Besides, Marsais was probably right; she would eventually get to wherever he was going. In the meantime, Isiilde followed her nose, pausing to buy a garland of flowers from a little girl. Since the woven crown concealed the tips of her ears, she pushed back her cowl, ignoring the stares from the surrounding crowd.

  Eventually, Isiilde found what she was looking for: strawberries dipped in chocolate. The nymph decided that life couldn’t get much better than that. To compliment her berries, she bought a custard tart, two baked cinnamon apples, some roasted walnuts, a sweet roll dripping with honey, a mug of warm cider, and a turkey leg for Marsais.

  They found an empty spot under a moss covered oak tree, across from a puppet show, reenacting the epic battle of Zahra the Righteous and Dagenir the Betrayer. The sinister puppet who was representing Dagenir had curled horns and a mouthful of fangs, while Zahra was radiant in pristine white and a golden robe.

  The puppets were hitting each other over the head with wooden swords as they engaged in a foppish battle over the Orb: a large ball covered in glitter and flaking gold paint. When Dagenir whacked Zahra over the head with his sword, the audience erupted with shouts, expressing their disapproval. A red stain appeared on Zahra’s snowy hair, the wounded puppet slumped forward, and Dagenir crept ever closer to the unguarded Orb. The jeering from the crowd intensified.

  “No wonder the populace is clueless.” Marsais gestured towards the show with his turkey leg. “Scenes such as these both amaze and appall me. The past is never so simple, Isiilde, yet the majority will happily accept these tales as fact.” The puppet Zahra, stirred, and then leapt to its feet, earning a hearty cheer from the crowd. Shouts of encouragement and suggestions were hurled at the stage, detailing how Zahra could slay her shadowy opponent.

  “Zahra and Dagenir never battled over the Orb?” Isiilde asked.

  “Oh, they did, but good and evil are not always so clear cut. You see the past is written by the victor, so history is often subjective, and the farther we distance ourselves from a point in time, the more it blurs, until an event is nearly indistinguishable from fact. Things were much more complicated than this simple—mockery.”

  “Perhaps you should stage a puppet show,” she suggested.

  “A splendid idea! The crowd would have a good laugh when the Blessed Order came to hang, draw and quarter me,” Marsais remarked before sinking his teeth into turkey flesh. The nymph tilted her head in puzzlement, detecting both sorrow and amusement in his voice.

  “Marsais?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Humans are very confusing.”

  “A wise assessment, my dear,” he agreed, regarding her out of the corner of his eye. “My keen perceptions whisper that you have a question stirring in your lovely mind.”

  “I don’t understand—” Isiilde trailed off, trying to put her feelings into words, but it was difficult, because she didn’t know where to begin, so she ate a strawberry in hopes that it would help. It did, and she decided that her confusion started when Yasimina had warned her about repeating Marsais’ views on nymphs—that they were favored by the Sylph. Since it seemed like a good place to start, Isiilde told him what the Wise One had said.

  “Ah, I believe you’re perplexed by the age old question of Why,” he said, smiling with gentle understanding. “Your research regarding nymphs uncovered their mistreatment, but not the reason.”

  “Yes, that’s what I don’t understand,” she said, excitedly, happy that he had sorted through her jumbled thoughts. “Those who
oppose the Void claim to worship the Sylph, or at least revere her, since the Guardians and Keeper serve her. It’s common knowledge that the faerie are her children, yet they are largely mistreated and enslaved. Yasimina had no trouble accepting your words, but she seemed—afraid of the truth. Why do people cower from knowledge? Aren’t the Wise Ones supposed to ‘protect the past to safeguard the future’?”

  It was the Order’s motto. The words spiraled around the table in the council chamber. An oath, etched into the stone by every Wise One who had held a seat on the Circle of Nine for the past three thousand years.

  “You have ample cause to be perplexed, my dear, because there is no simple answer for your question.”

  “I asked Oen why nymphs were treated so, and he told me that they were a bunch of thick-headed idiots.”

  “Blunt and to the point as always. But if I were to put a single word to it, then I’d say it’s a matter of convenience.”

  The crowd erupted into a frenzy as the golden ball of glitter burst apart, hurling rock candy into the audience. Her master’s features creased as he watched the crowd scrambling for the sweets.

  “Convenience?” the nymph nudged, recognizing the distant look in his eyes.

  “Hmm.” Marsais scratched his chest, but returned to the present without further coaxing, looking suddenly exhausted as he continued. “To understand why the faerie are treated as they are, you must understand the past. And the past is as hard to chart as the future.”

  “It is?” She sampled her custard tart, moaning with rich pleasure. “You have to try this!” The nymph thrust the tart in front of his face giving him little choice but to take a bite, and although he wasn’t quite as expressive as her, she gathered he liked it when he took another.

  “Take knitting for example,” he continued between mouthfuls. “Yes, I know you abhor it, for the sheer tediousness of the process, but it helps to illustrate my point. It’s not always apparent when you’ve made a mistake. You might not notice one until you step back and examine your work as a whole. Then you must fix your mistake, but you can’t just pluck at that single, errant thread, you must unravel all the other threads first. The past is like that, but unraveling it won’t fix it, and it’s difficult to put your finger on one event, or thread, because they are all connected. History is a tapestry, my dear, and every thread affects the next.”