Isiilde wrinkled her nose at the brute and leaned closer to the porch, huddling in its shadow. The two men continued on their drunken way, bellowing the latest verse about the Bastard of the Seas. Isiilde listened to their tuneless slurs, memorizing the new verse. She had to agree with Oenghus—the songs were clearly intended to be sung by the inebriated.
The nymph chewed nervously on her lip as she searched the sky for the sun that was lurking behind the clouds. It was well past midday and she was running out of time. Tightening her grip on the empty flagon, she jammed the steel cork into the top, and gathered courage around her like a cloak. With the dedication of a soldier, she strode across the muddy street towards Isadora’s Closet and charged the doors. However, once inside, her resolve faltered. Unfortunately, the common room was so choked with patrons that she was jostled away from the exit like a twig caught in a river.
The common room was packed with jeering revelers who were behaving as if it were the Feast of Fools. Barmaids wove in and out of the chaos as surefooted as acrobats, balancing heavy trays and dodging groping patrons with flashing smiles. The air was thick with pipe smoke, the floor covered in nutshells, and Isiilde’s eardrums pulsed with the tune of bawdy songs that sparked her curiosity. As chaotic as the common room was now, she wondered what the evening was like.
Isiilde froze in mid-step, gawking at a pale woman who wore a few strands of silk over a body that glowed with ethereal light. The woman stood on top of a table while men elbowed each other out of the way, fighting for her attention. When one had caught the pale woman’s eye, he eagerly opened his mouth. She put her toes between the chosen’s lips and poured a shimmering red liquor down her leg. The man drank eagerly, licking every last drop from her skin.
A group of sailors knocked the nymph over, tearing her attention from the odd game. The mariners were engaged in a battle of sorts, one mounted atop his partner’s shoulders, fighting an equally arranged pair. They careened around the room with wild shouts. She scrambled to her feet and ducked through the crowd, still puzzling over the men and the woman’s foot.
This, she decided, was no place for her. She searched frantically for an exit, but the door was nowhere in sight. The press of bodies pushed her relentlessly towards the long bar as if that were the natural place for any twig to end up. The crowd shifted, a raucous cheer rose to deafening heights. The mass opened, and she darted through the opening, stumbling through an archway that had been carved to depict a mass of entangled limbs.
The room beyond was less populated, and therefore quieter. A foreign smoke hung in the room—thick as a sea’s fog, leaving her confused and drifting. Shapes moved in the murky air, slow and seductive. Gradually her eyes adjusted, picking out details in the intimate setting. She pushed her cowl back and blinked, gazing around with dreamy wonder as silken voices and throaty moans tickled her ears.
Patrons lay on mounds of cushions, writhing in perfect imitation of the limbs carved on the archway. She tried not to stare, but as usual, curiosity triumphed. Unabashedly, she watched two women wrapping themselves around a moaning man.
“Pull your hood up and get out of here, girl,” a voice hissed in her ear. Isiilde jerked in surprise. A massive shape with two pale blue eyes filled her vision. For a startling moment she feared it was Oenghus, but where her protector was dark and stormy, this man was fair and calm with a shock of blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
“This is no place for you. If you’re lookin’ for work, then take my advice and find another profession.” Isiilde took a hasty step back, staring up at the Nuthaanian. His words registered, and she quickly did as he suggested, tugging her cowl up to conceal her distinctive features.
“I’m looking for a man,” she explained, glancing uneasily at the men in the room. Many of whom had surfaced from their pleasures to take note of her. An iron hand locked on her shoulder, but before she could squirm away, the hand steered her down an empty hallway. The pale blue eyes that loomed above her were hard. A memory surfaced. She remembered Oenghus mentioning a Nuthaanian who worked as a pleasure house guard in Coven: Breeman, a fellow countryman.
“Take my advice, girl, this is no place to find a man. I’m sure you won’t find it too difficult to catch a decent fellow with eyes like yours, but you’re a bit young yet. Give it a few years, all right?” The Nuthaanian snapped his head up, growling at a man who had come to leer from the doorway.
“No—” she said, but her tongue was numb and the word slurred. “I need Marsais.” It was all she could manage to say.
“Don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.” Breeman produced a vial from his trouser pocket and waved the sharp scent under her nose. The fog parted and her head instantly cleared.
“Breeman,” she swallowed, meeting his gaze. “I need to speak with the Archlord. I know he’s here.”
“The Archlord doesn’t accept visitors, not even women, so scat, before you get yourself into trouble.”
“But—”
“No one disturbs the Archlord,” Breeman rumbled, dangerously.
“—I’m his apprentice from the tower,” she finished, unperturbed by his threatening posture. After all, she had had ample experience with disgruntled Nuthaanians. Breeman crossed his thick arms, rubbing his chin in consideration.
“You’re his apprentice?” She nodded in answer. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered.
“It’s extremely important that I see him at once,” she pleaded, gazing up at the giant with large, pleading eyes.
Breeman stiffened, and then after a moment’s consideration, relented. Nuthaanians were ever susceptible to a woman in distress. “Fine, but if he doesn’t know you—it’s my neck on the line and you’ll pay, girl.” Isiilde smiled brightly, recognizing an empty threat when she heard one.
“Come on then,” he growled, sensing that his bluff had been exposed. He turned and marched down the hallway without a backward glance. She hurried after the giant, hoping that Marsais was not having one of his forgetful days.
Breeman led her through a maze of corridors and finally down a narrow stairwell. The slick stone steps descended farther than she estimated. Eventually, the narrow passage widened, revealing a large chamber with curtained alcoves along its walls. Candles flickered in the darkness. The air was heavy with exotic scents, both sharp and sweet, that twisted her stomach with queasy discomfort.
Tall, hourglass shaped pipes sat upright, bubbling contently around the chamber. Tubes were attached to the sides, one for each alcove, snaking outwards in crude imitation of an octopus, before disappearing beneath the curtains.
Bodies moved sluggishly beyond the threadbare cloth, as many as two or three, sometimes four to an alcove. Soft cries and low groans throbbed in the air and Isiilde glanced nervously towards her guide, feeling a sudden urge to bolt.
Breeman paid her no mind, marching across the dark chamber to one alcove among many. Isiilde shook herself, tightened her grip on the flagon beneath her cloak, and hurried after the guard.
“Marsais,” Breeman murmured, pulling the edge of the curtain back. He made sure to block her view. She stood restlessly by, nervously wringing the neck of the flagon between her moist hands. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a young woman to see you—”
“I do not, nor will not, or ever have required company, Breeman,” a familiar voice interrupted. It was definitely Marsais, only—distant sounding.
“—says she’s your apprentice,” Breeman finished.
A long stretch of silence followed, a considerable pause that allowed her trepidation to build until the urge to flee nearly overwhelmed her. Her legs tensed, her neck was turning, and her feet following suit when Marsais asked, “And what does this apprentice of mine look like?”
“Scared out of her wits, with a shock of red hair, and eyes like a gem filled sea.” Isiilde brightened at Breeman’s description of her, but her ears wilted with worry when she heard the sharp edge in her master’s next words.
“Send her in.” Breeman st
epped aside, swept the curtain open for her, and bowed, looking entirely too amused with the situation.
“You lucked out, girl,” he murmured as she ducked inside.
It was much darker in the alcove than without. A faint Rune of Light traced onto the stone wall was the only source of illumination. Isiilde stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gentle blue glow, and when they did, she spotted Marsais. He was naked except for his smallclothes. His lean body was sprawled carelessly on a bed of cushions as he murmured in the dark, soft and troubled. His white hair glowed beneath the light, spilling over the faded cushions. He held a pipe of sorts in his right hand—a sleek wooden mouthpiece connected to a tube. It snaked to the bubbling contraption in the center of the room. He murmured restlessly, and then raised his hand from his chest to take a long draught from the pipe.
When he exhaled, a stream of flowery smoke swirled from his lips, and his hand fell to his side, affording the nymph her first unobstructed view of his chest. Isiilde sucked in a sharp breath. A raw scar marred his flesh. It was wide and jagged, slashing across his torso from shoulder to rib, and she realized that this was what he was always rubbing at beneath his shirt. But he had done this for as long as she could remember and this scar was fresh—a terrible wound that was barely healed.
Isiilde had assumed the gesture was more habit than necessity, but then, she had never seen him disrobed before. Her inspection continued, roving freely along his exposed body. Marsais was tall, thin, and weathered, but he was no more feeble than a winter wolf. Wiry muscles played across his shoulders and rippled down his long torso.
Suddenly, his sharp features twisted with pain, the pipe rolled from his graceful fingers, and his eyes snapped open, but they were not his own. Sightless orbs stared blindly into the darkness. The steely grey, as sharp and hawkish as the rest of his angular body, had vanished, replaced by eyes as white as a snowstorm. He gripped the cushions, thin fingers clawing at the fabric. Every muscle in his body tensed as if he were struggling against an unseen foe. An unpleasant moan tore from his throat, a breath of suffering that twisted her heart.
“Marsais?” she said his name softly, leaning close with concern. An overwhelming urge stirred within her. Isiilde touched the scar on his chest. His skin was warm and coarse as sand and she savored the life beating beneath her fingertips, tracing the hard lines of his body.
Marsais bolted upright. She jumped back, but he paid her no mind as he continued forward, doubling over to clutch his head. He strained to catch his breath like a man who had been running for hours. His entire body shook, shivering with cold sweat. It was an intimate thing to witness.
Unsure what to do, she stood her ground, neither moving towards him nor away. Marsais slowly turned his head to regard her through the tangle of white hair obscuring his haggard features. Gone were the strange white eyes.
“Hmm.” Was all he said as he swept his hair from his face. “Sit down and give me a moment,” he ordered, hoarsely. Marsais eased himself backwards, slumping wearily against the wall for support. Isiilde sat on the edge of the lumpy bed of cushions, studying the forgotten pipe on the floor.
Silence stretched between student and master as the latter fought to control his breathing. However, the chamber was far from quiet. A chorus of moans and hushed voices echoed in the dim. She did not look at him, but kept her eyes on the pipe, for lack of anything more interesting to study. As lenient and relaxed as Marsais was, Isiilde recognized that she had overstepped a boundary that she had not known was present.
Isiilde sighed, wondering if the cure for her trouble had been worse than the cause, but there was nothing to do for it now—she was already here. She untied her cloak, pushed back the cowl, and let it slide off her shoulders, careful to keep the flagon concealed beneath the folds in her lap. She sniffed curiously at the air, attempting to seperate the scents in the stifling chamber. Beneath the sweat, salt, and sickly sweet aroma of pipe smoke lay a kind of heavy musk that she could not place. It made her uncomfortable. A sudden desire to leave this place prompted her to breach the silence.
“Are you all right, Marsais?” she asked, turning towards him. He dismissed her question with a graceful wave of his hand. His eyes were closed, his head supported by the cold stone at his back, and she watched the prominent Adam’s apple of his throat move as he swallowed. Finally, he took a deep, steadying breath, and opened his eyes.
“Now then, my dear, you may speak, though I’m not sure my muddled brain is prepared. Hmm, perhaps it’s better off muddled,” he mused, gazing wistfully at the discarded pipe.
“Why would a man want a woman to put her foot in his mouth?” This was not what she had intended to say, nor perhaps the best way to open a dialogue. Unfortunately, she couldn’t erase the scene from her mind.
“By the gods,” Marsais moaned, reaching up to massage his temples. “Would you hand me that pipe?” Isiilde did as he requested and tried to sniff it when it passed through her hands, but he deftly snatched it away before she could inhale. He stuck the mouthpiece between his lips, sucking in a bubbling draught. The tension in his neck and shoulders faded.
“You will have to ask Oenghus and if he tells you to ask me, then, and only then will I answer.” He sounded mildly intoxicated, well a bit more than mildly, she corrected.
“But if I ask Oen, then he’ll know I was here.”
“Which brings us to an excellent point.” His brows arched, creating a sharp V that made him look rather sinister. “If Oenghus finds out you’re here with me, my dear, he’ll have my head,” he explained calmly, pausing to suck lazily on his pipe. “So I ask, hmm, and loathe to hear the answer of why you have come?”
“I don’t know why he’d have your head. It’s not as if you brought me here. What is in the pipe?” she asked, reaching for it. Marsais clutched the pipe protectively to his chest, tutting at her like an old, exasperated woman.
“Actually, I have brought you here, for it is I who am here, and I who you seek.” His words hung heavy in the air with the weight of his gaze, and when he continued, his voice was as unwavering as the stone at his back. “And this, my dear, is no place for a lady, most especially a young lady of innocence, and even more so for a nymph.” Marsais leaned forward, the muscles of his jaw clenching as his eyes pierced her.
Isiilde blew a stray strand out of her face, and casually looked elsewhere, avoiding his gaze.
“It is both well and unfortunate that you know not of how lucky you were to run into Breeman. He’s a good man—a rare thing—which brings me back to my original question from which you so delicately steered us.” He did not imbibe of his pipe, but waited with the timeless patience for which the Archlord of the Isle was notorious. Petitioners who stood before his throne found his gaze unnerving, however, the nymph was hopeful that if she waited long enough, he might become sidetracked. Unfortunately, he seemed to be in one of his more lucid moods.
Isiilde squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and then produced the flagon, yanking the cork out with a dramatic flair. Marsais’ eyes widened in shock and he jumped to his feet with surprising speed, fingers poised to begin a weave. A single giggle escaped the nymph before she stifled the girlish sound, passing her amusement off as a coughing fit.
After a few tense heartbeats, Marsais relaxed, then snatched the flagon from her hand to scrutinize its markings. Whatever he was searching for, he must have found it, because a long, shuddering exhalation swept past his lips.
“Let me piece this together,” he said, plucking the cork from her fingers and jamming it back into the top. “You opened it!”
A sharp bark of laughter shook his body. The morning’s tension dissipated when amusement entered his eyes.
“My genius amazes me.” He favored her with a lopsided grin, tossed the flagon up in the air, sending it end over end, deftly catching it by the narrow neck before continuing, “And since you are still here and I don’t hear any screams of terror, I’d wager you opened the one on the—le
ft?” Isiilde nodded in confirmation. “I thought I asked you not to open the flagons that are stored in my vault?”
“You said it’d be unwise,” she corrected.
“Hah! A loophole akin to a gaping hole to a faerie.”
“I’m very sorry, Marsais.” Her emerald eyes shimmered with tears as she went on to explain. “I couldn’t resist. Honestly, I tried, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what was inside. And then, when I opened it, something sprang out—an ugly creature who looked like a monkey with bat wings, a barbed tail, and a large mouth. It got away before I could catch it.”
“Sounds like an Imp. A rather devilish Imp.”
“I didn’t know what else to do, so I thought it best to find you, but you were taking a very long time.” This last confession pushed her tears to the brink and cool moisture rolled down her cheeks.
“Oh, don’t start crying, you’ll chase all the customers away. Everything will be fine, my dear,” Marsais soothed, sitting on the cushions beside her. He reached towards her cheek, but caught himself at the last moment, curling his long fingers inwards and lowering his hand.
Isiilde did not notice the awkward gesture through the veil of her tears. Marsais bent forward, occupying himself with the leather rucksack on the floor. She dried her tears with a sleeve and blinked at his back as he searched through his pack. A myriad of violent scars crisscrossed his skin. They were old lashings, faded compared to the wound on his chest.
A pang of sympathy moved her to reach towards him, touching his weathered flesh with a soft, trailing caress. Marsais tensed, abruptly rising to his feet, breaking contact.
“Forgive me, I—” she began, thinking she had angered him, but when he turned his head to gaze at her, she couldn’t read the flicker in his dilated eyes. Marsais clenched his jaw. A shudder vibrated through his thin body.
“Why don’t you wait outside of the curtain and let me get dressed, hmm?” His voice was hoarse with control as if he was having trouble forming words. More confused than ever, she nodded and did as he asked. Clothing rustled, and then he emerged, wearing tailored trousers and a simple shirt beneath his grey cloak. Marsais produced two vials from his pack, holding them out for her inspection.
A Thread in the Tangle Page 18