Marsais had no idea what his apprentice was going to do, and for that matter, how others would react to the unknown. Chaos followed like a faithful dog on her heels, and a delicious amount of it was sprinkled everywhere she went. Unlike the dull group of performers before him, of which he had already glimpsed the script, Isiilde surprised him.
Trying to chart her path made his head spin. Countless crossroads, intersections, byways, and shortcuts lay at the nymph’s feet, waiting for her to take the first step down any given path, but even when she did, she often skipped to the next. Unfortunately, so many paths ended badly that he dared not dwell on the visions.
Marsais blinked, time rushed forward, and he looked up. As usual he seemed to have missed a few pages. The chairs around the table were empty, except one. His old apprentice and now dear friend was staring at him across the expanse of stone.
“They cast their say and called it a day,” Oenghus said.
“Hmm, what did I vote?”
“You waved your hand, so they took it as a yes—not that you seemed to care,” Oenghus grunted, and then in a blink of an eye, his gruff exterior melted. “You doing all right?”
“Am I ever?” Marsais mused. “Unfortunately, there’s no simple answer, because if I answer, yes, then you will accuse me of lying, and if I answer, no, then you will fuss over me like an old woman. A bit of a conundrum for such a mundane question.”
“And if you keep avoiding my question, then I’ll make bloody well sure you’re not all right,” Oenghus growled.
“Ever thoughtful, Oen,” Marsais quipped, and then stood, stretching his long body with the appreciative sigh of the free. When a degree of suppleness had returned to his joints, he began pacing around the table, gathering his thoughts.
“To answer your question—honestly, I am not well,” he finally said, stopping beside the giant who looked even more uncomfortable in the small chair than he had. Marsais gestured, nimble fingers flashing as he wove an Orb of Silence so they might converse in private. Keen ears had been known to overhear matters that were best left unheard in this chamber. Marsais pulled the letter from Emperor Jaal out of his sash and tossed it on the table in front of Oenghus as if it carried the plague.
“From Isiilde’s father.”
Oenghus picked up the letter and began to read. The same steady hands that had wielded a war hammer against hordes of Wedamen, now shook like a trembling old woman.
“She’s not of age yet!” Oenghus roared, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet in a dangerous fury. He crushed the loathsome letter in his massive fist, as if that alone could erase the searing words. “Why send emissaries to inspect her if she’s not a woman yet? The Pits o’ Mourn would be too good a place for that sheep buggering louse. Curse the bastard, I should have ripped him apart when I had the chance. And to the Pits with the consequences!” Oenghus’ words reverberated in the small Orb of Silence.
Marsais winced from the ensuing effect on his ears. The Berserker cast about for something to hit and since he was the only person within range, he took a calculated step back.
“Isiilde is of age,” Marsais said, smothering the barbarian’s rage with quiet strength.
“No,” Oenghus said, hoarsely, shaking his head. “She can’t be—not yet.”
“Isiilde came of age three months ago. The very morning she burned down the cottage. She was scared and lost control.”
“You’re bloody serious,” Oenghus breathed, recognizing the undeniable truth in his old master’s words. “By the gods, why didn’t she just tell me? I wouldn’t have punished her.”
“She was under the impression—a correct one—that you were honor bound to tell the Emperor,” Marsais explained.
“Bollocks,” the barbarian snorted. “Well, why in the bloody Pits did she tell you?”
“She didn’t. I only just found out before I came to council. She took my hand in the library,” he lied, but only partially. “You know how careful I am with her, Oenghus. I was lost in a vision when she touched me.”
Marsais exhaled, slow and controlled, trying to keep the memory at bay even as it shuddered through his body. He had nearly lost control when she caressed his back in the pleasure house. Hours had passed, yet he still felt her fingertips tingling down his spine, whispering of temptation and desire.
“Her blood has already begun to stir and I’m sure I’m not the only man to notice.”
“Already?” Oenghus asked, startled by the thought. “This soon after—you’re sure?”
“You know how—intoxicating nymphs are.” Marsais perched on an armrest, absentmindedly stroking his goatee. “With her blood stirring; she can’t remain unbound for much longer, my friend.”
Marsais’ words had the same effect as a dagger thrust, and Oenghus leaned heavily against the table, sniffing like a wounded bear.
“You knew this day would come. We both did.”
“Not this quick,” Oenghus grunted. The braids in his black beard twitched and his fists curled. He turned away from his friend, fighting against a wave of strong emotion.
Marsais studied a tear in his robes while his friend regained his composure, and when he did, Oenghus continued, voice still hoarse, “You say she didn’t tell anyone? Then there’s either a spy in the tower, or the bastard would sell her before it’s proper, which would come as no surprise, considering he threatened to sell her when she was four.”
“I would be more surprised to learn that Soataen did not have spies among the staff, as does the Blessed Order. Regardless, sixteen has always been the popular age to shove daughters out of houses and into the arms of utter strangers for profit or alliance. She’s well past the age. Hmm, unless of course you’re on the Isle of Winds, where I’m sure you’ll recall that nothing under a hundred is proper.” Marsais couldn’t resist the friendly jab and he received a baleful glare for his amusement. Oenghus had been banished from the island, and as far as Marsais knew, was still wanted in the distant land.
A long stretch of silence filled the chamber, and finally Oenghus said, “I can’t allow this, Scarecrow. It’s not right.”
“Hmm, and here we come back to our conversation of twelve years past. The question I posed to you—the question of which I already knew the answer. Will you be able to let her go?”
“Curse it, Marsais!” The Nuthaanian flexed his arms. “It’s not as if it’s an arrangement between two nobles. My sprite will be sold as a slave and nothing more. She won’t even have the status of a concubine or fifth Oathbound for that matter. Even a whore has more choice than she’ll have.”
“Do you think this is any easier for me? There isn’t a soul who I care for more, but what options are left to her?” Marsais asked sharply, cutting through the booming echo of his friend’s rage. “By your own words, this is the best chance she has, and what you had hoped for has happened. Emissaries are being sent from Kiln, Mearcentia, and Xaio; the wealthiest and most powerful kingdoms of the realm. Have things changed in this realm since you brought a nymphling to my tower some twelve years back?”
“There’s more at stake than you know.” Marsais nearly missed the half muttered remark.
“What exactly is at stake, Oenghus?” But the Nuthaanian ignored his question, and moved blithely on to a subject intended to distract and disarm.
“You’re being a bit stubborn ‘bout all this. I assume you’ve had visions about her?”
“I have,” Marsais whispered, closing his eyes to the barrage of possibilities. “They haven’t been—encouraging. The sooner she is bonded the better.”
“What have you seen?” Oenghus leaned forward, looming like a thundercloud.
“It’s complicated,” he admitted. “Most of her paths are—unbearable to ponder. I dare not speak them aloud.” His voice faltered, but he quickly regained control. “Mearcentia would be best for her, but somehow her Fate is intertwined with events currently brewing in the South. I’m trying to sort them out. It’s like navigating the Labyrinth of Pillar
s at high tide with a leak in the hull. That creature who you call a daughter is the most perplexing woman I’ve come across for over a millennium.”
“I’d expect no less,” Oenghus chuckled, but he quickly sobered, voice grave and hollow as he said the next, “I suppose there’s no use telling her until they arrive. Why spoil the time she has left.”
Marsais said nothing to this, because he didn’t trust himself to speak.
Nineteen
THE HIGH-PITCHED voice of Tulipin Tuddleberry grated on the nymph’s slender ears today. She usually enjoyed attending lectures from the erratic gnome, even though his specialty was history. Master Tulipin was a floating library, so his lectures were always crowded with apprentices and Wise Ones alike as their projects demanded.
The rhythmic scrape of quills screeched in her sensitive ears, adding further discomfort to an already tedious lecture. Isiilde could not concentrate, she wanted to leave the freezing tower, and hide away in Marsais’ study, napping the day away. Unfortunately, Oenghus had been very clear; as part of her punishment for burning down their cottage, she wasn’t to leave a single lecture.
“Isiilde Jaal’Yasine!” She snapped to attention and found Master Tulipin hovering over her. “What does an ungainly monkey with wings have to do with the founding of the Blessed Order?” Isiilde’s ears heated as she tried to cover up her crude drawing, but it was too late, every pair of eyes in the lecture hall were focused on her. She had no choice but to answer.
“I’m sure they have to slay Imps all the time,” she answered, hopefully.
“Bah, Imps,” Tulipin rolled his eyes. “Do you think that the paladins of the Blessed Order have nothing better to do with their time than waste it on vermin?”
“Well, they do seem to be busy torturing people and running down faerie,” she agreed, but was dismayed to discover that this had not been the correct answer. The gnome’s eyes widened with outrage.
“There are scrolls of petitioners begging to join our Order, and yet you scoff at what has been handed to you on a platter. How dare you show such blatant disrespect for the Paladins. Leave at once and don’t return until you’ve written a report on the entire history of the Blessed Order.”
Isiilde’s ears wilted, and somewhere in the lecture hall amidst the other disapproving faces, Zianna’s eyes flashed with spiteful delight. Isiilde stuffed her scrolls into her bag, rushed past the pair of guards by the door, and hurried out before her tears began.
It wasn’t fair. As far as libraries went, she was neither novice nor apprentice, but somewhere in between (or off to the side). How in the Pits o’ Mourn could she write the entire history of the Blessed Order when she wasn’t allowed in the main libraries? Furthermore, what was the point? It was not as if she had a future, or any chance of becoming a Wise One.
Isiilde wiped her tears roughly away as two servants passed her in the hallway. She could hear their hurried whispering, feel their eyes on her back as she rushed down the corridor. She bit back the urge to turn around and shout at them to stop staring. It wasn’t her fault that her ears were so big.
Two long days had passed since she let the Imp out. By now everyone in the castle knew it was loose, but luckily they did not know how it entered the castle. What was worse, she wasn’t any closer to catching the Imp, although admittedly, she hadn’t read past the first two pages of the incredibly large tome.
Mistress Thira, ever quick to blame every ill occurrence on the faerie, had already come accusing. Oenghus had vehemently argued against her involvement and the two had engaged in another shouting match in the dining hall. Their argument had nearly come to blows.
The nymph felt all the worse, because for once, Thira was correct. The mess was entirely her fault, but she had already told Marsais, and as of yet, he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else, nor had he offered her any help beyond dumping the heavy tome into her arms. All in all, the Imp was largely viewed as an irritating, if rather devious pest.
In the last two days, Isiilde had spent her time fretting over the Imp and uselessly searching the corridors for him, but mostly, she had been worrying about Marsais. He had been so distracted of late, as if his body were present but his mind absent. His lessons had been nonexistent, because every time she arrived at his study, her master stood in front of the crystal window and said almost nothing at all. Not that she minded much, since she was accustomed to his contemplative moods, but it was clear that something was troubling him.
She supposed she should have been reading Baiting and Binding, but instead, she had used her afternoons to lounge on the large white pelt in the center of his study and sing. Although he had barely uttered two words to her since he discovered her secret, he seemed to find peace in the sound of her voice.
Of course, that meant she was no closer to catching the Imp. It seemed everyone in the castle had seen the fiend at some point or another. Although some of their claims were suspect, because their descriptions were wildly inaccurate. There was little she could do at the moment, so Isiilde gave in to the demands of her stomach and headed straight for the kitchens, thinking that Oenghus might like some food brought to him in the infirmary. Besides, he was sure to hear about her recent reprimand by Master Tulipin, and his reaction might be softened if his belly were full.
The kitchen staff had worked like an army of fire ants to restore their domain while the Ogre spurred them on with the bellowing shouts of a taskmaster. Order, in all its pristine chaos greeted the nymph as she walked towards the kitchens.
Two guards, who had failed to stop the Imp’s first attack, stood in front of the stone archway that led into the main chamber. Fire from the ovens danced on their polished cuirass, illuminating the Wise Ones’ crest emblazoned on their chest: the Archlord’s runic eye.
The guards stiffened when she approached, watching her movements as if she were a criminal rather than a guest. Isiilde often wondered what orders the Guard Captain had given her guards. Were they supposed to protect her, or protect others from her? Regardless, neither one of the women returned her smile; they never did.
The kitchens were one of her favorite places to visit, especially when all the ovens were blazing. Sweet bread, pastries, honey-smeared loaves, and freshly baked pies filled the air with tempting aromas that mixed with the underlying scent of fire and coal. However, she could have done without the sickly smell of cooking meat.
“Back for more, m’lady?” a familiar voice interrupted her yearning glances towards the brick ovens. She turned to find Stievin standing at her shoulder. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead while exhaustion shadowed his brown eyes.
“I’ve been coming to your kitchen all my life, sir. No one prepares a meal like you,” she said with a smile, one which he easily returned. Her eyes strayed from his square jaw to the bulging Adam’s apple of his strong neck, and farther down, to his open collar. Isiilde tore her eyes from the sweat glistening on his skin, focusing on the ovens instead.
The heat seemed to be affecting her today, which was odd, because ordinarily she was never hot.
“Beyond a doubt, that is the best compliment that I have ever received. What is tempting your palate today, m’lady?”
“Could I bother you for another plate and one for Oenghus as well?” she asked hopefully.
“Of course, and it’s no bother at all. I’ll be right back with a heaping platter of food and a large bowl of strawberries that will make your mouth water.”
Isiilde thought that he must love his food very much, because he practically caressed the last two words with his voice.
“Strawberries always make my mouth water,” she admitted.
“I know.” He favored her with another smile before wading into the orderly bustle of the kitchens.
As Stievin departed, Isiilde studied him, admiring how his trousers hugged his form. Her breath quickened and her heart fluttered strangely, and suddenly, to her horror, the fires in the brick ovens roared to life, shooting a stream of flame into the chamber.
Servants leapt back, others ducked, more screamed, and a few failed to dodge the bursts of fire.
For the second time in two days, the kitchen was thrown into chaos. The staff hurried to douse the flames and the guards bolted from their posts, rushing inside with drawn swords, searching for the fiend who they feared had snuck past them a second time.
Isiilde squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to move, afraid of the heat stirring in her veins. The charred corpse of Miera Malzeen flashed in her mind’s eye. Panic gripped her and she fled, darting out of the kitchens. On the other side of the archway, she slumped against the wall, turning her back on the frenzy of activity.
A Wise One has control, she repeated over and over in her thoughts, but the more she fought for control the more panicked she became until she could hardly draw breath but for short, shallow gasps. The corridor spun with dizzying speed and she leaned heavily on the cold stone, pressing her forehead against its coarse surface.
What was happening, she wondered frantically.
Her precious flame was as restless as she felt. She presently hated being inside the castle—would have given nearly anything to be back in their cottage by the coast; sitting in front of a warm hearth, listening to the wash of waves on shore, with Oenghus snoring in the next room. But Isiilde had ruined her own dream when she had been unable to control her fire, just as she had all those years ago in Kambe.
This was her punishment, living inside the castle, which seemed a giant cage of stone. Perhaps Tulipin was right, she didn’t deserve to be here.
“Isiilde, aren’t you supposed to be at Tulipin’s lecture?” Her head snapped around and she would have thrown her arms around the tall, familiar form of her master, but she was too weak to let go of the stone. Grey eyes sharpened, narrowing down at her with concern. “What’s wrong, my dear?”
“I do not feel well, Marsais.” She bit back a wave of tears. When she tried to straighten from the wall, the corridor shifted violently beneath her feet. Marsais caught her around the waist, steadying her, but he held her at arm’s length, preventing her from resting her head against his chest. How she ached to take shelter in his embrace.
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