“At least I keep things interesting.” As she hoped, the healer began to laugh.
“Oh, child, you have no idea.”
“What happened to me, Morigan?” Events were a dream that she could not quite grasp, flitting on the edges of consciousness, just out of reach, but she remembered some things vividly; fire, heat, and fear.
“I’m not sure anyone knows,” Morigan sighed. “The Archlord carried you in. You were cold as snow and just as pale. I’ve never seen him so distraught. Takes a lot to fluster that one, which reminds me that I best get Oenghus and send word to the Archlord. We’ve all been worried about you.” Morigan patted her cheek, and stood, straightening her apron before striding out the door.
Isiilde sighed, gazing ruefully around the private room in the infirmary, which was becoming more familiar to her than she would have liked. She was surprised to see the dark blanket of night through the slats of the shuttered window. It had been just after midday when she and Marsais strolled through the garden.
It wasn’t long before Oenghus ducked through the door. Her looming protector made the room feel cramped and overcrowded.
Isiilde steeled herself for another harsh reprimand, wondering what new punishments she’d have to endure. Surely, he would not take away her strawberries?
“How are you feeling?” He sat on the edge of the bed and felt her forehead.
“Exhausted.”
“Drink up the rest of this then.” He lifted her head, a feather’s weight in his massive hand, and patiently helped her finish Morigan’s herbal mixture. When the cup was empty, Oenghus set it aside, and she untangled her hand from the covers to lay it delicately over one of his.
“Do you know what happened to me, Oen?” It was evident that her question troubled him, because he tugged on a black braid woven into his beard.
“I don’t know,” he grunted. “and neither does Marsais. If you were a horse, I’d say that someone tried to run you to death.”
“I sometimes wonder if you are trying to work me to death, however, I assure you that I was not running,” she said, sullenly.
“Bah, you know what I mean. Least I know you’re all right, if you can be cheeky.” Isiilde poked the back of his hand, and the two shared a smile before he continued, “Marsais mentioned that you lost control.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she began, but he silenced her with a shake of his shaggy head.
“There’s no harm done. I’m just a bit worried about you is all. You—you should have told me, Sprite, that you came of age.” The nymph squeaked, clearly startled, and tried to rise, but Oenghus pressed her shoulder back to the bed. “I’m not gonna bloody tell Soataen. I’m a barbarian, remember? We’re dishonorable as they come, so I can break my word when it pleases me.”
“You are the most honorable man I know.”
“Well, you don’t know very many,” Oenghus snorted, but the swarthy slice of skin above his beard darkened, and he shifted, averting his eyes.
“Please, Oen, don’t let him sell me,” she whispered, desperately. He did not answer, only leaned forward to kiss her forehead. The tears that fell were not her own.
Twenty-one
A PALE SUN greeted her the following day. The shutters had been wedged open by some thoughtful soul, inviting the crisp autumn air into her room. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, tugging them gently from their summer perches, before hurling them towards the sea.
Isiilde could taste the salt in the air, hear the seagulls and their plaintive calls over the lull of the surf far below. She pushed off the covers, stretching lazily beneath the weak light.
It would be a perfect day to visit Marsais’ study, to curl on the luxurious rug and bask beneath the crystal window. On days like this, he gave her free rein of his study—to do as she pleased while he vacated it, which generally involved stripping down to her skin and wasting the afternoon away. The nymph was trying to decide if it was warm enough to do that very thing in her current room, when the door opened.
“I thought it was ‘bout time for you to wake up,” Oenghus remarked, balancing tray in hand. “You never could sleep past lunch.” She brightened when he set the tray beside her bed and eagerly sat up, breaking off a chunk of cheese and bread before the cutlery had settled.
“You look exhausted, Oen,” she said around a mouthful of food.
“Aye, while you’ve been sleeping away the night, we’ve had an unusual amount of wounded.”
“You haven’t slept at all?” The thought proved utterly impossible to comprehend, since she generally slept until noon, and took a nap after her midday meal.
“Not a bloody wink.” He sat on the edge of her bed and stole one of her strawberries before she could save it from his greedy hand. “The blasted Imp has been wreaking havoc on the castle.”
Isiilde choked on a mouthful of bread, coughing until her eyes watered. Oenghus gave her a hearty slap on the back, which helped not at all, but left a bruise.
“Mostly minor injuries: broken bones, blows to the head, and a lot of people who had their teeth ripped out while they slept.” He scratched at his beard, clearly perplexed by this last. “But last night the fiend managed to weaken the chains to the portcullis and timed it so the gate fell on a guard. Not much left of the poor bastard.” A knot twisted sickeningly in her stomach. “Oh, don’t worry, Sprite, it’s only an Imp—more pest than threat.”
“It killed someone,” she squeaked.
“So do ladders and slippery stairs. Besides, I’ve warded this room, so it won’t be bothering you.”
“Hasn’t anyone tried catching him?”
“Every blasted Wise One is on the prowl, but their traps have caused just as many injuries as the Imp’s trickery. He’s a slippery little fiend and the strange thing is—half of them claim they’ve killed him already.” Oenghus shrugged, and he thought no more of it, reaching over to tap a thick stack of crisp parchment and scrolls.
“Since you’ll be resting for another day—” She started to protest, but he would have none of it, and raised his voice in unyielding response. “You might as well get busy writing the history of the bloody Blessed Order.”
The nymph moaned, ears wilting, and she did her very best to look pathetic. Such a tactic had not worked for years.
“Don’t start,” he growled. “As if I didn’t have enough to do already, Tulipin came floating down this morning to chew me out for your behavior.”
“But—”
“You’re not going to weasel your way out of this one, Isiilde.” Oenghus glowered down at her, doing his best to ignore her large pleading eyes. A twitch of his beard betrayed him.
In the end he stalked out of the room, so disconcerted that he forgot to duck beneath the doorway, banging his head hard, leaving a dent in the wood. Far from feeling sorry for him, Isiilde climbed out of bed and slammed the door shut on his heels. She slipped out of her nightgown, tossed it on the floor, and sprawled on top of the bed, letting the sun soothe her agitation.
Isiilde seethed, silent tears fell, and eventually, annoyance with herself triumphed, motivating her to pen the history of the Blessed Order. She ignored the scrolls on the bedside table, because Marsais had already told her all about the Blessed Order (in a wonderfully entertaining manner). She decided to focus on the noble paladin, Damien Caal, who was responsible for the current laws pertaining to nymphs. As her quill sped across the parchment, she found that she was enjoying herself very much.
The sun was fading faster than a barrel of ale when she finally finished her loathsome project. She had closed the shutters some time ago and crawled beneath the blanket as the ocean breeze turned chilly. The sheepskin felt divine against her silken body. She was practically purring as she pushed her finished report onto the floor and stretched in her haven of warmth.
No one had come to visit all day (except a novice who entered to empty her chamber pot). Isiilde was not surprised. She had few friends, and even the novice who was a good ten years older than she, s
tared at the basking nymph as if Isiilde were one of the Blighted. Wise Ones were particularly keen to rumor, and even greedier for gossip, meaning everyone had undoubtedly heard of her incident with Marsais by now.
Isiilde sighed at the thought of him, and buried her head beneath her pillow. Of all the people she wished to see, it was Marsais. She had hoped that he might stop by for their afternoon lesson, but he had not.
The door rattled suddenly, groaning on its hinges in what the nymph recognized as one of Oenghus’ knocks. The day had obviously been long for him, because he looked positively haggard. She found that she could not stay angry with him any longer.
“I finished awhile ago,” she offered without prompting.
“Thank you.” His soft reply confused her. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. “Do you want to sleep here or in your own bed? I for one would like to get out of this damn place.” The nymph beamed and hopped from beneath the covers, gathering her parchment.
“Blast it, girl!” he growled. “You’re too old to be bounding around naked.”
“Hardly, Oen,” she defended. “Remember, I’m a nymph; not a girl. Here, hold these.” She stuffed her papers into his arms and picked up her clothes.
It was a long way back to the Spine. What little energy she had regained during her restful interlude was quickly depleted. Oenghus slowed his pace so she could lean on his arm for support. She was focusing on the faint scuffing of her slippers against the stone underfoot, when a blur of movement sped across the corridor ahead, zipping into the temple. Her ears stiffened with alarm.
“Oen,” she hissed, but her warning was unneeded, he had either sensed something close, or observed the blur.
Oenghus stalked to the corner and scanned the corridor beyond. Isiilde peeked around his hulking form with wide eyes, staring down the hallway. A pair of gilded doors waited at its end. One of the ornate doors, which was usually closed, had been left opened, affording a glimpse of the golden temple dedicated to Zahra, the Guardian of Righteousness. Her heart fluttered with excitement, but mostly fear.
Oenghus motioned her to stay where she was, and then moved down the hallway towards the shrine. Without pausing, he eased the door open, and slipped in with surprising stealth.
Long moments passed—moments that the nymph spent chewing nervously on her lip as her mind conjured up numerous scenarios, none of them heartening. What if the Imp slipped past Oenghus and darted out here? Worse yet, what if it sealed Oenghus inside, and she was left all alone with the foul thing?
Isiilde looked right, and then left, eyeing the lonely corridors. It seemed an opportune time to run away, and one might expect that from the nymph, but her foolish concern for a warrior who could crush a man’s skull with one hand outweighed her fear.
The journey from corner to door was a blur. Before she knew it, she was standing at the threshold of the shrine, about to undertake the most courageous act she had ever dreamt of in her short life—the nymph entered the shrine. However, she instantly regretted it and pressed her back against the door, scanning the torch lit chamber fearfully.
The door moved, clicked shut, and she gulped as Oenghus paused, glancing at her over his shoulder with annoyance. She smiled innocently and gave him a little wave. He shook his head at her foolishness and continued onward.
A long chamber of smooth stone and evenly spaced columns stretched before her. Deep pools of shadow drowned the flickering torch light that clung to the alcoves along the wall. A painting hung in each alcove, depicting the gleaming goddess and her fearless struggle against the Void. The battle over the Orb was depicted in all its glory. The Dark One’s own eyes seemed to gleam from the shadows while Zahra’s golden gaze reflected a pool of light. Zahra was encased in golden plate mail, white hair billowing behind her, as radiantly fearsome as the shadowed figure whom she battled.
The nymph was sure it was all very inspiring, but truth be told, she felt little love for the Guardian, because in her mind, the Imp should have been struck dead the moment it entered her sanctuary.
With barely a sound, Isiilde darted down the chamber, joining her guardian and sticking close to his broad back.
Every time she stepped into a pool of shadow, she squeezed her eyes shut. It was during one of these black outs that Oenghus stopped mid-step, causing her to collide with his back. She bounced off him, and would have fallen if he hadn’t steadied her. Stuck between terror and curiosity, she clutched the back of his robes, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
Oenghus stopped to the side of an arch leading into the horseshoe shaped prayer room. Warm candles lined the tiled walls, illuminating a fountain in the center. A golden statue of Zahra knelt by the edge of the shallow basin. Eyes of amber serenely gazed into its waters, representing the Guardian’s humble supplication to the Sylph. A clawed monkey’s paw curled over the goddess’ shoulder, and Isiilde bit back a scream. A heartbeat later she heard an odd chattering, followed by the rest of the fearsome creature.
The Imp was much as she remembered, what little time she had to study it. The fiend looked like a greasy monkey with big leathery wings, except its fingers and toes ended with curving claws. Its lashing tail was barbed and it had a wide mouth with an odd assortment of mismatched teeth.
The Imp danced on top of Zahra’s head. The chattering noise, she realized, was the Imp’s equivalent of singing. Oenghus invoked the Lore, barely a whisper on his lips. His fingers moved purposefully at his side, tracing an unknown combination of runes. She usually tried to watch every weaving, but the Imp held her in rapt attention. It stopped on the statue’s head, and began relieving itself into the sacred fountain. The stench of its urine made her gag with revulsion.
Oenghus thrust his hand towards the creature, interrupting the Imp’s cheerful song as a crackling chain of lightning burst from his fingertips. Unfortunately, his aim was poor. Zahra’s head was blown clean off her neck and the Imp was startled into flight, but not before the charge of energy hit the spray of urine. The Imp screeched, rebounding off the walls in agony.
“Bollocks!” Oenghus moved farther into the circular chamber, hurling another bolt of lightning at the creature.
With a frantic flap of wings, the Imp spiraled under the wave of crackling energy. The charge slammed into the wall, punching through its surface, sending jagged shards of stone and tile raining onto the floor. The Imp shot through the air, its deadly tail slashing over her hair as it dashed towards the main chamber.
Isiilde spun around. A bristling hound materialized in the Imp’s wake. It charged her with gleaming eyes and large, deadly spikes that stood on end.
Oenghus shoved her to the side, rushing forward to meet the giant hound. She poked her head around the corner in time to see the hound leap for Oenghus’ throat. Her scream pierced the chaos. But the hound never connected with the Nuthaanian’s throat, instead, it passed right through him, landing behind Oenghus, who kept running. He ignored the beast, thrusting out his hand, hurling an enchantment towards the exit. And before the Imp could scamper out, a sealing rune flared to life on the double doors.
The fiendish hound skidded on the polished floor, snarling its frustration, until its cold eyes locked on her.
“Oen!” Isiilde screamed, however, it wasn’t the barbarian who responded to her call—the torches surged, flaring to her defense, leaping gleefully towards the hound, only to pass right through, sending bright, hot embers bouncing across the floor.
“It’s not real,” he bellowed, throwing another charged bolt towards the Imp who was frantically tugging at the door.
The hound might not be real, but her fear was.
In a blind panic, she bolted down the main chamber with the beast breathing down her neck. She glanced over her shoulder and tripped on her skirts, falling to the stone just as the hound leapt. Pain split her chin, the torches flared at her cry, feeding on the masterpieces of paint. She squeezed her eyes shut, but death never came.
Isiilde risked a peek at the snarling beast on her b
ack. A mouthful of fangs lunged towards her face, passing right through flesh and bone, leaving her terror filled body unharmed.
The beast was an illusion conjured by the Imp, and nothing more. Feeling more than a little foolish, she wiped the blood from her chin in disgust, and gingerly stood while the hound continued its useless attacks. For principle’s sake, she kicked the apparition, but her foot passed right through, and she nearly slipped in the blood on the floor.
The Imp flapped back down the burning hall towards the prayer room, zipping past her with a lash of its razor tail. Oenghus barreled after it, chucking his knife at the fiend. The hilt slammed into the Imp’s head, sending it spiraling through the air, and into what remained of Zahra’s statue. The Imp bounced off and fell into the sacred pool with an impressive splash. Oenghus threw another crackling bolt into the basin, agitating the water to life with sizzling energy.
Unfortunately, Oenghus misjudged the power of his weave. The delicate fountain exploded, sending a spray of water and stone hurling in all directions. Despite all of this, the Imp still twitched, screeching in pain as its body convulsed like a fish on shore, flopping pathetically in the crackling puddle of water. Isiilde covered her ears, unable to tear her eyes from the creature’s death throes. Eventually, the charge sputtered out and Isiilde wrinkled her nose at the overcooked fiend.
Oenghus growled, walked over to the little corpse and kicked its carcass, sending it flying into the decapitated statue. Isiilde couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the creature who had suffered such an unpleasant death.
“Let me see that.” Oenghus lowered himself to one knee, lifting her chin to examine the gash. “I thought I told you to stay outside, Isiilde.” He looked from her cut to the burning paintings and cursed under his breath.
“I misinterpreted your gesture,” she explained reasonably, trying to distract herself from the excruciating pain burning along her chin and the bright blood on his hand.
Oenghus snorted, wiped his hand carelessly on his robe, and stood, stomping over to the dead Imp. He snatched it up by its tail—distaste plain on his face—and tucked it under his belt so its head dangled towards the ground.
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