A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Leave Stievin where he is,” Marsais warned. “If anyone touches him, then they will answer to me.” Thira nodded silently in return; her throat gone suddenly dry.

  Marsais cast one last look at Isiilde’s attacker, and paused, turning to study the man with surprise. There were cuts along Stievin’s face and arms, deep ones made by a blade. The blade in question protruded from his shoulder, steel lost in flesh to the bone-handled hilt. The significance of that dagger was not lost on Marsais. Isiilde—a nymph—had fought, and fiercely.

  This path was unforeseen.

  All too aware of the severity of her injuries, he hurried through the kitchens, past a sea of stunned faces. The soft sounds of her despair tore at the hearts of all who heard.

  The walk to the infirmary was a stretch of torturous time. Shock lingered in her vacant eyes, every shuddering breath seeming her last. He quickened his pace, heart galloping, legs stretching.

  The maze of corridors bled together; faces drifted from the edges of his vision, voices reached his ears, but were never translated to thought. The past two thousand years had arrived at a momentous crux. All the realm held its breath, knowing not what hung in the balance, only that the end depended on this moment.

  Morigan was waiting by the infirmary door. The healer glanced at the limp, bloody bundle and shock of red hair in his arms, and bustled them straight to a private room. Two women attendants entered on their heels. Marsais hesitated, staring at the crisp white linens waiting on the bed. She felt so frail and he feared she would fade if he let her go.

  “Put her down,” Morigan ordered, snapping him to action. And he did—as gently as possible.

  “No,” Isiilde whimpered, struggling to keep him in focus.

  Morigan peeled back the cloak that covered her patient. A pained sound escaped the healer’s lips. The injuries were familiar—nothing that any of them had not seen before, but her delicate body and unearthly beauty made the abuse something more than brutal. It was a desecration of innocence; a sacred temple profaned in the foulest manner imaginable. Something good and pure had been ruined. The whole world wept, a shadow was cast, and a grim weight settled on their shoulders, polluting the very air they breathed.

  Long years of focusing on necessity took over, issuing orders to the healer’s sluggish minds. Wash basins and fresh linens were ushered in as they recovered their senses.

  The small room became cramped. Marsais found himself being herded out by one of the stern-faced women. Isiilde’s whimpering protest and panicked eyes called to him, but he steadily lost ground, until he was pushed into the corridor. And there he stood, staring at a closed door.

  Thirty-six

  SILENCE DESCENDED ON the infirmary, every eye strayed to the crimson robed ancient. His long, elegant fingers twitched dangerously at his side. His body was present, but his mind was elsewhere, racing through the sequence of events. He examined every detail, searching for signs that would point him to the path from which they had strayed. But there was no path, and this was no vision of his.

  The threads of endless time had shown her as a timid thing, frightened and limp, too afraid to move. Her will broken with the first thrust. But that dagger—protruding from Stievin’s shoulder—had changed everything.

  A slow, crawling chill crept along the scar marring his chest. The nymph had steered Fyrsta into uncharted seas.

  “Do not touch me!” The desperate scream from behind the door shattered his thoughts. “Get him out of me!”

  “Calm down, child, you must let me heal you.” Generally, the wounded did not ignore Morigan’s firm voice, but Isiilde refused to be soothed.

  “Do not touch me.” Isiilde’s hiss sweltered in the air.

  An instant later, one of the healers cried out in pain. The door burst open, spitting out a blue robed woman who raced by, clutching her blistered hand. Marsais rushed inside to find Isiilde clawing at the fearsome Bond wrapped tightly around her neck. She was like an animal, gnawing on its own appendage to free itself from a trap. The bedclothes smoldered, threatening to combust at any second.

  “She’s hot as a stove and won’t let us near her,” Morigan explained, quickly. The veteran healer appeared to be at a loss as to what to do. “She snapped out of her shock. There was no warning.”

  Without hesitation, Marsais pushed past the women, ignoring the heat rolling off the bed to sit beside the panicked nymph.

  “Isiilde.” At the sound of his voice, she raised her emerald eyes to his.

  “Please get him out of me, Marsais,” she pleaded with a desperate breath, reaching weakly towards him, though with her injuries, it must have pained her considerably.

  “I can’t,” he said, simply, but he was not entirely without a means to help her. With deft movements, he wove a ward against fire around himself, and then for the very first time, he encircled her in his arms.

  The effect was instantaneous. The heat dissipated, shifting from one extreme to the next, until she was shivering violently in his embrace. Her cold tears moistened the curve of his neck.

  “What does she mean ‘he’s still in her’?” Morigan asked.

  “When a man bonds with a nymph, he does not just take her body, but her spirit as well. She can feel Stievin more acutely than my hands on her now.”

  Marsais brushed back her hair, revealing her serpentine Bond. He placed a hand on the nape of her neck, covering the mark. No amount of wishing could take the collar away, but perhaps his touch would ease the sting, and indeed it did, for she relaxed, huddling in the protection of his arms.

  The unshakable healer looked like she might be sick as the implications dawned on her. “I had no idea what it was like for the creatures. To think that—it’s appalling.”

  “My dear,” Marsais whispered against her ear. “Will you let Morigan heal you?”

  “Please don’t leave me,” she whimpered.

  “I will not let you go,” he said, tightening his arms.

  Marsais was true to his word, however, Morigan was forced to work around him, which slowed the process considerably. Although Morigan’s talent was nearly on par with Oenghus, she did not have his godlike stamina. Oenghus established a single connection, healing the body in one reckless swoop, while Morigan took longer, placing her hands over each, individual wound.

  When bones were mended and flesh renewed, Isiilde succumbed to exhaustion. The only outward sign of her trauma was the bruises and blood on her lithe body, the latter being easily remedied. Marsais laid Isiilde gently onto the bed, keeping his gaze focused elsewhere as Morigan began washing her. The sight of blood on a creature so ethereal was disturbing, and it sickened him to see her in such a state.

  “I haven’t seen wounds like this since I came across a village on the borderlands of the Fell Wastes.” Morigan’s voice trembled with memory. “Wedamen attacked a village. Set upon the women like animals, killing the lucky ones in the process while the unlucky were taken. I can’t believe Stievin would do this. He’s a good man who has a lovely Oathbound, with a baby and all.”

  A dagger twisted into Marsais’ heart. One moment brushed against the next and pathways intertwined, presenting too many little twists and holes that ended in disaster—such as Stievin had discovered. A chance meeting and his life was ruined. The ironic uselessness of life nearly made him laugh. If Stievin had gone left and not right, this would never be. Marsais very nearly felt pity for the man who he had castrated and pinned to the wall, however, one look at the slip of a girl on the bed smothered his sympathy.

  “A nymph will drive a man insane. The younger the man, the deeper the madness. Nymphs were not meant for young men,” he explained, needing to distract himself as much as Morigan. “They were not meant for men at all. Nymphs were intended as gifts to gods who found favor with the Sylph.”

  “Is that why their own protectors—the Druids began fighting amongst themselves?”

  It was complicated and he told her as much with a weary sigh. Druidic knowledge had never been
written down. It was passed from Master to Apprentice, so there was little known about them, and even less of nymphs outside the Blessed Order. What was recorded of the Druids had been seized by the paladins, who either destroyed the accounts, or guarded the knowledge with a zealot’s cry of hearsay. The stories that the Order circulated about the Druids and nymphs were so riddled with falsehoods that many viewed them in the same light as Voidspawn, or fiends.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this isn’t a light subject. The Blessed Order considers the truth blasphemy.”

  “I’m Nuthaanian,” Morigan snorted, “and I won’t pass up a tale from an Archlord who’s rarely in the mood to talk.”

  “I’m in no mood to talk,” he muttered, glancing at the spread of matted curls on the bed. “However, I’m not in a mood to brood either.”

  “I could use the distraction,” Morigan admitted with a sigh, tossing a blood soaked linen into a bucket. She retrieved a fresh one to continue the cycle. “Well, get on with it before you forget where you are.”

  Marsais allowed himself to be bullied into talking, taking some small comfort in the familiar rhythms of speech. “To understand this completely, or even partially, you must understand nymphs. When they come of age, they enter what is called an Awakening, and in the past, when the Druids watched over them, they would choose a Druid to bond with—not in the physical sense of the word, but rather, purely spiritual, leaving the nymph untouched.

  “These Druids were known as Eldritch. They were handpicked by the Circle, and not one was under five hundred years of age. It was a tremendous honor to be chosen as an Eldritch. Aside from the women of the Circle, they were the only ones who were allowed in the nymphs’ sanctuaries.

  “However, this did not mean that every Eldritch bonded with a nymph, because it was the nymph’s choice, not the Druid’s. The Druids were simply there to be used if the creatures so desired.”

  “Sounds like Nuthaanian women with their men,” Morigan chuckled.

  “A matriarchal society to be sure, but in the case of nymphs and their Druids, it was a symbiotic relationship, where neither one commands the other. From what I can recall, which is very little, it seems that the nymphs were attracted to the most confident, the oldest, and wisest among the Eldritch. In turn the nymph was more content and self assured, drawing from their Druid’s experience and wisdom.

  “A nymph’s Awakening is a very confusing time, because they are creatures of innocence, of desire and feeling and as such, their mood dictates their actions. Hmm, nymphs hardly ever understand why, or even what they are doing.” Marsais glanced at the shimmering nymph on the bed with a pang of sadness. “As with Isiilde, I doubt she truly understands what has happened to her. She only has her feelings to draw from, and feelings rarely extend beyond the moment.”

  Marsais’ eyes fell to his hands. They were covered in blood—Isiilde’s blood.

  “You were saying?”

  “What was I saying?” he asked with an unsteady voice, standing quickly to wash his trembling hands, scrubbing them thoroughly, as if the simple ritual could erase the vile events from history.

  “Their Awakening,” Morigan replied, nudging him back on course.

  “Ah yes,” Marsais muttered, scowling at the red tinged water in the basin. “It was a very confusing time for them. The nymphs felt safe with the Eldritch who acted as their guides and protectors. Some even ventured beyond the borders of their sanctuaries with their Druids, exploring and learning, or whatever else roused their curiosity. That was, of course, until their blood began to stir. Now, they took note of men.”

  Marsais shook the water from his hands, wiping them on his robes, before sitting in the narrow chair beside the bed. He rested his elbows on the armrests and pressed his fingertips together.

  “This is where the Eldritch’s age and wisdom came into play. They guided them through this intimate and nearly overwhelming time, again, only when the mood struck the faerie. Surprisingly, and not well known, some nymphs never showed any interest in mating and were perfectly content to remain untouched, but with that said—problems arose.

  “Firstly, many of the Eldritch were killed while guarding their charges. Their nymphs were taken by both men and jealous gods, creating a shortage of Eldritch. The Circle of Druids were forced to allow younger men into the sanctuaries. I’m sure in your wisdom, you can see where this is leading.

  “Secondly, some of the Eldritch who were never chosen by a nymph bore seeds of jealously and desire.

  “Thirdly, the younger Eldritch who were chosen grew impatient when their nymph’s blood failed to stir. Desire got the better of them.

  “Lastly, and most dangerous of all, were the Eldritch who began to see their bonded nymphs as their very own. They could not let them go when the time came. You see, a Druid is a nymph’s first, but he is never their last and slighted love is a dangerous thing.” Marsais hesitated, glancing at Morigan, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “You have heard the whispers, I suppose, of Dagenir and his nymph?”

  Morigan nodded slightly.

  There were texts, ancient and forbidden, that suggested a nymph had been the cause of Dagenir’s betrayal and his subsequent theft of the Orb.

  “Where a nymph is involved, anything can happen,” Marsais sighed.

  And therein lay the root of his dilemma. Marsais, like the Eldritch before, could not choose Isiilde for his own, because he was not meant for her—she was destined for another, a man who stalked the shadows of Time, as of yet, vague and undefined. Marsais’ vision of the future, on this single point, had been clear: he must not meddle with Isiilde’s Fate. Except that he was no longer sure of her Fate. The dagger, her blade, in Stievin’s shoulder had changed everything.

  “The poor things.” Morigan deftly replaced the bedclothes, then dressed Isiilde in a spotless nightgown. She was more than accustomed to working with limp bodies on beds. Afterwards, she tucked warm blankets around her patient. “What will happen to her, Marsais? What will we do?”

  “What everyone does,” Marsais mused, bitterly. “Isiilde will either live, or die. And as for us—you will undoubtedly wear yourself out, hmm, partly because of your own stubborn refusal to rest.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “And I will sit here with my apprentice while I await Isek’s arrival with messages of which I already know the contents.”

  “Oenghus will kill Stievin,” she grunted.

  “No, he won’t.” Morigan blinked with surprise at his matter-of-factness. “If he kills Stievin, then a part of Isiilde will die too.”

  “Well, he’ll castrate him at the very least. He’s a Nuthaanian after all,” she huffed, looking as though she wouldn’t mind doing the deed herself.

  The Archlord’s brows rose sharply. “I already have, and then some.”

  Morigan nodded approvingly. Nuthaanians, for all their fierce, violent ways had strict laws about such things. Nuthaanian males held their women in high regard. It was beyond dishonorable to rape, or harm an unarmed woman (armed was an entirely different matter). In Nuthaan, the consequences of such an act were brutally and decisively permanent.

  “You may send someone to heal Stievin, but they’re not allowed to remove him from the wall. I want the proof to be clear when the Blessed Order comes sniffing.”

  “Of course, Archlord,” Morigan said respectfully, inclining her head before hurrying out.

  With steepled fingers, he sat in silent thought, watching a single flame flicker on its wick. The sands of time were as still as the stones. Marsais did not know what he ought to think about this. Should he be worried or relieved?

  The nymph had set them upon an unknown path and all his careful considerations of visions thus far were utterly useless.

  Ah, well, he thought, he had been less than enthused with the crossroads that presented themselves, only now, the way was shadowed. For the first time, in a long while, the Seer was blind to the future.

  Isiilde stirred fitfully in her sleep, reaching u
p to claw at her throat. What a will she had, he thought, reaching over to take her hand gently in his own, running his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. At his touch, her distress subsided, and she stilled, sinking back to what he prayed was a dreamless slumber.

  Marsais leaned forward in his chair, studying her mark. He had never seen such a complicated bond, not that he had seen many, or remembered, at any rate.

  The mark was serpentine in nature, a graceful dragon like creature with glistening scales. The image (if one could put such a name to the physical manifestation of the spirit) was not on top of her skin, but just below, as if floating beneath a pool of crystal water. It was a sleek thing with wings of swept flame and slitted eyes. The whole, long length of it was wreathed with flame, or was it entirely made of fire?

  The mark shared her eye color, and the slitted emeralds suddenly blinked at him. Marsais jerked upright with a shock of surprise. Cautiously, he leaned ever closer, staring intently at the angular face and the watching eyes. Some minutes passed without incident, and he began to wonder if he imagined the movement.

  Isiilde rolled towards him, obscuring his view of her bond as she hugged his hand to her breast, burying her face against his forearm. Marsais had no desire to disturb her slumber, so he sat in the quiet dark, listening to the reassuring rustle of her breath and counting the steady pulse of her heart.

  Thirty-seven

  A BEATING HEART is the breath of time; seconds, minutes, and hours melting together, dwindling down to a single pulse of life. What was time without those to feel its passage? A lonely thing, was what it was, so the ancient greatly cherished the company, and into the steady beat of one, entered two, a small, narrow man with dark eyes glinting from the door way.

  “How is she?” Isek whispered. Marsais did not dignify the question with an answer, only regarded his assistant with silence. Isek shifted, glancing from Isiilde to Marsais, before continuing with his errand.