A Thread in the Tangle (37 page)

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.

“Isiilde.
 
Look at me.”
 
She met his eyes and they drew her in, away from the crushing stone and stifling fear.
 
“Everything will be all right,” he gently reassured.

The nymph was dimly aware of approaching footsteps.
 
Marsais stiffened, his hands tightening around her waist as he focused on a distant point over her shoulder.

“Take my arm,” he ordered.
 
She did as he asked, leaning weakly against him for support.
 
She soon saw who had caught his attention.

“Archlord.”
 
Stievin stopped in the corridor, bowing easily despite the heavy tray in his hands.

“Cook’s Steward Stievin,” Marsais muttered.

“I was just preparing a tray for Lady Jaal’Yasine and Master Oenghus.
 
I managed to get your strawberries before the commotion,” Stievin added, glancing at the nymph who was swaying slightly on Marsais’ arm.

“Hmm.”
 
Was all Marsais said, however, he was staring at the cook as if he had sprouted wings.
 
Stievin shifted uncomfortably beneath his impenetrable grey gaze.

“Did you require food as well, Archlord?” Stievin inserted into the uncomfortable stretch of silence.

“Food?” Marsais inquired, truly puzzled for a moment, but then he shook off his disorientation and came back to himself.
 
“No.
 
I’ve just come from the kitchens.”
 
With this odd remark he took the tray from Stievin, balancing it easily in one hand, and stared at the young man, waiting for him to leave.

“Archlord.” Stievin bowed, hastily, and turned to Isiilde, repeating the formality.

“Where are we going?” she whispered after Marsais missed the turn that would take them past the great hall and temples to the infirmary.

“Hmm?” Marsais replied studying the tray balanced on his hand.
 
She sighed at his answer, deciding she didn’t care where they were going as long as she could stay with him.

As they walked, the panic that had seized her subsided, her breath returned, but the wash of emotion had left her exhausted.
 
Clinging to his steady arm was all she could currently manage.

“I thought we might take the short cut through the gardens,” he said at length.

“Isn’t it still raining?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged, unconcerned by such trivialities.

As it turned out, it wasn’t raining; it was storming.
 
A sheet of icy water charged from its dark concealment, cut through the air, and pounded the earth with relentless energy.

“I don’t have a cloak, Marsais,” she beseeched, squinting through the narrow arrow loop.

In answer, he unwound his arm from hers.
 
The Lore sprang to his lips, a soft whisper that was drowned out by the heavy beat of raindrops as he traced a series of quick runes over the tray in his hand.
 
When he had completed the weave, he tugged on invisible strands and the tray rose from his fingertips, floating solidly in midair.

Marsais removed his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.
 
“But you’ll get wet,” she protested.

“That is generally what happens when one goes out in such weather.”
 
He sniffed at his robes.
 
“Besides, I think I’ve forgotten to bathe.”

The nymph gasped as he threw the door open.
 
A sheet of chilling water pelted her, and she leaned into Marsais, using him as a buffer against the wind.
 
With the tray drifting obediently in their wake, he hurled them into the fray.

It was wet, cold, and for once, she didn’t mind.
 
For every step they took down the twisting garden path, her head cleared, the weight of stone lifted from her breast, and she inhaled the sharp air, feeling as if it had been her first full breath all day.

Marsais led her beneath the broad limbs of a pine grove.
 
Soft moss clung to the coarse trunks, clothing them in a garment of lush green.
 
Gentle raindrops slipped slowly from the protective canopy overhead.
 
He let the tray drift safely to the ground, and then helped her sit beside the tree.
 
She rested against its softness, breathing in the scents of rebirth and gentle decay, listening to the pulse of the earth—one beat drifting to the next, calming her fluttering heart, until the worries of the day faded into memory.

Senses renewed, curiosity restored, she opened her eyes to discover that she had been abandoned.
 
Her master stood some distance away on the unsheltered path: his shoulders were thrown back, gaunt face raised to the tumultuous sky, swaying like a reed in the wind.

The sight of him brought a smile to her lips.
 
Greatly cheered, she plucked the cover off the tray, surveying the feast that Stievin had prepared before applying herself to the hearty selection of delicacies.
 
Half way through her honey-smeared bun, Marsais returned, soaked to the bone, resembling a wet wolf (fortunately he did not smell like one).

“I don’t think that counts as a bath,” she remarked, licking sweet stickiness from her fingers.

“You sound like my mother.”
 
He shook himself off, sending a spray of droplets her way, ignoring her glare as he squeezed the excess water from his hair and robes.

“Well, if you’ve forgotten to bathe, then I’m sure you’ve forgotten to eat.”
 
She offered him the rest of her bread when he joined her.
 
“You can have some strawberries too.
 
Stievin gave me more than enough.”
 
Her words brought Marsais up short, caught midway between wringing out his braided goatee.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, carefully.

“Much better, but I’m not really sure what happened. I—” She trailed off, unable to articulate what she did not understand.

“We forget that we didn’t always live under these stone monstrosities of mortar and timber.
 
In times past, long forgotten days, people slept beneath a blanket of stars, on a soft mattress of moss and earth.”
 
Marsais settled beside her, leaning his back against the tree.

“It sounds wet.”
 
Her accompanying sneeze singed a patch of moss.

“Regardless, a little fresh air will do wonders for the mind and body.
 
Hmm, especially for a faerie, even if it’s wet,” he quipped, tossing a strawberry into his mouth, stem and all (he seemed not to notice, so she didn’t bother pointing it out).
 
She eyed the strawberry tart sitting innocently on the tray, and after a brief internal debate, broke it in half to share with him.