King's Folly (Book 2) (13 page)

“We’ll have to go around,” Acacia said at his shoulder. He grunted, squinting at the slice of grey sky.

“That looks like a perfect nest for Reapers,” Lucas observed.

“You’re bloody right.”

“We could levitate across.” All eyes turned back, towards the rangy seer and his nymph. The Nuthaanian and paladins paled as one.

Oenghus found his tongue first. “You’ve spent most the day wandering around in a daze. Isiilde’s been leading you around like a mule on a rope. A levitation weave takes a fair amount of concentration. Do you really think that’s a good idea, Scarecrow?”

Marsais scratched his chest. “Maybe not,” he muttered.

“If we can’t find a place to cross, then we’ll risk it, Marsais.”

The seer inclined his head to the captain.

Despite her trepidation, curiosity got the better of the nymph. Isiilde edged forward, peering into the void. Black birds swam in its currents.

“Careful, Nymph” a voice said at her side, followed by a hand wrapping protectively around her arm. She glanced at the captain.

“These chasms are all over the realm.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“I have,” she nodded. “They are like scars.”

“An apt description, Captain,” Marsais said, stepping up to the edge. “When the Orb shattered, it released a devastating power that rippled from the core like a great wave.” As he stood, gazing into the depths, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Entire kingdoms fell, swallowed in one gulp. A hand might have rested in your own one moment,” he reached for Isiilde’s, “and in the next, it was gone.”

His hand started to slip from hers, but she seized it, reminding him of the present.

Marsais blinked. “The earth,” he rasped, “screamed, and the sky was filled with ash.” The ache of memory rippling through their bond rendered Isiilde speechless.

“Come on, Scarecrow,” Oenghus said, gripping his shoulder, “I don’t want to fish your bony arse out of this pit.”

The group moved on. Oenghus picked up the pace, as if his long strides could erase the haunted look in his old friend’s eyes, but the ancient’s words lingered in their ears, and his pain, in their hearts.

They followed the gorge, searching for a crossing, skirting its edge and counting the hours until nightfall.

At length, Lucas breached the silence. “You talk as if you were there, Seer.”

Marsais did not answer.

“He was,” Acacia said, eyeing the ancient, “or so rumor claims.”

“But that would make him—” Rivan faltered. “Really old.”

“He’s not old,” Isiilde explained. “He’s just lived a very long time.”

Her voice nudged Marsais from his grim reverie. “I wouldn’t call all of those years living, my dear, but yes; I was born in the spring of 800, in the age now known as the Era of Blight.”

Rivan furtively moved his fingers, mentally counting.

“2211 years old,” Isiilde clarified for the paladin’s benefit.

“Some eighty years after Ramashan’s reign was finally stopped,” he murmured, “when the Druidic Orders still existed. And when Zahra and Dagenir were just two of many guardians who watched over the Orb.”

“My Lord.”

“Hmm?” Marsais focused on Rivan. The paladin faltered, looking as though he regretted his impulsiveness, but the seer waited expectantly for him to continue.

“That fellow on the Isle—the Kilnish Wise One,” Rivan stuttered. “He called you Marsais zar’Vaylin. Wasn’t zar’Vaylin the name of the first King of Vaylin?”

“Aha! The Blessed Order teaches history.” Marsais was pleasantly surprised. Rivan fidgeted nervously with his armor. If Isiilde didn’t know better, she’d say the paladin was frightened of Marsais, but how anyone could be afraid of him was beyond her.

“Of our enemies, mostly,” Rivan hesitated. “Vaylin, being what it is and all.”

“You mean what it is
now
. Vaylin didn’t used to serve the dark gods.”

“Right, well it always had the Druids. Are you related to the first king?”

“You could say that.”

“Wasn’t the first king of Vaylin a seer too, but he went mad?”

“Hmm, yes, I think you’re right, young man.”

Oenghus chuckled. “Captain, your greenie is as curious as Isiilde. He must have some faerie blood in him.”

“No, he’s just nosey. He’ll make an excellent Inquisitor.”

“How old are you, lad?” Oenghus asked, eyeing Rivan.

“Nearly twenty, sir.” Isiilde had not realized that he was only a few years older than her. “I wanted to join the Isle, but they said I was too young.”

“So you joined the Blessed Order?” Oenghus didn’t bother hiding his distaste.

“They’re the only family I have, sir. Captain Mael found—” Rivan cleared his throat, “recruited me. No one says no to the captain.” The light remark was forced and the paladin fell silent, gazing at the surrounding trees.

“Whatever runs through your veins, you definitely don’t have a drop of Nuthaanian in you. I say no to her all the time.”

“And here I was going to ask you to be my bed warmer.”

Oenghus looked sharply at Acacia, who appeared utterly serious. Marsais barked with laughter, as did Lucas. Rivan, however, pressed on with his questions.

“Archlord—er, sir, what did you do to the Hound’s spear?”

“I bound his weapon to his armor. But first I had to whittle away his defenses.”

“But how’d you survive the Sylph’s wrath? The Hound was a Silverknight; he stood against Indrazor, a god.” Rivan’s brown eyes were wide and filled with near worship.

“Guthre had the Sylph’s blessing when he fought Indrazor,” Marsais explained. Sorrow tinged his words. He had taken no pleasure in killing the Hound. “Hmm, and ‘god’ is such a relative word really.”

“Be careful where you tread,” Lucas warned. Isiilde looked at her feet, but nothing more than moss and twigs surrounded her. “To claim the Guardians of Morchaint aren’t gods is to suggest the Guardians of Iilenshar aren’t either.”

“Ah, but when did they become gods, Sir Lucas?” The paladin did not answer. Marsais’ recounting of the Shattering was too fresh in their minds. What did one say to a man who was as old as their gods?

❧

A giant redwood stretched across the chasm. Its twisted roots served as an anchor against gravity. The tangle reminded Isiilde of the monster, the Forsaken in the ruins, and its grasping tentacles. She shivered in the tree’s shadow.

“Well here’s our crossing,” Acacia frowned.

“We’re not crossing now, are we?” asked Rivan.

“I don’t like this,” Lucas admitted, eyeing the ruins across the narrowed segment. “It feels like an ambush.”

Oenghus grunted in agreement. “Any dire warnings of doom, Scarecrow?”

Marsais shrugged. “Do harvesters ever heed the jaws of a Rraalish finger trap when stealing its succulent nectar?”

Acacia and Oenghus glanced at each other, nodded, and both turned—heading away from the gorge.

Isiilde looked back at the ruins, happy to be walking in the opposite direction. There was, however, little doubt that they would cross the chasm in the morning.

❧

In a hostile wilderness, rest, it seemed, was never for the weary. The group made camp by a red stream, fashioning a crude shelter and risking a small fire while Marsais and Isiilde set wards. Or rather, tried. She was tired, her bones ached, and she could not feel her feet. Her heart was not in the task.

Marsais stood to the side, watching her movements in silence. She wove copper and water and a thin strand of earth, gently tugging it towards the next rock.

The strand broke. The weave collapsed, snapping towards its origin. Water touched copper, charging the air. Blue energy slashed towards the weaver. Marsais yanked her violently back, stepping into the blast, shielding her with his body and a chaotic chime of coins.

“What the Void?” Oenghus abandoned the fire, rushing towards the two. Isiilde bit her lip, her toes tingled strangely, and her giant guardian began fussing over her like a nervous mother.

She ignored Oenghus. “Are you all right, Marsais?” she gasped.

Marsais was sprawled on the ground. “A small set back, nothing more,” he said, lifting his head. He groaned and put his head back on the ground.

Isiilde scrambled over to her Bonded. His skin was red and his hair stuck in wild directions. She looked down with concern.

“Not the first time this has happened.”

“Aye, the bastard usually does it to himself.” Oenghus gripped Marsais’ forearm and pulled him up.

“Sorry,” she breathed, a moment before stepping into his arms and burying her face against his chest. He smelled like the sky after a storm.

Marsais caught Oenghus’ eye over the nymph’s head. Isiilde had never botched a weave in her life. Her guardian frowned, rested a hand on her shoulder, patted it once, and stomped towards the stream.

“No harm done,” Marsais said, tilting her chin. A smile touched his eyes, and she reached up to smooth his hair. It crackled and shifted with her touch.

“That was a very ill occurrence.”

“A slight mishap,” he corrected.

“Something is wrong with me,” she whispered.

“You are cold and hungry and exhausted—as we all are. I’ll set the wards tonight. You can try again tomorrow if you like.”

Isiilde trembled. Her heart had not slowed. It fluttered beneath her breast, as if she had been running for miles. Marsais drew her away from the grip of terror with his eyes, and in his steady gaze, her breathing slowed.

As she turned towards the camp, a sense of failure pressed on her shoulders, clouding her mind. She sat by the fire, but could not feel its heat.

“You have quick instincts.”

Isiilde blinked at the stern woman. Acacia crouched by the fire, laying a row of gutted fish on a hot stone.

“Earlier today, when you realized Marsais was on the ridge,” the captain explained.

Isiilde rested her chin on her knees and raised a shoulder. “It was a simple weave.”

“Most nymphs don’t even speak, let alone use the Gift.”

Isiilde looked at the woman. “My name,” she said, firmly, “is Isiilde.”

The captain thrust out her hand. “Acacia Mael.”

She froze, staring at the hand, and then raised her eyes to an expectant gaze. No one, she realized, had ever offered a hand to her in greeting.

“Usually you shake it.”

Isiilde extended her own, fearing the woman was about to trick her in some way. Acacia’s grip was firm, her palm calloused and rough like Oenghus’. The nymph shook the captain’s hand like a breeze brushing rock. It was, she thought, a strange gesture, but then humans were very odd.

“I, too, am usually reduced to a mere title.”

Isiilde narrowed her eyes. “Captain is said with respect. Nymph is not.”

“You’d be surprised,” Acacia admitted, turning the fish over. “But it’s true. Most nymphs are not so well-spoken. The nymphs I have met barely uttered two words.”

Isiilde’s ears straightened with curiosity. She scooted closer to the fire. “You’ve met other nymphs?”

“As Knight Captain, I’ve overseen a number of disputes regarding nymphs. The Blessed Order prefers to send women to handle the trials—for obvious reasons. Do you eat fish?”

“Hmm?”

“Fish.” Acacia gestured to the baking trout, and Isiilde pulled her thoughts back to the present.

“Anything that doesn’t breathe air is fine.”

“Interesting.”

“Are there a lot of nymphs? I’ve never met anyone else like me.”

Acacia paused. Her lips thinned to a severe line and her eyes turned soft as she regarded the slight creature huddled by the fire.

“They’re rare, but King Syre of Mearcentia has four.”

“Has?” Isiilde did not like that word.

“In his palace.”

“Are they happy with him?”

Acacia sat back on her heels, surprised. No one had ever asked whether a nymph was happy or not. “I suppose they are. They have everything they could ever want—in fact,” Acacia chuckled, “the King indulges their every whim. They live like queens.”

Isiilde’s ears twitched with annoyance. “Where was their mark?”

“Where every mark is, save yours,” answered Acacia, “around their necks.”

Emerald fire flashed in the nymph’s eyes. The fire roared in response, and Acacia rolled backwards, dodging the explosion of flame.

The fish turned to ash. Coins chimed, chanting filled the forest, and the heat was sucked into a vortex of air. Marsais gathered the flame, hurling the fireball into the stream. The water popped and sizzled, boiling fish alive.

Oenghus, Lucas, and Rivan converged, and the nymph bolted.

“
ISIILDE
!”
MARSAIS
’
VOICE
failed to reach her. A flash of fiery hair fluttered in the dusk, and vanished in the trees. Marsais lunged after her, racing in pursuit.

Stricken with fear, light of foot and in her element, Isiilde flew over the earth, and the forest embraced its child with a restless whisper. Branches scraped together, ferns quivered, and the moon watched her flight.

The ancient reached out to her through their bond, but fear had erected an impenetrable wall. He could not comfort her, or see her, but he could feel her. Blindly, Marsais let their bond pull him in her wake.

His heart galloped with his swift strides. He ducked beneath branches, leapt over fallen logs, and stretched his long legs, striving after a dream. Branches lashed his face and needles grabbed at his clothes.

He pressed on, catching glimpses of his nymph. With hair as bright as fire, and skin as pale as moonlight, she glistened in the darkness. He did not have breath to spare for her name.

Marsais caught up to her by the stream. She was in the water, scrubbing ruthlessly at her skin. Her clothing littered the bank. The trees groaned overhead, and he slowed, approaching with caution. His fingers flew, and his breath stirred, sending a Whisper to Oenghus. The others could not help, only hinder.

“Isiilde.” He stopped at the water’s edge. “It’s freezing, my dear. Come out of the stream.”

“I am filthy!” she screamed. The surrounding water sizzled.

“Look at me, Isiilde.” She did, but her eyes were unfocused, living in another moment—another memory. He took a step forward.