King's Folly (Book 2) (15 page)

Thira fixed a sharp eye on Morigan and battered her over the head with logic. “Set your personal feelings aside, Morigan. It’s common knowledge in the Order that Marsais had no respect for the gods. He hid his surname and lineage. He admitted to the Inquisitor and me that he let that horrid fiend out. He refused to grant the paladins access to his chambers to see the nymph. And as Isek stated, the man is not right in the head. Quite frankly, in the past, some of his comments have infuriated the Nine and bordered on sacrilege. The facts do
not
lie.”

“I realize it seems that way, but I’m telling you that something is wrong,” Morigan returned with conviction. “I’m asking you both to keep your eyes open—that’s all.”

“You have my word on that, and if you hear anything—” Isek lowered his voice to a whisper, “anything at all—I’d like to know.”

Morigan squeezed his hand. At least she wasn’t entirely alone.

“The matter is closed,” Thira said with ice in her voice. “I, for one, am glad to see the three of them gone. Perhaps we’ll finally get some work done. Speaking of which, I need to bring Crumpet by the infirmary. Winter is nearly here and his joints seem a bit stiff. I’ll expect the usual, Morigan.” The rail-thin woman turned abruptly and stalked off without another word.

Isek frowned. “Thira never liked Marsais, and especially, Oenghus.”

“No, she never did,” the healer murmured, watching Thira’s retreating form. “I should get back to the infirmary.”

Morigan excused herself and slowly worked her way through the milling groups, smiling as warmly as she could manage in response to countless greetings from everyone whom she had treated over the years.

The healer never forgot a patient, and there was one patient whom she had never treated for stiff joints—Crumpet.

❧

It wasn’t hard to follow her. The stout Nuthaanian was stopped in every hallway by friends, showered with greetings of good will and idle chatter. Eventually, the crowds thinned, and another tactic was called for—Isek’s edges blurred. And as he followed the healer, he shifted, strolling at the edge of memory—a slippery memory that was soon forgotten.

TWO COWLED GUARDS
escorted Isek Beirnuckle towards the newly appointed Archlord’s study. All traces of its former occupant was being removed, and that included Isek’s access to the pinnacle.

The Spine had seen more activity in the past four days than it had in the past one hundred years. Tharios was driven, Isek would give him that.

His escort pulled him to a stop as a guard dragged a charred body down the hall. The corpse was missing both hands. Isek wondered how many Wise Ones had been forced to unravel Marsais’ ward, and how many had died trying. The ancient had a frighteningly fiendish mind at times. Soon, an equally gruesome death would be Isek’s fate, unless inspiration were to strike him. Luckily, for Isek, inspiration rarely missed its mark.

“How difficult can one ward be?” Tharios asked slowly, staring at the vault. For all his frustration, he certainly hadn’t made an attempt. Eiji stood off to the side, scrutinizing the rune-etched door of witchwood. In theory, it was impossible to trace wards onto witchwood, which is precisely why the Storm Gate was such a puzzle to the Wise Ones.

A stain of broiled blood and melted flesh decorated the stone floor.

“There isn’t any pattern to it,” Eiji remarked. She looked up as Isek approached and a slow smile spread across her all too innocent looking face.

“Nothing Marsais ever did was reasonable,” Tharios sighed, and turned to the traitor who was no longer needed.

“Archlord,” Isek bowed, deeply.

“I need this vault opened, Isek.” The sentence was one of death. “I’m sure you are intelligent enough to realize that as it stands right now, you are expendable.”

“And a liability,” Isek added, weaving a crown across his knuckles.

“I’m glad we can be honest with one another.” Tharios stepped aside, gesturing towards a knot of runes that was comparable to the Storm Gate. “Fail, and I won’t mourn you, but succeed, and your usefulness to me will have gone up considerably.”

“I’ve already been plenty useful. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, Tharios. You, on the other hand, never delivered yours. I still want my nymph.”

“Plans have already been set into motion. My Hunters will bring her back, but I need this vault opened, more than I need your loyalty, so I suggest that you survive this undertaking.”

“Easier said than done, or you’d have tried it yourself.” Isek stepped in front of the vault, considering his options. “You know I can be of use to you in other areas. Wards have never been my strong suit, and I will say, not everyone is convinced the charges against Marsais are true.”

“I don’t need the obvious stated.”

“Yes, but I have the means to keep an eye on the disbelieving.”

“You don’t think I do? Stop trying to delay, Isek. The one thing I don’t have is time.”

“It’s your choice, Archlord,” Isek conceded. “I’m not in any position to resist, but my death will certainly raise suspicion.”

“I don’t care about suspicion.”

“Then in that case, I know someone who can open this vault, beyond a doubt.”

Eiji cocked her pink-haired head, and Tharios narrowed his eyes, his lips forming a single question, “Who?”

“Witman the Wondrous.”

“The legendary enchanter is on the island?” Eiji asked in shock.

“Where?”

“Do you really think I’d hand you the means to escape a death sentence?”

Tharios smiled, and a slow, savoring laugh escaped his throat. “Of course not. But will he help us?”

“For a price,” Isek answered. “Witman the Wondrous always has a price.” Another move, another triumph, and one more play towards victory.

THE
STORM
ROLLED
in before sunset, a nasty, furious thing spitting down the channel from the Fell Wastes. If the air had been warmer, ice would have turned to snow; instead, needles sliced from the sky, burning the lungs.

Brinehilde, Priestess to the Sylph, pinched a small nose, squeezed, and upended a draught of cold ward into her last, stubborn charge. The girl swallowed, gagged, and Brinehilde put a finger under her chin, glaring down at the child lest she think about spitting the potion on the floor.

It was cold enough to freeze to death, like every winter on the Isle. And winter was coming on beating wings. The pot belly stoves smoldered in the sleeping areas, but coal and wood were precious on the Isle, and she couldn’t spare the coin to heat the rest of the orphanage. There was something about the Isle’s wind that cut straight through stone and down to the bones. She’d exchange one of the Isle’s winters for a Nuthaan winter any day.

A pang of sadness clutched her heart as she bade the children a warm night and shut their door. The chill in the hallway slipped under her collar and nipped her skin. She hurried towards her rooms.

The allegations leveled against the Archlord and Oenghus were on everyone’s lips. The accusations were about as believable as a Xaionian slave trader’s word. She had intended to travel to the castle and speak with Morigan tomorrow, but with this storm, she’d have to put off the journey.

The priestess sighed. Leave it to Oenghus, bull-headed as they came, to get himself in trouble like this.

Brinehilde paused at the door to her room. Tiny needles prickled the back of her neck—born of threat rather than chill. She opened the door, grabbed her steel-capped quarterstaff, and marched down the hallway, alert and ready. Something drew her down the steps, towards the front door.

Without hesitation, she shoved the metal slat aside, squinting into the storm. The wind howled, shooting ice through the narrow opening and into her eyes.

“Foolishness,” she muttered, slapping the slat back in place. The gruesome business in the castle had put her nerves on edge. But her hand tightened around the polished wood of her staff, and now she did hesitate, turning back towards the door. Bracing herself against the cold, she hefted the heavy bar and opened the door.

A terrible wind sliced at her exposed skin, bringing a gust of gleeful flurries into the orphanage. She gasped, but not because of the cold. A small boy lay on her doorstep with his hand thrust towards the threshold. Tiny winged faeries fluttered frantically around his body. The Wisps were desperately trying to keep the boy warm.

Without hesitation, Brinehilde reached down with one hand, scooped the boy up, and slammed the door with a curse. The Wisps scattered, and then converged on the boy with renewed efforts. He was as cold as ice, covered in bloody grime, and wearing only a pair of over-sized trousers. She felt for a pulse. It was thready and weak, but he was alive.

“Thank the Sylph,” she breathed, turning towards her rooms. The Wisps buzzed in her ear, and she added, “And your efforts, wee ones.”

Brinehilde rushed the boy to her room, forced a draught of cold ward potion past his blue lips, stripped the wet breeches from his filthy body and tucked him against her own flesh, planting herself in front of the burning stove.

Sometime later, Brinehilde stood over the bundled-up boy. She frowned down at his feverish face. She had done her best to heal him, but his body had been covered with cuts—some were already festering. The stripes on his wrists were telling. After a lifetime spent rescuing children from the worst of humanity, she readily recognized rope burns.

The boy had been tied, and rubbed his wrists raw escaping. Abduction and slavery was illegal on the Isle, but as with any kingdom, there was a dark underbelly that flourished. Bind marks weren’t uncommon, but as far as she could tell, the boy hadn’t been used for pleasure. There was, however, one thing that separated him from all the other strays—something had been done to his tongue and throat.

While the rest of his body returned to a normal shade of chestnut, his tongue remained blue, and he wasn’t swallowing well. The condition had the look of an enchantment; a troubling prospect, for a number of reasons, all insidious.

Enchantments were beyond her skill. Brinehilde needed help, and since Oenghus was off being charged with treason and foul deeds, that only left one person whom she could trust—another Nuthaanian. She needed Morigan, but the boy was too sick to travel and pigeons couldn’t fly in this weather.

The priestess grabbed her cloak, roused one of the older girls to watch the boy, and charged the storm to threaten a messenger.

THE
NYMPH
STOOD
in a frozen wasteland. She was naked, and so very cold, but not from the frost beneath her feet or the icy sky stretching into eternity. The eyes gripped her bones. A ring of shadowy forms surrounded her, their gazes burning with hunger. She stood on a pedestal, or so she thought. Tearing her gaze from the approaching wraiths, she glanced down. Each of her delicate feet rested on a body as white as the ice below: Oenghus and Marsais.

Searching for escape, she turned her eyes skyward. The sun and moon sped in dizzying circles—a day’s cycle in the flutter of an eyelash, repeating over and over again. Storm clouds rolled overhead, blocking out the chaotic heavens. A dark, brooding thing stirred in the storm’s depths and the ring of shadows basked in the terror it evoked.

The clouds parted for a barbed chain. As thick as the Spine, it dropped to the earth, slick with the blood of tens of thousands.

Isiilde could not move. Ice climbed up her legs, rooting her on the backs of the dead. She tried to scream, but no sound emerged, only a raw, familiar burn. She clawed at her throat and her useless lips as a chain slithered around her neck like an iron snake with digging barbs. The shadows converged, and the chain snapped tight, yanking her upwards, higher and higher towards the blackened sky. Inch by dreadful inch, an unseen horror dragged the squirming nymph towards oblivion.

❧

“Isiilde!” A familiar voice shattered her nightmare. She jerked awake with a stifled scream. “You are dreaming, my dear,” the voice whispered in her ear. Her teeth knocked together. Marsais held her, his goatee tickled her forehead, and a comforting hand cradled her neck.

With a whimper, she pressed herself against his warmth. “Am I still dreaming?” Every bone in her body ached and her legs were numb with pain.

“I’m afraid not.” There was a hint of amusement in his soft reply.

“I think I’m frozen.” The campfire burned at her back, but it offered little relief.

“You need to get moving,” he said, rubbing her vigorously, trying to ease her discomfort. When he touched her hip, she flinched with pain. Marsais’ hands stilled. He propped himself up on an elbow and discreetly shifted her clothing. His breath caught. The skin was bruised where he had gripped her hip the day before, in the stream.

“I beg your forgiveness for last night.”

“I was the one who—” Heat rose to her ears and she trailed off. Grey eyes sought hers, but she looked away, conscious of the others moving around the little camp. He checked the rest of her over, noting other bruises from the long days of walking. A touch on her thigh made her flinch.

“How are your feet?”

“Everything hurts, Marsais.”

“All the more reason to get you moving.” Marsais stood, leaving the nymph on the cold ground, all alone. Isiilde curled up into a miserable ball, looking forlornly at the surrounding forest.

The rising sun kissed the frost without warmth. Tiny icicles hung from needles, and the ferns had lost their luster.

Once, in Coven, Isiilde had seen a woman far into the Keening, bent and twisted with regret, leaning on a gnarled stick as she hobbled by. The nymph felt like that now.

Marsais offered a hand, and helped her stand. They weren’t the only ones awake. Oenghus and Rivan crouched by the bank, washing away the grime while the captain and Lucas slept beneath a layer of frost. She limped stiffly beside Marsais, puffing air into her numb hands, trying to restore feeling.