King's Folly (Book 2) (16 page)

When they approached, Rivan hastily donned his shirt, covering his muscled back. He stood, turned, and froze, staring at her with wide eyes. She must look a mess, but was too cold to care.

“Good morning,” Rivan blurted out. “Well it’s not good, exactly. It’d be nicer if it was warmer, I mean, and not so—” he trailed off, gesturing at the chilly forest.

“Quite,” Marsais agreed. “Why don’t you wake the others, Rivan.”

“Yes, m’lord, of course.” Rivan bowed, and walked away, but his eyes remained fixed on the nymph as his neck turned with near owl-like flexibility. He tripped over a root, which served to knock sense back into his brain.

“Bollocks,” Oenghus grunted, glaring at the young man’s back. When his gaze fell on the nymph, his sapphire eyes softened. “How are you, Sprite?”

“I’m fine,” she shivered, crouching beside the bank, scrubbing the night from her eyes. The water felt like ice, but then so did everything else. The two men shared a look over her head.

“Let me look you over.” Oenghus unwrapped and examined her feet. “They’re fine today, but the temperature is dropping. I’ll carry you from now on, Sprite.”

“It’s all right, Oen. I’d rather walk.”

“How’s the rest of you?”

“Just bruised. It’s nothing.”

He regarded her with no small amount of skepticism. “I’ll be here if you change your mind.” His lips brushed her forehead. “Did that bag o’ bones keep you warm last night?”

The bag o’ bones was crouched at the bank. The top half of his robe hung around his waist as he splashed water on his face, letting rivulets roll down his wiry chest. She noted that he had removed the bandages on his hands sometime during the night. The swelling had gone down, but the flesh was mottled with black and yellow.

“Well enough,” she replied.

Oenghus tugged on his beard. “Make sure you stay close to the Scarecrow. ‘Specially with those two around. You understand?” Isiilde nodded, glancing towards the paladins. “I’ll see if I can find you something to eat.”

That sounded like a fine idea. She had not eaten last night, and her stomach was adamant that she do so at once.

“There’s no shame in being carried,” Marsais said when they were alone. “The rest of us have boots. You do not.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she said softly. “And I think that Oen is as good at hiding his pain and exhaustion as you are.” She eyed the old whip scars marring his back.

“We do what we must.” Marsais paused, and then exhaled. He opened his mouth, no doubt to apologize for the previous night, and she quickly cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Marsais. I don’t know why—” She looked away, glancing towards Acacia. “I acted a fool.”

“Isiilde.” He pulled her gaze back with a word. “After what you’ve been through, there is no right or wrong way to act. You cannot help what you feel. Your anger is understandable.”

“But not right.”

“Isn’t it?” The scars on his flesh rippled and stretched with his movements as he tied back his hair with a strip of cloth. “Anger is far better than the alternative.”

“Nothing makes sense at the moment,” she admitted. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“I’m not sure you can yet, my dear. Certainly not here.” He gestured at the surrounding forest. “But know that you have a right to your anger.”

“I wasn’t angry at you.”

“I know.” His eyes shone with wisdom, and his words held kindness.

“I only—” She blinked away tears. “I want to
feel
something, anything other than this.” Her hand curled into a fist and she pressed it against her stomach.

“You will, Isiilde, when the dust has settled,” he reassured. “And then you may ravage me all you like.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

❧

“What are your visions like?” Isiilde asked as she and Marsais walked the perimeter of the camp, unraveling the protective wards.

Steely eyes locked on her. The nymph had never dared to ask such a question. A few brave Wise Ones had, and those who dared, often saw a side of the ancient that they never believed he possessed.

“Isiilde—” Marsais hesitated, and then paused in thought. After a time, he sighed. “I stopped telling people what I see long ago. I find it’s easier that way. In rare cases, I may divulge the destination, but minor details are best left in the darkness where they belong.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” The redhead searched for words, and Marsais waited, his eyes warm and patient. “How do you know if they’re visions or just dreams?”

“Can I ask you a question without sparking your ire?”

Isiilde blushed, recalling their fight in the King’s Walk. “I was angry when I said that you annoyed me.”

“In that case, how do you know the difference between fire and water?”

“That’s simple.”

“Humor me, and explain it, if you please.”

“Fire is hot and water is—wet.”

“Can’t water be hot?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but fire can’t be wet.”

“What is wet?”

“Liquid.”

“Hmm, you know,” he said, slipping her arm through his as they walked, “I once watched a volcano erupt in the Bastardlands. Liquid fire burst from its crown and rolled along the ground in glowing rivers. I was very nearly killed, which isn’t rare in itself.”

Isiilde’s heart began to gallop, but not out of concern for Marsais. He smiled at her knowingly.

When she found her breath, she argued, “But it’s obvious what the difference is.”

“Precisely my point. The difference between my visions, reality, and dreams is obvious, but when I try and explain how and why, it’s near impossible.”

“You just know?” she asked, stopping in front of a shimmering web that stretched from one frosty trunk to the next. “What if you didn’t know you knew?”

Marsais scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “My dear, does this line of questioning have anything to do with your nightmare?”

Isiilde shivered, and dipped her chin.

“That wasn’t a vision.”

“How do you know?”

In answer, Marsais raised his hand, brandishing the mark of their bond: a fiery serpent’s head nestled in his palm. “I woke up when I heard you whimpering, and I saw what you saw.”

“Were you scared too?”

“It was only a dream—if a bit disturbing. My visions are not so obscure and full of symbolism.”

“But you and Oen were dead.”

He turned to face her. “Do you know how many times I’ve watched my own death and all the horrid ways in which I can arrive there?”

Isiilde’s breath caught. “That’s why you always cover your mirrors with a veil.” She paled with shock and her vision blurred. “That’s horrible, Marsais, you can’t die.”

“By the gods, your tears are even worse to bear now that we’re bonded.” His fingertips brushed the curve of her ear. “Let me explain. The future, my dear, is not etched in stone; although, even if it were—stone can be manipulated by the elements. The future is a thing of interconnecting Pathways. Take this splendid spiderweb.” Marsais tapped a strand ever so gently. A large, palm-sized spider crept out of its nest towards his hand. Its body was black save for a single tear drop of vibrant orange. Isiilde took a step back.

“Ah, the Weeping Mark. Very poisonous. If you see one, leave it alone.”

“Why are you teasing it then?” she squeaked and took another hasty step backwards. The spider bent its eight hairy legs, looking like it intended to spring. Despite its aggressive stance, Marsais continued tapping the strand.

“This is the problem with visions. We both see the web in its entirety, but what path will the spider take? What choice will it make? Will it go right or left? Will the spider follow the vibration or spring for you?” Marsais looked at her in question, and she gulped. She did not know.

“We both see the same web, the same spider, the same catalyst. That’s what sets seers apart. You see, my dear, knowing the past is the key to unraveling the future. I know this spider’s habits, and therefore it’s easier for me to predict its actions, in much the same way you and I can predict each other’s moves in King’s Folly. The Weeping Mark is cautious and intelligent: it didn’t get this big by charging every vibration. It will go back to its nest.”

As if by command, the spider shuffled backwards, folding itself into a cocoon of spun web.

“And there you have it,” Marsais said with a sweeping gesture.

Isiilde chewed on her lip in thought, following the maze of spun crystal. The web’s layout reminded her of King’s Folly, and its complicated pattern of cycles and rune pieces. The implications hurt her head. Small wonder Marsais was so distracted at times. His consciousness would be like playing a never-ending game where the pieces constantly shifted after every move.

“That’s why you didn’t know what Isek would do,” she realized aloud. “His betrayal didn’t fit with his past—all those years you called him friend.”

“Quite right, and he made the choice too quickly.” His quiet words were tinted with regret. “Time does not account for chaos.”

“I’m beginning to see why nymphs are treated as they are,” she admitted softly. “Perhaps we
should
be cloistered away from the rest of the lands.” Her mere presence had sparked betrayal, ruined a family, caused death and heartache, and she had been used as a pawn in a plot that threatened the realm.

“It is no excuse for Isek’s actions, or anyone else for that matter.” Marsais placed a finger under her chin, tilting her head so she might meet his gaze. “Do not blame yourself for the weakness of others, Isiilde.”

She shrugged. “How can I not? I am a nymph.”

“You are, true,” he admitted. “But nymphs aren’t supposed to ponder such matters. Really, my dear, if you blame yourself, then I’ll be forced to blame myself too, and we’ll be a rather pathetic pair, don’t you agree?”

“Why are you to blame? You don’t drive men insane with a mere touch or glance.”

“Are you implying that I’m not handsome enough?”

Isiilde rolled her eyes. “That
must
be what happened last night. I was consumed by your allure.”

“Obviously,” he said, flashing a most charming smile. “You know, Isiilde, I’m beginning to suspect that you’re not a nymph after all. They don’t usually worry.”

“If I’m not a nymph, then what am I?”

“You could be an Assumer in disguise.” His eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Well if I am, I don’t know it.”

“That could very well be part of your disguise. You are very talented.”

“Yes, but if I were so talented that I could not tell the difference, then that would practically make me a nymph.”

“Ah, but there is a way to tell if someone is an Assumer.”

“There is?” Her ears perked up with interest. Marsais gave a slight nod, and drew her close, kissing her tenderly. In response, Isiilde wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the taste of him. Marsais tasted better than strawberries. Worry and fear fluttered out of her mind, and when he finally pulled away, she couldn’t help but smile into his eyes.

“I was wrong,” he breathed, “You are definitely a nymph.”

“I believe you’re right,” she agreed. Their single night together filled her thoughts, leaving her body aching with need. “I’m also much warmer.”

“I can tell.”

“But I’m still hungry.”

Marsais gestured to the ward. “One more to unravel, and we’ll see what Oenghus has managed to forage for you.”

Considerably cheered, Isiilde turned to the ward, and eagerly laid her hands on the rock’s surface, bringing chaos to order.

ISIILDE
STOOD
AT
the edge of the gorge, surveying the looming ruins. Streams of sunlight pierced the high canopy, touching the earth. The dappled light was eerie and beautiful, but offered little warmth. The shadows were still deep and frost clung to tree and vine.

“I don’t like those ruins,” she shivered, leaning closer to Marsais. She never wanted to meet another Reaper as long as she lived. The nymph found the creatures repulsive, in a way that went far beyond fear.

“There’s plenty of daylight.”

“And shadows.”

“Reapers prefer the night, not shadows.”

“Maybe so, but the other side feels—angry.”

“It is.” Marsais squeezed her shoulder. “Stay close.”

Oenghus stood beside the fallen tree that would soon serve as their bridge. He tugged on his braided beard, but Isiilde knew him well—he was uneasy and his mood was not helping her nerves.

“Are we going to stand here staring all day?” asked Lucas.

The Nuthaanian cleared his throat, frowning at the expectant paladins. “It might be better if everyone else went across first. I’m not the lightest of men.”

Acacia eyed him, and then nodded to Lucas, who climbed on top of the log and began to edge across, carefully circling the wide branches that interrupted the bridge. The log was sturdy, but the wind currents in the gorge battered it from below, making it sway over the chasm. When the knight touched ground, Acacia climbed on top of the tree, moving confidently across without pause.

Isiilde understood Oenghus’ hesitation. He
was
a large man, over seven feet tall, solid muscle, weighing five times more than most men.

“Oen is afraid of heights,” Marsais confided, sensing her thoughts.

Isiilde eyed her formidable guardian in a new light. “I had no idea.”

Marsais gestured towards the blackness. “There’s nothing to fight.”

“Except fear,” she murmured. A ripple of surprise traveled through their bond.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Fear of falling, fear of succumbing.”

“Fear of surrendering.”

Sharp grey eyes focused on her—searching.

The edge of her lip twitched upwards in a half smile. “Don’t worry, Marsais. You taught me to levitate, remember?”

Marsais opened his mouth, but before he could reply, she flitted over to the log, and hopped on top, glancing at her guardian.

“Marsais and I will catch you, Oen.” Isiilde moved lightly over the log, stepping around branches and obstacles with ease. Half way across she paused, staring into the abyss. Birds spiraled in its embrace. Curiosity inflamed her impulsiveness. Isiilde summoned the Lore, weaving a neat ball of light.