King's Folly (Book 2) (21 page)

Isiilde wasn’t sure about that, but her stomach reminded her that she was starving.

While Rivan and Lucas dragged the boar away from camp to skin and gut, Isiilde picked a handful of strawberries and hurried after the others. She caught up to them in front of a crude totem that had been carved into a pillar. As he’d said, Oenghus’ discovery wasn’t nearly as pleasant as hers.

A mass of grotesque images and a spidery filigree of foreign runes twisted the totem’s surface. Leering eyes watched from the stone. Something dark and filthy had been rubbed onto the fangs and beaks of the carved faces. Isiilde tried not to think what that something might be, but she had her suspicions.

“A border marker,” Acacia noted, looking to Oenghus and Marsais. “Is it the Ardmoor?”

“No, see this,” Marsais traced an image of a foul looking bird. “It’s the Suevi—we’ll stop for the night.”

❧

After a chilly dip in the river, Isiilde lay on a flat rock that had been hoarding sunlight all day. She basked in its heat. For the first time in five days, she felt clean, and was drying nicely. Sunlight caressed her limp body and her tired feet dangled over the edge into the water. It was bliss. Blue jays sang in the trees, and insects hovered over the sluggish water, while fish darted underneath.

A pile of strawberries, mushrooms, and nuts lay beside her, and she ate as she watched Marsais bathe and fish.

“Do you want to try, my dear?”

She shrugged, and sat up. “Do you think it hurts the fish?”

“Death?”

“The getting there.”

Marsais considered her question as he scrubbed the grime from his forearms. Numerous cuts and bruises marred his body, but none were serious enough to warrant a healing. “You hit me with the same bolt the other day.”

Isiilde frowned, eyeing the spidery bruise that had blossomed in the center of his chest and spread along his ribs. “Did that hurt?”

“Only because I lived.”

“And it’s a good thing.” She started weaving, and Marsais quickly pulled himself on top of the flat rock beside her. His naked proximity distracted the nymph, and she forgot her weave.

“It must be very cold,” she grinned. “Aren’t you worried the captain will look over here?” Isiilde glanced at the shore, but the only one with his eyes towards their fishing spot was Rivan.

“Hmm, as you so delicately put it, there isn’t much to look at currently. Now concentrate, Isiilde, or I’m going to have you retrieve the fish.”

Isiilde’s fingers flashed, and she held the weave while she scanned the water for a fleeting shadow. A fish zipped into view.

“Wait!” Marsais’ warning came too late; she unleashed the tiny bolt with a flick of her wrist. A jolt of electricity slammed into the water, and a surge of tingling energy traveled up her legs.

“Blood and ashes,” she cursed, pulling her feet out of the river. Her toes were numb.

“That’s why I didn’t teach you a more powerful weave,” Marsais chuckled, slipping back into the water to retrieve two fish that had floated to the top. The nymph glared, and hurled a lesser bolt at his back. His coins chimed, and her bolt careened to the side, brushing a nearby boulder.

“Hmm, and that’s the other reason, although you handled yourself well with the Reapers.”

She did not like being reminded of the Reapers, or anything in the past, for that matter. Isiilde bunched her oversized shirt up to her thighs, and eased her legs back into the water. The sun caressed her skin, keeping the foul memories at bay.

“Is it true what Rivan suspected?” she asked. “Were you the first king of Vaylin?”

“There were men before me—I suppose my father was, but I am the one who united a land of warring clans, so history remembers my name. How many fish do you want?”

Isiilde glanced at the two slimy trout and decided they weren’t very big. This time, before sending a bolt into the water, she withdrew her legs and waited for Marsais to hoist himself up on the rock.

“You know,” he continued after two more fish floated to the surface, “my history in Vaylin isn’t something that I want known.”

“Because of how Shimei, and even the paladins, view Vaylin?”

Marsais nodded, and hopped back into the river. “Vaylin didn’t become what it is until after the Shattering, though we were at perpetual war with Kiln—a lot like Nuthaan is with the Fell Wastes.”

“Only Nuthaan has good reason.”

Marsais paused in front of her, pursing his lips in thought. Sitting on the rock as she was, they were eye level. “If Nuthaan was not fighting with the Fell Wastes, then they would be fighting with someone else.”

“Weren’t the Fell Wastes always so barbaric?”

“No, it was once part of Nuthaan.”

Isiilde blinked.

“Time has a way of twisting everything.” He scratched at his scar, and she gripped his hand, replacing her own over the wound. Marsais closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Is it true that the first king went insane?” she asked softly, curling her fingers in the damp hair scattered across his chest.

“Yes he did,” he replied. “The first king began having visions, and he failed his kingdom, most of all his family, when they needed his guidance.”

“You have children?” The question elicited a stab of pain in his heart—of grief and loss. Yet, outwardly he was perfectly composed.

“Not anymore. I had three daughters.” He smiled in memory. “And an infant son. My Oathbound, son, and two daughters perished during the Shattering. I—” His voice caught, and his eyes flickered. “I failed my remaining daughter in the months that followed. She died.”

There was depth to those two words, horror and revulsion and utter despair. Isiilde wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him near. “Even the gods fail, Marsais,” she whispered in his ear. He buried his face in the curve of her neck.

When his breath evened, and his heart calmed, his lips moved against her skin. “My dear, you could make a man forget anything.”

“Even that he’s standing in frigid water?”

“Hmm, that, but apparently not the seven foot Nuthaanian currently glaring at me from shore.”

“I don’t care,” she smiled, and proved it with a kiss.

❧

Isiilde stopped at seven fish. Marsais carried them off to clean, leaving her lounging on the warm rock to braid her hair. The stench of roasting boar, even cooking underground, rolled her stomach.

“Are you finished catching fish?” Acacia asked from the bank. Isiilde nodded. The captain had already removed her armor, and now she proceeded to remove the rest of her clothing. Acacia’s shoulder, Isiilde could see, still pained her and the bruises were further testimony to the captain’s discomfort. The reeds along the bank offered some cover, but Isiilde could still see the men moving inside the circle of redwoods.

The captain was as weathered as Marsais. Deep scars crisscrossed her taut flesh and sleek muscles rippled with movement as she slipped beneath the water. The warrior came up, running a hand through her shorn hair with a face that was as impassive as ever.

“I’m a soldier, Isiilde. Modesty is a luxury in an army,” the captain offered.

Isiilde blinked in surprise. Only a week ago, she had not been aware of modesty, or the eyes of men.

“I can vouch for Marsais as a gentleman, but Oenghus has his own definition. He has already stolen a number of glances,” the last was said with a loud, carrying voice that reached her guardian’s ears. He quickly found something else to do.

“I’m not surprised.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Wouldn’t you look if Rivan stripped on shore?”

Isiilde clicked her mouth shut. She would look. “It’s more curiosity.”

“Exactly.”

“I think Oenghus likes you.”

“I think Oenghus likes anything with breasts.”

Isiilde grinned.

“May I ask you something, lass?”

“You already have.”

The paladin leveled her pale blue eyes on the nymph, clearly unamused. Isiilde cleared her throat and nodded.

“My comments the other night appeared to anger you.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make the fire do that. It just does.”

“Apology accepted,” Acacia inclined her head. “Since there is no fire here, I feel fairly safe in asking you why you became angry when I mentioned a nymph’s mark?”

Isiilde shifted, and rubbed her neck, feeling the weight of the collar and the presence beneath her skin. She reached for Marsais through their bond, taking comfort in the burning sun that was him. He looked up from the bank, and met her eyes. The brief touch fortified her.

“I wasn’t angry with you, Captain.” Isiilde turned slightly, brushed aside her braids, and let her shirt slide off her shoulders, revealing the top half of the fiery serpent that curled around her spine.

“This is my mark, the bond I share with Marsais,” she explained. “But when Stievin—took me by force, the mark was around my neck. It was a suffocating collar, like being chained beneath a man you abhor. It was worse than the attack. My mind was barely my own. I could feel him inside of me, along with all his thoughts and desires.”

The usually cool, unaffected paladin paled. “I had no idea,” Acacia whispered. “The other nymphs I’ve met appear content—happy even.”

“Am I so different from the others?”

“Very much so,” Acacia admitted. “None of them write or read, and they definitely don’t use the Gift. If you ever meet another nymph—you’ll see what I mean. To be sure, nymphs are beautiful, but they’re so oblivious that it’s easy to view them as less than human.”

Isiilde frowned. She felt more awkward and out of place than ever before. Through the years she had often imagined being with her kind, as if there were an untouched grove somewhere with a group of lounging nymphs, waiting for her to rejoin them. But now, if the captain was to be believed, it seemed a foolish fantasy.

“Do any of them play King’s Folly?”

Acacia arched a slender brow. “I can barely play the game. Can you?”

“It’s my favorite game.” Isiilde shrugged, and decided she could not contain her curiosity any longer. “Where did you get all those scars?”

The captain laughed, and pointed to a scar on her back: a jagged splotch of white skin. “This one is from a Reaper’s bite—while I was traveling through the Bastardlands. And the other one was from a Formorrian axe. If I hadn’t been wearing my armor, I wouldn’t be bathing in this freezing water. And this—” she pointed to a circular scar on her rib, “is from a Wedamen arrow.”

“You’ve been all over the realms, then?”

The paladin nodded. “Nearly.”

“What about the ones on your forearm?”

Acacia grinned, an easy smile that made her seem human. “A particularly fierce kitten that my youngest daughter brought home.”

Isiilde’s melodious laugh drifted into the air, melting with the stirring breeze and dancing with the leaves. All eyes fell on the shimmering dream, and the men stopped to stare at the creature on the rock. The forest sighed, the beasts paused to listen, and the wood spirits stilled—all was at peace.

“
WHERE
DO
YOU
put it all?” asked Rivan as Isiilde tossed the bones of her fifth fish into the fire. “No offense, but I took you for a picky eater.”

Isiilde stared at the man through a barrier of flickering flames and a red glow. “I was hungry.”

Rivan smiled awkwardly, cleared his throat and returned to his polishing duties. The paladins had collected the dripping fat from the boar to oil their armor.

“I’ve always wondered that too,” Oenghus snorted. “I’ve had sons who ate less than you, Sprite.”

“Maybe I’m not done growing,” she said hopefully.

“I think you have one of Marsais’ enchanted bags for a stomach.”

The nymph glared at her guardian. She stretched out her legs, dipped her toe in the flames, and kicked a red hot coal towards him.

As Oenghus batted at the flames, Marsais chuckled, his chest moving against her back.

Night had descended, bringing a chilling wind. With the exception of Lucas, who took first watch, the outcast group huddled around the camp fire. Isiilde lounged against Marsais, relishing his warmth and her full belly.

“Do you have children, Oenghus?” Acacia asked.

“Oen’s fathered a small army,” Marsais mused.

“Don’t scare her off, Scarecrow. I’ve been trying to impress her.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Oenghus ignored the comment. “I have sixteen children who are still breathing—far as I know. With the realms being as they are, likely less now.” He frowned, looking down at the branch he was whittling into a pipe. “All in all, I’ve had one hundred and eight, and I’m on my eighth generation of grandchildren, but don’t ask me to count that brood.”

“Eight generations,” Rivan gave a low whistle. “Did you live through the Shattering too?”

“Nah, I’m not near as old as that bag o’ bones,” Oenghus pointed his knife at the seer. “I was born in the winter of 1013 A.S.”

“That makes you nearly a thousand,” Rivan murmured.

“Oh, the Order teaches arithmetic too.” Marsais appeared pleased.

“Actually it’s 997 years,” Isiilde corrected, snuggling into his arms.

“I thought you said you were born in 1014, Oenghus?” Marsais asked, sharply.

“Well it was winter.”

“We have a wager. You can’t change the date of your unfortunate birth.”

“It’s only a bloody year.”

“A year later.”

“A wager,” Acacia sighed. “Do I want to know?”

“I do,” said Rivan.

“I have a thousand crowns that says I’ll outlive the ol’ bastard.”

Acacia opened her mouth to comment, tilted her head, but decided to remain silent. Reason was so often lost on the two ancients.

“And I thought the captain was old,” Rivan said.

Acacia looked at her soldier, hard. He shifted under her pale gaze, quickly changing the subject. “What are the legends about the ol’ Father?”

Isiilde’s ears perked up. She shared Rivan’s curiosity, and he glanced over at her, relieved to see that he wasn’t the only one interested. Even the captain looked attentive.

“Events do not coincide with the Order’s version.”

“It’s only a myth,” Acacia stated.