King's Folly (Book 2) (25 page)

At nightfall, they stopped beside the ruins of an abandoned longhouse—a charred, pitted thing that creaked with the wind. Oenghus eyed the structure dubiously, and headed for a small copse of trees.

“Keep the fire small tonight,” Marsais instructed.

Isiilde frowned at the little stream trickling through the trees. Fish was unlikely tonight, and her stomach growled in protest.

“Come, my dear,” Marsais offered his hand. “We’ll find you something to eat.”

His feet took him towards the ruin.

“In there?” she asked.

“Homesteads usually have gardens—even abandoned ones.”

Rivan hurried to catch up, strutting at Marsais’ side. “There might be something lurking inside. You’ll need a guard.”

Marsais eyed the young man. “Guards are best served at the forefront.”

“Right,” Rivan cleared his throat and trotted ahead, drawing his sword.

The longhouse was a burnt ruin that was slowly giving way to vine and bramble. Rivan stopped at the charred doorway, edging forward, shield raised, blade at the ready. Marsais stretched his long legs, quickly joining the younger paladin at the door and Isiilde moved on her Bonded’s heels, peering into the husk.

The remains of a kiln sat on the far wall, blackness climbing like a disease from its center. The overgrown earth was covered with rubble and debris of something that had once resembled life: a rotted cradle and bed, and a strangely intact jar, sitting pristine and untouched on its shelf—proof that life was more chance than skill, possessing no rules or reason.

A noise drew their attention, and Isiilde’s heart skipped a beat, only to plunge back down running. Shadows moved in the gaping kiln. Rivan stepped into the wreckage, tense for action. The eyes at his back gave him courage.

A growl filled the ruin, echoing in the hollowness. A moment later, a pointy, scaled face poked out of the kiln. Black eyes blinked into the daylight, and a long slurping tongue tasted the air. Rivan bristled and the creature ducked back into its nest.

“At ease, Rivan,” Marsais said calmly. “It’s a trenggiling. They eat ants.”

Rivan relaxed, lowering his sword with equal parts disappointment and relief.

Marsais smiled down at Isiilde. “Not everything is so fearsome, my dear. When threatened, the only thing a trenggiling does is curl into a tight ball. Reapers can’t even crack their armor. I’ve watched wildcats bat them back and forth all day, until the cats tire of the game and leave—sometimes the best offense is to play along.”

They left Rivan to sort through the rubble, and circled the longhouse to the rotted remains of a fence. Marsais’ assumption had been correct. There was a garden, overgrown and harvested by woodland inhabitants, but plentiful all the same.

They loaded their harvest into two scavenged clay pots: wild onions, turnips, black carrots, two potatoes and a garlic bulb. A stunted apple tree shadowed a rather conspicuous patch of large, untouched strawberries. Isiilde fell on the berries with delight, and Marsais left to gather mushrooms.

A snap of cloth caught her attention, and the ensuing cloud of dust made her sneeze. Three quick bursts of flame shot out of her ears. Isiilde scowled at the source as she dusted off her berry. Rivan held a wolf pelt, scorched but intact, and he shook the ash and dust from its fur.

“Sorry,” Rivan offered when the sparks had faded from the air. “It’s not much, but it’ll help if you like it.”

“I have my cloak, thank you.”

The paladin brightened, and draped the pelt over his broad shoulders. The others seemed unaffected by the cold, but she often caught Rivan shivering. He was staring longingly at her strawberries. She did not offer any.

“I found more stones. I have two hundred now.” He patted a bulging pouch hanging from his belt, and she nodded, sighing with resignation.

They ate their fill that night. Isiilde’s stomach was full, and her cloak warm. A strong, steady heart beat against her back. Oenghus passed his newly finished pipe to Marsais, who unwrapped one arm from around her waist and accepted the offering.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Harsbane.”

“Isn’t it poisonous?” Isiilde asked.

Marsais sucked on the stem, and exhaled the sharp smoke with pleasure. “The leaves aren’t, only the stalk.”

“Less poisonous,” Oenghus corrected. “Your dreams might be a bit off.”

“When are they not?” Marsais took another puff.

“Can I try?” Isiilde reached for the pipe hovering over her head, but Oenghus snatched it away.

“No.”

“Probably for the best, my dear. I’m not sure how Harsbane will affect a faerie.” Marsais’ lips brushed her ear in a low whisper, “Besides, your dreams are interesting enough without hallucinogens.”

The tips of her ears heated, and she wiggled in his embrace. A pebble flew through the air, smacking Marsais on the head. “Ow! Blast it, Oen.”

“Cursed squirrels,” Oenghus said pointing the stem of his pipe toward the trees.

“One more time—”

“What is that, Rivan?” Acacia interrupted the two bickering ancients.

“I found it in the longhouse.” Rivan held the object he had been turning over in his hands towards the firelight. It was a small wooden horse, started but never finished, and now, marred by destruction.

“Do you like horses?” Isiilde asked.

“My sister loved them,” he murmured. The wooden horse disappeared beneath his tunic. “What do I do with the stones now?” He posed the question to Isiilde, not Marsais. His willingness to learn from a mere nymph caught Isiilde off guard.

No one had ever asked her how to do anything before. Isiilde stood and stopped a few feet from the paladin.

“Before I can teach you to play King’s Folly, I’ll need to trace the runes. You can watch if you like.” She held out a hand and he retrieved the pouch, setting it on the ground instead of handing it to her directly. Taking care not to get too close to him, she crouched in front of the pouch, and upended the pile.

As conversation drifted over the campfire, Isiilde traced each rune, muttering its name for Rivan’s sake. His eyes were fixed on her delicate tracings, and his ears strained to memorize every word. But Isiilde barely noticed the paladin; she was lost in the runes, weaving with a flourish, until the stones swirled, each a masterpiece in its own right. She stared at the stones, appreciating the halo of blueish light that rippled and shifted like crystal clear water. A weighty presence gave her pause, and she looked up, startled to find herself in a forest, surrounded by paladins, and two steely eyes locked on her.

A shadow passed over Marsais’ gaze: unease, worry, but most of all, fear. She tilted her head, puzzled, and he smiled—a sad little curving of his lips that did not reassure her in the least.

SUCCESS
WAS
IN
the details. Who would have ever suspected that the greatest enchanter in the lands would be living in an alley behind a pleasure house? No one, save Isek Beirnuckle, who valued flapping tongues and curious eyes, observing his domain like a pale spider on its web.

Every strand was connected to something. A pinch of gossip and a casual word often led to a greater puzzle. Witman the Wondrous had never left the Isle; he had missed his boat, or been too lazy to disembark. Finding the dwarf was the easy part; sobering him up was quite difficult, and convincing Eiji that the crazed drunk was the legendary enchanter was another feat entirely.

Two days after Isek had narrowly escaped one of Marsais’ wards, he dragged Witman the Wondrous into the throne room.

“My my, the laddie doesn’t live too badly does he?” Witman smoothed the remaining strands of hair over his pate, and gawked at the vast chamber like a country peasant.

Eiji shot the dwarf a scathing look. “Kneel before the Archlord.”

Witman did not kneel, but continued to gape at the monolithic surroundings.

From his lofty perch, the dark-haired Archlord eyed the disheveled dwarf. Tharios sat on the obsidian throne with a casualness that his disposed predecessor had lacked. The younger Archlord relished the unyielding throne, and its power sat comfortably on his shoulders.

“May I present Witman the Wondrous,” Isek bowed.

Witman lifted up his spectacles and squinted at the pale oval hovering in shadow. “What happened to the laddie?”

“You hadn’t heard?” Isek feigned surprise. Witman would not have come willingly if Isek had told him that Marsais was no longer Archlord.

“
They
took him!” the dwarf shouted, wringing his hands, and backing up, step by step. A knife’s tip drew him up short, digging into his back. Witman hopped forward, swiveling to find Eiji with blade in hand.

“There’s no need for such measures, Eiji. Put your toys away.” Tharios rose, gliding off his dais with a graceful swish of silk. “I am Tharios, the newly appointed Archlord. I assumed that everyone would have heard by now.”

“Aye, well,” Witman dug into his ear with a stubby finger. “
They
put a bug in my ear. It steals words.”

Tharios pursed his lips. “You are Witman, the enchanter, correct?”

“I might enchant a bit here and there, mostly there. So which took him?” Witman pulled a glob from his ear, flicked it on the marble floor, and leaned forward, licking his lips. “The others, or those—
Other
ones?”

“Others?” Tharios asked, folding his hands inside his wide sleeves.

“Marsais was not taken,” Isek explained. “The Blessed Order has laid charges against him: conspiring with fiends and using Bloodmagic. He fled with Oenghus and the nymph.”

Witman leaned back and opened his mouth, releasing a bellowing laugh that echoed through the hall. His belly heaved, and it seemed his laughter had no end.

“It’s hardly a laughing matter,” Tharios cut through his amusement. “Bloodmagic is forbidden.”

Witman wiped the tears from his eyes. “I was wondering when they’d find out about all that!” The dwarf continued to chortle, spittle misting his beard. “The laddie always did have odd tastes.”

“What are you talking about?” Eiji asked.

Isek cleared his throat. “Witman—”

“Are you sure this is the enchanter?” Tharios demanded.

“Always being watched, we are. They’re always waiting.” Witman’s mood shifted like mercury. He took a step forward, pinning Tharios with one bright eye. “If you find the laddie, he owes me coin.”

“If it’s coin you want, then I have it—in exchange for your services.”

“I’m on a holiday.” Witman grunted, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat.

“You would be well compensated.”

“For what? Shining those fancy boots of yours?”

Tharios took a deep, calming breath. “A ward. We need you to unravel a ward.”

“A ward that the laddie left behind?” Witman whistled. “For that, I best be compensated very well indeed.”

“I have coin.”

“I don’t want coin, Mr Archlord.”

“Then what?”

“A peek into the laddie’s vault in that there Spine. And whatever I can carry out of it.”

Tharios smiled. “Save one item—a flask.”

Witman shrugged, and patted a squarish bulge under his coat. “I’ve got my own, won’t be needing one.”

“The sooner the better.”

Witman extended his stubby hand and Tharios hesitated for the briefest of moments—a mere flutter of an eyelash. Rumors surrounded the enchanter, some wild, some fanciful, but all of them dangerous. No one double-crossed Witman the Wondrous without grave consequences.

Tharios shook his hand, sealing their gentleman’s agreement.

❧

The blood had been scrubbed from the stone beneath his feet. Witman stood in front of a door, squinting at a web of runes. The current Archlord stood at his side, hands clasped serenely behind his back.

“So you want me to get in this vault, or do you want me to unravel the ward?”

“We need to get in the vault, yes,” Tharios answered the question for the third time.

“So,” Witman tugged at his waistcoat. “You want me to get
into
the vault?”

A muscle twitched along Tharios’ jaw, but he answered again, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “We. Need. To. Get. Inside.”

“Right then, leave it to me.” Witman clapped his hands and stepped towards the door. With wild ceremony and grand gestures, the dwarf waved his hands in the air like a man trying to move a stubborn donkey. Three sets of eyes were glued to his movements, and then he paused, freezing like a statue. Abruptly, he reached out and grabbed the knob, turning it. The door swung inward, leaving the ward intact.

Realization dawned on the three Wise Ones with varying degrees of teeth grinding.

“And that is why they call me Witman the Wondrous. The laddie always forgets to lock his doors.” Witman chortled, and stepped inside the vault.

The flagon sat in a maze of priceless artifacts, on the same shelf that Isiilde had stood on a chest of gems to reach. Its companion was missing, stolen by curious fingers, and opened by a foolish nymph.

Tharios said nothing. The oversight was humiliating—no one had thought to try the knob. Most lords would rage and shout, proclaiming the stupidity of their underlings, but not Tharios. He was more concerned with the end result. He plucked the flagon off its shelf, and cradled it like a man holding his firstborn.

“So that’s it, aye? That’s all you wanted?” Witman squinted at the flagon. “I’ll just take what I can carry, then?”

“Yes, of course,” Tharios murmured. “Thank you for your service.”

“Archlord,” the voice was followed by a face: Gabin Archer, a Wise One who had hidden beneath a cowl when they ambushed Marsais. Isek had to hand it to Tharios. The man had built an enclave of Unspoken right under the noses of the Order—his own included.

Tharios, Eiji, and Isek stepped outside, leaving Witman to his noisy rummaging.

“We’ve cleared Marsais’ private chambers, but there is something—strange. An armoire. We can’t move it,” Gabin explained. Tharios digested the failure without comment, trusting to his underling’s instincts.

“Show me.”

Gabin led the way to Marsais’ former chambers. The rooms were naked and gleaming with cleanliness. The group’s footsteps echoed in the large chamber. The charred bed was gone, and an aching memory clutched Isek’s loins—of the shimmering nymph sprawled on the bed.