King's Folly (Book 2) (35 page)

“What are my alternatives?” she asked.

“Short of me commanding you, on your bond, not to use your fire—” Her throat clutched, air no longer flowed, and panic rose. “I won’t do that, I swear it,” he assured, stretching out to seize her hand. “Not ever, Isiilde, trust me, please.”

She jerked her chin.

A gentle thumb caressed her knuckles until she calmed. “The only alternative is a risky one, akin to throwing a child into the water to teach him to swim: I won’t ward myself or silence you during our lovemaking in hopes that you will find a way.”

“That’s insane,” she hissed, gripping his hand. The charred corpse of Zander, Miera Malzeen, and the burning flesh of Zianna, flashed in her mind.

“There are few options left to us.”

“We could leave this place and hide, just you and I—like the Druids and their nymphs of old. I am so tired of humans, Marsais. Of their eyes and constant fear.”

“Do you remember when I told you that there was very little in this realm that I would not do for you?”

“How could I forget?” she whispered.

“I have a responsibility to this realm, my dear. I cannot, in good conscience, leave them to flounder in the approaching darkness. Fyrsta is on the verge of tipping into chaos. This realm needs you. And so do I.”

Isiilde stared at Marsais, dumfounded. If they were not bonded, she would have thought him jesting, but the conviction in his words rang like a gong through their bond.

“Do we stand a chance against Tharios?”

“Nothing is written in stone.”

She did not believe him for a moment. “Then I agree to your terms.” She sealed the oath with a lingering kiss. “But I do not know where to begin,” she admitted against his lips.

“Were my lessons ever tiresome?”

“Never.”

“Let’s start here, then.”

“Here?” She shifted positions on his lap and draped her arms around his neck.

“Precisely here.” He was serious, and she laughed, her curiosity aroused. “Your lovemaking, although intense, is—” Marsais cleared his throat, searching for an elusive word. “Short-lived.”

Isiilde pulled back. “Oh.” Heat rose to her ears. “Are things supposed to last longer?”

“They can,” he shifted, and hastened to soothe her innocence. “At your age, being in a rush is very understandable. I’m not complaining by any means, but perhaps you could try—prolonging the experience. You might find sex more enjoyable.”

“I doubt that.”

“A wager, then.”

She smiled, slowly. “I think I will like this lesson.”

“I hope it won’t be too torturous for you.”

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Can we begin right now? I think I’ll need a lot of practice.”

“I was afraid you were going to suggest that.”

NOVICES
SCATTERED
,
APPRENTICES
bowed, and even seasoned Wise Ones made a hasty exit as the Mistress of Novices approached. She had taught most—lazy and uninspired, the lot of them. There weren’t many that she had considered worth the effort.

Thira stalked straight for Leiman. He had kept his nose in a book during his entire time as a novice, was never late, never out of turn, and always handed his papers in on time. The man had absolutely no ambition and no backbone.

“Where is Morigan?” Pleasantries were a waste of time. She didn’t care how Leiman was, and he knew it.
 

“She’s still tending the children at the orphanage, Mistress.”

“It has nearly been a week.”

“Yes Mistress, it seems it’s a rather bad fever outbreak. She sent a message requesting more supplies.”

“Let me see that note.” He left his patient and rifled through a nearby desk. When Leiman proffered the note, Thira read it with a careful eye. It was in Morigan’s handwriting and the list coincided with the proper supplies. It looked all in order, as it should be.

“Is there something else I can help you with, Mistress?” Leiman asked warily.

“Not unless you know her recipe for Crumpet’s medicine.” She kissed the top of her companion’s head and received a few affectionate licks in return. “His joints are stiff from the cold.”

Leiman muttered something under his breath about moving to a warmer climate.

Thira narrowed her eyes. “And have even more incompetent louts like you running around? Doubtful.” She turned on her heel and strode out.

It could very well be a fever outbreak. Oenghus usually responded to requests for healers when it was on the Isle, and with his sudden disappearance, it seemed logical that Morigan would take his place. However, given the current situation, Morigan’s absence merited investigation.

So much activity in so little time. New novices were being accepted by the day, fresh soldiers were being hired to bolster their guard, and the Spine hummed with activity—as it should. Ordinarily, Thira would have approved. However, years of catching novices in the act of every kind of mischief imaginable had given her a nose for trouble, and this business stank for various reasons.

Thira remained adamant that Marsais had absolutely no business leading the Order of Wise Ones. He treated it, like everything else, with the casual air in which he excelled. There was no doubt that Marsais was gifted, suspiciously so, but that did not make him an ideal Archlord. Over the years, the man had occasionally forgotten he was Archlord, to say nothing of his traveling, or his notorious fondness for the Seed.

Did he consort with fiends? Probably.

Did he have knowledge of Bloodmagic? Undoubtedly.

Unfortunately, as much as she’d like to push the matter aside and return to her research, there were too many questions nagging on Thira’s mind. The nice and tidy report that the Inquisitor was so eager to put his seal on was full of inconsistencies.

Thira did not like holes. And an absent Morigan was a rather gaping one.

Marsais was a lot of things; however, of all the things that Marsais was, and all the things that she detested about him—he was not a man who was careless with the important things. Not with lives, not with knowledge, and definitely not with power.

Thira strode through the castle, passing newly stationed guards and lost novices, hurrying into her suite of rooms. She sealed the door with its usual ward and walked into her workshop, scanning the shelves of orderly potions.

“It’s time for a bit of work, my dearest.” Crumpet’s ears perked up and she scratched his chin before selecting a small green vial. “Go to the orphanage in Drivel and show me what you see.”

Crumpet barked once in understanding and she upended the vial down his throat. The transformation was flawless. It always was.

Thira opened the window to the swirling storm, and Crumpet took flight—a strong black crow. She watched his avian shape disappear in the snow with a fondness that she held for no human.

That was the wonderful thing about animals. You could trust them. And if her suspicions were correct about the events that transpired after the duel, then one thing she could not afford right now was placing her trust in the wrong person.

❧

Thira attacked the winding stairway with relish. When she reached the top of the second highest tower in the castle, she paused, glancing out the arrow loop with barely a hurried breath. She envied Rashk her rooms, but they were impractically far away from the novice quarters—too far to keep a proper eye on the students.

The door opened to her knock, and a bronzed-skinned Rahuatl narrowed her dark eyes. “Thira.”

“Rashk,” she said with equal contempt. “You were friends with the nymph, weren’t you?”

The Rahuatl raised an ivory studded brow, tapping her finger claws on the edge of the door. “What do you want?”

“I want to come inside.”

Rashk’s eyes flickered from Thira’s empty hands, to the ground around her feet, and behind.

“Crumpet is not with me.”

“Too bad,” she bared her sharpened teeth. “I want a snack.” Rashk turned lazily from the door and sauntered into her chambers.

“And I’d have your eyeballs for one if you touched him,” Thira returned, pleasantly, letting herself in and closing the door behind.

Rashk plucked a grisly bone from its bowl and sucked on the marrow as Thira wove an Orb of Silence. With a breath, she took the plunge, risking all.

“Morigan is missing.”

Rashk sucked and licked the bone clean with her forked tongue, and casually tossed the bone into a pile of similar bones. Thira waited, watching the Rahuatl. They were a hard race to read.

“And so is N’Jalss,” Thira added, switching tactics.

Rashk hissed. “What is he to me?”

“I think he is your enemy.”

The woman shrugged a shoulder. “Everyone is my enemy.”

“But not the nymph.”

A ritual scar twitched near Rashk’s black lips.

“You don’t trust me, Rashk, and I can’t trust anyone; however, I’m going to confide in you—otherwise we will be paralyzed by our mutual distrust. Morigan has not been seen in the infirmary for nearly a week. She left on an errand to the orphanage in Drivel and has not returned. Instead, she sent a note to the infirmary saying that there was a fever outbreak and she needed supplies—yet she is not at the orphanage.”

“Maybe she is somewhere else helping the sick.”

“Along with the Priestess of the Sylph who runs the orphanage?”

The Rahuatl shifted with a clink of piercings.

“Before Morigan disappeared,” Thira continued, “she was blathering on about how she did not believe the charges laid against Marsais and Oenghus.”

“Who did she tell?”

“Myself and Isek.”

Rashk turned towards her worktable, dipping a claw into a bowl and stirring, checking the consistency. “And do you agree with her?” the Rahuatl asked.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t doubt the charges.”

“They
are
lies.”

“What makes you say that, Rashk?”

“Grimstorm is no Bloodmagus, and the fire Imp’s master would never hurt her.”

“I agree.”

Rashk turned, surprised at the admittance.

“There are too many holes in the story, Rashk, surely you see them too?”

“I do,” the Rahuatl confirmed. “Isiilde does not like dark places. Marsais would not have taken her down into the dungeons. And Grimstorm could kill three paladins in his sleep.”

“To say nothing of Marsais, even wounded as he was. The entire story hinges on one account—the only survivor of the carnage—Isek Beirnuckle.”

“He has always smelled tricky,” Rashk confided.

“But no one questions him, do they? And why would they, he has been Marsais’ friend for far too long.”

“The Fire Imp was ripe.”

“Trouble always follows a nymph,” Thira agreed.

“What do you want from me?” Rashk asked. “They are all likely dead, gone in the Gateways, lost.”

“Perhaps,” she mused. “And perhaps not. It
is
Marsais after all. We need to find Morigan first, or at the very least, her body.”

“I can help with that.”

“Why do you think I came to you?”

“For my power of persuasion,” Rashk purred, dragging a claw around the rim of the bowl. “I will go and question Isek. He will talk.”

“I came to you because you’re discreet and you can hold your tongue.”

“I’ll hold my tongue very well when I slit Isek’s throat.”

Thira huffed with exasperation. “We need answers before we jump blindly into whatever is brewing.”

Rashk shrugged. “We kill first, eat quickly, and question later.”

“And if there are more tigers lurking in the jungle?” Thira shot back, quenching the Rahuatl's solution to everything. “Why the dungeon? And how did Isek lure them down there? He must have had help.”

“Have you searched the dungeons?”

“Yes,” Thira hissed. “I went down there with the Blessed Order. The dungeons are in disreputable shape. Did the nymph say anything to you, anything at all before this business began, about her master’s plans?”

The Rahuatl turned back to her worktable, unscrewed a jar, and picked up a slimy pinch of entrails, dropping it into her mortar. Thira let her work in silence, knowing the female was anything but inattentive. “Isiilde asked me for teeth—the morning she destroyed the Relic Hall.” Dark eyes slid sideways, and Thira clenched her fist, bristling at the memory of that day. “She said her master needed teeth.”

“Why would Marsais need teeth?”

“That is what Tharios asked her.”

“Tharios was here? Why?”

Rashk tapped a claw on her worktable. “My expertise.”

“What did he ask?”

“It is his matter.”

“Tell me,” Thira snapped.

Rashk pressed her black lips together, defiant. Intimidation was lost on a Rahuatl.

Thira took a calming breath. “I understand you have professional obligations, but this is important—please.” The word was more hiss than supplication.

Rashk smirked. “Tharios showed me a sketching of an artifact—a very detailed sketching. He wanted my opinion on how it might function.”

“What artifact?”

“Soisskeli’s Stave.”

And just like that, all the missing pieces clattered into place.