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.
Eighteen
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.
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 ex
amined 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.
&nb
sp; “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.”
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 12