“I like your evil lair,” she said softly into the quiet. His chest vibrated against her back, but he made no noise. She twisted in his arms, searching his eyes. “Are you all right? You’re worried about something.”
“Don’t worry about me, my dear.”
“How can I not, Marsais?” She smiled, sadly, reaching up to trace the stark line of his jaw. “It has to do with your conversation, doesn’t it?”
“That, and a great deal of other things.”
“Why didn’t you tell the paladins everything?”
“How do you know I didn’t tell them everything?”
“Really, Marsais, you should know me by now.” She tugged on his scruffy goatee. “The cleric of Chaim knows about the Isle now, and he knows that we’re not really Bloodmagi. That is good news, and yet you are still troubled.”
“I can’t hide much from you, can I?”
“Why do you try?”
Marsais caressed the curve of her ear with a sigh. “To save you the worry—the burden. Let it fall on my shoulders, Isiilde.”
“We’re bonded,” she whispered. “You forget that I feel what you feel too.” She unlaced the front of his robe, and slipped a hand beneath, placing it over his scarred chest, against the heat of his skin. The wound, whatever it was, constantly ached, but when he was fatigued, it burned and throbbed as if it was fresh. Yet when she touched it, the pain melted away.
Marsais shuddered beneath her hand. The strain at the corners of his eyes and mouth smoothed, and he sighed softly.
“You live with so much pain. I don’t know how you can bear it.”
“Perhaps the pain has kept me alive. This,” he placed his hand over hers and pressed her palm to his chest, “never lets me lower my guard.”
“How did you get it? Why won’t it heal?”
“I received this wound when the Orb shattered,” he explained. “I was ripped open along with this realm. I should have perished, but I did not.” Grey eyes turned inward in thought, and unconsciously, his hand slipped beneath her shirt and trailed down her back. His touch was coarse and hot as sand. It felt like being caressed by the sun.
Isiilde frowned. “But why would the Orb’s Shattering wound you?”
“Why do you think, my dear?” His fingertips slid up her spine before brushing her neck.
“I think you are trying to distract me,” she breathed.
“Hmm, I can certainly stop trying.”
In answer, the nymph pressed her lips against his. Passion ignited and she buried her fingers in his hair, surprising herself as much as him. Marsais’ surprise, however, did not last long, and he responded in kind. Desire echoed through their bond, building in intensity, rising to a crescendo. His pleasure was hers, and hers was his, shuddering through their bodies as one.
“Marsais,” she pulled away, breathless and aching, and vaguely aware of voices. “Please tell me you have something to drape over the entrance.”
“What entrance?” he murmured against the hollow of her throat.
Isiilde swallowed, fighting for thought. “The one Oen and the paladins are sitting outside of.”
Mention of Oenghus snared Marsais’ attention, although she rather wished he hadn’t stopped. Marsais cleared his throat, adjusted his trousers, and rose to a crouch, looking dazed. It seemed to take a fair amount of thought, but eventually his eyes cleared and focused with something resembling intelligence.
“Ah, the seer has a plan.” Marsais’ fingers flashed, creating a veil of gossamer runes in the air before he swept his hand over the entrance. The air shimmered, rippled, and snapped into focus. The entrance vanished. They were encased in a cocoon of redwood.
“A mirror rune,” he explained. “You can still walk through.”
“I do not want to leave, and I won’t let you,” she crawled towards him with a seductive curve of her lips.
“Wait.” He held up a finger, and backed against the tree wall, his eyes widening by the second. Another weave flashed through the air. This time, Isiilde recognized it as an Orb of Silence. Marsais was ever thoughtful.
The nymph deftly unlaced the rest of his robe, and slid it from his shoulders. Her fingers trailed down his chest, over his stomach, caressing the twin muscles that dipped beneath his trousers. The nymph had every intention of following the enticing lines to their aroused conclusion.
“Give me a moment, my dear,” he gulped.
“For what?” she purred, tugging his belt free.
“I’m trying to think.”
“I’m not stopping you.” His laces certainly didn’t stop her deft fingers.
“You’re making it very—” a moan interrupted his words, and he leant against the tree trunk as the nymph found another use for her lips. It was a full minute before he found his voice again. “Difficult.”
Isiilde reached up, grabbed the remnants of his goatee, and pulled him down to her level. “You are always thinking,” she whispered. Another long, passionate kiss and Marsais found himself on his back beside the fire with a nymph straddling his hips. Hot breath and an eager tongue sent fire racing through his veins, but still he struggled, trying to recall something important.
Isiilde sat up, arching her back with a rock of her hips, and then she paused, tilting her head. “Why do you look scared, Marsais?”
“I don’t have any—” She moved her hips again, and his body betrayed his mind, robbing him of the ability to speak. Marsais forgot he had been speaking altogether as he caressed the nymph, running hands over firm breasts and silken skin, hips thrusting with her hypnotic undulations and quickening with her breaths.
“What were you saying?” she moaned. The fire beside his head flared and popped.
Threat stilled his passion. “Fire potions,” he breathed. “I don’t have any protection.”
Isiilde made a sound worthy of her growling guardian.
“I have one idea.”
“Good.” Her lips returned to his hot skin, trailing downwards with her touch.
“You won’t like it.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“I think—” Marsais lost his train of thought and Isiilde grinned against his chest.
“Yes?”
“Hmm?”
“You were saying?”
“Was I saying something?”
“Shall I stop?”
“Gods no,” he said, hoarsely.
“I want to hear your idea.” She sat up, and his mind finally traveled in the same direction.
“Fire,” he gasped, and cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. “I think we have proof enough to conclude that your fire resides in your voice. I can silence you, although I’d rather not.” It took a moment for her mind to catch up with his words because his hands were rather distracting. When his idea took root, she stiffened, and fear filled her eyes.
“You mean like what Thira did to me?” Her throat went dreadfully dry.
“My dear,” he soothed, gripping her hips. With gentle persuasion, he switched positions, pressing her against the soft earth. “I would never weave something so crude.” A feather’s touch slid down her hip and thigh, eliciting a moan. It was the last of the night, but her silence was well worth the pleasure.
Twenty-four
ISIILDE WAS AWAKENED by a looming presence. Marsais stirred beneath her, mumbling to the intruder, “Is it my watch?”
“No,” Oenghus scowled down at them both. “I took your bloody watch. It’s an hour past sunrise. We need to get moving.”
“It’s too early, Oen,” she moaned, returning her face to the curve of a warm neck. Marsais smelled delicious.
“Next time you weave a bloody Orb of Silence, take it down after—” Oenghus growled and corrected himself, “before you go to sleep. A legion of razor beasts could have attacked the camp and you two would have slept through the entire battle.”
“Sounds like a good thing,” Isiilde mused. “And then there’d be more beasts for you to squash.”
/> “Excellent point, my dear,” Marsais agreed, propping himself up on his elbows despite the nymph still draped over his body.
“Since the ward is still up, you best tell me what has you so worried,” Oenghus threatened.
“We are traveling with three devout paladins who can’t even hold a simple conversation without crying blasphemy. And while the Suevi and Ardmoor are bitter enemies, the Suevi include the Dark One among their worshipped deities.”
Isiilde frowned, and sat up, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders.
“What did you see on the marker?” Oenghus pressed.
Marsais hesitated, glancing at Isiilde.
“I’d rather know what’s going on,” she said. “I think.”
“Hmm, I dare not argue with you.” The look in Marsais’ eyes made her want to spend another few hours inside their hollowed out tree. “Eaters of the Dead—or the living. The skull and crow are their symbols.”
Isiilde’s stomach lurched. “Can’t we just go around?”
“The winter wind is stirring and we aren’t equipped for the approaching storm.”
“And we don’t know how far their territory stretches,” Oenghus added.
“You could summon a griffon again, and we could fly over them.”
“That was an illusion, Isiilde, a very convincing one. But even if I had summoned the griffon—summoning is just that. It doesn’t grant control over the beast.”
“So we’ll scout it out and if the tribe doesn’t look that bad, I’ll tell the metal heads to shut their traps,” Oenghus shrugged.
“Nicely put.”
❧
An hour into their trek towards the hoped for village, and Isiilde felt as if she had walked all day. Every muscle in her body was sore and her feet dragged with exhaustion.
“I don’t think nymphs are supposed to get up so early,” she said to the man at her side.
“I would have to agree.” Grey eyes twinkled down at her. “I have discovered that they are most definitely nocturnal.”
She glared at the bounce in his step.
“How are your feet?”
They were currently filthy, and the ground was cold. She said as much.
“I could levitate you, if you wish.”
“That would be wonderful, Marsais.”
He traced a quick weave, and his deft touch caught her, wrapping around her body with tingling warmth. A moment later, she drifted off the ground, and crossed her legs, sitting comfortably on a cushion of air.
The nymph drifted beside Marsais, and as they passed the border marker, Lucas spat at its base. Isiilde realized that there was merit to Marsais’ concerns. Even if the Suevi were not flesh eaters, the paladins, especially Lucas, would take offense to anything contrary to the Blessed Order. Isiilde glanced back at Acacia. The captain was as sharp and cool as her sword blade.
Would the Knight Captain put aside her fervent devotion long enough to barter for supplies, and possibly aid?
Isiilde’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the cushion of air supporting her body vanished. Gravity slammed her onto the earth. Her nose met moss, and Rivan rushed forward to help. Isiilde’s breath caught, and she twisted, scrambling backwards, away from the paladin.
Rivan froze, as startled as she. “Are you all right?”
“And that’s why I didn’t want him floating us across the chasm,” Oenghus sighed, stepping between the two and offering a hand.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, wiping the dirt from her leggings. But her heart was still in her throat, fluttering uncomfortably. She searched for Marsais and found him staring at the ground.
“What is it?” Rivan asked from the other side of the transfixed seer.
Isiilde bent to examine the spot that held him in thrall. “A stick,” she announced, wrinkling her nose.
“Oh.” Rivan appeared disappointed.
“Marsais?”
His grey eyes were wide and unseeing—or rather, she realized, seeing far too much.
“We don’t have time for this,” Oenghus grumbled. “Just slap his bloody back, Sprite.”
“I don’t want to disturb him.”
“You know that bastard has stared at a leaf for an entire day before.”
“And you stood staring at him?” Acacia asked.
Oenghus narrowed his eyes. “I was young and dumb.”
Isiilde tilted her head at the stick. A sudden urge gripped her, and before common sense could halt her curiosity, she nudged the stick with her toe. Marsais sucked in a sharp breath, as if he had been doused with ice. A shiver ran through his bones, traveled from his toes, up his spine, and opened his eyes wide. He took a step back, shaking himself from a daze.
Steely eyes focused on the nymph. He blinked and turned as if lost, and muttered something unintelligible, walking in the opposite direction.
“Grab him, Captain,” Oenghus ordered.
Acacia quickened her pace in pursuit, catching the long-legged madman. She placed a firm hand on his arm and guided him back to the group. With no small amount of concern, Isiilde took charge of her Bonded, wrapping her hand around his. Her touch brought him back to the present.
“Oh, hello, my dear,” Marsais smiled.
“Welcome back.”
“Was I gone long?”
“Long enough to drop me.”
Marsais cleared his throat, glanced from Oenghus to the paladins, to the tops of the trees, and then down at his palm where the head of a fiery serpent rested. “Ah.”
“We are bonded, somewhere in Vaylin, and Oenghus is about to toss you over a cliff.”
“We are indeed bonded,” he grinned roguishly, “and wasting valuable daylight. We really must hurry.” With his customary stride, Marsais shot off, stretching his legs and outpacing Oenghus.
“Does he know where he’s going?” Lucas asked.
“As long as he doesn’t keep making left turns.” The barbarian caught up to the seer, gripped his bony shoulder, and slowed him down. “Back with the women, Scarecrow.”
“As long as you hurry.”
Oenghus swore under his breath. Isiilde took Marsais’ hand firmly in her own as the group followed the river, pushing through the forest.
The sky was bright through the distant patches in the canopy. A strong wind rustled the leaves, moaning with the travelers’ footsteps and raising goosebumps along Isiilde’s skin. The sun peaked and then began to fall, and still they walked with an irrational sense of urgency prickling at their backs. Whatever the others thought of Marsais, his behavior had put the group on edge.
After a time, Marsais’ ebbing sanity faltered, and reversed directions. Isiilde felt his calmness return and his heart beat in a relaxed rhythm that echoed his gait. Soon, Marsais and Isiilde were falling behind. Oenghus pinned the seer with a smoldering glare, but they ignored the giant’s annoyance.
“Marsais?”
“Isiilde.”
She tugged his scruffy goatee. “When the hag attacked us, why did the vines leave after you tapped my head?”
“Aha! A lesson for today.” Marsais called the party to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?”
“An opportunity, my dear Captain.”
Isiilde sat on a moss covered rock, and Oenghus sighed, removing his knife and a crude pipe that was a work in progress.
“I shielded you, Isiilde.” Marsais traced three runes at her feet: stone, air, and a bind.
“We’ve been marching double time for hours, and now you stop to conduct a class?” Lucas glowered at the seer. The scars on his face tugged at the corner of his eyes, turning them into dark slits.
“Sir Lucas, when my apprentice—”
“Former,” she corrected.
“—shows an interest in the Gift, I drop everything to amuse her. I’d probably stop in the middle of a pitched battle,” he mused. “Consider this a brief halt. Soldiers still do that, don’t they?”
“It’s a waste of daylight.”
“At
ease, Lieutenant.” There was an edge to the captain’s voice as she walked to the river. Lucas followed without comment, crouching at the bank beside her. The two bent their heads together in quiet conversation. Rivan did not join them; he tucked his helmet beneath his arm, and crouched, trying to copy Marsais’ runes, crudely tracing them in the dirt. The eager paladin felt Isiilde’s eyes on him, straightened, and quickly erased his attempts with his boot.
“Now then, my dear,” Marsais caught her attention. “Before you go tracing away, you can’t simply bind stone and iron to your flesh. That would result in ill occurrences—far worse than binding earth to your skin.”
“Is there anything worse than an ill occurrence, Marsais?”
“Yes, a devastating occurrence. Now, you have to weave stone around iron, and an air rune into the stone rune like so—into the cracks and flaws.” Long fingers traced three bold strokes before interlacing the flowing air rune between columns. “And a bind to tether them all.” A gossamer thread stretched from the bluish runes hovering in midair to his fingers, like strings of a puppet. Quick as a snake, he took a step to the side, and tapped Rivan roughly on the head. The paladin blinked.
Isiilde waited for something noticeable to happen, but nothing changed.
Oenghus bent, plucked a rock from the ground, and threw it at Rivan’s head. Rivan ducked, but he was too late. The rock hit him square in the forehead, and yet, there wasn’t a mark on his skin.
Isiilde brightened. She thought a moment before invoking the Lore, and then waded into the coursing streams of energy. Under Marsais’ sharp gaze, she wove the complicated pattern. Wispy blue strands stirred in the air, waiting. She beckoned the weave closer with a soft call and it flew at her like a net, encasing her body.
The weave was suffocating.
A strangled sound tore from her throat. She scraped at her skin and struggled to breathe. Marsais grabbed her wrists, meeting her wide eyes with his own. “Relax, it’s normal. You did everything perfectly.”
“Get it off!” she gasped.
With a brush of his fingers, he pulled the weave from her body, letting it dissipate on the wind. She sucked in a breath, walked to the nearest tree, and turned her back on the group; however, all eyes followed the trembling nymph.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 18