“It’s not that bad once you get used to it,” Rivan said.
At his voice, her ears twitched, and anger twisted her gut.
A heavy presence stepped beside her. “It’s better than an arrow in your back, Sprite,” Oenghus said, rubbing her head.
“I don’t like it—I feel trapped.” Fury writhed under her words.
Her guardian did something unexpected—he began to chuckle. “You’d make a fine berserker.”
She blinked, surprised, and looked up to meet his sapphire eyes. There was concern, and no small amount of pride. But before she could comment, Marsais’ musing voice interrupted her thoughts. “Hmm, I doubt Brimgrog would affect her.”
Oenghus swiveled. “She’ll not get near the brew, and don’t you dare give her any.”
“Oenghus,” Marsais said, wounded. “I would never gamble with her life.”
Before Oenghus could argue, Isiilde cut in, “What did I do wrong, Marsais?”
“You wove the shield perfectly, but I must confess—I always add a feather rune to anything I weave for you, my dear. It seems to distract you.”
“Is that why your weaves always tickle?”
Oenghus grunted. “You mean to tell me that you take the extra time to add that in the middle of a fight?”
“A small matter when compared to Isiilde’s comfort.”
“I hate it when I agree with you, Scarecrow.”
“Precisely why I said it.”
Twenty-five
ISIILDE DID NOT attempt the weave again. Her skin was crawling with discomfort, and she gazed longingly at the river, feeling an overwhelming urge to throw herself into its cold embrace and wash herself clean—of memories and filth. She envied snakes just then. What she wouldn’t give to shed her skin and assume a new one.
A strong hand found her own, curling around her flesh and caressing her knuckles, bringing fresh memories and a warm touch. With the blazing presence of Marsais burning inside of her, the shadows retreated, somewhere far and distant, but still lingering in the corners of her being. She ignored them for the moment, focusing on her Bonded, and his recent lesson.
“Can I add a feather rune to my own shield?”
“Hmm, it might backfire. It’d be like trying to tickle yourself. At best, it wouldn’t work, but at worst, it might be painfully itchy. Don’t, however, let me deter you from trying. As long as I am nearby to unravel the weave, then you should be fine.”
“The shield really isn’t that bad,” Rivan stepped beside her. Marsais looked sharply at the paladin, and he quickly took a step away. “You should try wearing this plate and mail some time. Will the shield weave really stop an arrow?”
“Marsais’ weaves are as good as full plate armor,” Oenghus boasted. “I couldn’t stop a stone with one of mine.”
“That goes for most Wise Ones,” Marsais soothed. “But even my shields don’t last, not like armor. The weave fades over time—highly inconvenient during a drawn out battle.”
“Could you teach me?” Rivan blurted out.
“Teach you what?”
“The Gift, sir.”
The full weight of the seer’s gaze settled on Rivan whose eagerness faded into unease. The soldier’s Adam’s apple moved in his throat, and he faltered, taking another step back.
“I’m afraid not,” Marsais answered.
The disappointment in Rivan’s eyes twisted Isiilde’s heart. “But why not, Marsais? You don’t have an apprentice anymore.”
Grey eyes shifted to the nymph. “Neither do you, Isiilde.”
“I’m not a Wise One.”
“Oenghus and I have been cast out of the Order. I’m no longer a Wise One either.”
“You were?”
“Void-worshipping murderers usually are. The Order does have standards, as low as they may be.”
“I can’t teach Rivan,” she protested.
Marsais looked at the paladin. “Do you play King’s Folly, young man?”
“The lord’s game? No, I’m not noble-blooded, sir.”
“Hmm, well then, Isiilde can teach you since she’s still part of the Order.”
The nymph’s mouth fell open, working silently through the betrayal, until her eyes narrowed to a dangerous glare. Marsais smiled.
“We don’t have the pieces.” She crossed her arms, attempting to work out of the corner she had just maneuvered herself into.
“Then I suggest, while we walk, that you gather two hundred flat stones from the shore. You can trace the runes on them tonight.”
Her ears flicked with irritation. Although she loved the game, teaching a novice how to play would be sheer torture. The nymph had never needed teaching. King’s Folly had come naturally to her. As a nymphling, she intuitively knew precisely what runes interacted and repelled the others. She turned to Rivan and told him to gather the stones.
A surge of amusement rippled along their bond, adding fuel to her anger. She stomped ahead, walking beside Oenghus.
“You won’t find any sympathy up here, Sprite.”
“I do not need sympathy,” she seethed. “I will, however, need you to restrain me from setting Marsais on fire.”
“Get in line,” Oenghus grunted.
❧
“Do you speak Suevi, Marsais?” Acacia asked as the day darkened, and their destination neared.
“That’s an excellent question.” Marsais scratched at the beginnings of a beard. “I’m hoping I’ll remember when the natives start talking.”
The sigh issuing from the scarred paladin was like a gust of wind, and the contempt was sweltering. “That isn’t very reassuring, Seer. We’re treading on foreign lands, into an unknown village, with a man who may or may not speak the language of heathens.”
“I’m not here to reassure you, Sir Lucas. I’m simply stating a fact.”
Isiilde wondered whether Lucas’ wounds had made him disagreeable, or if he had always been ill-tempered?
Captain Mael held up a hand, silencing her lieutenant. “What do you mean you are ‘hoping’ you’ll remember? We’re not faulting you if you don’t speak Suevi, none of us do, but we’re used to more—definitive answers.”
“The only thing definite about Marsais, is the unexpected. Trust me, Captain, I gave up long ago.” Oenghus bared his teeth. “I stopped counting the times I wanted to strangle his skinny neck.”
Isiilde snatched up a flat stone, directed another glare at the indefinite mage in question, and tossed the stone to Rivan.
“Hmm, I have always believed your murderous inclinations were one of the contributing factors that made you such an excellent apprentice.”
“Oenghus is your apprentice?” Rivan asked.
“Was,” the ex-apprentice growled.
Surprise fluttered across Acacia’s eyes. “How exactly did that come about?”
Marsais glanced at his old friend.
“The Scarecrow saved my life,” Oenghus answered vaguely, and promptly changed the subject. “What’s it been now—working on eight hundred years?”
“I started having regrets after the proverbial twenty years of putting up with your hairy hide.”
Oenghus snorted. “I should have strangled you as soon as I sobered up. Would have if you had been carrying a weapon.”
“You tried to strangle me.”
The giant ignored his old master’s claim. “You see in Nuthaan, a man without a weapon might as well be a man with no bollocks. Took ‘im for a dandy.”
Lucas grew stiff beneath his armor, and his face was as impassive as the rock he nearly stumbled over.
“Until I turned you into a piggy,” Marsais retorted.
“Shut your trap.” Oenghus cast a baleful eye at the thin man. “It was a boar.”
Isiilde snorted, and Rivan gaped.
“You two bicker like Oathbounds,” Acacia inserted dryly.
“Oen has kept me warm on more nights than I’d like to admit,” Marsais quipped. The comment earned him a rock, but the agile seer stepped
to the side, only catching a nick on his thigh.
“You could have hurt him, Oen.” Isiilde frowned at her guardian.
“I know, that’s why I was aiming below his belt.”
She huffed, looked heavenward, and dropped back beside Marsais who greeted his return to her good graces with a kiss to the hand.
“I’m still waiting for an answer, Seer,” Acacia warned.
“I gave you an answer.”
“Do you speak Suevi or not? A simple yes or no will do.”
“But that’s not the answer.”
“You really can’t remember whether you speak a language or not?”
Marsais scratched at the scar beneath his robe. “How many languages do you speak, Sir Lucas?”
“The trade tongue, obviously, Kamberian, a bit of Rahuatl, Celestial, and I know a few Southern dialects.”
“Well I’m not trying to boast, but at one time or other, I have spoken just about every dialect there is to speak—including dead languages. Words get muddled in this blasted mind of mine, and everything runs together after a time. I find that hearing a language will sometimes knock something loose, and I’ll remember the rest of it.”
None of them had anything to say to this. The implications, the vastness of his mind and memories, hurt their own heads. Lucas did not ask again.
❧
They forded the river a few hours before sunset. The water was shallow but swift, and Isiilde rode on her guardian’s back. Oenghus waded across as if he walked through a puddle. Loathe to get his boots wet, Marsais levitated, leaving the paladins to slip on the rocks.
A sharp wind sent ripples over the water, stirring the leaves like a herald for an approaching storm. And more. There were signs of habitation: a lonely footprint on the sandy beach, a trap bobbing in the water, and the track of a canoe banked on shore.
Oenghus moved away from the river, trusting to his instincts to keep his company on course. He was not willing to leave an encounter to chance. Surprising a group of hunters would only result in bloodshed. And bloodshed, as so often was the case with these tribes, demanded vengeance. They did not need an entire valley full of vengeful natives on their heels.
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.
Twenty-six
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.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 19