King's Folly (Book 2)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Grey eyes pierced Oenghus with a calculating gaze that made the giant feel like a mouse. Marsais’ fingers twitched in thought. At last, they stilled, coming to a decision.

  “Oenghus, I need you to trust me.”

  “You know I’ve never given a copper’s worth of muck about your visions, but it’d be nice to have a clearer picture of what you plan and what to expect.”

  Marsais pressed the tips of his fingers against his temple. “How many times have I explained my visions to you? My presence alone makes you privy to things that you would otherwise be in the dark about. Tharios and his plans for example.”

  “But you want me to trust you. You always expect me to follow you blindly. I don’t follow anyone blindly, Scarecrow.”

  “What would you do if I weren’t here?”

  Oenghus opened up his mouth, paused, and then clicked it shut. “Wait for Isiilde to heal.”

  Marsais spread his hands.

  “But it’s not just me you’re dragging around this time.”

  “I know, Oen.” His voice was quiet and full of ache. “I’m well aware of that, but we can’t leave the realms to this. A wise man once said that we cannot hide from our Fate. Isiilde will choose hers in the end.”

  Oenghus glared at his old master. “I hate it when you quote yourself. Answer me this,” he jabbed the stem of his pipe, “You knew the golems were after us, didn’t you? That’s why you ruined our only route of retreat.”

  “Logic told me that something was after us, yes, but because of the golem’s nature, Time holds no sway over them—I am blind to constructs.”

  “But not to the men at the camp,” Oenghus said slowly, “Not to Isiilde.”

  Marsais looked sharply at Oenghus, hearing the words he did not say. “I admit, it was a risk letting you scout the village, a needed one, but I did not foresee her—brush with death. I never know what she’ll do, which is why we must remain here.”

  “For how long?”

  “Long enough for her to calm down and long enough for her to learn control.”

  “What do you think we’ve been trying for the past sixteen years?”

  “I wasn’t bonded to her then.”

  Oenghus clenched his fists. “Don’t you dare bind her, Marsais.”

  The focus of his seething rage blinked.

  “Blast it,” Marsais barked. “Is your opinion of me so low? I would be no better than Stievin if I used our bond to control her.” He paused and abruptly turned his back on Oenghus.

  “Look here, Scarecrow. Of course I have a low opinion of you, but I didn’t mean—”

  Marsais raised his hand, demanding silence. “Control,” he murmured at length.

  “Aye, it’s bloody obvious, she has none.”

  “I used to think that, but I’m privy to her thoughts, her feelings, the way her mind works.”

  “You always understood her better than anyone.”

  “And yet both you and I, her only friends, doubted her.” Marsais faced Oenghus. “Every time she lost control, every time we tried to teach her to rein in her fire, we were asking her to do the impossible. It’s akin to handing a child a rope and telling her to tame an Auroch. And every time she fails, or someone is hurt in the process, we blamed her.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Isiilde tries,” he said. “She truly does, but we have been asking the impossible of her. I’ve felt her power—the source she draws from is boundless. Most Wise Ones dip a bucket into the Gift, draw it out, and manipulate that small portion. Whereas a truly Gifted Wise One, such as yourself, wades into the currents. With Isiilde, however, she is the riverbed. And when she is angry or frightened, her defenses are lowered. The river rises, overflowing like a flood. She can’t control the power flowing through her veins anymore than the earth controls the river.”

  “Maybe so, but she can’t continue on like this either.”

  “No,” Marsais agreed, tapping his chin in thought and sinking into silence.

  Oenghus frowned at his daughter. If Marsais was right, which he usually was, then all these years they had been chastising her for not being able to do the impossible. They had unknowingly corroded her confidence. He felt sick.

  “If she’s channeling this—the Gift like a riverbed, then what do we do?”

  “We need to strengthen the channel, build up its sides, until they are cliffs.”

  “And just how are you gonna do that?”

  Marsais settled himself beside Isiilde, folding his long legs easily. He brushed the curve of her ear. There was sadness in his touch. “I’m going to make use of our Knight Captain and her martial training. Isiilde needs an instructor.”

  “You’re going to ask the captain to teach Isiilde, who can’t even hold a stick, to fight?”

  “Yes,” Marsais said simply.

  “You are bloody mad, Scarecrow.”

  “Madness is so often the companion to genius.”

  Oenghus snorted. And the seer’s eyes danced in the firelight.

  Thirty-three

  THE COALS WERE ash, the hearth cold, and Isiilde was alone in the azure glow of subterranean vines. Voices seeped from a tunnel in the stone hollow. A heavy hide covered the opening, its edges promised a fire beyond and the warmth of others.

  Isiilde rolled onto her stomach, pulling the fur over her head. The past days were blurry and nightmarish. She closed her eyes, resting her cheek on the silky fur, imagining better days. That she was back in Marsais’ study, lounging on his rug, carefree and—foolish.

  A simpleton, worthless, and bothersome. It was no longer Stievin’s voice saying the words, but her own. Her mind continued to berate her, until she did not want to leave, or see anyone. And yet, she wanted to be that girl again. When the world had been kinder and the only nightmare she could conjure was a shortage of strawberries.

  The earth was no longer stable. She curled into a tight ball to keep from falling, but she still fell into a well of fevered eyes and torture. Another presence flared to life inside of her, chasing back the memories, the hopelessness and despair, infusing her bones with warmth. She was loved. Marsais thought she was worth something.

  Moving like an old woman, Isiilde dragged herself off the cushion of furs, and pulled on the clothes waiting at her bedside. The long underclothing and supple buckskin hugged her like a glove. She pulled on a lambs-wool shirt and laced up a jerkin of elaborate stitching. The feel of clothing against her skin was bliss. How long had it been since she had destroyed her own clothes?

  Surely, the Gateway had stretched time, turning days into years. Isiilde frowned, trying to count, but shied from the blur of horror. Boots. She focused on the soft leather that sat nearby, tugging the footwear on with something mimicking delight. Soft and fitted and lined with fur. She nearly wept.

  Isiilde stood on unsteady legs. Weak with hunger and exhaustion, she used the rock wall for support until her legs cooperated. The tunnel was short, the curtain hid an unworked cavern veined with silver. Stalagmites and stalactites intermingled, creating a lattice of stone, and fur curtains hung over the openings that branched off like cells in a honeycomb.

  Everyone was gathered in the common room. Lucas, Rivan, and a wiry boy were sparring on a smooth section of rock. A sheen of sweat covered muscled torsos as they worked through their maneuvers. Their clacking practice swords echoed in the chamber, grating on her sensitive ears.

  Oenghus, the captain, Marsais, and a dog sat by a fire pit. The nymph let go of the wall and moved in their direction. As she neared, the animal moved, and she faltered. It was not a dog, but a human, or at least human in shape, with bright eyes and a filthy nose, garbed in a hodgepodge of furs.

  When she emerged from the tunnel into the firelight, Rivan’s gaze flickered in her direction. A mighty crack split the rhythm of swords. Rivan cursed and staggered, clutching his arm. His eyes flickered back to the nymph.

  “Distraction,” Lucas spat, nudging Rivan with his boot,
and knocking him forward. The paladin fell to his knees.

  Isiilde flinched, warmth rising to the tips of her ears. Nymphs, after all, tempted and destroyed good men. She nearly turned around, but Marsais and the captain stood up from their game of King’s Folly. The latter gave a curt nod and walked over to the injured soldier, while the former caught Isiilde’s hand and bowed, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

  “Good morning, my dear. You look—much recovered.” From the twinkle in Marsais’ eyes, she gathered this was not his first choice of words. She favored him with a smile.

  “Aye, just like usual, Sprite,” Oenghus said, giving her a wink. “Always waking up in time to eat.”

  “Is there meat in there?” she asked, sniffing at the stew.

  “Not a bit,” Oenghus said. “I’ll add it after you’ve eaten. There’s bread and cheese in that bag.”

  Isiilde spared an uneasy glance at the bundle of furs crouching on a rock and rifled through the provisions. The bright eyes watched her the entire time, but did not move. She retreated to the fire with bread, butter, cheese, and goat’s milk and sat beside Marsais who was studying a swirling pattern of rune stones.

  “Who is that?”

  “Kasja,” he murmured, distractedly. “Oen’s Oathbound.”

  Oenghus flicked a pebble at the seer.

  “Oh, it’s a woman?” Isiilde tilted her head, staring at the feral shape.

  “Supposedly,” her guardian grunted.

  “Are you feeling better?” Acacia asked the nymph.

  “Much better, thank you. Is Rivan all right?”

  “If that was an actual fight, he’d be dead. So yes.” Acacia resumed her seat across from Marsais and narrowed her eyes at the rune pieces.

  “You’re losing, Captain,” Isiilde pointed out between mouthfuls.

  “I gathered as much. Marsais has been indulging me.”

  “You’re far from the worst player I’ve come across,” admitted Marsais.

  “Thanks,” the captain said dryly. “Any help would be appreciated, Isiilde.”

  “Really?”

  “I thought you enjoyed King’s Folly?”

  “I do, it’s only—no one’s ever asked my help before,” Isiilde murmured.

  “Only a fool declines help when faced with a superior foe.”

  Marsais chuckled around the stem of his long pipe. The tobacco was fragrant and sweet, and Isiilde sat closer to her Bonded as she assessed the captain’s position. Acacia still had her fire rune, that was always a good sign. But the Queen was in danger; Marsais would take her in five moves.

  “May I?” Isiilde asked.

  “By all means.” Acacia scooted over, relinquishing her position to the nymph.

  With confidence, Isiilde plucked up her ice rune and set it atop Marsais’ stone. The runes rippled, the enchantments interacted, and the ice rune slid off the stone, falling beside Marsais’ water rune.

  “You can do that?”

  Isiilde nodded absently and then looked to her opponent, raising a delicate brow in challenge. Marsais leaned forward, studying the game with renewed interest.

  The bundle of furs crawled off her rock, steadily closing in on the nymph. Kasja paused to hiss at Oenghus as she passed, and the Nuthaanian growled back. “Blast it, Marsais, would you tell this woman that I’m not going to touch her.”

  “Hmm, I have. Honestly, I’m not sure that’s meant to deter you.”

  The mound shambled closer and Isiilde smiled uneasily, gazing into the slash of dirty flesh that was crisscrossed with scars. “Hello,” the nymph ventured.

  The woman did not return the greeting, but inched closer. Marsais spoke in a fluid tongue. And Kasja responded. A tentative hand emerged from beneath the furs, as filthy as her face. A trembling finger poked the nymph in the shoulder. Kasja gasped as if she had been burned.

  “Are you all right?” Isiilde asked.

  In answer, the woman plucked a long strand of hair from the nymph’s head and shambled back to her rock. Isiilde did not know what to make of her.

  “The Lome think she’s touched in the head,” Marsais explained, “but she seems sane enough to me.”

  Laughter bubbled up from Oenghus, and the captain added a chuckle of her own. Isiilde watched Kasja on her rock as the strange woman studied her plunder, caressing the long red strand of hair. The nymph decided that she’d save her judgement for another time. Humans, after all, had strange ideas about sanity.

  While Isiilde was distracted, Marsais had made his move, placing a bind stone atop a power that crushed her iron. Together, the two made a formidable combination. She would have to destroy the bind, or lose her Queen. She made her next move, and he answered; back and forth, shifting strategies with a swirl of cycles.

  “Marsais.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’ve had a bath.”

  “In a lovely underground spring.”

  “Is it cold?”

  “Hot springs.”

  She nearly purred. “Can you show me after breakfast? I think you could use another.” Grey eyes flickered from the game to the nymph, and she held his attention with a smile while she nudged a rune to the side.

  A surge of desire rippled through their bond. Her newly positioned deceit rune took his bound power rune, and he never noticed. “Of course, my dear.”

  “She just cheated,” Acacia noted with a disapproving frown.

  “Who?” Marsais cast around in surprise.

  “Isiilde,” the captain blabbed.

  “Marsais didn’t see me.”

  “My eyes were elsewhere,” he agreed.

  Isiilde shrugged. “Then I didn’t cheat.”

  “King’s Folly mimics life,” Oenghus explained as he dished up the stew. “Not everyone plays fair—just like a battlefield. There is no honor in King’s Folly. If you’re fool enough to get distracted, like your greenie, then you won’t last long.”

  “Noted.”

  “And you weren’t supposed to say anything,” Isiilde continued. “I am on your side. That makes you a turncoat.”

  “Unintentionally,” the captain murmured, accepting Oenghus’ offered bowl. For the rest of the game, Acacia observed in silence, watching nymph and seer plunge into a game of wits. The redhead matched the ancient without hesitation, attacked and defended, and reworked her strategies with flawless focus in a complicated cycle of runic power.

  Oenghus leaned over and whispered in Acacia’s ear. “No one ever taught her. Me and Mars were playing one afternoon—drunk—and she was watching. She was only six; her ears barely reached the table. When I went out to piss, I found her in my chair, playing my circle. At first the Scarecrow was amused, but—” He jerked his chin at their swift hands, the swirl of runes, and the ever changing game. “Then this, a natural knack for the game. She beat her first novice on the Isle two weeks later.”

  The others joined them, bowls in hand and watching, but Isiilde and Marsais ignored their questions and comments, leaving Oenghus to explain the basic cycle of runes. Marsais was not an easy opponent, and the captain had left Isiilde in a bad place, but what was worse, her Bonded knew her weakness.

  With a flourish, Marsais plucked up his water rune, let his air rune hurl it to another circle, and placed the deadly stone within striking distance of her fire rune. Isiilde looked up at him sharply. If she moved her fire to safety, it would disrupt the cycle and leave her Queen ripe for the slaughter.

  “I’m done,” Isiilde announced.

  “But, Sprite, you can have the ol’ bastard in three moves,” Oenghus complained. “I have a wager on you.”

  “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  Marsais arched a brow, studying her in the fire’s light. “Hmm, perhaps we’ll call it a draw.” He unfolded himself and stood, offering his hand. She did not accept, but rose and waited for Marsais to lead the way to the baths, leaving her guardian chewing fiercely on the stem of his pipe.

  ❧

  Isiilde stopped in the arch
ed doorway of their lodgings. Two guards flanked the exit, but she barely noticed the armed men. A cavernous valley with homes carved into the rock walls glowed at her feet. When Isiilde remembered to breathe, she ignored Marsais’ offered hand and walked lightly down the steep stairway. Silently, the guards fell in step behind them.

  “Are we prisoners, Marsais?”

  “More like new additions to the tribe. This is a sacred city.”

  “We can’t leave?” she asked.

  “No.”

  The valley was vast, lit with luminous vines, its walls carved with monstrous beasts. The city was full of strange, tattooed faces and watching eyes that stopped and followed her as she passed. Whispers followed too, hushed and fearful. Mothers pulled their children into houses and men took a hasty step back. The weight of stone pressed on Isiilde’s shoulders and clutched at her throat, squeezing her heart to fluttering panic.

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “I know.” Marsais slipped her hand through his arm and led her up a series of winding stairs and into a tunnel that looked no different from the rest.

  The passage narrowed, the nymph’s world spun, and Marsais squeezed her hand. A gate waited at the end of the tunnel, flanked by fur-covered guards with spears. The temperature plummeted, her breath misted in the air, and she huddled in her cloak.

  The warriors bristled as they approached and the two men behind them closed in. Marsais addressed the guards in their strange flowing tongue. Words were exchanged, the faces blurred together, and the nymph swayed. One of the warriors disappeared, and a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She buried her nose against leather and fur and supple cloth.

  It seemed they stood waiting in that tunnel for an entire day, and every breath for Isiilde was a struggle. A touch calmed her and voices flowed over her ears, until a gust of wind brought her around. Marsais led her through the gate. Snow swirled madly into the passage, blinding white and howling winds. They pressed forward, emerging into an icy whiteness. She filled her lungs, stood straight, and turned her nose to the open sky, letting the wind and ice batter her, soothing her senses.