What a foolish reaction, she thought. It was only a rune.
When the nymph was calm, they stepped back into the shelter of the tunnel. The wind let go of her cloak and the blizzard screamed sideways through the air. She stepped into Marsais, slipping her arms around his waist and catching his eyes with hers.
“I’m sorry, Marsais.”
“Apology accepted.” He warmed her cheek with his hand and she pressed into his palm. “We need to talk, Isiilde.”
“Could we go somewhere warmer?”
“I think this is a perfect place.”
“Oh.” Ominous, she thought. Isiilde glanced at their two shadows, came to a decision, stretched her body along Marsais’, and tugged his neck down towards her, pressing her lips against his. She moaned. And Marsais forgot where he was and who he was, losing himself in the moment.
The nymph in his arms pulled away, settled back down on her heels, and smiled.
“What—” he stammered.
“If our discussion has to do with what I think it does then that was an advance apology in case I get angry again.”
“I see.” She doubted he did. His eyes had lost focus. “In that case, I should warn you—I think you will be very angry.”
“Then take me to the baths. If I’m exhausted, I can’t possibly be angry.”
Marsais’ last shred of resolve was thrown to the winds. “An excellent idea,” he breathed.
❧
The subterranean grotto hissed with steam. Blue light danced in its waters, and its stone held the memories of passion. Marsais lounged against a rock, eyes closed, half-dozing with his nymph resting limply in his arms. He cracked an eye towards the entrance. He could not recall setting a ward or sealing the grotto from prying eyes, but apparently he had—an illusion of stone greeted him. He sighed with relief and closed his eyes, listening to the fall of water and the moans that still lingered in the air long after Isiilde had stilled.
There was no need to silence the nymph in water.
Next time, he would try to remember to weave an Orb of Silence over the entrance.
“What did you want to talk about?” The lilting voice, along with a delicate touch tracing his scar, nudged him from the edge of sleep.
“I can’t remember,” he admitted. His heart was still racing. “Hmm, wasn’t I supposed to exhaust you?”
“You did, but you could try again to be safe. That was—” Words failed. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of making love to you.”
“You will be the death of me.”
“Did you have a vision?”
“If I were only so lucky. Dying in your arms, my dear, would be bliss.”
“I’d rather you not die.”
“Hmm, that brings us to the looming subject.”
“You’re going to die?” she squeaked, sitting up with a start. Wide, fearful eyes stared into his.
“By the gods, no, not if I can help it.” Marsais peeled a strand of hair from Isiilde’s cheek and tucked it behind a perfect ear. He sighed. “Do you realize how close you came to dying and—taking me with you?”
The last comment struck like a slap to her face. She sucked in a sharp breath, realization settling like a stone in her stomach. “No,” she whispered in horror. “I wanted to help you, Marsais. Nothing more. Rivan was being crushed, you were surrounded, the captain was on the ground. And then my fire came, and before I knew it—I couldn’t tell friend from foe, only that someone was taking my fire. I don’t like it when you do that.” It was spoken as fact, and nothing more, void of anger.
“Why don’t you like it?” Marsais always asked the most difficult questions.
She lifted a slim shoulder. “It feels like a part of me is being taken.”
His fingers trailed lightly down her spine, dipping below the water to caress her lower back. “Are you sure it’s not the opposite?”
Isiilde tilted her head. “It is taking me?”
“Yes. It caught you in its currents and swept you away.”
“I tried, Marsais,” she sat back, panic bubbling in her breast.
“Tried to do what?”
“To help, to control it.”
“You were afraid.”
“Of course I was afraid!” Her skin heated, the water steamed and hissed, and Marsais cupped her face, searching her eyes.
“You were afraid,” he whispered, “and now you are angry and frustrated and your fire is stirring, rising to your defense—like a guardian.”
This brought her up short. “I’ve always thought of my fire as alive,” she admitted with a blush.
Marsais brought his hand up, studying the fiery head of a serpent that rested in his palm. “I’ve seen your mark—our bond—move as if it were watching me.”
“Really?” She took his hand in hers and tilted it, studying the mark; however, the serpent was presently dormant.
“You were otherwise occupied, but when we first bonded, I watched it slither from your neck. It’s blinked at me too.”
Memory clutched her throat and her skin crawled. She sunk into the water, trying to cleanse the filth. “It seems so long ago, and yet—” she shivered despite the heat. Marsais’ hands slipped around her neck and he drew her closer. “When you leave me, I can still feel him,” Isiilde whispered.
“Some horrors will never leave us—not fully. One day, you’ll learn to live with the past, but more importantly, you’ll learn from it.”
“Like your wound?” Her touch made him sigh.
“This wound is of a different nature. Time will help yours. Mine, however, is a reflection of a larger one, and I’m afraid nothing can erase what was done.”
“But what was done?”
“The Shattering.”
She narrowed her eyes in thought, but before she could delve further into the subject, he deftly changed it, “We have another matter to discuss. An uncomfortable one for you, of which we have spoken before, although I’ll admit, not in such an intimate setting.”
“Control,” Isiilde stated. The word left a sour taste on her lips.
“More or less.”
The nymph opened her mouth to reply, but Marsais held up a hand, stalling her arguments. “Hear me out, my dear. I have been approaching your—power from the wrong angle. I have been treating it as something that should be controlled—that can be controlled.”
“You’re saying I can’t control it?”
“If your fire is alive, as we both suspect—” Marsais paused at her sudden tears. His words were vindication and his support a balm to her fears. He smiled in understanding. “It is alive, Isiilde—for you. And it protects you. Do you understand?”
She nodded, wiping at the tears with her palm.
“Let’s use your flesh and blood guardian as comparison. Can you control Oenghus?”
Isiilde snorted, shaking her head. “But if I am careful, I can get my way.”
A surge of warmth flooded their bond. Marsais squeezed her to him, lips brushing her ear. “My dear, as exquisite as your beauty is, it pales in comparison to your mind. Hmm, now I will put another question to your keen intellect. How does that knowledge help you?”
“To give my fire free rein?”
“Hmm, you could, but if that were the case, then your fire would have killed me. I would like to believe you don’t want that.”
“I don’t, but you were trying to take it away.”
“Exactly, I was trying to control your fire, to rip it out of your hand, away from you. I feared you would burn yourself out. And in attempting to control a part of you, I nearly killed you.”
“Is that possible? To burn myself out?”
“I don’t know.”
“It would be a wonderful way to die.”
“I’d rather you not.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“That we go back to Oenghus. When he is in a rage, using force only feeds his fire while calming him takes manipulation. Sometimes it helps to point him towards something he
can bash.”
“Surrender,” she murmured.
“Certainly not. That would be akin to giving your fire free rein.”
“Not necessarily. Not if one surrenders and then manipulates.” Emerald eyes locked with grey. “I know how you use the Gift, Marsais.”
He froze, startled by her insight. “Do not attempt what I do.”
She sat back at his tone, and the lovers eyed each other. At length, she spoke, “I wasn’t going to. I’m not that foolish. You surrendered long ago, didn’t you? You threw yourself into the river and have never looked back. You are always connected to the Gift. That’s why you don’t need the Lore, only the runes.”
Marsais remained silent, gazing at her with respect. A knowing smile graced her lips. “I’ve seen your eyes when you weave. You have the same look in them when you are between my thighs. You’re just as fond of your runes as I am of my fire.” She moved closer, straddling his lap, pressing her breasts against his chest to whisper in his ear. “You caress it. You surrender to its currents and let its power wash over you. It’s your passion. Now why can’t I do the same?”
Marsais cleared his throat. “Self-control.” His voice was hoarse with a lack of it.
The nymph wrinkled her nose and drifted to deep waters, slipping beneath their softness. Another word she didn’t care for. Controlling the Gift required concentration, and controlling herself long enough to control something else was a monumental feat. A pair of pointed ears and two emerald eyes poked above the surface.
The seer steepled his fingers. “I propose a pact, Isiilde.”
Her ears stiffened with interest, and she stood, folding her arms under her breasts. “What are your terms?”
“On my word, I will never take your fire again. I will gather if need be, but never snuff it out. King’s Folly, however, doesn’t count,” he quickly added. “And for your side of our pact: you must start applying yourself whether you like it or not.” He held up a finger, stalling her complaint. “I realize there are limits with a faerie, but you must try to learn some degree of self-control, my dear—more now than ever. We face dangers enough without your fiery temper. I can’t have you combusting on every whim, certainly not where we are headed.”
“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.”
Thirty-four
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.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 27