A rattle of chains shattered her peace. Her limbs were pulled taut, and she rose to the surface of the pool, body stretched to the four corners, until her back skimmed the water.
The chained girl opened her eyes, sightless and white, to the cave. A chant filled her ears, thundering over the water’s trickle. Men surrounded her, bodies covered with chalk, rocking and chanting with harsh voices.
The stranger stood to the side, as he always did since he had arrived, a man with fang and claw and ivory studs embedded in his copper flesh. The chained girl convulsed, and a bent Shaman shoved the stranger back against the wall.
The chant reached a crescendo and the naked forms around her rocked violently, reaching out with grasping hands, brushing her flesh. She tugged at the chains, screaming to return to her watery refuge, but the chains kept her anchored in place.
The Shaman accepted something from the stranger—a strand of white hair. He edged forward like a wary animal testing a hole. When he was within arm’s length, he dropped the strand of hair into the pool. It swirled with the water’s pull, polluting the chained girl’s refuge. The water churned, the girl screamed and fought until her mind was rubbed raw against the currents of Time.
With a final tug, the currents caught her form, and her eyes opened to the realm. She flew over the mountains, creaking like an old wind, restless and searching, sweeping over frozen wastes and up impossible cliffs, diving into a black maw and speeding down its throat. Blue light embraced her and she swirled over a pale city beneath the earth, unseen and free, searching for the source of the pool’s disruption.
Flying through twisting tunnels and lightless valleys, and finally, into a stone dwelling. The presence she sought stood at her shoulder, off to the side. She focused her all-seeing eyes on the presence. It was searing and bright and all at once it faded, leaving her staggering from the sight.
Time greeted her with grey eyes, piercing her visions again, and as the girl always did, she fled, speeding away in fear, snapping back into her body and its torment.
Forty
THE NYMPH SPENT her afternoon sleeping in the arms of her Druid, listening to the ocean breathe. There was nothing beyond him, no stone, no fire, no hatred. Only the nymph and her glowing sun. Hunger nudged her from slumber. She stretched with languid pleasure along Marsais’ body, and realized he wasn’t there. Not his mind anyway.
Marsais’ eyes were white, tension radiated from his body, and he murmured restlessly. His bond felt distant, as if he held her at arm’s length. Isiilde rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, listening to the half muttered words. He was not speaking Common, but another language that she could not name, both familiar and foreign.
She caught the hand scratching relentlessly at his jagged scar and whispered his name. He did not snap out of the vision. Isiilde frowned, and waited, holding his hand to her breast as he ground his teeth. His muscles spasmed and his veins stood out stark on his flesh. The hand around her tightened, painfully. She nearly cried out. Marsais gasped, and finally his body released its hold, dropping him back to the furs.
The skin on his torso stretched taut over his ribs and his pulse beat frantically against his neck. His eyes opened, grey and tired and ever so pained.
The nymph pressed her lips to his damp brow. “You’re not alone, Marsais,” she whispered.
“No,” he rasped, loosening the vice around her hand and clutching her close. “I am here.”
“Yes, you are,” she reassured, sensing his fear. “And I love you.”
“I am not an easy man to love,” his voice was hoarse, cracked, and full of despair.
“Perhaps not, but I am still here.”
“Yes,” he breathed, curling his fingers into her hair. “For now.”
Isiilde pulled away, but his eyes were closed, and his fingers relaxed their hold. Exhaustion had claimed him. She watched him sleep for a time, smoothing the creases from his brow until he relaxed and his breath evened.
What had Marsais dreamed—what pathways had he glimpsed? Another time, long ago, she might have sung to ease his slumber, but not now. Not ever again. Isiilde brushed the hair from Marsais’ face, pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, and slipped out of the cavern, leaving him to rest. Hunger pulled her towards food.
The common room was quiet. Lucas and Rivan sat by the fire conversing as they prepared a stew. A sharp burst of laughter from Rivan nearly sent her back into the room, but the familiar snore from her guardian reassured. Oenghus was sleeping close by.
Isiilde stepped into the light and headed towards the group’s provisions. The paladins’ conversation fell silent, and Rivan hastily rose, gawking at her as she rummaged through a sack.
“Please don’t stop on my account,” she said, gathering an armful of edible faerie food. “Oenghus raised me. There isn’t much I haven’t heard.”
“No, that’s not it at all,” Rivan stammered. “It’s just—you’re so—”
“Rivan,” Lucas warned.
Isiilde arched a brow, waiting.
“You don’t look real,” Rivan blurted out.
The nymph stared at the man, blinked, and then laughed. Heat rose from Rivan’s collar to the top of his broad brow.
“Sit down,” Lucas tugged the soldier, and he sat with a jolt.
“I’m sorry, Rivan,” she smiled. “It’s just that if I’m not real, that means you’ve been losing to yourself at King’s Folly every night.”
“I’m just bad enough to do that, aren’t I?” he gave her a lopsided grin.
“I’ve seen worse.”
A smirk twisted Lucas’ scars. “You’re a good liar, Nymph.”
“I am, aren’t I,” she preened.
“Can I get you some water or mead?” Rivan asked.
“No, thank you.” Isiilde was keenly aware of the men, of their eyes, their presence and threat. She hesitated, glancing towards her sleeping chamber. It would be easier to retreat into the nook and sit with Marsais while she ate, but she was tired of hiding. With determination, she sat down on the opposite side of the fire pit, gazing across the flickering flames at the two.
Rivan smiled. He wasn’t much older than she. Strong, square, with cropped brown hair that was permanently flattened by his helm. His eyes reminded her of chocolate—and her dead dog Flappers.
“Just so you know, the captain is tough on everyone,” he offered, poking at the coals with a stick.
“Is she all right?” Isiilde asked, surprised that she actually cared.
“Take a lot more than you to stop the captain,” Lucas grunted.
“I’d never dream of talking to her like that. She’d flay me alive.”
“And I would too, Rivan, if you treated her with the disrespect that this nymph showed.” Lucas jerked his chin towards the redhead. “The Knight Captain has led armies, fought Voidspawn, and stood against fiends. Why she is taking orders from that seer, I can’t imagine.”
Isiilde frowned at her bread. “If you trust your captain, Sir Lucas,” she said slowly, looking up to meet his eye. “Then you would not question her decisions.”
“Not a question. It’s a statement. You and your lot aren’t worth her time.”
“Not fit to shine her boots?”
“That’s right.”
“Good,” she smiled. “I dislike cleaning boots.”
Rivan buried his face in a mug. Much to her relief, Lucas ignored her presence.
Silence stretched between the fire pit, interspersed with rumbling snores. When Lucas nudged the younger man with an elbow, Rivan tentatively breeched the quiet. “Will you feel up to helping me with King’s Folly again tonight? I think I’m making progress.”
“You are,” she admitted.
“I appreciate it. So uhm,” Rivan rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Lucas. “Does Marsais ever tell you about his visions?”
She looked at the paladin, then to the one sitting at his side, occupying himself with food. Not very subtle, she thought.
“Why would he?”
“Well you’re—” Rivan shifted. “He’s erm, you and him—aren’t you?”
Lucas rubbed his scalp, no doubt wondering why his illustrious Knight Captain bothered with Rivan.
Isiilde rescued Rivan from further fumbling. “I don’t really want to know the future, do you?”
Having been Marsais’ apprentice for four years, she was accustomed to people trying to wheedle information out of her about the recluse. What did his chambers look like? Did he sleep? Did he have a temper, consort with dark fiends, trail his fingers through cat guts, and splatter its blood over runes—the nymph had heard it all. And she had enjoyed spinning bizarre stories, feeding rumor. She had once managed to convince a group of Wise Ones that the Archlord never left his chambers, that his body floated in midair, in an empty room of swirling runes. What they saw of Marsais, was only an elaborate illusion. She had thought nothing of her tale, until one of them was overcome with curiosity and threw an apple at his head.
That had not ended well for the Wise One.
“Enough to know what he’s planning, yes,” Lucas interjected.
“You’ve made that clear. Generals aren’t expected to share strategies with their troops, are they?”
“The seer isn’t my general.”
“And yet the Hound respected him.”
“Aren’t you a smart-mouthed nymph.”
“No, just a logical one.”
“I prefer your kind when they’re silent.”
“You mean chained.”
“Gagged works, too.”
“Lucas,” Rivan implored. “By the Sylph, please just leave her alone.”
The lieutenant muttered a curse, set down his mug, cracking clay in the process, and stomped out of the common room.
“Is he always so polite?” she asked Rivan.
“Yes, actually. Don’t take it personal. He’s restless. Doesn’t like tight spaces or waiting, or—well much of anything.”
“Was he like that before his injuries?”
Rivan shrugged. “Don’t know. Lucas and the captain go way back though. Just, whatever you do, don’t ask him about those scars.”
“I gathered as much.” She met his eyes across the fire. And Rivan shifted, picking up the bag of runes. He sat on the edge of his fur and began placing the runes in their swirling cycles on a smooth patch of stone. She edged closer, meeting him half way.
“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” he said, without taking his eyes off the runes. “I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”
The statement startled her, not for its spontaneity, but because he had noticed her unease.
“I’m sure you believe that.” She corrected his rune placement. And he followed her example, shifting his cycle.
“I don’t expect you to.” His hand stilled and he looked up suddenly, brown eyes haunted and wide. “The Fomorri took my sisters during a raid. The captain found me under my mother’s body.” Rivan paled, yet his pulse thrummed against his neck with a frightful gallop.
“What happened to your sisters?”
“I don’t know. I try not to wonder.” He dropped his eyes to the game and nudged a rune stone in place. “The captain is my family. Has been for a good long time.”
“I’m sorry, Rivan.”
“She’s a regular drillmaster.”
Isiilde smiled at his attempt for lightness. “I meant your family before.”
“I know.” He smiled, shy and crooked, but it vanished as he admitted, “I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t even try—I hid.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight, or thereabouts.”
“You were eight, Rivan.”
“But I hid, and I remember.”
There was nothing more to say. They played in silence, manipulating runes to shift cycles, concentrating on the pattern under their eyes. After a time, Rivan began to talk, describing Mearcentia, its sun and fruit and crystal oceans. And she told him of her time on the Isle, which led to darker matters: the Unspoken, foul gods, and mad men.
“Are you worried?” Rivan asked. “That Tharios will succeed in opening a portal to the Nine Halls?”
Isiilde chewed on her lip, sliding her fire rune towards her air. The rune swirled, the air caught flame, and burst over Rivan’s earth rune, burning it to a crisp with a whirl of light. A moment later, the illusion faded, and the stone reappeared, unharmed. She plucked it up and added it to her growing pile of captured runes.
“I try not to worry about the future, Rivan.”
“Hmm,” a voice mused from the shadows. “You’ve been spending far too much time with me, my dear.” Marsais walked out of the tunnel. She looked up with delight, watching his long stride. Rivan jumped to his feet as if he had been caught in the middle of a crime. The young man stood awkwardly staring at the older.
“O, don’t stop on my account.” Marsais waved an elegant hand, and Rivan sat back down at its command. Marsais bent to kiss her hand. Something was troubling him, she could see it in his eyes.
“I think you’re hungry,” she said.
Brows rose in surprise. “Ah, yes, have I not eaten?”
“No, not at all.”
“An excellent place to start, then.” Marsais appeared lost, so she rummaged through the sack, brought out cheese and bread, and pressed it into his hands. He sat beside her and ate, but didn’t appear to notice.
“Marsais,” she said, touching his arm. “You’re in the Lome city.”
Grey eyes fixed on her. “I am, aren’t I?”
“I hope so.”
“I do too.” He placed a hand over hers and tightened his grip, blinking away confusion. “Hmm, that’s right. We’re bonded, and you are an enchanting vision, whom I am currently frightening.”
“That’s about it.”
“I thought you weren’t suppose to worry?”
“When you are concerned, that isn’t possible.”
“Are you up to practicing weaves today?”
“After you finish eating.”
“You’re worrying again.”
“I have a vested interest in your stamina and health.”
“Hmm.” His eyes twinkled, and he took another bite.
❧
“Will you teach me to weave a more powerful bolt?” Isiilde faced Marsais across an expanse of stone.
“No, we’re going to work on your less than average ability to concentrate.”
The nymph looked back to the fire pit. They had been working on her less than average ability to concentrate every afternoon. She’d rather keep teaching King’s Folly to Rivan. With a sigh, she returned her attention to Marsais.
“Have some faith in your old master,” Marsais chided. He picked up a stick from the pile of wood and held it over the fire. She brightened. Anything involving fire was always grand. Still, given their agreement, her hope was tempered with suspicion.
Marsais traced a rune around the end of the brand, tethered it with a bind, and crooked a long finger. Flame left wood, hovering in midair at his command. Isiilde’s ears perked up and Rivan stood, abandoning the game to watch.
“We’re going to levitate fire?” she asked.
“Ah, I see I have captured your attention.”
“You usually do.”
He beckoned her closer. “Something more interesting, my dear. Your weaving has progressed, and so has your control.” His eyes glittered, and she nearly abandoned her self-control and dragged him back to their bed.
“I’d rather spend the afternoon perfecting it.”
Marsais cleared his throat. “As tempting as that suggestion is, I have something else in mind—I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself against other weaves.”
Isiilde frowned, watching the flameling’s dance. “You mean Barriers?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t they advanced? Oen can’t even defend against weaves.”
“No, but he is naturally resistant to weaves, as are many, whether
natural or deliberate. The Hound possessed a number of Barriers woven into his armor and flesh. It took me awhile to find his cracks.”
“Is that why you were able to kill the Lome barbarian so easily?” Rivan asked.
“Yes, and I completed the weave before we began.”
Rivan narrowed his eyes. “That’s not—”
“Honorable?”
“Not really.”
“But preferable to my blood on the stone, and Isiilde handed over to the chieftain as a prize, I hope?” He arched a brow at the paladin, who nodded. “Hmm, now the problem with Barriers is you have to know what your opponent is throwing at you; otherwise, you can’t adjust your weave. And that is where King’s Folly comes to play—the circle of cycles and interaction of runes. Weaving a Barrier, manipulating the Gift during a battle, is exactly like King’s Folly, only faster, deadlier, and far more challenging.”
Emerald eyes lit with excitement. And Marsais knew he had her undivided attention.
“I swore to you that I wouldn’t snuff out your fire, but this time, Isiilde, it’s up to you—you must protect your fire from my water rune.” His eyes shifted to the hovering flameling, and she looked at the trembling heat with the affection that a mother would feel for an infant.
Isiilde nodded. “Where do I start?”
“The base for a Barrier is the same as the first cycle in King’s Folly: wind, fire, earth, and water, all opposite, but this time, you will bind them together with spirit.”
“You can’t bind them together, Marsais. They are all opposites.”
“You’re right, they can’t; however, a cycle requires constant shifting, constant concentration. Let me demonstrate.” Marsais selected two apples from their stores, tossed them up in the air and deftly began to juggle one-handed. “These are wind and fire.” He snatched up two more, juggling the new additions in his left hand. Both hands moved with a blur of intersecting green.
Isiilde stared, mesmerized, and even Captain Mael emerged from her nook to watch.
“Earth and water, and air can stir them all.” He switched the cycle, all four apples circling from hand to hand and into the air, in one constant ring of motion. He stole a bite, and the nymph nearly squealed with delight. “Shall we add spirit?” he crunched.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 32