“Another?” Isiilde’s eyes went wide.
Marsais shifted on his feet, nudged an apple from its pile with his toe, and flicked it upwards, adding it to the cycle. “I think that apple is wormy,” he coughed. And Isiilde laughed. “Now here comes the difficult part. Say you were to petrify me. It involves a binding of stone, much like armor, but with malevolent intent. What would you use to counter such a weave?”
“Do I want to deflect it or destroy it?”
“Oh, gods, absolutely brilliant.” There was ache and longing in his tone, and it warmed her to her toes. “Most Wise Ones don’t even think beyond unraveling a weave, but deflecting one, especially back at your opponent, is extremely useful. For the time being, let’s focus on destroying a weave.”
“An iron would break the weave, but it might not be strong enough—no, it would be difficult to insert into the cycle.” Isiilde chewed on her lip in thought. “A power rune mixed with water?”
“Perfect as always,” he purred. With a flick of his foot, he added yet another apple, the circle widened, nearly brushing the tip of a stalactite. “Now we have a Barrier against petrify.” That was a lot of apples to juggle, but Marsais made the feat look easy.
“I get to do this part,” Oenghus said. She had not noticed him enter. The Nuthaanian picked up an apple with a ruthless grin, tossing it from hand to hand.
“One crown,” Marsais started the time honored tradition of wagering on anything and everything with Oenghus. “From the back wall.”
“Make it two, ya smug bastard. Remember, I’m up one hundred crowns.”
“Ten crowns to me for the singed beard,” Marsais corrected the standing debt. “And the ocean counts as two.”
“Acacia, what’s your ruling?” Oenghus turned to the Knight Captain.
The paladin frowned. “Sorry, Marsais, but I’m going to have to give that to Oenghus. In the future, I’d suggest only angering smaller kingdoms.”
“Don’t forget that Oen owes you a hundred and eighty crowns, plus interest.”
“That’s right!” Marsais nearly dropped his apples. “You ruined that tavern in Drivel while I was gone.”
Oenghus grumbled at Isiilde. “Turn coat.”
“Ten crowns interest?” she asked.
“That’s cutthroat, my dear.”
“Make it an even twenty, since it involved my paladins,” Acacia suggested.
“Aha! I’m up a hundred and ten crowns,” Marsais beamed.
Oenghus glared at the paladin. “I am never asking for your help again, Acacia.”
She smirked.
And Oenghus threw.
Six apples flew in various directions as Marsais abandoned them to catch the one with a resounding smack.
“Curse it!” the seer clenched his teeth, dropping the apple to clutch his stinging palm. An apple that was more juice than fruit, plopped on the stone.
“You owe me, Scarecrow.”
“I caught it,” Marsais defended. “I’m up one hundred and twelve crowns.”
“You dropped your balls.”
“He caught it, Oen. You really must iron out details before you wager—especially with Marsais.”
“Very wise, my dear.”
“Bollocks. You’re just defending him because—” Oenghus ground to a halt, tugging his beard.
“Because of what?” she smiled pleasantly.
“Never mind. I’ll win it back.” Oenghus planted his hide beside the captain to watch the enfolding lesson.
“Now,” Marsais shook out his hands, “for the real thing. Don’t get frustrated, Isiilde, this isn’t easy. Watch—very carefully.”
“Or there will be ill occurrences.”
“Precisely. I am going to show you how to add a power rune to air, to deflect a bit of water.”
With wide-eyed intensity, Isiilde followed his exaggerated movements. It was a complicated weave which resulted in a swirling shield of shimmering air. The air in front of Marsais was distorted, as if he stood behind a veil of water.
“Got it?”
“I think.”
“Never think, my dear. One more time.” He tugged on an ethereal strand and the weave unraveled, falling to the stone floor with a splash of runes. This time, as he wove the Barrier again, she caught what she had missed. He bound power to air last, to keep the cycle moving.
Isiilde nodded. “I’ve got it.”
Oenghus climbed to his feet, standing at the ready. Ill occurrences indeed, she thought.
“Don’t hide your runes. I need to watch you weave.”
The nymph summoned the Lore, weaving without worry or thought, feeling the currents of the Gift stir with her words. But when she tried to weave the final rune with the shifting cycle, everything unraveled, slipping through her fingers like water through a sieve. The air imploded, something rammed into her body, and she opened her eyes. Warm hands cupped her face, attached to a worried face and moving lips.
She tasted blood.
Isiilde coughed and jerked, her muscles spasming. She was on the floor, crunched against a stone wall. She dimly remembered the poor squashed apple.
“Sprite.” Oenghus snapped his fingers in front of her eyes. Large hands propped her upright.
The cave spun, and she moaned. “What happened?”
“You put a foot in the current, my dear, but a bit more is needed, I’m afraid.” Isiilde stared at Marsais who crouched by her side, studying her with a careful eye.
“More?”
“Yes.”
“But what if I draw too much. What if I crack?” Every Novice was warned about drawing too much of the Gift—a backlash. And every Wise One feared doing it one day. Those who drew too much, died. They bled out, from every crevice and pore, until there was nothing left but a dried husk. Not for the first time, Isiilde wondered how Marsais did what he did with the Gift.
“Do not try what I do,” he warned, sensing her scattered thoughts. “You can draw more, Isiilde, trust me. Try again when you are able.”
When the room stopped spinning, and spots stopped dancing, she climbed to her feet and steadied her nerves, focusing on the lean man standing opposite. The flameling still flickered in midair, waiting for her leisure.
Taking a breath, she tried again.
Three attempts later, and one very battered nymph, she finally produced a Barrier, but somewhere during her celebratory jig, it collapsed. “Blast it!” she cursed from the ground.
Marsais helped her up. “Concentration, my dear. That is where your fire comes to play. I’m going to cast a simple water bolt at it. If you want it to survive, then you will need to protect it with a Barrier. Your failure means no more fire and it won’t be my fault.”
“That’s a loophole, Marsais.”
“Nonetheless, it’s one you didn’t think of.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oen, you may want to wager on this.”
“Make it another two crowns,” Oenghus pounced. “For ten seconds.”
“Agreed,” Marsais said. “And since you are learning, I’ll be a gentleman, and allow you to weave the Barrier first.”
“An enemy wouldn’t be so kind.”
“No, but I really don’t want to scrape anymore of your blood off the stone, my dear.”
Isiilde took a deep breath and focused on the floating flame, putting its hypnotic glow between Marsais and her. She summoned the Lore, and began her weave, wading into its currents. Power flowed through her veins, pushing against her flesh like a rushing river. It was the farthest she had ever ventured into the Gift’s currents, but there was no temptation to wade further, no thirst for power. Fire was her passion, her temptation.
The Barrier rippled into place, protecting the flameling. She looked at Marsais through the shimmering veil, and decided that he would not have it.
Marsais’ fingers flashed, gathering moisture from the air. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled the watery missile at her flame. The clash of energy caught her off guard, and the impac
t shattered her focus. The missile snuffed her flameling with a sizzle and drenched her in the process.
“Bollocks.”
“I hope you’re a rich man, Oenghus,” the captain said. “One hundred and fourteen crowns.”
“I can add numbers, thank you very much.”
Rivan snickered.
Isiilde ignored the lot of them, feeling lost and bewildered without the little fire’s light.
“It’s all right, my dear. Remember, this is not easy. Most Wise Ones will never manage a Barrier.”
“Aye, I can’t bloody weave one,” Oenghus admitted.
“You can’t?”
Oenghus looked at Rivan. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it with my fist, boy.”
The paladin closed his mouth with a click.
Isiilde wiped her nose. Her hand was wet, and she sneezed. Marsais snatched one of the flaming bursts with a hand and a weave, binding it to the air between them. She steeled herself for another round.
“A hundred and fourteen crowns, Marsais,” she wagered. “Oen will front the coin.”
“Sprite!”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Oenghus groaned.
“Make it a hundred fifteen,” she corrected.
“Why the extra?” Marsais inquired.
“I owe you one, remember?”
“You don’t want to wager more for yourself?”
“I want us to be even.” The moment the statement left her lips, she realized that would never be possible. A burst of sudden awareness took root in her mind, and Marsais saw the chasm of time in her eyes, of experience and knowledge that stretched between man and nymph.
His words, on their first night together, came back to her: I am not meant for you.
“Come, my dear,” he said with a gentle smile and soft words. “Focus on the present and not the future. It will come when it comes.”
Isiilde wiped a tear from her cheek. And did as he asked. She wove the Barrier with determination, and braced herself. The water missile slammed into her shimmering shield, but didn’t disperse as she hoped it would. Instead, the water swirled and drilled, turning against her shield. Marsais pushed against her Barrier, hand outstretched, directing the Orb of Water.
Her weave was unraveling. Isiilde looked from her runes to the flame, wading deeper into the Gift’s currents, drawing more power from its river.
Marsais would not have her fire.
The cavern disappeared. Marsais vanished along with his destructive weave. All she saw was the dancing glow of something that she loved more than life itself. The nymph thrust her arms out, shaking as she braced against the seer’s onslaught, pushing his power back with every ounce of will. The more she pushed, the more power he drew, forcing her to wade into treacherous waters.
The two combatants stood poised with outstretched arms, facing each other over an expanse of churning energy, water and fire and clashing runes. The air beat with fury. And Marsais changed his strategy. Keeping one hand straight, he brought the other around, splaying his fingers with a twist of his wrist. The water spread, flanking her flame.
Isiilde adjusted her focus with a gesture, shifting the Barrier to meet his charge. Her body shook with strain, and her fingers trembled. Cold sweat trickled down her neck.
“Scarecrow,” Oenghus warned.
Marsais squared his shoulders, and thrust both hands towards the Barrier.
“Stop it, Marsais!”
Marsais ignored the Nuthaanian’s concern, watching the nymph’s struggle. A clash of power flared between the two, knocking the audience back a step, and still Marsais pushed.
With a rush of air, her Barrier shattered. Water surged around her flame with a steaming hiss, and Isiilde screamed. The nymph’s cry turned to something more. A clear frightful voice rose powerfully in the cavern. What she chanted, no one knew, but it was a fire’s roar, flowing from her sumptuous lips. The flame surged, fueled by her voice, it rolled and churned and grew as the water battered at its reddish hue. Steam filled the cave, and Marsais stood his ground.
Water and fire fought, coiling like warring snakes, hissing and spitting, one churning over the other. Isiilde’s chant beat on their ears, until it rose in fury.
The fire exploded, sending a wave of rolling heat from the point of origin. Marsais ducked beneath the wave and Oenghus threw himself backwards, dragging Acacia down with him.
Steam filled the chamber, blinding them all.
Isiilde collapsed in a trembling heap. Something warm oozed from her nose, and she gagged at its coppery scent. Blood. Panic seized the nymph. She had drawn too much.
“It’s all right, Isiilde.” Marsais was there, handkerchief in hand, pinching her nose and wiping away the blood.
“You bastard!” Oenghus untangled himself from the captain, and rushed over to his daughter. Blood leaked from her ears. “You pushed her to Cracking.”
“Hardly,” Marsais hissed. “Quiet, Oenghus.”
Isiilde’s chest hurt, as if a weight had settled on her ribs. Marsais cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re fine, my dear. You are all right. Every Wise One must learn her limits.”
“She’s not a Wise One.” A growl sounded at her ear.
“You’re right, she isn’t, Oen, she’s so much more.”
“I don’t feel well.” A cough clutched her throat, and a spray of red misted a patterned kilt.
“You drew a bit too much,” a heavy hand rubbed her back. “But you’ll live. You’ll just wake up with a splitting headache.”
Isiilde moaned. Her head throbbed already, and the world was spinning.
“And you won Oenghus a hundred and fifteen crowns minus one.”
“No,” she managed. “I’m up a hundred. He can have fourteen for fronting the coin. And one for you.”
Marsais gave a sharp laugh. “I owe you a hundred then.” But his words were so very far away, in a language she could not understand. A black spot seeped over her eyes, spreading inwards, until the world closed.
Forty-one
THE WINTER NIGHT was still, and stars were its only light. Fur-clad sentries huddled at their posts in the dark. Their eyes gleamed through slitted masks and their breath mingled with the chill.
Far below the guards’ cliff-side perch, the river moved sluggishly towards frozen falls. Canoes bumped against their buoyed docks, and the gentle creak of ice moaned against the granite cliffs.
Elquin watched the night through the hollowed skull of a bear. Its pelt kept him warm, and its spirit watched over him as he listened to the song of ice. The bear had taken Elquin’s arm in exchange for his life, but the bear’s fierceness had remained, and the warrior was still a force to be reckoned with. It was an honor to stand at the gates and guard his people through the long nights.
Thick sheets of ice drifted down the river, shifting and creaking in the heaviness of snow. The ice bumped against the Lome’s floating docks, clogging the sides of the sluggish river.
Elquin frowned behind his mask. The ice would pull the docks from their moorings. He nodded to his companion, handed his spear over, and twinned his arm around a rope, slipping down to the docks.
His boots hit the planks and he rode the river’s swell, bobbing on its surface. Elquin’s companion dropped the spear down to him and he caught it easily, turning to push the sheet of ice away, but he froze at what he saw: a spirit drifted beneath the glazed, glassy surface of ice.
Elquin stepped back. A spear followed him, surging from the frigid waters, piercing fur and flesh. Impaled in the same spot that he had slain his bear.
The spirit took shape in the form of a man, who pulled himself out of the water with the hook stuck in Elquin’s ribs. More spirits emerged from beneath the ice with blood on their hands and fury in their eyes, painted men who were white as snow and wild-eyed. Spears sped through the night, pinning the guards at their posts.
The spirit of the bear stirred in Elquin’s dying body as Ardmoor savages slipped from the
river and crawled up the cliffs. Elquin gripped the horn at his side with his only hand, and with his last breath, he warned his people.
Forty-two
THE SINGLE HORN blast reverberated through the hive. It echoed from one horn to the next, traveling through the city until it twisted through a tunnel and blasted into a sleeping nymph’s ears.
Isiilde opened her eyes from a dreamless slumber. There was urgency and death in the horn’s call. Her head throbbed. She fought her furs and aching bones, dimly aware that her main source of heat had vacated the bed.
A tall, lean shadow hunched in the cave. Marsais’ wiry body flexed as he tugged on his clothes. Grey eyes flickered down at her with an unspoken command before he sprinted from the room.
The horns died. Steel and cries and blood bounced off the stone. She scrambled upright as the tempo increased. Women screamed and men roared and Isiilde’s heart drowned out the chaos. Still weak from her training, she yanked on her clothes, tasting blood in the back of her throat.
A curse brushed past her lips. Fatigue and fear made her fingers clumsy, and she struggled with the laces of her shirt. Hurried voices were carried on the wave of approaching battle, and the curtain was thrust aside.
Marsais returned. “Time to leave, my dear,” he announced. “The Ardmoor have breached the city.”
His words barely registered over the tumult of frantic noises. The laces to her boots had become impossibly slippery and she fumbled over the ties with growing frustration.
“Blast it,” she growled. The dying embers in the fire pit stirred fitfully.
Marsais paused in the process of stuffing a pack full of supplies and crouched in front of her. Grey eyes held her own as he deftly laced her boots. “Stay close to me, Isiilde,” he said calmly, “and all will be well.”
The contrast of his voice against the beat of steel brought her up short, and under his steady gaze, her breathing evened. When the final lace was knotted, Marsais finished packing supplies, slung the pack over his shoulder and seized her hand, pulling the nymph towards the battle.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 33