King's Folly (Book 2)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isiilde threw up her arms. Claws bit into flesh, her armor weave flared, searing the already wounded Rahuatl but going no farther. The clash sent her reeling, and she slipped on the slick stone, falling into water. Without a sound, the Rahuatl stepped into the pool and grabbed the nymph by her hair. Isiilde twisted in his grip, striking with her knife. Her blade pierced the meat of his forearm, and he released her. She dropped into the water, scrambled under the thrashing, screaming girl, and came up on the other side, weaving.

  Defenseless without his voice, N’Jalss launched himself at the nymph. Her weave slammed into the Rahuatl as he tackled her. White hot pain slashed through her bones as energy crackled between the two, hurling them apart.

  Isiilde’s head felt cracked, her heart skipped and started, she could not draw breath. And an eternity later, air came, cool and sweet. Spots danced in her vision. Her hand felt moist air and nothingness. Instinct propelled her into a roll, away from the gaping crevice and falls.

  The girl was thrashing, the pool churned, and N’Jalss fell on the nymph with strong hands and piercing claws. Her armor weave deflected and sizzled, but the claws found her flesh. And she found her knife, driving the blade into N’Jalss’ side. It slipped between his ribs.

  The Rahuatl’s grip tightened for a moment and then weakened. Isiilde drove her foot into his knee, and pushed off, scrambling up and out of the pool. N’Jalss pressed a hand to his side, around the blade, his eyes gleamed, and blood bubbled from his lips with every wheeze. With a shuddering exhale, he fell forward, floating beside the chained girl.

  Isiilde shuddered, crawling onto hands and knees, willing her legs to stand. Her eyes fell on the blossoming cloud of blood billowing in the waters. She saw herself in its crimson reflection, lying limply at the edge of the pool—bruised, swollen, and bleeding. She blinked, and her arms gave out, head lolling over the stony edge. In the water’s reflection, she saw a snowy owl. A moment later, a familiar sun flared to life in her breast.

  Forty-seven

  SNOW BLANKETED THE mountains and ice formed daggers on the fortress walls. An owl glided over frozen stone, battered by harsh winds and sleet. It swooped closer, riding a current towards the mountain’s face.

  The sun was falling; yet, the walls were empty of guards and the braziers unlit. The owl landed on a twisted altar at the top of a steep stairway cut into the mountain. Its head swiveled, surveying the fortress. Snow-covered lumps littered the ground and threat lingered in the air, tickling the owl’s senses.

  It ruffled its feathers, settled, and stepped to the side, away from the pouch it had carried for miles. The coins around its neck clinked and chimed, reminding the owl that he was a man. The spark took root, the weave unraveled, and the owl jerked and spasmed. Snowy feathers swirled in the wind, leaving a thin, shivering man laying on the altar.

  Marsais rolled off with a groan. His feet hit ice and ash, and he slipped, catching himself on the sacrificial stone. With trembling limbs and a spinning head, he grabbed the pouch, and staggered away. Pain split his skull, rippling through his bones, but it was not his own. He clenched his jaw, bracing himself.

  The entrance into the Ardmoor’s temple gaped like a maw of icy fangs. He staggered beneath the arch, into a scorched throat that had recently bellowed flame.

  The crazed, mad carvings of the Ardmoor roiled and moved beneath his eye, transforming stone into a writhing mass of snake-like carvings. Drugged and hallucinating, the images would drive any man insane. Marsais, however, was not drugged, and he was already mad, so he moved forward without hesitation, coins chiming gently against his throat.

  Isiilde was in pain, but alive. And strangely unafraid. Grey eyes scanned the cavern, the ash and death and destruction. The carnage gave him pause. He stopped beside a giant phallic shaped pillar, reached into his pouch, and yanked out his trousers, tugging them on. Moving swiftly, he cinched the pouch around his waist, and followed the tug of their bond to his nymph.

  An entire tribe littered the floor. He skirted their burnt corpses on silent feet, hands ready to weave. But no one was left, not a soul stirred. Marsais’ gut clenched with dread. The path was set, and the seer did not like the looming end.

  He pushed the future aside and focused on the present—his nymph, who was no longer the innocent. Their bond led him to a tunnel, past a ritual pit and corrals, where captive men, women, and children had been cooked alive in their cages.

  A misty roar drew him deeper into the cave. Marsais stretched his legs, moving swiftly through the tunnel. Isiilde was there, laying naked beside a pool, fiery hair mixing with the cloud of blood and the body of N’Jalss. He did not look at the child chained in the water. The scryer screamed her visions in a hoarse, battered tongue, and he closed his ears to her prophesies with a shudder, circling the pool, careful not to touch the water.

  Isiilde was alive, he knew, but she was bleeding from numerous wounds. Gently, he lifted her head from the water, turned her over in his arms, and cradled her to his chest, smoothing back clinging hair. Emerald eyes fluttered open at his touch.

  “My sun,” she smiled.

  A knot unwound in his heart. There was hope.

  “I feel I should say something in return, but words fail me at the moment.”

  “You are saying something, Marsais.” Her voice was thready and weak.

  “It’s not a very good something,” he pressed his lips against her forehead, whispering his love on her skin.

  “I thought you were dead,” she breathed. “Oenghus?”

  Marsais pulled away, meeting her gaze. “We need to leave.”

  “Tell me,” she demanded, struggling to rise.

  “He fell off the edge—into the mists.”

  The nymph closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, trailing through blood and ash. He felt her heart fall with her guardian, but the girl’s thrashing in the water brought them back to the present. Isiilde clenched her jaw, and pushed herself to her knees, shoving N’Jalss aside to reach the tortured girl.

  “We must help her.”

  Marsais averted his eyes. “Yes.”

  “I saw visions in the water, Marsais.”

  “The girl is a scryer. The Ardmoor have been using her to track us.”

  “Help me get her binds off.”

  “There are clothes inside this pouch. Wait for me in the tunnel.”

  “Why?”

  The girl thrashed, moaned, and the water churned. The nymph looked into the bloody swirl. Emerald eyes widened in horror.

  “You can’t. We can save her.”

  “Go!”

  Isiilde blinked at the harsh order. She stared at him, stunned and appalled, and for a hearbeat, she saw what others saw—why they feared him. But she was not afraid. In that moment, they were equals.

  “It is a mercy, Isiilde,” Marsais closed his eyes. “As one who was collared and chained for years, by the gods, you must believe me.”

  His hoarse confession cooled her skin. He could not meet her eyes, could not bear her pity. Marsais thrust out the pouch. “Wait for me, please.”

  The nymph staggered out of the pool, retrieved the pouch in silence, and limped into the tunnel, leaving the seer with his tortured kin. Marsais turned to the girl and looked at her then. Numb fingers curled around a knife on the ground, and he stood, wading into the water. He touched her wrist, uttering the Lore of Unlocking, and then the other, moving to her ankles until she floated free.

  “Grant me peace,” she exhaled.

  “May your spirit drift free for eternity.” Marsais slipped a hand behind her head, exposing a pale throat. “Be at peace, child.”

  The blade bit flesh in one clean jerk, unburdening her from Time.

  ❧

  The two travelers trudged through the snow in silence. Marsais puffed in the cold, plowing through thick drifts as his nymph staggered on his heels. She was injured, but not all the Ardmoor had been killed. Eventually, the warriors would return, braving the fire drake in their lair. B
ut most of all, more than any threat, neither Marsais nor Isiilde wished to remain in the fortress a moment longer.

  Isiilde stumbled, and he turned, catching her, helping her onto his back. She was so delicate, so frail, and yet so powerful. As light and fierce as flame, he thought. Pulling his cowl lower, Marsais put his head down, and walked as far as his long legs would take him from the chained girl.

  ❧

  The temperature dropped with the sun, giving birth to the Hunter’s moon and a silver crescent in the stars. In the light of the red moon, Marsais walked down the mountainside and into a valley. The frozen wall of the Ardmoor’s fortress disappeared, and he took refuge in an ancient forest, stopping at the first sentinel. The seer readjusted the nymph on his back, and pressed his hand against a twisted trunk, marred by wind and axe and scarred by flame. The sequoia’s branches swayed, its needles shivered, and the wind moaned in greeting.

  “We need shelter, old ones,” Marsais beseeched. A gust of wind caught his breath, chilling his bones, and he stepped into the forest, coins chiming, announcing his presence like a herald. The trees whispered in answer, and he followed their quivering needles.

  The wood spirits led him to a shadow within the darkness. Fingers flashed, and a blue orb swirled by his shoulder. With a word, he sent the orb of light darting towards the shape, illuminating a cabin buried in snow drifts.

  “Isiilde,” he whispered.

  The nymph stirred at his call, and opened her eyes. Without urging, she slid from his back, and he steadied her until she found her feet. They moved towards the cabin, climbing a snow drift. Marsais kicked in a shutter and sent his orb twirling inside, until every crevice was filled with light.

  The cabin was abandoned.

  Marsais folded his long body through the window, turned to help Isiilde down, and moved to the large, river rock hearth, brushing off the snow and cleaning it of debris. He traced a fire rune on the back wall, and reached into the pouch, pulling out blankets. Isiilde limped over, lowering herself on the furs.

  They ate in silence, in the glow of heat, and when their bellies were full, Marsais rummaged through their supplies. Isiilde watched him as he added yarrow leaves and honey to a small bowl, crushing and grinding the leaves into a poultice.

  “I only risk a healing in the most dire of circumstances,” he said, breaking their silence. “Madness is not conducive to healing.”

  Isiilde unlaced her jerkin, peeled it off, and pulled her shirt over her head. She moved in a daze, not even flinching when cold air brushed her shoulders. Marsais eyed the bruises on her neck and breasts. She yanked off her boots, shimmied out of her trousers and underclothes, and sat on the fur, wrapped in a blanket, eyes turned towards the glowing fire rune.

  “How long did you wear a collar?” she asked, softly.

  “Long enough to stop counting.”

  A shudder swept through the nymph’s body. He gathered clean snow from a corner into a bowl, and knelt beside her when he returned, warming the water with a delicate weave. When she did not accept the offered cloth, Marsais dipped it in water, wringing it out before washing the filth from her body. Bruises blossomed over her bones from the lightning’s charge and gashes marred her ethereal flesh. After she was clean and dry, he reached for the poultice.

  “I killed them, Marsais.”

  He paused at her whisper.

  “You were taken captive,” he said. “You did what was needed to survive.”

  But she was shaking her head.

  “The Lome. I killed so many trying to help Oen.” Her voice cracked, and tears slipped from her eyes unbidden. Marsais cupped her face, brushing away tears with gentle fingers, but she shook off his soothing touch, sitting upright.

  She looked at him then. “But you knew, didn’t you? You knew a scryer was tracking us. You knew the Ardmoor would attack—that is why you waited.” The accusations rang in her voice, and he did not deny a word. “We could have left, Marsais. We could have ran and left them in peace.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  Grey met emerald in silence, patience clashing with confusion.

  “Did you know Oenghus would die?” The question was wrenched from her heart.

  Marsais looked into the hearth, following the flowing lines of his rune, feeling the power coursing through its shape as surely as he felt the blood pumping in his veins. “I have glimpsed a thousand deaths, all vast and varied and brutal. You cannot chart Chaos, my dear.”

  “But you keep trying.”

  “That is all any of us can do.”

  “I wish I didn’t try,” she whispered. “Oenghus might be alive—we would not have been separated, you would not have been wounded, we would have left together.” A sob tore at her throat, but she fought it, swallowing back grief.

  “So many paths,” he said, tracing the curve of her ear. “There is nothing I can say to ease your heart, but I know that Oenghus would not regret his path. You are, after all, alive. And you, my dear, made his life worth living.”

  Isiilde squeezed her eyes shut. Tears broke free, slipping from her lashes, falling freely down her cheeks, sizzling as they fell. She took refuge in his arms.

  “May the ol’River take him,” Marsais recited the last rites of a berserker. “May it choke on his blood and spit him out. Do not weep over death—weep for his return, for the earth will tremble in fear.”

  The nymph wept herself into exhaustion, and Marsais sat, cradling her head against his heart, listening to her ragged breath.

  “Why would the ol’River spit Oen out?” she wondered after a time. Her voice was distant, drained of emotion.

  “A Nuthaanian is more likely to spit in the face of a god than worship one. Drifting peacefully in a spirit river tended by a benevolent god isn’t exactly their idea of bliss.”

  “I never liked the idea either.”

  Marsais smiled. “I’m not surprised.” He nearly told her of her blood, of Oenghus—her father, but he stilled his tongue. Her world was already shaken. And he was not sure she could bear the truth, for it would lead to other questions, of which he had no right to answer.

  “Perhaps there is a spirit river of ale for Oen.”

  “What is ale without women?”

  “I suppose he will come back then.”

  “Hmm, he usually does.” Marsais bit his tongue into silence. Fortunately, the nymph was drifting towards sleep and did not question him further. When her breathing evened to a gentle rhythm, Marsais eased her to the fur, tucking a blanket around her. He refreshed the fire rune, and rose to set wards. The years weighed on the ancient, and he moved stiffly under its burden.

  Frowning at the sleeping nymph, he turned his back on her, and climbed out the window. The air was cold, and its bite cleared his head. Marsais raised his eyes heavenward, gazing at the silver crescent and its faithful red moon through a gap in the canopy.

  Time stilled with the earth. Alone with the eternal stars, the throbbing ache of his scar, and eons of memories, Marsais focused on his heartbeat—on the present. His focus turned to the nymph’s bond and her spirit surrounded by shadow. It no longer flickered in the darkness, but burned steadily. She had found her flame.

  Marsais exhaled. His path was set, but he hesitated. His heart was not in the journey. He inhaled, chest rising, lungs burning with cold. Three deep breaths and a heartbeat later, the ancient clenched his fists, straightening his shoulders with resolve. Turning towards the cabin, he slipped through the window, and retrieved an empty vial and knife from his supplies. He thrust the blade through his belt, and held the vial aloft, tracing an intricate pattern of runes over its surface with a murmur. When the glowing runes faded into the clay, he knelt before the sleeping nymph.

  Marsais traced a quick weave over Isiilde, numbing her senses, lulling her into a deeper sleep. He gently pulled her arm from beneath the blanket, exposing bruised flesh to the cold air. He removed the leather cord from his neck, cinched it tightly around her forearm, and placed a bowl under her ha
nd.

  “I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I am sorry for everything I am about to do,” he whispered, bringing blade to wrist.

  The knife pierced her flesh as he dragged it lengthwise over her vein. Blood blossomed from the slice, and he caught it in the vial, filling it to the brim. The holding weave flared, and activated, then subsided.

  Moving quickly, he stuck a cork in the top, pocketed the vial, loosened the cord, and placed his hands over the bleeding wound, summoning the Lore. Flesh mended, and he quickly withdrew, loathe to risk a more intrusive healing. Visions came at the most inopportune times, and one came now—a fist flew at his face. Scarred knuckles, as hard as iron, slammed into his nose.

  Marsais blinked away the disorientation. “Thank the gods,” he murmured.

  Forty-eight

  A WHISPER TICKLED his ear. My rock.

  Soft as a sigh, silk trailed down his broad chest and a kiss touched his heart, bringing warmth.

  My earth. Fingers combed through black hair. Not yet.

  A sliver of silver, full of hip and breast and longing lips, stretched along his body. Hot breath mingled with his. Rise, my love.

  Oenghus Saevaldr opened his eyes to a silver moon, and darkness. He was being shaken. The shadows moved with a hiss and a lunging strike. A furred creature at his shoulder struck back with a gleaming blade, returning hiss for hiss. Another shadow neared, and Oenghus reached out, caught the Reaper by the throat and hurled it into the lake. With a cracking of ice, the giant rose from the frozen bank, pounding his fist into a leaping shadow.

  He staggered, shook the dizziness from his head, and kicked another. Shadows swarmed, claw and fang bit his flesh, and the Nuthaanian roared with pain, reaching for a broken branch and snapping it from the tree. Without a care, half-blinded with weakness, Oenghus swung wildly at the writhing shadows, until none moved save one. He raised his club, and the shadow yelled, cowering at his feet.