King's Folly (Book 2)

by Sabrina Flynn

  BEFORE THE WORDS had registered, Saavedra clacked her claws together with a snap.

  “This is madness,” Acacia said.

  Isiilde bristled, her fingers flashed, weaving a bolt. With a shout, she hurled it at the fiend.

  Saavedra waved a bored hand, deflecting the jolt, which hit Rivan, searing his skin with a scream. He dropped to the floor, stunned and twitching. Isiilde looked at the wounded paladin with horror.

  “You have a lot to learn, little faerie,” Saavedra said with a wink. “Don’t worry, Mars is sturdier than he looks. I’m sure he’ll last the night.”

  The alcoves opened, and guards stepped in with weapons readied. Saavedra wrapped her tail around Marsais’ neck, and yanked. He stumbled, but kept his feet, as the two disappeared into an alcove.

  The door swung shut. Pain sliced through their bond, and Isiilde staggered. Before the next slice came, Marsais dropped a heavy curtain between their spirits, cutting her off from his light.

  ❧

  The others, save for Rivan, struggled as they were dragged away; however, Isiilde barely noticed the hand on her arm. They were taken to a chamber of cells, and each was shoved into a separate cubicle.

  “If you want your chains off, back against the bars.”

  No one turned down the offer. The guard who dragged Rivan into his prison, pressed a vial to the paladin’s lips.

  As far as cages went, hers was not bad. Isiilde ignored the plush pillows and gurgling fountain, along with the soft rug underfoot. She paced in misery, mind churning over the unknown.

  “Are you all right, Rivan?” Acacia asked.

  “I think I can feel my fingers again,” the young man groaned. “I’m just a bit raw. Whatever the guard made me drink, helped.”

  Acacia nodded with relief and called across the circle, “Can you break these cells, Oenghus?”

  The Nuthaanian eyed the Kilnish steel bars, the waiting wards, and the witchwood underfoot. The pinprick holes in the ceiling were the most ominous of all. “Marsais made a deal.”

  “I’ll have nothing to do with his pact.”

  “We don’t have much choice, Acacia.”

  She clenched her jaw, speaking through her teeth. “Can you get us out of here, or not?”

  “This cage is built for a mage,” Oenghus admitted. “And even if I could break the bars, I’m not sure I would.”

  “But thousands of lives will be sacrificed, sir,” Rivan said with a grimace.

  “The Scarecrow said he has another way.”

  “Blood Portals require sacrifices,” Acacia pressed. “Marsais said leave it to me—not that he had another way.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Oenghus defended.

  “Are you so sure?”

  Oenghus gripped the bars. He did not reply.

  “They know each other—how?”

  The Nuthaanian shifted from foot to foot under the weight of the captain’s gaze. “Not really my place to say,” he muttered.

  “Isiilde, do you know what he’s planning?”

  Isiilde stopped pacing. She looked at her companions, from Lucas whose tongue was stilled, to Rivan and Kasja and Elam, and finally the captain. She shook her head.

  The captain looked to Oenghus. “He has a history with the fiend. What do you know of it?”

  “Not my place to say.”

  “Another notch in his belt?” Isiilde asked.

  Sapphire eyes dimmed, and his shoulders slumped. “I tried to warn you.”

  “Exotic is a bit of an understatement, Oen.”

  Pinned between two hard stares from opposite sides, the Nuthaanian shifted uncomfortably.

  Rivan finally caught on. “That’s disgusting.”

  “You knew Marsais had consorted with—no bedded a fiend, and yet you said nothing.”

  “He’s bedded a fish woman, too,” Oenghus defended. “And no, I didn’t bloody say anything. What he does with who, is his own business.”

  “There must be limits,” Acacia argued. “By the gods, she’s a fiend from the Nine Halls. There are laws against such—unions.”

  “I’m sure your Order could find a loophole to excuse such things,” Isiilde remarked. “You could just deem fiends as property.”

  “My Order is far from perfect, Isiilde, but at the very least, we try to defend this realm against the Void. We do not plow Voidspawn.”

  “Fiends aren’t Voidspawn,” Isiilde corrected.

  “Where you find one, you often find the other.”

  “Or in bed with the Scarecrow,” Oenghus muttered.

  The nymph shot her guardian a withering glare. Acacia looked heavenward, turned, and walked to the fountain on the wall, splashing her face with water to cool her rising temper.

  “Look,” Oenghus relented. “He told you he was going to meet an old acquaintance in Vlarthane.”

  “If I knew it was a fiend, I would have objected.”

  “Which is probably why he didn’t confide in you.”

  “Did he plan this, too?” Acacia gestured at the cages. And Isiilde frowned. Circles upon circles of runes spun in her mind, shifting cycles and endless strategies. Had Marsais maneuvered and manipulated her and the others to this point?

  Oenghus ran a hand over his beard. “Maybe,” he grunted.

  Silence settled between the cages. Isiilde stood, hands on the bars, chewing on her lip in thought and moving events around like rune pieces. Had it all been a carefully constructed strategy to get them here, in these cages, unable to resist? Had Marsais instructed Luccub to find Saavedra and misled Oenghus on purpose? But then she thought back to Marsais’ reaction when she was taken, when he found her, and even to this morning, when he paced in front of the window. There had been sincerity in his eyes, and yet—he had whispered the same things to Saavedra once upon a time.

  Marsais was an excellent liar.

  Isiilde poked at the heavy barrier between their spirits, wondering what was going on behind the blackness. Pain, or pleasure; fear or rapture? And suddenly, what had been a black curtain, became a chasm of gaping darkness.

  The nymph’s sun was gone, her bond fluttered loosely, unattached, incomplete. Without the sun, her heart turned cold, and the nymph was left all alone with past horrors. Her hands clutched the bars, and her body trembled with memory of Stievin’s touch and his lust between her legs. She shut her eyes, but memory persisted, until she felt the stone digging into her back and the merciless power of her attacker’s thrusts.

  Darkness converged, and another memory sang a song of sweet allure, of fire and heat and cleansing breath. Its power roared through her veins, burning away memory. A serpent of fire lashed at the darkness, burning bright in her mind, and with a flare of power, the serpent latched onto its own tail, binding itself to fire.

  Her bond no longer fluttered loosely.

  Isiilde’s eyes blazed with emerald fire, fed by the ouroboros serpent on her back.

  “You all right, Sprite?” Oenghus’ rumble pierced the currents of power flowing through her veins.

  “I’m fine.” Her voice was distant.

  “What happened after you were taken?”

  She met his gaze through the bars. “I killed them all.”

  “N’Jalss?” Oenghus asked with surprise.

  “Yes,” she said, dispassionately. “And all the Ardmoor. It was beautiful—the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  Isiilde did not notice the worried glances that followed. And she did not answer anymore questions. The nymph curled up on a pile of cushions and pondered the man to whom she was no longer bonded.

  Fifty-five

  IT MIGHT HAVE been dawn, it might have been dusk. Isiilde did not know when the guards came next, but eventually they did.

  “Your rags were filthy,” a guard explained as attendants filed in, placing a fresh set of clothes in the slot of each cage. Isiilde dressed without care, barely registering the fine wool and linen and leather garments hugging her body. The clothes were fit for kings and queens,
but none of the party felt like royalty.

  When they were dressed, the paladins stood defiant in the center, and Oenghus looked distrustful.

  “Backs to the cage, please,” a jackal-masked guard ordered. No one moved. “Allow me to explain. Your clothes are coated with poison—a delayed poison that has already seeped into your skin. When you walk through the Portal, you will be given the antidote. Drink it then, but not before, or die—the choice is yours.”

  “A paranoid bunch, aren’t you?” Oenghus growled.

  “We are accustomed to dealing with dangerous guests. If our Mistress wished you harmed, you would have already been dead. As agreed, the nymph will not be bound or gagged. Backs to the bars, please.”

  There was little choice. All did, save Isiilde, who stood in her cage watching the guards chain her companions. Taking no chances, the guards took them first. And then one returned, swinging her cage door open. It appeared that Saavedra was a fiend of her word.

  Isiilde was taken by a different route, one that ended in a ritual chamber. Oenghus, the paladins, Elam and Kasja waited on the opposite side. Isiilde stood alone.

  The stone walls were polished to an obsidian sheen. Gargoyles perched in front of slabs on a circular walk, tongues lolled, dropping towards the pit of pristine sand. A maze of deep grooves twisted through the sand, gathering like a whirlwind in the center. Cage doors covered the back wall of numerous alcoves. There was no torch or flame, only runes, glowing dimly in the space.

  A donkey laden with supplies and packs was brought in, waiting on the walkway beside Oenghus.

  “Your gear,” the masked guard explained. “When the Portal is opened, you will be blind-folded, and led through. The waiting enclave will lead you away. They will give each of you a vial. I suggest you drink the antidote at once. Your chains will be removed and you will be free to go on your way. I strongly suggest silence during the ritual, or you will be silenced permanently.”

  The eyes behind the mask looked at each in turn. When no one said a word, she turned to the guard at her side. “Inform the Jackal that her guests await her leisure.”

  Saavedra’s leisure was not overly long. The fiend sauntered from an arch. She paused on the edge of the sand beside Isiilde, and stretched her wings languidly.

  Marsais was hauled out by two guards, and dropped on the floor. He was naked, battered, and bleeding from numerous cuts. A guard dumped a pile of clothes on the ground.

  Isiilde rushed to his side.

  “O, he’s fine.” Saavedra’s eyes slid sideways, smirking down at the nymph. “Don’t feel too humiliated, Marsais, at least you command a princely sum.”

  Marsais coughed and raised himself up stiffly. Isiilde helped him find his feet, and he steadied himself on her shoulder. “I enjoyed every second,” he rasped, wiping his mouth.

  “That’s what all the good little whores say,” Saavedra smiled, and lashed her tail against his backside, he grunted and nearly fell forward, but kept his feet.

  Isiilde seethed. The fiend turned, looming over the furious nymph.

  “Try it, little nymphling,” Saavedra hissed. “Break his word, and I will break every last one of you.”

  “Isiilde,” Marsais winced. She looked at his pale, drawn face, and the lines of pain tugging at his mouth. He shook his head, ever so slightly, grey eyes beseeching.

  “One day,” she said to Saavedra instead. “One day I will gut you.”

  Saavedra’s tail lashed with pleasure. “Until that day.” The fiend spread her wings and stirred a wind with their strength, leaping off the walkway and landing softly in the center of the ritual pit.

  “Now, my dear old master,” the fiend turned, studying her lines in the sand. “What surprise do you have for me today?”

  Marsais did not reply. Instead, he slowly pulled on his trousers, but stopped with the single garment; he was in too much pain to bother with the rest. Moving stiffly, he walked to the mule and rummaged through the saddlebags until he found his old clothes. The enchanted pouch was there, and his hand and forearm disappeared inside the space, searching for something in particular. He pulled out a vial etched with faint runes and tossed it towards the fiend. She caught it easily.

  “What is this?”

  “The needed sacrifice.”

  “An enchanted vial the size of a well?”

  “No,” he grimaced. “It will be enough blood for the Portal.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Trust your old master.”

  Saavedra lashed her tail as she turned the vial over in her deft hands. She uncorked it carefully, and sniffed. Her eyes widened in shock, and flickered from the nymph to the seer.

  “So tempting,” Saavedra moaned.

  “You gave your word.”

  “I did,” she inclined her head. “Well played. Don’t worry, godling, your faith in me was not misplaced.”

  “Just most of it,” Marsais said, dryly, stuffing the remainder of his clothing into the pouch.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “We have a madman to stop, Vedra.”

  “I know you’ll succeed,” she winked, and raised the vial. “You’re the only one who I’ve ever had faith in.” With an alluring chant, she began the ritual, pouring the vial into the circle. Blood, bright and vibrant, pooled into the sand, seeping into the grooves.

  Isiilde narrowed her eyes, at both vial and blood, and her right hand stole to her left, rubbing the sore spot on the inside of her wrist.

  A Blood Portal burst to life, feeding off the blood of a goddess.

  Fifty-six

  THE CARRIAGE ROLLED to a stop. The driver’s seat creaked, and boots touched earth. Isiilde could not see anything beyond the black satin hood covering her eyes. Her ears strained. She sensed Marsais stand across from her, and the door to the carriage swung open.

  This was the third carriage they had been placed in since walking through the vile gate. Her skin still crawled at the Blood Portal’s touch, with both revulsion and familiarity.

  “We’re here,” Marsais’ voice was strained. His hand wrapped gently around her arm and she shook it off, feeling her own way down. Sun touched her skin. Vibrant scents filled her senses. The air was hot and wet and bursting with life.

  Chains jostled as the others stepped down.

  Somewhere, close by, she heard flowing water. And birds. Flitting about the trees, singing with joy—a far cry from the ritual chamber they had recently left.

  Their escorts climbed back into the wagon, and it jostled away. Isiilde pulled off her hood, squinting against brightness. Color exploded in the realm.

  The earth was red, the sky clear and blue, and everything in between was green. Towering palm trees basked under the blue, and red and orange fruit weighed the branches of bushy trees. Isiilde tilted her head at the birds. Parrots, she thought, but she had only ever seen them in books.

  Chains fell on the ground as Marsais unlocked the others. Oenghus ripped off his hood, and so did the rest. Kasja gasped and Elam squealed with delight. Marsais pressed a vial into their palms.

  “Drink this—all of you.” And then he repeated the order in Lome. No one argued.

  As soon as Elam was finished with the vial, he darted towards the trees, racing up the branches, plucking ripe fruit from their limbs. Kasja sniffed at a coconut, turning it around in her hands, this way and that, searching for a crack in its shell.

  Caught between wonder and anger, they settled on momentary silence. The laden mule was there, and after Acacia had emptied her vial, she riffled through, recovering her gear.

  They stood at a crossroad. The red earth stretched in four directions, one road looking much the same as the next. As soon as Marsais pulled the silence weave from Lucas’ throat, the peace was shattered. The paladin’s fist connected with the seer’s nose. Again.

  Marsais was knocked off his feet.

  “Don’t ever silence me again, Seer.”

  Kasja hissed at the paladin with a feral sound that defied he
r clothes and cleanliness.

  “There was a line for that,” Oenghus grumbled. He shook out a handkerchief and handed it to Marsais. “I was going to wait til he was healed.”

  Isiilde stood at a distance, eyes on Marsais. He looked very old and worn beneath the sun—and tired. But her heart only held fury.

  “You want me to heal you, Scarecrow?”

  “Spare me the shame,” Marsais snapped.

  Elam froze at his tone.

  “Suit yourself,” Oenghus said lightly. “At least they didn’t knock all your teeth out.”

  Grey eyes pinned the giant.

  Oenghus tugged on his beard and sat back on his haunches, studying his old friend with worry. The fiery mark was absent from his arm—the nymph’s bond was broken. Sapphire eyes widened with surprise. Oenghus looked at her, saw the smoldering fury in her gaze and the stiffness in her spine, and wisely decided to hold his tongue.

  The air crackled with tension, churning around the ancient sitting in the dirt. Oenghus shifted his bulk, shielding the man from mutinous stares. Rivan and Lucas followed their captain’s example, and began donning their battered armor.

  Acacia cinched a final vambrace on her forearm, and focused on the seer. “Why Mearcentia?”

  “You are acquainted with King Syre, are you not?”

  “I handle the Law when there is a dispute with his nymphs, yes.”

  “We need a ship, we need warriors, and we need to sail to Fomorri.”

  Shocked silence answered his declaration.

  “Fomorri,” Rivan repeated with horror.

  “What the Void for?” Oenghus asked.

  “You had best start talking, Marsais,” Acacia warned, strapping on her sword belt.

  “I could not divulge my plans because of the scryer tracking us,” Marsais sighed, lowering the handkerchief. His face was smeared with blood, but the bleeding had stopped. His gaze flickered to Isiilde, and she quickly looked elsewhere. “The Isle is well guarded, Tharios is Archlord, he knows its secrets, or I should say, he soon will. All paths end in destruction, save one. My visions stop at Finnow’s Spire.”