The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Marsais’ eyes flickered to the leather pouch. He arched a brow at the runes he sensed. With care, and a flash of fingers, he traced a spirit rune, studying the enchantment. To say that the weave was complex would be an understatement.

  Fearing a trap, he probed the runes with his mind’s eye, murmuring the Lore under his breath. Although he did not need the Lore, he found it easier to focus, akin to talking to himself while thinking.

  A nasty little fire rune was hidden in the complex tangle. Instead of unraveling the ward, he wove water runes around the fire, and loosened the ties. Steam hissed from the opening. He dipped two fingers into the small pouch, and blinked. His blind search was met with air—not a small physical space with sides and a bottom, but with the feeling of emptiness.

  Marsais squeezed his hand through the opening, and then his wrist, forearm, all the way to his shoulder. A jumble of items lay in the enchanted space. Working by touch, he rummaged around the cabinet-sized pouch until he found what he wanted. He held it, poised on his fingertips, and turned it this way and that, catching the sunlight: a perfect strawberry.

  The parrot spread her wings and dove from the yardarm. With a flap of red feathers, she soared, and landed on his outstretched forearm. Talons dug gently into his flesh, and the bird attacked the fruit.

  “Now then,” he murmured. “Let me see if I can find you.” Marsais stroked her feathers, talking soothingly. Green eyes watched him. He retrieved another strawberry, and as he surrendered it, he won the parrot’s loyalty.

  Marsais gripped the shrouds and peered over the edge of the platform. The ritual flogging was over, the crew had dispersed, and some were climbing the shrouds. “I’m going to climb down and hope you will join me.” He fed her another berry for good measure. But as he reached for the futtock shroud, he paused, watching the sailors climb upwards. Oenghus’ flogging came readily to mind. If he brought her on board—on deck—would the Mearcentians view her as a stowaway? He scratched his goatee, glanced at the parrot on his arm, and sat down cross-legged, leaning against the ropes.

  When the sailor reached the top, he paused. Marsais smiled. The man started to climb back down, but his companion barked at him to get moving. The sailor scrambled up, and reached for the next shroud, climbing aloft to the top gallant. One by one, the action was repeated, until the sailors spread out over the yards, balancing on footropes. A ripple of unease hung over the men, but it had nothing to do with their precarious positions.

  Marsais ignored them, and focused on the bird. Another bribe lured the parrot onto his knee. “What have you done to yourself, Isiilde?”

  At the sound of her name, the parrot cocked her head and squawked. Marsais set down the pouch, pinning the cord with a foot so the bird wouldn’t fly away with it. Weaving a transformation on oneself required a tether to anchor the weaver to her original form. Either Isiilde had lost hers when she landed, or she had forgotten to hold onto it.

  The latter seemed the likeliest.

  “I should leave you like this. It would be safer,” he said, tracing a runic eye over a spirit rune. The weave glowed in the air, and he let it fall over the parrot like a net. A complicated web of runes flared to life around the bird.

  Marsais stroked his goatee. “You made a knot,” he sighed.

  The bird sidestepped, dipping her head.

  Marsais was not the weaver, he could not simply reverse the transformation; instead, he would have to pluck the threads one at a time until it unraveled. Not unlike a ward.

  True to her nature and blood, Isiilde had woven a brilliant transformation. The runes were like silk rather than coarse wool, nothing like the threadbare weaves that most Wise Ones managed. But if he pulled the wrong thread, her spirit might be lost, or the backlash would send him flying off the tops. Of course, there were safeguards that could be placed for when a transformation was shattered, but he could not be sure that Isiilde had added them to her weave.

  Muttering the Lore under his breath, he traced a bind for Isiilde’s spirit, and with care he began to pluck and nudge the strands, one by one. A gossamer thread loosened, waving in the air beneath his arcane sight. The parrot squawked, and shifted restlessly. Marsais deftly plucked free another thread. Ethereal, frayed edges opened like a cocoon.

  “Do not set the boat on fire,” he warned. And then tugged on the last.

  The parrot jerked. Feathers flew, and a shriek tore the quiet to shreds. With a flapping, wounded thrash, the bird writhed on his lap.

  Marsais held on to a talon, lest she roll off the edge.

  The feathers molted, bones cracked, and a light flared. When it faded, a lithe, shimmering nymph lay across his legs. Disoriented, she coughed and sneezed. Three bursts of flame erupted from her ears, sending heat sizzling across his stomach.

  Marsais could not tear his eyes from the vision. Her hair was fire, and her skin wavered like a mirage. A dream, even here.

  The nymph blinked, and shifted on his lap. Emerald eyes traveled upwards, until they found his own. There was no fury, no anger, only sadness.

  “You are a fool,” she stated.

  “Better fool than king,” he whispered.

  Isiilde arched a brow, and sat up straight. “Why?”

  “As a fool, my blunders are laughable.” He dared not move lest he reach for her.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Forgivable, then?”

  “Are you apologizing?”

  “For wanting you safe?” He shook his head. “Never.” The word came out as a desperate rasp.

  Isiilde frowned, and stood, swaying comfortably on the platform as she surveyed the surrounding ocean. Naked and gleaming beneath the sun, the nymph captivated every man on the yards. But she seemed to ignore their eyes, as unconcerned as if they were dogs.

  If he had been able to form thought, he would have counted himself among the dogs. His gaze lingered on the soft curve of her hip. He wanted to kiss the exquisite hollow beside her hipbone and work his way from there.

  “I see you missed me.”

  Marsais blinked at her words. The nymph eyed the obvious bulge in his breeches. He gave himself a mental slap, reminding himself that he was over two thousand years old. Clearing his throat, he adjusted his breeches, trying, and failing to conceal his arousal.

  Isiilde turned back to the sea. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to tame the wild mass. It drew his attention, and his eyes darted from her backside to her shoulder blades. Clarity came. A fiery Ouroboros circled her back—a nymph’s mark like no other. She had bonded with her fire.

  Marsais reached for the shrouds, pulling himself to his feet. “You should not be here.”

  At the sound of his voice, Isiilde turned, slowly. “Why? Because the road is dangerous? You said it yourself, Marsais—I am free to do as I please.”

  “You have no idea what awaits you!”

  “I don’t think you know either,” she retorted. “For all your plotting and scheming, I am here. You misplayed your turn. Now stop trying to steer my Fate. I do not want your help.”

  Marsais snorted, and bent closer; close enough to feel her breath. “Without my help, you would still be a parrot.” His words were clipped.

  The nymph beamed so unexpectedly that he feared she had gone mad. “You’re angry with me.”

  Marsais arched a brow. “I am furious with you, Isiilde. Your naiveté, your... foolishness.”

  “Finally,” she said, “you’re treating me like an equal rather than a pet to be indulged. I will not become one of Syre’s pet nymphs and I am no longer yours.”

  The words struck his heart and mind. He opened his mouth to deny her accusation, but words stuck in his throat. He shut his mouth with a click.

  Isiilde snatched her enchanted pouch from the platform. She reached in and pulled out the garment that she had worn in Mearcentia. A silk wrap that was impossibly loose and clinging at the same time. She slipped it on, and somehow, it was even more alluring than her bare flesh.

  Ma
rsais took a breath, and closed his eyes, fighting conflicting urges of either dropping her off with the first passing ship they came across, or taking her in his arms and making love to her in the tops.

  When he opened his eyes, all was calm. “Please, Isiilde,” he said, kneeling on the platform. “I am begging you: do not set foot in Fomorri.”

  Isiilde looked down on him with understanding. “No,” she said.

  The nymph swung around and down, oblivious to the height, and climbed the ratlines to the deck, leaving the seer on his knees.

  Isiilde Jaal’Yasine touched the deck with a bare foot. The wood was warm, and wet, and the sailors scrubbing its length paused in the midst of their work. She did not look twice at them, but when she glanced up, the way she had come, she saw that Marsais had roused himself. He was climbing down the shrouds. Pointed ears twitched with irritation. She marched aft, past a sea of murmurs and wide eyes, heading straight for the helm.

  A familiar giant was in her way “Blood and ashes, Sprite!” he bellowed. “What the Void are you doing here?”

  “I’m coming with you.” The nymph squeezed past her furious father, and slipped up the companionway stairs, presenting herself to the Windtalker chieftess.

  Isiilde crossed arms over her breasts, and bowed deeply. “I came on the winds, and ask your blessing to sail over the seas.”

  While she had endeavored to teach Rivan the rudiments of King’s Folly, he had been teaching her in turn, answering all her questions about his homeland and customs. Isiilde never forgot a thing. Unless it suited her.

  And now Rivan, Oenghus, the Lome, and Captain Mael stood behind her, gawking. Well, not precisely—Acacia did not gawk; she stared, formidably.

  The Windtalker nodded, as if nymphs made a habit of flying on the winds and landing on her ship. The wrinkled, nut-brown woman, sprinkled sea water on the nymph’s head, and blew. Wind and sea, the eternal cycle of Mearcentian lore. Isiilde straightened.

  “May the Sea God be pleased,” the woman intoned.

  Isiilde nodded, and turned to the sea captain, denoted by the scrimshaw interwoven into his sash. “Princess Jaal’Yasine. Is there an extra cabin?”

  Carvil blinked at the title, but recovered quickly. “We will make room, Your Highness.”

  It was apparent that no one on board, save for Kasja and Elam, was pleased to see her. But this did not trouble her in the least. Regardless of what the others wanted, she wished to stay, and short of turning the ship around, there was absolutely nothing anyone could do about it.

  Chapter Nine

  Oenghus leant against the rail, sending black puffs from his pipe and glaring at the sunset. As Marsais approached the brooding berserker, his coins chimed in warning, but he ignored the danger. Ready to jump back at a moment’s notice, he took out his own pipe and tobacco pouch.

  Isiilde had not left her cabin since she’d arrived. Oenghus had tried to reason with her, and when that failed, he’d bellowed, sending the crew scattering like mice. For her part, Isiilde had stood against his fury with unwavering calm, staring up at her father as if he were a child throwing a fit.

  Marsais sprinkled the tobacco into the bowl, tapped the wood, and repeated. When he was satisfied with his efforts, he summoned a flame, puffing until the weed caught. He shook out the flame, and took a long draught, savoring the herb. It calmed his nerves, his mind, and stilled the visions—for the moment.

  The Windtalkers’ beat thrummed in the stillness, but no wind blew. The Sea God had abandoned the ship. It slugged through the water, under the power of long oars and strain. During the days, Oenghus took out his frustration on the oars. It benefited everyone. Still, the ship’s progress was slow.

  The two ancients stared at the horizon. To the west, the sun kissed the water, sending flames rippling across the sky. And when the world closed its curtain on another performance, Marsais exhaled a long stream of smoke, warming his hand on the bowl.

  “I tire of breathing, but in all these years, I never tire of watching the sun set.”

  Oenghus grunted.

  The lap of water kept the two company until the Sylph’s silver moon hung heavy in the stars.

  “I need to know something,” Marsais murmured.

  “You can ask, but it doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

  Marsais summoned the Lore, his fingers flashed, and an Orb of Silence settled around the two. The precaution was not taken for the sailors on deck, but rather for the gods and their keen ears.

  “You know the Sylph better than any—even myself. What are her plans for Isiilde?”

  Oenghus shifted his bulk, and looked into the dark bowl of his pipe. Into its blackness, he said, “There are days when I can’t stand your hide, Scarecrow. And still...” He trailed off, and Marsais waited. “I... I mean to say that you are...” Oenghus blinked, rapidly.

  “I love you, too,” Marsais said, dryly.

  Coins chimed, but he was too slow. A fist crashed into his shoulder knocking him to the side. The blow jolted him off balance. He stumbled, caught himself on a rope, then straightened, returning to his friend’s side.

  “Bastard,” Oenghus muttered. “But, aye, that’s what I was trying to get at.”

  “Ever affectionate.”

  Oenghus glowered. “Shut it, or I’ll chuck you overboard and leave you to Nereus.”

  Marsais patted the man’s shoulder. Oenghus turned towards him abruptly, and he feared the berserker would make good on his word; instead, Oenghus looked him straight in the eye. “I’d rather not repeat her words.”

  Puzzlement wrinkled Marsais’ brow. “You don’t want to offend me?” he asked slowly.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Oenghus huffed, and turned away, staring up into the moon. The silver light seemed to drape over the berserker, welcoming him into its embrace.

  “Friends speak truth, whether it hurts or not.”

  Oenghus gave a slight nod. From the side, draped in moonlight, he looked like a cliff, all chiseled and strong, solid in the sea. “Yasine made me swear not to interfere with Isiilde’s Fate. She said this realm is lost... broken. That you are as broken and as fractured as this realm.”

  The words stung. Marsais closed his eyes, but that sting didn’t go away.

  “What was done, she said, is done. What is broken, cannot be mended. That Life only attracts the Void, and that something more was needed—a child between her and me.”

  Marsais took a breath, and ran a tired hand over his face. ‘Grant me peace,’ a dead child whispered on the wind, echoing through the myriad of memories that stretched through his mind like corridors—all in ruin.

  “I know that I am broken. I’ve known for a very long time,” he whispered. “However, what I do not know—what Chaim and the Sylph and all the gods who care do not know—is what will happen when I leave this realm.”

  Oenghus narrowed his eyes. He looked like a rock trying to think. There was a lot unsaid between the two ancients. Too much.

  Marsais was tired of it, so he shed light on the dimness.

  “The Sylph gathered the complexities of Life into the Orb to fight the Void. When the Orb shattered, it tore the realm apart. It was chance, and pure selfishness, that I was here during the Shattering. My wards were torn to shreds—I was changed. If not for that, I would have given myself over to the Keening years ago.” There was bitterness in his tone, and a pain and longing that kept poets dreaming.

  Marsais rested his elbows on the rail, interlacing his fingers over the sea. His coins chimed softly, not in warning, but comfort. The moonlight touched his shoulders, illuminating the white of his long hair. He should have known: the Sylph slipped between wards and orbs like water through rocks. Not unlike her daughter. “What happens when Time shatters?” he whispered, more to himself than his companion.

  Oenghus tugged on his beard. “If Time is a tapestry, then I’d wager everything unravels.”

  “Not bad for a mindless brute.”

  “I like tearing things apart
. I understand that.”

  “Hmm.” There was truth in Oenghus’ words, the plainest, simplest, and therefore, most powerful kind. Marsais chewed on this for a long while, watching the moonlight dance on the dark water. Flying fish played in the light, and other, more ominous shapes slithered in the dark, bumping against the hull. Finally, he stirred, dragging his thoughts back to his original purpose.

  “The Sylph is right,” Marsais admitted. “The Void is attracted to Life. But why a child sired by you?”

  “It’s my cock.”

  “There are far larger gods than you in the realms.”

  Oenghus snorted.

  Realization lit the hallways of Marsais’ mind. “Death and Chaos,” he whispered.

  “Plenty of that already.”

  Marsais shook his head. “Yasine’s ‘sisters’. Chaos and...” he choked over memory, of love and longing, and loss. “Death. The history that I recited to the paladins in the ruined Lindale city. Chaos hid her children in the darkness, and they reached out, dragging her in. The Void was born. Death stood against it, or at least, she tried to.”

  Oenghus scratched his beard. “Could you make some bloody sense once in a while? All I care about right now is that my little Sprite is on a boat headed for Fomorri on some half-cocked suicide mission baked up by a madman.”

  Marsais slid his eyes to the side, looking at his dense friend who was in blissful denial. “Ulfhidhin,” he pronounced the name slowly.

  The name made Oenghus wince. He pressed his fingers to his temple, and growled at the seer to be quiet.

  Marsais continued, undaunted. “You’re the epitome of Chaos. Born from a lightning strike against a crag.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Blast it, Ulf, if you can’t even bear to hear your old name said out loud, how in the Nine Halls are you going to face Karbonek again?”