King's Folly (Book 2) (49 page)

“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 hand.

“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.

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.

A pale hand reached from beneath the furs, touching his shin. Oenghus fell to his knees on the ice, breathing hard. He tugged his flask free, bit out the cork, and took a long draught of Brimgrog. Its bite seared his veins and his body warmed.

The woman in furs edged closer, two eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She gripped his arm, covered with ice, and pulled.

“In a minute lass.” Oenghus closed his eyes. But it was more than a minute.

He opened them to darkness, and coldness on his cheek. Kasja was cinching a cloth around his abdomen, speaking gibberish urgently in his ear. The barbarian stirred, ice creaked and cracked on his kilt, and he pushed himself up, staggering forward, barreling over a lurking Reaper before catching himself on a tree. Snowflakes fell on his head, joining a bandage on his forehead and the layer of ice on his beard.

Oenghus gripped the tree, leaning heavily against its strength for support. His head lulled forward, chin resting on his chest, shoulders shuddering. The warrior was wavering between life and death.

Kasja pulled on his hand. This time he followed. Twice he staggered and fell, and his guide urged him forward, along the bank. A canoe appeared, and he fell inside, nearly tipping it over. Kasja wrestled the giant’s legs into the canoe, threw a fur over his bulk, and pushed out into the lake, hopping inside.

As they drifted over still waters, Oenghus watched the silver moon and the wild, red guardian trailing in its wake. His heart ached, and he shook off his longing with a growl.

“Isiilde, where is Isiilde?”

The woman said a single word in her tongue, one he knew.
Gone
.

“Did the Scarecrow tell you I’d be here?”

She tilted her head.

He exhaled, closing his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, the moon was in a different position. The canoe was caught in a current, drifting towards the mouth of a river. Oenghus swallowed, silently assessing his wounds, but his body was numb and very distant. He fumbled for his flask, fingers trembling over the cork, until it opened, and he took another swig. His head cleared.

“Kasja.”

The furred woman leaned forward. He pointed to his eyes, and then to his chest. “The Scarecrow?”

The wild woman shook her head, pointed to her own eyes, and then to his chest, smiling proudly. Teeth gleamed white and feral in the dark.

“You had a vision,” he muttered. Oenghus did not much care where he was going, but the river was gentle, and the moon bright. Its silver light caressed his cheek, and he closed his eyes, dreaming of the Sylph’s luscious body in his arms.

ACACIA
MAEL
FROWNED
at Elam. The boy was wedged in the narrow exit, and refused to budge. He rattled on and on in a language none of them understood. She caught one word out of the jumble: Kasja.

Lucas grunted, losing patience with his usual alacrity. He stepped up to the boy, grabbed his collar, and wrenched him out of the hole. The paladin tossed his pack through the exit, and climbed outside. Elam scrambled to Acacia’s feet, getting on his knees.

“Kasja,” he said over and over, pointing to the ground.

“We can’t wait for her, Elam. You can if you like.” Acacia pushed her pack through, and climbed out to a white and green world. The snow sparkled and danced in the icicles, and the sun was distant but bright. She inhaled sharp air and evergreen and scanned the quiet.

“Do we even know where Vlarthane is?”

“We’ll head east. Sooner or later we’ll come to the coast.”

Lucas turned towards the rising sun as Rivan emerged, puffing and shivering from the snow, as he slipped back a number of times before clawing his way to open air.

The three hoisted their packs and started their long march. Elam ran ahead, flying over snow drifts like a sparrow, waving his arms, and pushing on Lucas, trying to force him to turn around. When the paladin plowed over the boy, he turned to Acacia, throwing himself on her leg. This was not the first time a child had attached himself to her leg.

Acacia stopped, looked down at a pair of dark eyes framed in a filthy face, and sighed. “Hold up, Lucas.”

The scarred man stopped, and turned with a frown. “You want me to toss the little imp?”

“No.” She thrust a finger at the tree. “You want us to wait?”

Elam nodded, and tugged on her hand. “Kasja, Kasja,” he repeated.

“She could be dead, boy,” Lucas said.

But Elam shook his head.

“What do you think, Rivan?”

Rivan started in surprise. The captain had never asked his opinion before.

“You’ve spent a good deal of time with the boy.”

“He doesn’t scare easy, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rivan replied, thoughtfully. “Seems like he knows something we don’t.”

“Maybe his sister was the traitor, and now she’s leading the Ardmoor back to us.”

“A possibility.” Acacia scanned the forest. She was not one to wait. There were Ardmoor in the forest, she had men for whom she was responsible, a task ahead, and a seer to meet. And yet, the boy was so adamant. Against logic, against sense, the Knight Captain listened to her heart. “I don’t much like the idea of waiting inside the tree. There’s only one exit. We’ll wait in that copse.”

“For another day?”

“Does it matter at this point?”

In answer, Lucas stomped towards the trees, and planted himself beside a fallen log, settling in for a long wait.

“Can I wait inside, Captain?”

Acacia looked at Rivan. “No.”

❧

The paladins did not have to wait long. Something pelted Rivan on the back of his dented helm. The paladin glanced up, around, and behind, looking for birds or a mischievous squirrel. A furred figure slipped from behind the trees on silent feet, and Acacia and Lucas turned in surprise.

Elam hopped to his feet and rushed the stealthy arrival, throwing his arms around the fur. Sister and brother were reunited. In the torrent of words that followed, Acacia caught mention of Oenghus
in the jumble. Elam slipped free, pointing and motioning with urgency at his sister, who moved back through the woods.

Without hesitation, Acacia sprinted after the wild woman, straight to a wide river and a canoe, half bobbing in the water and half stuck on the bank. The boat carried a heavy load—one Kasja could not drag to shore.

Acacia pulled back the fur. “Chaim give him strength,” she breathed.

Over seven feet of Nuthaanian muscle lay in the canoe, seven feet of wounds, of jagged gash and bruise. She put her ear to his ice burned lips and a hand over his heart. Oenghus was alive.

He had lost his shield and hammer in the falls, and his broad chest was bare. Kasja had removed his breastplate and bandaged his wounds. The bandages were soaked through with blood.

“Thank Zahra,” Rivan said, touching fingers to lips.

“If he can make it, I’d advise against healing him here. We won’t ever get him to the tree otherwise.”

Lucas had a point. The Nuthaanian was not a man who was simply carried. She shook him, calling his name. “Oenghus, can you walk?” Sapphire eyes opened, and then closed. His hand rested on his chest, gripping his sacred flask. She pried his fingers back, uncorked the flask, and put the Brimgrog to his lips.

The berserker sat up straight with a growl, knocking her to the side. The canoe tipped, spilling out its load onto shore, and the Nuthaanian stumbled to his feet, eyes burning. His hand dropped, grasping at his unraveling kilt in search of the flask.

“Oenghus,” she held his flask out. “We need you to walk.”

Blood gushed anew from the bandage around his abdomen. He swayed on his feet, snatched the flask, and thrust it into his belt. “Where is Isiilde?”

“Marsais went after her.” Acacia climbed to her feet, touching his massive arm. He looked at the hand, and the wildness left his eyes. “Can you walk?”

“Course I can walk,” he rasped. To prove it, he took three steps, and promptly dropped to his knees, falling face first into the snow.

“Void,” Lucas spat.

“Indeed.”

❧

Between the five of them, using two shields strapped together as a sled and a lot of effort, they managed to wrestle the giant inside the tree. Lying beside the fire, Oenghus began to thaw.