King's Folly (Book 2) (6 page)

TEETH
PIERCED
HER
flesh. She cried out, but no sound emerged. The nymph was gagged and bound and struggling, futilely. Her fire would not come, it had betrayed her, melting the flesh around wrists and ankles.

Isiilde wanted to leave her skin and never return.

Her eyes snapped open, and she reached for comfort. Marsais was there. Isiilde buried her face in the curve of his neck, blocking out the world, inhaling his scent. It soothed her—he smelled of the sun, of the salt and sea, and he stirred at her breath, shifting his arm to place a bandaged hand over her ear.

Memory crashed over her. It had not been a nightmare. She touched her neck, searching for the Rahuatl’s bite. The skin was smooth; however, a tender bruise remained. The shadows with icy eyes seemed unreal and the long flight and terror of the night was distant, as if something remembered but not experienced.

Isiilde lifted her head, gazing at Marsais, who was stretched out beside her. He was asleep. She lifted the robe that was draped over their bodies and ran her eyes over his bare chest. Bruises mottled the wiry flesh, but nothing more, save an ever present scar slashing across his chest. She placed a hand over the jagged mark and the tension left his face. He was filthy, but so was she.

The shift of wood and spark of flame drew her attention away. A fire burned brightly in the shallow cave. Flame mingled with roasting meat and she nearly gagged over the carnivorous stench.

Oenghus sat by the fire, poking at its embers, while Lucas turned a makeshift spit. Acacia slept nearby and Rivan was perched on a fallen log beneath the overhanging rock, watching the forest. It seemed the rain had tired, ghosting through trees and brushing leaves with a shimmer of dew in the calm aftermath of a passing storm.

Isiilde was sore and shivering, and her shirt was damp and caked with dried mud. She snuggled against Marsais’ lean body, but the fire called to her with a promise of greater warmth.

Despite her hope, Marsais did not stir. She did not want to endure the paladins’ eyes alone. Unfortunately, with injuries as extensive as his, the healing had taken its toll from his body—a harrowing night had not helped matters. He needed rest. As if to ward off the long night, she brushed her lips against his bony shoulder, reminding herself of everything wonderful. Reluctantly, she rose, draping the robe over his body.

As if taking a plunge, she held her breath and moved quickly across the cave to the fire. Heat welcomed her as she sat beside her guardian. The scarred paladin, Lucas Cutter, gazed at her across the fire pit. And even though Oenghus’ shirt came past her knees, she felt exposed under the paladin’s scrutiny.

“Afternoon, Sprite.” Oenghus wrapped the long folds of his kilt around her and drew her close. She leaned against his strength and heat. He was always as warm as a furnace. “You’ll never guess what I found.”

“Clothes?”

“Even better.” Worry dimmed his eyes. He produced a handkerchief and unwrapped it, revealing a large pile of strawberries, pine nuts, and a motley assortment of green leaves and roots. Eagerly, she accepted the offering. Her stomach growled its gratitude and her guardian smiled. He appeared relieved, though she couldn’t account for it.

For the next few minutes she occupied herself with eating. The sparse meal didn’t quench her hunger, but it lessened the sting. Still, she saved some berries for Marsais.

Lucas removed four roasting rabbits from the spit and set them aside to cool. She tried not to look at the cooked carcasses, but it was impossible. They sparked memory, and she stiffened, feeling the terror and press of stone as if she were there. In her mind’s eye, Zander’s charred corpse flashed around and around like a child’s gruesome top. As much as she wished, she could not stop the vision.

Isiilde gazed into the fire. With a single frantic call, the coals in the dungeon had leapt to her defense, burning everything in its path—not unlike her flesh and blood guardian. She rested her head on Oenghus. What if she had accidentally set Marsais on fire? She had nearly killed everyone in that dungeon. There was no control, no focus—only rage and fear. And when those beasts lay quiet, there was emptiness.

Isiilde stared until her eyes burned. When a figure approached, she blinked, heart jumping in her throat.

Rivan stopped short. “I didn’t see you there,” he smiled.

Oenghus glared, and the blood drained from the younger man’s face. Rivan turned, reached for a pair of leggings drying on a nearby root, and thrust them at Oenghus. “I thought she could use these, sir. I’m from Mearcentia. I’m not used to the cold, so I always wear layers. I tried to clean them, but there was nothing to do for the blood and tears.” Caught under the Nuthaanian’s glare, Rivan looked as though he’d rather face another Reaper swarm.

“Thank you,” Isiilde replied softly.

Oenghus took the offering. Rivan bowed, and Lucas handed him a stick with an impaled rabbit. He retreated to his post.

Isiilde sniffed at the leggings. They were, she supposed, better than nothing. With a sigh, she untangled herself from Oenghus’ side.

“Wake that old bastard up while you’re at it.”

“He’s not old.” She narrowed her eyes, snatched her strawberries, and moved to the back of the cave.

“He’s still a bastard,” her guardian called.

The leggings were coarse, scratchy, and smelled like Oenghus after he’d been chopping wood all day, but they were warm and dry and far too long. She reached under Marsais’ robe, slid his knife from its sheath, and sat down to trim the legs. There was enough fabric left over to use for a belt and wrap her hands and feet.

Marsais muttered restlessly, and she glanced over her shoulder. He jerked his head sharply as if avoiding a blow, and then his eyes snapped open, white and sightless as snow. A murmur rasped between his lips, neck arched and his muscles twitched.

The first time she had seen him thus, in a pleasure house, she had not understood what was happening, but now she knew. The seer was in the clutch of a vision. And there was nothing she could do as his mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Isiilde moved in front and shielded him from the paladins’ eyes. She did not want the paladins to see him like this. Feeling helpless, she placed a hand over his heart. When her fingers touched his scar, the tension bled from his body. He sucked in a sharp breath as if he had been underwater for an eternity. Slowly, his muscles released their hold and grey eyes blinked in confusion and fear.

“Marsais?”

“Isiilde,” he whispered. “A moment, my dear.”

She lay her head on his chest listening to a pounding heart, as he regained his senses. When his breathing evened, he rested a bandaged hand on her head, but whether it was to comfort himself or her, she did not know.

“A vision,” he explained.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She raised her head. “What else could frighten you?”

“A great many things.”

“I won’t ask what you saw.”

“It’s best not to know.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes.” He closed his eyes. “By the gods, yes.”

“Maybe.” Isiilde frowned. “But our eyes change when we know.”

Marsais looked into her own. “That they do.” There was sorrow in his voice. He pulled her close through their bond and a warming calm like a lazy summer day, filled her, chasing back the shadows.

“Is it bad?”

“When is it not?”

“Presently.”

A chuckle rose in his chest and he clutched her close. She returned to her pillow, listening to the rhythm of his heart. After a time, when thought had turned to decision, he stirred, turning his lips towards her ear.

“My dear,” he whispered. “If you forget everything else, I beg of you, never forget that day on the beach.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No one ever understands a seer’s prophecy until the time is upon them.”

“You could tell me.”

“One day, I will explain why I can’t.”

“Until that day, there is food on the fire and I saved some berries for you.”

“I’m honored,” he said, kissing the palm of her hand. The touch left her skin tingling and she smiled, pressing her lips to his with a soft moan.

“I said wake him, not kiss the bastard.” Oenghus’ growl from the fire brought her up short. Sweeping ears twitched in irritation, but she ignored the giant, eyes fixed on her Bonded.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered.

“I didn’t save you—you rescued us.”

“But not before you ordered Luccub to remove my gag.” She shivered at the memory, fingers straying to her neck, but Marsais caught her hand and held it gently between his.

“Thedus brought the tooth,” he said, tracing her knuckles.
 
“Without that seemingly inconsequential act, the Imp would have never come. And you, my dear, released our fiendish ally.”

“And if you had remembered what was in the flagon to begin with, I would have never opened it. So it was still you and your absentmindedness,” she said with an air of triumph.

He grunted in defeat.

“Regardless, I’m glad you remembered what Tharios wanted.”

Marsais cleared his throat and sat up. “I must confess, I never forgot. I had hoped he was bluffing, or that Isek would redeem himself in the end.” Shame-faced, he pulled his dark green robe over his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What you told Tharios about the tomb, it’s not good, is it?”

“No, it is not good. If it had been anyone else—” A shudder stopped his tongue. He sighed wearily, running a hand over his face. “Not you.”

“Why me?”

Warmth and wonder softened his features. “Because, my dear, I’m a love struck fool.”

“You love me?”

“With all that is left of me, yes.”

To hide the rising heat in her cheeks, she began lacing up his sleeves. When she cinched the last tie, she said, “I love what is left, but will miss this.” She tugged on his scruffy goatee.

Marsais grinned. “Hmm, that reminds me. Would you be so kind as to remove the coins in my trouser pocket and weave them in as they were?”

Without hesitation, she retrieved the coins, and studied them in the palm of her hand. The little round coins with a hole in their center appeared ancient, their etchings obscured by time. They were cool as ice, and yet familiar.

She quickly wove three short braids, threading a coin onto each end. When the coins were attached, they warmed and chimed a single note. Marsais looked a proper scoundrel.

Isiilde tilted her head. “One of these days you will tell me what these do.”

“Far faster to tell you what they don’t do.”

“What don’t they do this time?”

“They don’t stop lunatics from butchering my goatee.”

Isiilde rolled her eyes.

ISIILDE
AND
MARSAIS
joined Oenghus by the fire. The captain was awake, sitting on a log that had been dragged across the entrance, eating and conversing with Lucas as they stared into the shifting mist.

“We’ve scouted the immediate area. Plenty of wildlife, which is always a good sign.” Oenghus handed Marsais a rabbit on a stick, who pressed it awkwardly between his bandaged hands. “I figured we’d rest up a bit until the sky clears. No use hiking to the top in this weather.”

Isiilde squeezed between the two men, laying her head on Marsais’ shoulder as he ate. Words passed over her ears, but she did not hear. She sat and stared numbly at the flames, drifting in a haze. Eventually, she blinked. Sometime during her sightless stare, the paladins, Acacia and Lucas, had joined them at the fire.

“Any idea where we are?” Acacia was asking.

“Somewhere north.” Oenghus shrugged. The captain looked to Marsais, but he was busy staring at a rock.

“There’s enough for you, Nymph.” Acacia offered her a rabbit leg.

She recoiled from the flesh. “I don’t like meat.”

“You can’t be picky out here or you’ll starve.” But Isiilde felt like she was already starving.

“She’s not being fussy,” Oenghus defended. “The flesh of a living thing is like poison to her. I gave her a piece of bacon when she was young and it nearly killed her.”

The paladins looked at the nymph as if she had done something wrong. However, Acacia made no further comment, until Marsais cleared his throat returning to the present.

“Archlord, I’d like a few answers.”

“Hmm, I sincerely doubt I still hold that title. Marsais will do, and by all means, ask.”

“I have orders from Iilenshar to follow you without question.” This, she stated more for Lucas and Rivan’s benefit. The former scowled, and the latter’s eyes went wide. “You said the man who came through the portal was an Unspoken, a Disciple of Karbonek. I assume Tharios is as well?”

Marsais inclined his head.

“Tharios spoke of a tomb, of something unknown beneath the Isle. I would like to know what’s at stake.”

“It’s of a delicate nature, Captain, but rest assured, the entire realm is in danger.”

“I want details, not vagueness,” Acacia replied. Marsais pressed his lips together, clearly reluctant to share. “I have Iilenshar’s full confidence,” she continued. “Lucas has my trust and Rivan is too terrified of me to utter a word. We’re neck deep in this already, Seer, and only the gods know where we’ve ended up.”

Isiilde studied the woman. Why would Iilenshar, the home of the Guardians, order the captain of a Chapterhouse to aid Marsais instead of the High Inquisitor himself? And how would the Guardians know what was happening?

The tales of Iilenshar fascinated Isiilde. Legend claimed that the Keeper constructed the Gates to stem the tide of war and trap the Guardians of Morchaint in the Bastardlands.

She had seen the white cliffs, the long tunnel, endless chasm, and the floating Isle of Iilenshar in Marsais’ gift—the memory orb—but it wasn’t the same as seeing it herself.

The memory of that day was distant; a warm little bubble that was drifting farther from her reach. And that girl in the memory was a stranger—an utter fool.

‘
Never forget that day on the beach.
’ Marsais’ odd request echoed in her mind. She remembered it, but it belonged to another person.