King's Folly (Book 2) (12 page)

Marsais paused, listening, and then he relaxed. “Still,” he muttered, “precautions are needed.” He gently shook the water from his hands and held them in front of her. “Would you be so kind?”

She patted them dry, deftly wrapped the bandage around, and began a complicated weave that she hoped would give him more mobility. “I can’t believe they did this to you.”

“Hmm, not surprising, however. I would have likely done the same, or similar if our positions were reversed. A necessary precaution and a wise one for what Tharios intended.”

“It’s terrible.”

“So it is, but my hands are mending.”

“I don’t know how you kept going—after your injuries from the duel, and then Tharios.”

“The mind is a very powerful thing, my dear. Sheer willpower kept Oenghus breathing. We do what we must because the alternative is to fail.”

“Oen is too stubborn for that, and you—” She looked into his eyes. “You are amazing. You have dealt with all the trouble I brought you over the years—all without complaint.” Her ears wilted as she continued her work. “I think Tulipin was right. Nymphs are only good for one thing.” She cinched the bandage.

Marsais flexed his hands.“Good for tying bandages?”

She snorted.

“I think I can manage a crude weave or two with this.” He stood and beckoned her over to a jutting rock. She thought it might have been the fallen king’s ear. “But I would like you to weave instead.”

“Weave what?” She did not much feel like using the Lore.

“A ward.”

Her ears stiffened in alarm. “Are you sure?”

“No.” Marsais cleared his throat. “But we’ll start simple—a string of sorts around the camp, with a ward at each corner.”

Avoiding the bright light of flame, she surveyed the area, and then shrugged.

“Here is our cornerstone. Weave a copper rune on the rock, a water rune in the air above, but
don’t
let them touch, and then bind them together with a very,
very
thin strand of earth. Don’t tie off the weave though.”

“What shall I do with it?”

“You are going to pull the earth rune to that rock over there—the statue’s thumb I believe—and repeat the process.”

“All the way around?”

“Yes.”

Isiilde chewed on her lip with worry. “Lightning?”

“Exactly.”

She had seen it before, and it was a complicated weave. “But Marsais, anyone could trigger the ward, even us.”

“And how might you fix that conundrum?”

Isiilde had only ever untangled wards, she had never paid attention to how they were constructed. She simply enjoyed bringing chaos to order—the more complex the weave, the more delicious the mess.

“Tell them not to pass the rocks?”

Marsais grinned. “Simple, yet effective.”

“But not ideal.”

“No,” he agreed.

“I could bind an earth rune to their boots.”

“Aah, excellent, my dear.” His eyes twinkled.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yes—it could crush their feet if done improperly.”

Isiilde’s mouth went dry, and she paled in the darkness. “I can’t, Marsais.”

“But you’ve never woven anything improperly.”

“I’ve always watched you first.”

“True,” he admitted. “Not to worry, I would never make you do anything you did not want to. I believe, with these bandages, I can manage the weave. Will you watch?”

Feeling disappointed with herself, Isiilde nodded. Marsais made exaggerated, but adequate runes on each rock, binding the ward together, creating a parameter of charged death. He paused at the earth bind. After flexing his fingers for a painful minute, he clenched his jaw, and wove a more complicated earth rune over his boots.

Marsais stood, waiting. Isiilde fidgeted. And then he moved on to her own feet, repeating the weave over each of their companions.

Satisfied, he sat away from the fire, leaning against a boulder and keeping his eyes on the night. Isiilde settled herself under his arm.

“Will you try the ward tomorrow night?”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“I feel useless,” she said after a time.

“Young and cautious is not useless, my dear, it is a good beginning to wisdom. Everyone has different gifts and talents.”

“I am terrified of my fire,” she confessed. “Everything I touch is destroyed—everything I attempt to do turns to ruin.”

“Not everything,” he soothed. “You do far more for me than you know.”

Isiilde looked up at him in question.

“You saved my life on the ridge today.”

“It was only a quick weave.”

“Not just today, but before as well.”

“I nearly killed everyone in the dungeon, even you.”

Marsais sidestepped her observation. “Last year I left the Isle because the Keening took hold.”

“You told me.”

“But I didn’t tell you all.”

“Imagine that,” she said dryly.

Marsais’ chest spasmed with a laugh.

“What didn’t you tell me?” she asked. Shadows played across his face, and his white hair gleamed in the dark. He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear with a whispering touch.

“I didn’t tell you that the farther I traveled, the deeper the Keening burrowed, until it gripped my heart. It was only after I returned, after that day on the beach, that it released its hold.”

Marsais’ words touched her deeply. She did not immediately reply, but gazed at the moonlight shimmering over the stream.

“I understand now,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“The Keening.” She shifted, so she could look into his face. “Death is a mercy, isn’t it, Marsais?”

The light of his eyes dimmed to sorrow, and softened with wisdom. “Yes,” he admitted, searching her face. “But do you see that star?” He pointed towards the sky.

“There are many stars. Which one?”

In answer, Marsais reached out, plucking a star from the heavens. Isiilde gasped as he pressed its light into the palm of her hand. She cupped the little star gently, gazing at its light in awe. He had not muttered a word of the Lore.

“Death is kind and merciful, my dear,” he said softly in her ear, “but never marvelous and never warm. There is no wonder in death, only rest.”

Isiilde leaned against him, listening to the breath of his lungs while the little star glowed brightly in her hands. Strong arms encircled her. Safe in this haven of warmth, with hope in her heart, she fell into slumber, utterly botching her first night on guard duty.

NOTHING
DISTURBED
MARSAIS
’ ward, but a chill arrived during the night. It lingered on the leaves, and clung to the bark, seeping through layers and skin.

Isiilde took the excess cloth from Rivan’s trousers and wrapped the length around her feet. Marsais watched wordlessly. There was nothing to be done about her lack of boots.

But at least there was food.

“More strawberries?” Acacia asked with disbelief as Isiilde stuffed another ripe berry into her mouth. “Winter is nearly here—far too late for strawberries to grow.” The paladin looked at the ripe red berries with suspicion and Isiilde edged away, guarding her treasure trove.

“Never look a gift horse in the eye,” Marsais recited.

“It’s a mouth, sir,” Rivan corrected. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yes, but I always prefer to look a creature in the eye when I’m speaking to it.”

“Then why not a horse?” Isiilde asked.

“Because they bite, which would make looking a horse in the mouth even more foolish. Mules, my dear,” he said, handing her a mushroom, “are far more reasonable.”

“I think only for you, Marsais.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you sing like one.”

Marsais placed a hand over his heart in mock injury. “Whatever wins your favor.”

“But horse meat tastes better,” said Oenghus. “In Nuthaan, the saying goes, never argue over a free pint.”

The edge of Lucas’ lip raised. “Now that, I can agree on.” Isiilde decided it was the closest the scarred paladin came to a grin.

“You don’t find it at all strange that we’re coming across untouched patches of strawberries?” Acacia interrupted.

“Never question a free pint.”

She looked at Oenghus. “I thought it was ‘never argue’?”

“Same difference,” he grunted.

“If the pint is sitting in the middle of a forest, then I would advise questioning it.”

“I’ve never had a pint answer, have you, Oenghus?”

“Once or twice,” the barbarian admitted to Marsais.

“I’m sure, of the two, the pint had more sense,” Acacia noted dryly.

“Your concern for Isiilde is admirable, Captain,” Marsais said. “But in this case, I think it a blessing. And I, for one, would never question a gift from the Sylph.”

“You’re claiming the Sylph—the Goddess of All—is growing strawberries in a forest for us?”

“Not for us, no, but for Isiilde, yes.”

Acacia and Lucas shared a look, but said nothing. The Blessed Order was generally lenient with those whose sanity was in question. And Marsais’ lack of sanity was never in question to begin with.

“May I have one?”

Isiilde started in surprise. Rivan was walking alongside her. She eyed the man warily, suspicious of his eyes, of his easy smile, and his strength.

“No,” she said, and moved to the other side of Marsais.

The hours melted away, but the frost remained. The sun did not penetrate the tangle of limb and leaf, and a silence descended on the group.

It seemed the forest was waiting.

“I don’t like this forest, Marsais.”

“How so?”

“The forest feels wrong.” She hesitated, scanning the shadows “It’s restless, I think,” she sighed in frustration. The feeling seemed fanciful, like a child afraid of the dark, and she felt foolish. Beams of sunlight sliced through the canopy, giving birth to deeper shadow. The ferns and leaves quivered like an animal with its hackles raised. She suddenly realized what was wrong.

“I don’t feel a breeze, but the leaves are moving.”

Marsais scanned the forest. “Do you feel like singing?”

Her ears wilted. “No, but I will if you wish it.”

“It’s all right, my dear,” he smiled down at her in reassurance. “We’ll make do, but remember, always trust your instincts—it’s not your imagination.”

If she only knew what ‘it’ was. “I wish it were.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. And be prepared.” Marsais called the captain and Oenghus over. “Isiilde doesn’t like the forest. Hmm, I think it wise to stay close, keep alert, and tell your men to be wary of what they touch.”

“The hag?” the captain asked.

Marsais stroked his goatee, and the coins gave a soft chime. “I think so; however, it may be something more—sinister. Be on your guard.”

“As if we weren’t already,” Oenghus grunted. “Always the cheerful seer, Scarecrow.”

With the giant in the lead, the group trudged relentlessly onwards, moving deeper into the forest, towards the distant smoke trails.

❧

Maps were deceiving. The blank spaces between names looked entirely too innocent on parchment. Isiilde was discovering that walking between the spaces was tedious and worrisome.

They traveled in silence, walking beneath the towering forest as the afternoon stretched towards dusk. Marsais did not finish his tale about the woman from the sea, and no one seemed inclined to talk. Isiilde shuddered at the oppressiveness of the darker woods.

The forest teemed with life, but of a different sort. Crows mocked the group with echoing calls and ferns trembled as shadows flitted from one bush to the next. Although Isiilde tried, she never quite caught sight of the animals that raced from bush to bush—if they were animals at all.

The realm, it seemed, was endless, and its inhabitants less than hospitable.

She glanced back at the paladins. T
he warriors were focused—watchful. They had tied down sections of armor with leather cords to dampen the noise, but the metal still rasped, keeping time with Marsais’ chiming coins. Her Bonded was staring off into the trees again, lost in thought. Isiilde steered him around a rock and when a branch threatened his forehead, she pushed down on his shoulder, making him duck.

She was, naturally, worried about his absentminded state.

“Could ye take off that bloody armor? A party of Fell giants could plan an ambush and we wouldn’t be able to hear them,” Oenghus finally growled at the three paladins.

“All the more reason to keep our armor on,” Lucas defended.

“Those coins of his aren’t much quieter,” Rivan pointed out.

Oenghus thrust a finger at the ancient’s scruffy goatee. “Those coins are likely keeping us safe.”

“They are?” Rivan hurried beside Marsais to get a closer look at the coins. “What do they do?”

“What don’t they do?” Isiilde replied. Her guardian’s beard twitched with amusement.

“Well, what are they doing now?” Rivan asked.

Grey eyes shifted back to the present, focusing fully on the young man. The weight of the ancient’s gaze froze Rivan in his tracks. The paladin missed a step, and nearly stumbled.

“We’re in Vaylin,” Isiilde supplied, sensing his confusion.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Rivan was wondering why your coins are making so much noise.”

“Hmm, they’re a warning.”

“Something is coming?” She glanced around uneasily at the shifting shadows. Everything from a dragon to spiders peered from the dark depths of her imagination.

“Yes.” He smiled at her. “I am.”

No one laughed, not even Oenghus.

OENGHUS
STOOD
BESIDE
a tree, gripping a sturdy branch. He edged forward, until the toes of his boots hung over a chasm. He could not see the bottom. Vines clung to the sides, climbing from the black pit. Far across the blackness, the forest continued, spilling into another ruined kingdom.