King's Folly (Book 2) (22 page)

“Hmm.” Marsais rubbed his chin, and his coins chimed softly in response. “Yet, out of all the myths, one must be true.” His heart beat against the nymph’s back, and he wrapped his long arms around her, settling in to tell the tale. “Light and Dark warred eternally,” Marsais began. “And from their fevered clashes sprang Time, who watched and counted the millennium alone in the churning sea of shadow and hope.

“Eventually, even Time grew weary, and he dipped his hand into the fires of light, drawing out Life. She was beautiful, so brilliant that he could not stare at her for long. And yet, Time ached to watch her, so he dipped his hand into darkness and drew out a shadow—a twin to Life. Chaos was born.

“Life and Chaos grew, the first created, and the latter surprised—sometimes delightfully, sometimes dreadfully. Time was content. But Chaos soon became jealous of her sister, for she could not shape, only hope. In her spite, she hurled her children at her sister’s. Chaos and Life warred.

“Time watched, and he despaired. In an attempt to restore balance, he dipped one hand into the light and the other into the dark and brought the two together. Light and Dark joined, and Death was born, restoring balance. Of the three sisters, Time loved Death most of all, for she was easy upon the eyes, patient as he never could be, and merciful to all—even he.

“Death was Time’s companion, everlasting and faithful. But Life and Chaos did not share his love. Their sister had the power to snuff out their children at will. So Life called to the Light and poured it into a River, binding the end to the beginning, an endless cycle of rebirth that Death could not touch. Conversely, Chaos flung her children into the darkness so Death could not find them. But the children craved their mother and they reached out to drag her in. Darkness swallowed Chaos, and the Void was born. Her children grew grotesque, twisted and disloyal, constantly feeding and craving more.

“The Void devoured the Darkness, and then turned to the Light. Life cowered, but Death stood firm, standing before the Void with defiance. In an act of love, she shoved her sister into the arms of Time and attacked the Void with fury.

“Balance was lost. Time grieved. Life survived, even thrived, but the Void continued to hunt and all was in chaos.” Marsais fell silent. Oenghus continued to whittle, and the fire popped and shifted, sending sparks drifting towards the trees.

“That’s an interesting tale,” Acacia broke the ensuing silence.

“So, Life, Chaos, and Death were the three Sylphs?” Rivan asked.

Isiilde felt Marsais incline his head in answer.

“And the ol’Father is Time?”

“Hmm, yes, and that reminds me,” Marsais said, untangling himself from Isiilde. “The moon is out and shining perfectly on that boulder. It’s time I sent a message. I won’t be long, my dear.” She craned her neck, and he kissed her lips, eliciting a growl from the giant beside her.

Marsais strode through the ring of trees, and with one long stretch of his legs, hopped from shore onto the flat rock. All eyes followed the seer. Poised on the boulder, head raised towards the stars, his white hair gleamed in the moonlight. He looked magnificent. Isiilde’s heart quickened and her ears straightened. She knew that stance. It was the stance he assumed before a complex weave.

The wind whipped his hair, and snatched at his robe, and somewhere far off, a wolf’s mournful cry rose into the night. Marsais surged into motion—his long fingers were a blur, his arms elegant, and every step was grace as he wove luminescent runes that swirled around his snaking form. It was more dance than Lore, and the runes flared to life, one after another, moving with his steps as he navigated the powerful currents of the Gift.

The amount of energy the nymph felt her Bonded channeling, left her awestruck. The Gift filled him, it rushed through his veins, and seeped into his bones, until she thought he would be swept away in the surging tides. Isiilde blinked as realization dawned. Marsais didn’t wade into the torrent of power—he threw himself into it and let its currents carry him away; but what was more, she had never actually felt him enter. Therefore, he never left, he never relinquished his connection with the Gift.

Impossible, she thought, and yet—she had seen the proof with her own eyes. How many times had he completed a quick weave without uttering the Lore? She had always thought he had whispered it, or she had simply missed the words, but bonded as she was now—she could feel the great river coursing through his bones.

“What’s he weaving, Oen? I can’t follow him at all.”

“I never know what the bastard is doing,” Oenghus shrugged, and returned to his whittling. “Maybe he’s summoning a keg.”

Marsais stopped so suddenly that the wisps of trailing energy continued to flutter while he stilled. He spread his arms and peered at the swirling column of runes. Even from here, his eyes glowed silver. He withdrew his spirit from her, and stepped inside the complex weave.

Darkness crashed over Isiilde—pain, despair, and numbing ache. She whimpered as the shadows clutched her heart and coldness gripped her bones. Her sun was gone, and horrors neared.

“What’s wrong, Sprite?” Oenghus was at her side, his hand on her shoulder, his eyes searching her face.

“Marsais left,” she shivered and blinked, finding herself lying on the ground, curled in a tight ball. Acacia was beside her as well, but she could not remember anyone moving.

“He’s standing right there.”

“No,” Isiilde gasped. “Inside.” Her voice was distant, and moisture trailed down her cheeks, but she could not connect the sensation to her own flesh.

A calloused hand brushed the hair from her cheek. “You know, I am told a man can’t be without his nymph for long. He’ll be back soon as he can.”

Another wolf howled, and something fluttered in the dark. Oenghus frowned. “Although, I best go and stand guard. With his luck, a clutch of harpies will snatch him up. Just stay here, Sprite, you’ll be fine.”

Isiilde nodded numbly and pushed herself up, trying to remember falling. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her, and Acacia sat beside her as Oenghus trotted off to stand guard by the river. She edged towards the fire, hoping warmth would chase the numb ache from her bones.

“What did you mean when you said that he left you?” a woman’s voice asked at her side.

The nymph shrugged. “The part of him inside of me. It’s as bright as a sun.”

Acacia’s eyes flickered towards the seer standing frozen on the rock, arms by his side, head raised, as if he intended to take flight and speed towards the moon at any moment.

Isiilde ran her hand through a wave of flame. With Marsais gone, she craved its protection, its light and power. As unpredictable as her fire was, it was always eager to defend.

“Don’t you ever get burned?” Rivan asked.

Isiilde flinched at the deep voice. The fire crackled and popped, and leapt towards the paladin across the pit. He gulped and edged backwards.

“It likes me,” she answered softly, silently reassuring herself that Acacia was here, and her guardian was within range.

“I’m glad it does.” Rivan hesitated. “Back on the Isle—well I didn’t fancy being tortured to death. You saved us all, you know?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I nearly killed everyone.”

“We are all here, Isiilde,” Acacia countered. “A soldier doesn’t question luck.”

“Don’t bother arguing with the captain,” Rivan advised. “Trust me, I gave up years ago.”

A smile tugged at Isiilde’s lips.

“Did you grow up on the Isle?” Rivan pressed.

Isiilde met the deep brown eyes across the fire’s light. He appeared interested, as curious as she was about most things. She searched for any deceit or ill intent in his eyes, but could not find anything save sincerity.

Still, her heart raced, and her breath came in quick spurts, as if her legs were carrying her far away from the human male.

When she remained silent, he filled the gap with his enthusiasm. “What you did with the bolt and the levitation was amazing. Did the Archlord teach you how to use the Gift?”

Rivan was full of questions, much as Isiilde often was. His curiosity relaxed her and she answered, “I was his apprentice on the Isle.”

“Wait—they let you join? You can’t tell me you’re a hundred.” Rivan’s shock was so sincere that she laughed.

“No,” she smiled. “I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen.” This did not seem to help. The paladin looked wounded. “I was living on the Isle anyway, and Marsais made an exception. I guess he knew I’d be bored otherwise.”

“Probably helps that you’re a nymph,” Rivan mumbled.

“No, it didn’t,” she narrowed her eyes, and the flames gathered around the logs, burning low and bright with a sizzling hiss. Acacia tensed.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he stammered. “You’re not going to explode again, are you?” He scooted away from the fire.

Isiilde took a deep breath, closing her eyes, and blocked out the flames. “I can’t really control it.”

“Sorry,” Rivan offered. Isiilde could not remember anyone ever apologizing to her, save Marsais. “It’s just a sore spot,” Rivan continued. “I tried to join the Isle, but they wouldn’t take me. What the Wise Ones do with the Gift—it’s amazing, especially the Archlord.”

“You should be honored to serve the Blessed Order,” Lucas growled from the edge of camp.

“I am,” Rivan defended, “but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to learn more.”

“Honesty is an admirable trait, Lucas,” Acacia pointed out.

“Should have left him where you found him.”

“Then there’d be no one to annoy you,” Acacia called to her lieutenant. Lucas stomped off, and Rivan grinned, a lop-sided, goofy expression that reminded Isiilde of Flappers, her dead dog. Something began to unwind inside of her, a tight knot, and in response the campfire resumed its cheerful dance.

“Maybe Marsais could teach you,” she offered.

“I don’t know,” Rivan said, poking at his bandages. “I think I annoy him, too.”

“If you annoyed him too badly, he’d turn you into a toad.”

Rivan laughed, but Isiilde was quite serious.

“Speaking of learning,” Acacia interrupted. “We might be half way across the realm, but you still need to keep up your drills, Rivan.”

“We’ve been marching all day.”

His protest was answered by a severe eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Rivan barked as he set aside a battered greave, hopped to his feet, and walked through the ring of trees in search of suitable sparring sticks.

“Aren’t you going to let Oen heal your shoulder?”

“I will later,” Acacia stood. “In a battle, a soldier must make do, whether they have one hand or two.”

As Isiilde soon learned, Knight Captain Mael was just as adept with one hand as she was with two. The nymph watched with a great deal of interest as Rivan got his arse kicked. She had never been allowed on the parade grounds, and had not had the opportunity to watch soldiers train at close range. Now, she followed their movements with the same interest she showed to Marsais when he traced runes.

There was, she realized, strategy in sword fighting, every bit as complicated as King’s Folly. Attacks and counter-attacks, only instead of runes, one used her body.

Acacia noticed her interest, and while Rivan was picking himself off the ground, she asked, “Do you want to learn, Isiilde?”

“Me?”

“Unless there is someone else present with your name, yes.”

The world wavered, shifted, and rough leather lay in her palm, as real as the moment it had happened, followed by the plunge of steel into flesh. “I don’t like weapons,” she quickly said, trying to shake the past from her mind.

“It’s not a weapon, lass, it’s a stick.” Acacia waved the branch in the air.

Put like that, Isiilde could not say no. She stood, set her cloak aside, and edged closer to Acacia. The captain handed her the branch. It was heavy, and it felt awkward in her hands, nothing like the knife had.

“Now, follow my lead.”

Isiilde did, working through stances and parries with achingly slow movements; but where the captain was fluid and as graceful as a crane, the nymph’s arms shook with fatigue. Sweat beaded on her brow, and one foot tangled with the other when she tried to pivot. She stumbled, caught herself, and dropped her practice sword.

“Not bad for a first time,” Rivan encouraged. But the captain said nothing, very disapprovingly.

“You’re supposed to hold on to the bloody thing!” Oenghus called from the river bank. Marsais’ spirit flared to life inside of her, and he drew her close through their bond. A moment later, the two ancients entered the camp.

“The captain is giving lessons. Do you want to try, Marsais?” she asked.

“I find the sword an unwieldy weapon.”

“In other words, he might get callouses on his pretty hands.”

Marsais let the jab go unanswered. Lines creased his features, and in the light of the fire, he looked strained. Isiilde caught his eye in question, but he looked away.

“Was your message delivered?” Acacia asked.

“It was,” his tone was cold, and he quickly cleared the ice from his throat. “Apparently I’m a Bloodmagi who conspires with fiends, and Oenghus and I murdered you three.”

Isiilde narrowed her eyes. Surely the Wise Ones wouldn’t believe that? She tilted her head, looking at the situation sideways, and amended her first reaction. They probably would believe it. “What about me?”

“Hmm, I did what any good Bloodmagi would do—I ravished you and carried you off for sinister purposes.”

“To your evil lair?”

“Why yes, my dear, it’s in there.” He pointed to the hollow tree.

“It looks dreadful,” she said to his twinkling eyes.

“Who did you speak with?” Acacia asked.

“A cleric of Chaim. He’ll pass my message on to the Guardians.”

“A cleric on Iilenshar?”

“It is the same cleric who instructed you to look after me, Captain.”

Acacia pressed her lips together and inclined her head, satisfied with his answer. Isiilde wondered who this cleric was.

“Now if you will excuse me, I’m rather tired.”

Oenghus’ eyes were boring holes in the thin man, but Marsais avoided his gaze. Instead, he bent his head and disappeared into the hollowed tree. Isiilde followed. It was cold and dark and she was exhausted.