King's Folly (Book 2) (40 page)

“I thought there were no good paladins?”

“Bout as many good paladins as there are berserkers.”

“Rivan told you, didn’t he?”

“I cornered the poor lad.”

“And you wonder why I think you a brute.”

“Aye, but I’m a lovable one.”

“The lies we tell ourselves are the most convincing.”

Oenghus chuckled. “Aye, well, you haven’t run yet.” He brought the mortar to his nose and wrinkled it, turning serious once again. “You ready?”

Acacia nodded.

“In case you’re wondering,” he said, dipping his fingers in the salve, “this is not an excuse to get my hands on you.”

“Is this your idea of charming?”

“How am I doing?”

“What do you think?”

“Making progress.”

Acacia clenched her jaw as he slopped the mess over her burns.

“So what was your Oathbound like?” he asked, trying to distract her. “Another paladin?”

She did not answer straightaway, but slowly, she relaxed, frowning at the yellowish mixture. “My arm is numb.”

“Aye, it won’t hurt as bad when I scrub off the wool.”

“No, he wasn’t a paladin. He was a Wraith Guard on Iilenshar. My daughters
 
still live in Easthaven.”

“What happened to him?”

“The Keening took him while I was in the Fell Wastes. We were bound for fifty years.”

Oenghus frowned. There was tension in her voice, but it wasn’t from the water and cloth he used to scrub her wounds. “Not an easy thing to lose someone to the Keening. Let me guess, he was up to two hundred?”

“No, he thought I had been killed.”

Oenghus might be a brute, but he knew when to let a subject lie. Acacia nudged the conversation onto another path. “Although, you’re right, not many seem to have the will to live past two hundred.”

“During the first hundred, you figure out how to live, and during the second, you figure out there’s not much to live for.”

“Unless you find a purpose,” she finished. “And what about in the ninth hundred year?”

“Life is just getting interesting,” he grinned.

“You mean you’re still looking for the perfect ale?”

“Aye, let me know if you find it.”

“And what about you? I suppose you have four Oathbounds, being a Nuthaanian.”

He shook his head. “That’s our women. They can have as many Oathbounds as they like.”

“I always assumed the men could too.”

“Goes back to the Shattering. One of my daughters, the clans head, has five Oathbounds.”

“Your daughter is the clans head of Nuthaan? Why am I not surprised,” she muttered.

“Ah, I see you’ve met my sweet little girl.”

Acacia’s eyes slid over to the barbarian. “In the Wedamen invasion about thirty years back.”

“You were at the Plains too?” That had been one of the bloodiest battles in near two centuries.

“Yes, I discovered, quite brutally, why it’s never wise to follow a berserker into battle.”

“I hope you weren’t following me.”

“No, I’d remember. Is that why your women take more than one man?”

“Because we’re so keen on dying?” he chuckled. “No, it’s one of the wiser things my people have done, actually. After the Shattering, there was hardly a soul breathing. Women were scarce. So while the other lands took what they wanted and treated their women like cattle for breeding. We barbarians took a more civilized route. Figuring we menfolk would muck up things, we gave them the very best of everything we had and made them our clan chiefs. That’s why a maid can go walking in any part of Nuthaan, during any part of the day, and not be harmed. There isn’t a Nuthaanian alive who’d take advantage of her.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “And your Order considers us brutes.”

“No,” she corrected, “we view you as useful weapons in our fight against the Void.”

“Aye, well I never said we’re the brightest bunch. Point us at a fight and we’ll be first in line.”

Acacia chuckled. “And how did a mindless brute become a Wise One?”

Oenghus frowned, rinsing out his cloth and soaking it with fresh water. “I lost my first Oathbound in childbirth. Terrible way to die, that. Took the both of them three days, and I could only sit there and watch. We were snowed in, far from a healer.”

With large gentle hands, Oenghus scrubbed the wool from her flesh. He was silent, lost in memory for a moment, before he continued, “I wasn’t much good for anything after that—so I took my chances with the grog. Brimgrog kills most men who risk it, but I was already dead.”

Oenghus leaned close, eyeing Acacia’s wounds. When he was satisfied that the burns were free of contamination, he settled a blanket on her shoulders. “I went looking for death with a passion and do you know, Death fled with her bloody tail between her legs. I’m not exactly sure how I got where I did—everything is muddled—but eventually, I woke up in some cage in the Bastardlands. Drunk as piss and fighting in the pits.”

Acacia swallowed her surprise. The Bastardlands were a brutal place. Arena fighters were thrown into pits for money, and few survived.

“I loved it,” he grinned. “All the free ale I could drink, and all the women I could uhm—”

“Plow,” she finished.

“Right,” he nodded. “And plenty of fights. Then one day, some dandy bastard comes and takes my grog away.”

“Marsais,” she surmised.

“Aye, I swear he was looking for me. Once I sobered up, I did what any self-respecting barbarian would do—I tried to kill the smug bastard. Bad mistake.”

“That’s when he turned you into a pi—boar.” Acacia eased herself onto her uninjured side.

“For a whole fortnight. I think he forgot about me.”

Acacia laughed, sharp and abrupt. He hadn’t heard her laugh before, and he liked the sound of it.

Oenghus scratched his beard. “Anyway, the Scarecrow sorted me out eventually, as much as I can be at any rate.”

“And he discovered the why,” she said, softly.

“Aye,” he sniffed. “A man can fight for those he loves, but there’s only so much a hammer can do.”

“You trust Marsais because of this?”

“Let me tell you something about the Scarecrow. When he dragged me out of that pit, I didn’t know his motives. I still don’t half the time, and I don’t bloody well agree with his methods either, but the end results—well you can’t argue with them. If he’s wasting time, it’s for a purpose.”

“But has he had a nymph before?” she asked. “I’ve seen good men turn into layabouts and cowards because of a nymph.”

“Not the Scarecrow,” he said with complete conviction. “He’s been battling the Void for longer than I’d like to think. Have some faith.”

“My faith is with the Guardians.”

“You sure it’s in the Guardians and not the Sylph?”

She narrowed her eyes up at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Just a hunch.” Oenghus slipped his hands over her furrowed forehead and taut stomach. “Now relax.”

His hands were warm and heavy, and his palms rough, but his touch was polite. He waited for her to relax. A healing was intrusive, especially for the distrustful. When the tenseness bled from her body, Oenghus summoned the Lore, as easily as taking a step. After flesh was mended, he stole a peek at Acacia’s spirit; it was a column of light. But it did not radiate warmth. Frost crept up it like a window pane. The Keening.

Oenghus wrapped the Gift around her spirit like a warm blanket, bolstering it with his own, taking the sting from her grief. There wasn’t much else he could do but hope it was enough to ward against the impending chill. The healer withdrew, checked her wounds over once more, and pulled the blanket up to Acacia’s neck.

The tight control with which the captain carried herself was gone, her features relaxed, and her breath evened. He placed a hand on her short hair. “Sleep well, lass.”

Stretched beyond his limits, Oenghus picked himself up, and went to fall into his own bedroll.

A
CURTAIN
OF
crystal water flowed over rock. Its echo bounded off the slick stone. The greater pool disappeared into a crack, a deep spring that seeped into the mountain, but not before swirling into a calm eddy, making one lazy circuit around a young girl. She floated in the gentle water, white hair drifting like a cloud around her head.

Voices droned around the girl, but her ears were submerged, dampening the noise. Beneath the water, she was at peace, even bound to the pool as she was, connected to chains on each limb, anchored while the rest of Time shifted and flowed past her.

A rattle of chains shattered her peace. Her limbs were pulled taut, and she rose to the surface of the pool, body stretched to the four corners, until her back skimmed the water.

The chained girl opened her eyes, sightless and white, to the cave. A chant filled her ears, thundering over the water’s trickle. Men surrounded her, bodies covered with chalk, rocking and chanting with harsh voices.

The stranger stood to the side, as he always did since he had arrived, a man with fang and claw and ivory studs embedded in his copper flesh. The chained girl convulsed, and a bent Shaman shoved the stranger back against the wall.

The chant reached a crescendo and the naked forms around her rocked violently, reaching out with grasping hands, brushing her flesh. She tugged at the chains, screaming to return to her watery refuge, but the chains kept her anchored in place.

The Shaman accepted something from the stranger—a strand of white hair. He edged forward like a wary animal testing a hole. When he was within arm’s length, he dropped the strand of hair into the pool. It swirled with the water’s pull, polluting the chained girl’s refuge. The water churned, the girl screamed and fought until her mind was rubbed raw against the currents of Time.

With a final tug, the currents caught her form, and her eyes opened to the realm. She flew over the mountains, creaking like an old wind, restless and searching, sweeping over frozen wastes and up impossible cliffs, diving into a black maw and speeding down its throat. Blue light embraced her and she swirled over a pale city beneath the earth, unseen and free, searching for the source of the pool’s disruption.

Flying through twisting tunnels and lightless valleys, and finally, into a stone dwelling. The presence she sought stood at her shoulder, off to the side. She focused her all-seeing eyes on the presence. It was searing and bright and all at once it faded, leaving her staggering from the sight.

Time greeted her with grey eyes, piercing her visions again, and as the girl always did, she fled, speeding away in fear, snapping back into her body and its torment.

THE
NYMPH
SPENT
her afternoon sleeping in the arms of her Druid, listening to the ocean breathe. There was nothing beyond him, no stone, no fire, no hatred. Only the nymph and her glowing sun. Hunger nudged her from slumber. She stretched with languid pleasure along Marsais’ body, and realized he wasn’t there. Not his mind anyway.

Marsais’ eyes were white, tension radiated from his body, and he murmured restlessly. His bond felt distant, as if he held her at arm’s length. Isiilde rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, listening to the half muttered words. He was not speaking Common, but another language that she could not name, both familiar and foreign.

She caught the hand scratching relentlessly at his jagged scar and whispered his name. He did not snap out of the vision. Isiilde frowned, and waited, holding his hand to her breast as he ground his teeth. His muscles spasmed and his veins stood out stark on his flesh. The hand around her tightened, painfully. She nearly cried out. Marsais gasped, and finally his body released its hold, dropping him back to the furs.

The skin on his torso stretched taut over his ribs and his pulse beat frantically against his neck. His eyes opened, grey and tired and ever so pained.

The nymph pressed her lips to his damp brow. “You’re not alone, Marsais,” she whispered.

“No,” he rasped, loosening the vice around her hand and clutching her close. “I am here.”

“Yes, you are,” she reassured, sensing his fear. “And I love you.”

“I am not an easy man to love,” his voice was hoarse, cracked, and full of despair.

“Perhaps not, but I am still here.”

“Yes,” he breathed, curling his fingers into her hair. “For now.”

Isiilde pulled away, but his eyes were closed, and his fingers relaxed their hold. Exhaustion had claimed him. She watched him sleep for a time, smoothing the creases from his brow until he relaxed and his breath evened.

What had Marsais dreamed—what pathways had he glimpsed? Another time, long ago, she might have sung to ease his slumber, but not now. Not ever again. Isiilde brushed the hair from Marsais’ face, pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, and slipped out of the cavern, leaving him to rest. Hunger pulled her towards food.

The common room was quiet. Lucas and Rivan sat by the fire conversing as they prepared a stew. A sharp burst of laughter from Rivan nearly sent her back into the room, but the familiar snore from her guardian reassured. Oenghus was sleeping close by.

Isiilde stepped into the light and headed towards the group’s provisions. The paladins’ conversation fell silent, and Rivan hastily rose, gawking at her as she rummaged through a sack.

“Please don’t stop on my account,” she said, gathering an armful of edible faerie food. “Oenghus raised me. There isn’t much I haven’t heard.”

“No, that’s not it at all,” Rivan stammered. “It’s just—you’re so—”

“Rivan,” Lucas warned.

Isiilde arched a brow, waiting.

“You don’t look real,” Rivan blurted out.

The nymph stared at the man, blinked, and then laughed. Heat rose from Rivan’s collar to the top of his broad brow.

“Sit down,” Lucas tugged the soldier, and he sat with a jolt.

“I’m sorry, Rivan,” she smiled. “It’s just that if I’m not real, that means you’ve been losing to yourself at King’s Folly every night.”

“I’m just bad enough to do that, aren’t I?” he gave her a lopsided grin.

“I’ve seen worse.”

A smirk twisted Lucas’ scars. “You’re a good liar, Nymph.”