King's Folly (Book 2) (54 page)

Marsais did not reply. Instead, he slowly pulled on his trousers, but stopped with the single garment; he was in too much pain to bother with the rest. Moving stiffly, he walked to the mule and rummaged through the saddlebags until he found his old clothes. The enchanted pouch was there, and his hand and forearm disappeared inside the space, searching for something in particular. He pulled out a vial etched with faint runes and tossed it towards the fiend. She caught it easily.

“What is this?”

“The needed sacrifice.”

“An enchanted vial the size of a well?”

“No,” he grimaced. “It will be enough blood for the Portal.”

“I doubt that.”

“Trust your old master.”

Saavedra lashed her tail as she turned the vial over in her deft hands. She uncorked it carefully, and sniffed. Her eyes widened in shock, and flickered from the nymph to the seer.

“So tempting,” Saavedra moaned.

“You gave your word.”

“I did,” she inclined her head. “Well played. Don’t worry, godling, your faith in me was not misplaced.”

“Just most of it,” Marsais said, dryly, stuffing the remainder of his clothing into the pouch.

“I’ll miss you.”

“We have a madman to stop, Vedra.”

“I know you’ll succeed,” she winked, and raised the vial. “You’re the only one who I’ve ever had faith in.” With an alluring chant, she began the ritual, pouring the vial into the circle. Blood, bright and vibrant, pooled into the sand, seeping into the grooves.

Isiilde narrowed her eyes, at both vial and blood, and her right hand stole to her left, rubbing the sore spot on the inside of her wrist.

A Blood Portal burst to life, feeding off the blood of a goddess.

THE
CARRIAGE
ROLLED
to a stop. The driver’s seat creaked, and boots touched earth. Isiilde could not see anything beyond the black satin hood covering her eyes. Her ears strained. She sensed Marsais stand across from her, and the door to the carriage swung open.

This was the third carriage they had been placed in since walking through the vile gate. Her skin still crawled at the Blood Portal’s touch, with both revulsion and familiarity.

“We’re here,” Marsais’ voice was strained. His hand wrapped gently around her arm and she shook it off, feeling her own way down. Sun touched her skin. Vibrant scents filled her senses. The air was hot and wet and bursting with life.

Chains jostled as the others stepped down.

Somewhere, close by, she heard flowing water. And birds. Flitting about the trees, singing with joy—a far cry from the ritual chamber they had recently left.

Their escorts climbed back into the wagon, and it jostled away. Isiilde pulled off her hood, squinting against brightness. Color exploded in the realm.

The earth was red, the sky clear and blue, and everything in between was green. Towering palm trees basked under the blue, and red and orange fruit weighed the branches of bushy trees. Isiilde tilted her head at the birds. Parrots, she thought, but she had only ever seen them in books.

Chains fell on the ground as Marsais unlocked the others. Oenghus ripped off his hood, and so did the rest. Kasja gasped and Elam squealed with delight. Marsais pressed a vial into their palms.

“Drink this—all of you.” And then he repeated the order in Lome. No one argued.

As soon as Elam was finished with the vial, he darted towards the trees, racing up the branches, plucking ripe fruit from their limbs. Kasja sniffed at a coconut, turning it around in her hands, this way and that, searching for a crack in its shell.

Caught between wonder and anger, they settled on momentary silence. The laden mule was there, and after Acacia had emptied her vial, she riffled through, recovering her gear.

They stood at a crossroad. The red earth stretched in four directions, one road looking much the same as the next. As soon as Marsais pulled the silence weave from Lucas’ throat, the peace was shattered. The paladin’s fist connected with the seer’s nose. Again.

Marsais was knocked off his feet.

“Don’t ever silence me again, Seer.”

Kasja hissed at the paladin with a feral sound that defied her clothes and cleanliness.

“There was a line for that,” Oenghus grumbled. He shook out a handkerchief and handed it to Marsais. “I was going to wait til he was healed.”

Isiilde stood at a distance, eyes on Marsais. He looked very old and worn beneath the sun—and tired. But her heart only held fury.

“You want me to heal you, Scarecrow?”

“Spare me the shame,” Marsais snapped.

Elam froze at his tone.

“Suit yourself,” Oenghus said lightly. “At least they didn’t knock all your teeth out.”

Grey eyes pinned the giant.

Oenghus tugged on his beard and sat back on his haunches, studying his old friend with worry. The fiery mark was absent from his arm—the nymph’s bond was broken. Sapphire eyes widened with surprise. Oenghus looked at her, saw the smoldering fury in her gaze and the stiffness in her spine, and wisely decided to hold his tongue.

The air crackled with tension, churning around the ancient sitting in the dirt. Oenghus shifted his bulk, shielding the man from mutinous stares. Rivan and Lucas followed their captain’s example, and began donning their battered armor.

Acacia cinched a final vambrace on her forearm, and focused on the seer. “Why Mearcentia?”

“You are acquainted with King Syre, are you not?”

“I handle the Law when there is a dispute with his nymphs, yes.”

“We need a ship, we need warriors, and we need to sail to Fomorri.”

Shocked silence answered his declaration.

“Fomorri,” Rivan repeated with horror.

“What the Void for?” Oenghus asked.

“You had best start talking, Marsais,” Acacia warned, strapping on her sword belt.

“I could not divulge my plans because of the scryer tracking us,” Marsais sighed, lowering the handkerchief. His face was smeared with blood, but the bleeding had stopped. His gaze flickered to Isiilde, and she quickly looked elsewhere. “The Isle is well guarded, Tharios is Archlord, he knows its secrets, or I should say, he soon will. All paths end in destruction, save one. My visions stop at Finnow’s Spire.”

“The Unicorn’s Horn?” Acacia asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s a myth,” Lucas said.

“No, it is not.” Marsais climbed slowly to his feet, but his shoulders bowed with a heavy yoke that none could see.

“Tharios possesses Soisskeli’s Stave; however, he only has one of the end caps—the artifact that can open a Gateway.”

“And the other end cap is in the Unicorn’s Horn, in the middle of Fomorri?”

“Yes.”

“What good will that do us?”

“It’s the binding artifact, Lucas,” Acacia answered.

“Oh,” Rivan realized aloud.

“The Cleric of Chaim with whom I spoke is aware of my plan, and supports it,” Marsais added, glancing pointedly at Acacia. “Wraith Guards are being sent to the Isle, and while visions of death are never set in stone, any fool could tell you that sailing to the Isle and challenging Tharios, the current Archlord, and an unknown number of Unspoken, would be suicidal. I do not wish to leave things to chance.”

“We could just as easily be slaughtered on Fomorri soil,” Rivan spoke up. “You can’t possibly be thinking about taking Isiilde there?”

“Isiilde is no longer bonded to me, she may do whatever she wishes.”

Acacia’s gaze slid from the seer to the nymph. “King Syre is a good man, I am sure he will give you sanctuary—along with Kasja and Elam.”

Isiilde said nothing.

“And to be absolutely clear about where you and I stand, Marsais,” Acacia continued. “After this is over, I will have you stand trial for consorting with the likes of Saavedra.”

Marsais inclined his head. “After, Captain, that’s all I ask. I will willingly stand and answer for my crimes, and you may personally draw and quarter me.” There was a plea in his words, as if he wanted the deed done now, to escape some misery.

“And I will stand too,” Acacia said quietly.

“What the Void did you do?”

“I haven’t dragged him to a Chapterhouse yet.”

Oenghus grunted.

Gathering what dignity was left to him, Marsais limped towards the source of water, but was stopped short by the captain’s voice.

“What was in the vial you gave to the fiend, Marsais?”

White hair brushed bruised shoulders as he turned his chin slightly, as if listening to a distant call. In the end, he let the captain’s question go unanswered.

“Blood,” Isiilde answered when he was gone from her sight. “
My
blood. Taken without my knowledge—without my permission.” The air smoldered around her form, wavering like a mirage in the desert. She looked at the captain. “Where is the palace?”

❧

Mearcentia was as white as the sands. Tall spires climbed like trees towards the azure sky, buildings overflowed with greenery, spilling from windows and sweeping arches. Canals, sparkling with clean water, flowed through the city, running down tiers, creating waterfalls and misting fountains.

Guards in shining silver and flowing blue rode on white horses escorting the group through the city—not as captives, but as guests. Isiilde rode in a smooth carriage with Acacia and the Lome strays, eyes turned out the window, pondering pathways, and the myriad of ways that a life could take. What, she wondered, would have happened if King Syre had won her bid instead of the brutal course her life had taken?

The nymph felt the captain’s eyes on her. “What is it?”

“Your bond.”

Isiilde tore her gaze from the window. “What of it?”

“Only death, or another man can sever it.”

“The bond was broken when he—bedded that fiend.”

“Perhaps it has to do with the fiend, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“They are foul creatures.”

Isiilde frowned in thought. “Your Order thinks that of my kind too.”

Acacia did not argue the point; instead, she ventured a question, “If I may ask, what does your bond feel like now?”

Isiilde raised a slender shoulder. “I have my fire.”

“Are you all right, then?”

“I am perfectly fine.”

The captain frowned.

While the city was grand, the palace was an oasis of elegance in paradise, a blend of sculpted beauty and strength. The palace reminded the nymph of the sea. Her breath caught when she stepped out of the carriage, catching sight of that sparkling gem. The southern sea was not grey and moody like the western. This ocean was vast and sparkling and clear.

“Wait until you swim in it,” Rivan commented at her shoulder. She looked over at the native paladin, and he smiled, eyes alight. “You can see the bottom of the ocean, the sand, the canyons, and even the fish. They’re as bright as the parrots.”

“How could you ever bear to leave here?” she breathed.

“Because I wanted to protect my home.”

His words touched a nerve. A thought stirred in the back of her mind, but it fluttered just out of reach when the palace doors opened. A tall, elegant man in flowing blue robes came down the stairs. The sun glinted off his silky black hair, and his bronzed skin glowed with health. His shoulders were broad and he carried an air of confidence that was unmistakable. King Syre II didn’t need a crown, he wore nobility on his brow.

The Knight Captain stepped up and bowed, but he seized her hand with both of his, shaking it with surprising warmth. “Always an honor, Captain.”

“The honor is mine, your highness. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“I am happy to see that the rumor of your murder was highly exaggerated.”

“Rumor is so often twisted. May I present Marsais, the former Archlord of the Isle.”

Syre turned to the battered ancient, and inclined his head. Marsais returned the gesture, and the King eyed his broken nose. “In Mearcentia you are a mythical figure. I hesitate to say it is an honor, but just so.”

“I understand completely, your highness, but considering our mission, I think Nereus will not look unkindly on you and your people for welcoming me into your lands.”

Syre glanced at the sea with a thoughtful eye, clearly intrigued and concerned by Marsais’ words. “Then welcome,” he said, and turned to Isiilde.

Surprise stirred the green depths of his eyes, and the King stepped forward, bowing deeply. But Isiilde did not return the gesture. She was tired and wary and heartbroken. The thought of bowing to any human made her sick, much less one that had partaken in a bidding war over her body.

Acacia frowned at the nymph’s rudeness. “Isiilde Jaal’Yasine, your highness.”

“I gathered as much,” he straighten with a shift of ivory tokens woven into his long hair. “Welcome to my home, Princess Isiilde.”

“Isiilde will do,” she said.

“Finn for me then, too.”

“I’d rather not, your highness.”

Acacia cleared her throat, and quickly stepped forward, making further introductions. The King escorted them into his palace, and after determining if they’d like to rest before discussing business, turned them over to the proficient hands of his servants. As they were escorted to separate rooms, Isiilde did not meet Marsais’ eyes, and he did not try to catch her attention.

A
POLITE
KNOCK
interrupted the nymph’s turmoil. She turned from the balcony and the paradisiacal view, walking into her vast chambers. She had never known such luxury. The comfort seemed out of place, a dream after the weeks of horror and flight.

A servant entered, bowing low. “Lord Oenghus Saevaldr to see you, your highness.”

The title felt uncomfortable on her shoulders. It prickled her ears, and they twitched. Apparently, Oenghus shared her dislike of ceremony—he stomped in without invitation. In another time, Isiilde would have ran into his arms and taken refuge, but now, she only stood, unsure what to say.

Too much had happened for words.

Oenghus looked around her chambers. “You got a better place than me,” he said, walking to the balcony. He glanced over the balustrade, at the sea far below, and quickly took a step back, planting his hand on a solid stone column. Isiilde hopped on the top, settling herself on the precarious seat.