King's Folly (Book 2) (14 page)

“Stay back,” she warned. A fiery serpent, the nymph’s mark, swam beneath her skin like a pacing predator.

“Why, Isiilde?”

Rage rippled through their bond, cooled by emptiness, and stoked with shame. She balled up her fist and drove it ruthlessly into her stomach.

“I can’t.” She punched her gut again, as if something festered within.

“Come out of the water,” he pleaded.

“I feel—” Her knuckles slapped against flesh, unable to put words to her agony.

Broken
, he finished silently.

When her fist rose again, Marsais stepped into the stream, seizing her wrists. But instead of fight, instead of fire, or resistance, Isiilde’s fury propelled her into his arms. In a moment, her hands clutched his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, and she brought her lips down on his own with vicious need.

Confusion, lust, and anger screamed in his heart. Her nails bit his flesh, and he met her aggression with rough hands. For frantic seconds and breathless moments, passion consumed the pair. Her fingers tugged at his laces, and Marsais regained his senses.

“Not like this.” His voice was harsh and breathless, and she answered with hungry lips, as if she sought to crawl out of her skin and into his. Marsais grabbed her hair and pulled the nymph away. “Not like this.” This time, there was determination in his voice.

Isiilde froze, and then let go, sliding to her feet, splashing in the stream. She took a step back as if she had been slapped. A drop of blood slipped from her swollen lips, and trailed between her heaving breasts.

Gently, he cupped her face with his hands. “Remember what I told you,” he whispered, wiping the blood from her lips. “Love making is a thing of soft caresses and gentle kisses.”

His words shook her body, unleashing the torrent of shame and misery that she had swallowed with silence. A sob wrenched her heart, and the tears finally came. Isiilde collapsed in his arms.

Marsais sat on a rock, holding her as she wept against his neck. At the sound of her misery, the sorrow of the ages washed over him, wounds opened anew, and he buried his face in her hair.

❧

Marsais stroked a cascade of silken tresses. The campfire warmed the nymph’s back while he warmed her breasts. Dried of tears, and tired of grief, Isiilde had finally passed out from exhaustion. He had carried her back to camp. But sleep eluded the ancient.

As he stared into the night, he turned a single question around in his mind: How does one control chaos?

The answers that swam to the forefront were less than reassuring. With a sigh, he eased himself away from the sleeping nymph, sat on his heels, and smoothed her hair from her face. He covered her with the captain’s tunic, repositioned the heat stones, and stood.

Frost gathered on the ground, covering two slumbering forms by the fire. The large lump snored, and the smaller of the two, was huddled in a shivering ball. Oenghus and Rivan slept while Acacia and Lucas took first watch.

Marsais crouched by the stream and unwrapped his bandages. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his hands in the icy water, watching the byways of time swirl in the moonlight. His coins chimed, nudging him into the present. Lucas stood behind him, or more accurately, where the man would be standing soon.

The seer’s eyes shifted from the vacant spot to where Lucas and Acacia approached. The two had been conversing. And they wanted answers.

“How is Isiilde?” Acacia’s question surprised the seer—a rare thing. “I didn’t intend to upset her.”

Marsais smiled sadly. “Hmm, words are rarely wrong, Captain, but rather the memories that they invoke. A soft bed, a quiet cottage, and warm food would do her good.”

“Wishes are useless,” said Lucas. “You said you knew about Tharios and his schemes: Did you know about your friend Isek Beirnuckle?”

“That should be rather obvious,” Marsais replied with measured words. His tone gave the paladins pause. “And yes, I completely agree with your next words: where a nymph is involved, there is always trouble. But remember, Sir Lucas, it is men who make the trouble—not the nymph.”

The scarred paladin adjusted his helm, as if the metal would keep the seer out of his mind.

“What are your plans, Marsais?” asked Acacia.

“Currently, I am soaking my hands while I watch a sea monster gnaw off my fingers.”

Acacia narrowed her eyes at the stream.

“The captain is talking about Tharios and his schemes.”

“Ah, well, what do you plan on doing about him?”

“I’m not the one who handed him a map to a dark god.”

“No, but you know about it, as do I. Hmm, I believe this emerging plot is in your Chapterhouse’s district—is it not? So really, I should ask what the Blessed Order is going to do about Tharios.”

“Do not trifle with me, Seer.”

“It was a legitimate question. I wonder if I were not present—if I had been killed, what would you do?”

Acacia placed a hand on her lieutenant. “Depending on where we are in Vaylin, I would make for a large city, Vlarthane, or if we happened to be in the south, I would head to Nefir and pay for a message to be delivered.”

“To whom?”

“High Inquisitor Multist may accept bribes, but he is no Void worshipper, Marsais.”

“That you know of,” he arched a brow, and silence answered. “For the moment, let us assume he is not. If we send a Whisper, and if by some chance Tharios is not watching the skies for messages and intercepting them, what would our good Inquisitor do, hmm? March right up to the Storm Gate in his pretty armor, knock, and arrest Tharios and his cabal of Unspoken?”

Lucas grunted, lip curling in a gruesome smile. Undoubtedly, the veteran had noticed the High Inquisitor’s love of comfort.

“Can you contact Iilenshar?”

“Why would he be able to speak to Iilenshar—only the Blessed Order can.” Lucas looked from Acacia to the seer, but his captain was quite serious. Something unspoken passed between the two.

“We are discussing what you would do if I were
not
present,” Marsais reminded.

“As I said, I’d send a message,” Acacia persisted.

“And how long might the journey to Vlarthane or Nefir take?”

“Depending on where we are in Vaylin, it could take far more time than you say we have.”

“Oh, my good Captain, there is always time and there always will be. Past, present, and future are an indefinite weave. So let me watch, and listen, and I ask for your patience—for your own plans are little better than my carefulness.” Marsais’ steely eyes glinted at the paladins, mirroring the heavens above and the madness of the ages.

FOR
THE
SECOND
time in under a week, Morigan found herself in the repulsive throne room of the Order. She had never cared for the place, and never would. With its dizzyingly high columns and mutilated carvings, it wasn’t a chamber that inspired peace.

Until now, she hadn’t stepped foot inside the throne room for thirty years—not since the invasion from the Fell Wastes. Marsais had risen to the occasion with an air of confidence and calm that few believed he possessed. But then the majority of the Order was populated with thick-headed fools who were more concerned with appearances—not the meat of a man.

The newly appointed Archlord was everything they looked for: focused, poised, and possessed with a smooth tongue that made Morigan’s skin crawl.

Four days ago, on the day of the duel, a ripple of shock had traveled through the Isle when Marsais had been charged with Bloodmagic, consorting with fiends, and conspiracy. Disbelief had quickly turned to anger when the bodies of slain guards were laid out as proof.

What had been left of the guards, at any rate.

It wasn’t hard to spot Oenghus’ work: crushed skulls and broken bodies, but then there were those guards who had not been killed by a hammer. They had been sliced and stabbed, and no one seemed to question who had been wielding the sword. Certainly, not Marsais.

There were those guards who were charred by an unmistakable conflagration that left the bodies impossible to identify, save for a chunk of melted armor. The three missing paladins, everyone agreed, were among those bodies. Only a fire from Isiilde, or a very powerful weave, could have gutted the dungeon such as it had been.

In a matter of hours, members of the Blessed Order had swarmed the castle; investigating, questioning, and poking long noses where they shouldn’t be. One witness after another had recounted evidence against Marsais and Oenghus. But even more damning was the solid proof found in Marsais’ private research chambers.

Morigan had listened to every charge with growing disbelief. The accusations of Bloodmagic certainly fit neatly together, and no one dared say a contrary word when the Blessed Order had its nose to the ground.

In less than four days, the entire Order had turned its back on a man who had served it for nearly one hundred years. The Nine went into council an hour after High Inquisitor Multist made his ruling on the ordeal, and in record time, cast its Vote to keep the Order functioning.

No one was surprised by the outcome. Everyone knew that Tharios was poised to win the Vote in a month’s time. He was what an Archlord was supposed to be: diplomatic, focused, talented and, even Morigan had to admit, logical.

It was, without a doubt, the fastest turnover of Archlords the Isle had ever seen. Despite everything, she could not believe the charges against Marsais, and especially against Oenghus.

With a heavy heart, Morigan watched and listened as the final words were spoken by the circle of eight that surrounded Tharios. The new Archlord was dressed in well-cut robes of crimson silk, and
 
he stared forward with determination, hands held up, palms facing outward.

Thira, and a Mearcentian Wise One by the name of Sidonie, had filled the two vacant seats left by Marsais and Oenghus. One by one the eight traced the Weave of Confirmation until Tharios stood illuminated by a column of swirling blue.

The enchantment hung in the air, but only for a moment. A wind swept through the great hall. The columns flared in acceptance, bathing the black-haired Wise One in bluish light. When the light faded, a cheer rose up in the hall as Tharios thrust his hand out, displaying the Archlord’s Runic Eye.

It was done.

The healer sighed, a breath of sound that was washed out by the cheering audience. A small, wistful part of her had hoped the tower would reject the new Archlord. Now, all she was left with was her own nagging doubt.

Tharios stepped lightly on top of the dais, turning to face those assembled. The hall fell silent and his calm voice carried to all ears.

“Wise Ones of the Order, I thank you for coming. These are dark times and the shock of betrayal is still fresh in our hearts, but we must carry on with a tradition that has spanned 3500 years. I ask that you put behind you, the stagnant rule of a recluse and his dark secrets. I ask that you walk with me back into the pages of history, through the present, and face our future once again as I lead this Order into a new era of progress.” Tharios sat down on the obsidian throne, straight-backed with chin held high, every bit the Archlord of the Isle.

❧

In the loud din of conversation that followed, Morigan waited. Rumors and idle speculation filled her ears. Some expressed sadness, but most claimed they had suspected Marsais and Oenghus all along.

A few braggarts boasted that they’d round up the fugitives themselves, if they only knew where they had gone. Morigan would like to see anyone try and ‘round up’ Oenghus. She kept her eye on one member in particular—Thira. Morigan wished to speak to the Mistress of Novices. And even better, Isek Beirnuckle was with the severe, dark-robed woman.

Isek had been Marsais’ friend for nearly as long as Oenghus. The poor man had been in a state of shock when he gave his account in front of the hall. It was clear that Isek had doubted his own eyes.

As soon as Thira and Isek Beirnuckle detached themselves from the crowds, Morigan hurried over. “I need a word with you two.”

Thira narrowed her beady eyes at the portly woman and Isek sighed heavily, nodding. When the trio passed through the Unnamed room, Morigan steered them off to the side. The healer checked the pins in her hair, wishing she was back in her infirmary. She did not like to leave it unattended for long.

Marsais’ last words rang in her ears. Perhaps I do spend too much time in the infirmary, she thought.

“I know how you’re feeling, Isek.” Sensing his profound pain, she patted his hand. “I can’t believe it either. Something just isn’t right,” she stated bluntly.

Thira looked at her as if she had sprouted wings.

“But I can’t deny what I saw.” Isek rubbed his bald pate. “Marsais commanded a fiend, he spoke Abyssal, and what he ordered Isiilde to do to those paladins—” It was all very distressing to the wiry man.

“Morigan, have some sense,” Thira snapped. “The evidence is undeniable.”

“It’s Marsais and Oenghus we’re talking about,” argued Morigan. “I know there is evidence from every angle but—my gut says otherwise and it has never been wrong. None of this explains the guards who were killed by a blade. We all know Marsais can’t use a blade to save his life.”

“There are four Isle Guards unaccounted for,” Thira stated. “Obviously, they were aiding Marsais. If that absentminded imbecile has an explanation for this, then he can turn himself in to the Blessed Order.”

“It’s true,” said Isek. “Every Chapterhouse in the lands is hunting them. I’d certainly like an explanation other than what I saw—whether it was a complicated illusion—Void, maybe I drank too much Primrose, but it doesn’t change their disappearance and the paladins’ bodies.” Isek was shaking his head as he spoke. “I just have to come to grips that Marsais finally went mad. We all do, Morigan. He really was disturbed. Surely you must have noticed.”