Marsais inclined his head. “It rarely does.”
The edge of Acacia’s lip twitched upwards. She removed her golden tunic and handed it to Isiilde, eliciting a surprised glance from Rivan and Lucas. The tunic was shredded and torn and had lost its splendor, but it was warm. “You need this more than me, Nymph.”
“Thank you.”
Acacia nodded, and resumed their march.
❧
At a grouping of boulders, Oenghus called for a halt. Rain water from the night before had gathered in crevices and dripped down the rock. Save for Lucas’ tobacco pouch, weapons, armor, and a piece of flint, they had walked through the Gateway without supplies—not even a waterskin.
Isiilde thought it hopeless, while the others, excluding Rivan, appeared untroubled. This, she ascertained, was not their first time trekking through an unknown wilderness without supplies, or battling wave after wave of Reapers.
She moved forward to drink from the water, but Acacia stopped her with a hand. Startled, the nymph flinched, stepping backwards into Marsais.
“Let Rivan purify it first.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Oenghus grunted.
“He needs the practice.” The captain nodded to the young man, who stepped forward, and knelt beside the shallow basin. His armor scraped against rock and he appeared nervous.
The Wise Ones’ Lore was simply a path, one among many, that led to the Sylph’s Gift. The Blessed Order, barbarian Shamans, and Mystics all had their own unique discipline. Runes, however, were the most proficient way to channel the Gift, or so the Wise Ones claimed.
Marsais had once told her, never to be repeated, that Bloodmagi used a mixture of energies, including the Sylph’s Gift. Life was like a powerful river from which good, evil, and everything between drank. Anyone could dip his hand into Life’s current, but what a being used the water for was an entirely different matter. And sitting opposite of this great river of Life, was the Void—everything opposite.
Curiosity overcame her apprehension. Isiilde strayed over to the paladin, watching him perform his Order’s ritual. Rivan withdrew a slender stone from his belt pouch and bowed his head, whispering unfamiliar words in an undertone. When his prayer to the divine was complete, he placed the stone into the water. The stone floated to the top and began to glow with a pure light, not unlike the one that had radiated from the captain’s shield.
The stone exchanged light for soot. The glow suffused the shallow pool, and when it died, the stone was covered with filth. Rivan plucked it out of the water, cupped it in the palm of his hands, and bowed his head again. A searing light illuminated his features. His hair was brown and clipped, and his skin was touched by the sun. When he raised his head a second time, the stone was clean. He slipped it into his pouch, and looked over at her with surprise.
Isiilde smiled. “That was beautiful.”
Rivan’s skin darkened. “The water is clean now. It’s only a simple ritual.”
A sharp burst of emotion passed between her bond with Marsais. She glanced at him in confusion, not quite knowing what to make of it. His steely eyes flickered between her and Rivan and then away. She recognized anger, and it left her puzzled, but before she could question Marsais, Lucas interrupted.
“How long do we have until Tharios releases Karbonek, Seer?” The scarred paladin was sitting on a rock, sharpening the edge of his longsword with a stone.
“The Shadowed Dawn,” Marsais replied, turning his back to the group, staring down at the valley.
“And how do you know this?”
“You asked.” He waved a vague hand.
“That’s only two months away,” said Acacia. “Not near enough time to make the return journey, either by sea or land.”
“We’ll have to inform the High Inquisitor. Can you send a message, Seer?”
“I could, but are you entirely sure you can trust the High Inquisitor?”
“Blasphemy!”
Marsais ignored the fuming lieutenant, turning instead, to Acacia. She said nothing, confirming what Marsais had long suspected. High Inquisitor Multist was as corrupt as they came, and she had replaced the former Knight Captain for a reason. Marsais returned to his survey, clasping hands behind his back in silent thought.
Lucas started to rise, but Oenghus grabbed his arm. “Leave it. You don’t want to disturb the Scarecrow when he’s like that, trust me.”
For a moment, Isiilde thought the ill-tempered paladin would strike Oenghus, but he glanced at Marsais, perhaps recalling his duel with the Hound, and sat back down.
The undercurrents rippling beneath the group left her confused, but above all, wary.
“A message from a Whisperer can be intercepted, or so I’ve heard,” explained Oenghus. “You can be sure that Tharios and his followers are waiting for a message. And we don’t know who we can trust on the Isle.”
“Can Tharios open a Gateway to Vaylin, to the valley, using the Stave?” Acacia asked.
Oenghus shrugged. “I only know the Stave by legend—didn’t know it could open one at all.”
“We better get moving,” Marsais said abruptly. Without waiting for the others, he struck off, long legs carrying him rapidly away. The paladins blinked at the seer. And Isiilde, accustomed to his sudden mood swings, hastened to catch up, flitting over the terrain with ease.
“Marsais.”
“Hmm?”
“Are you angry with me?”
The question knocked him out of his brooding. He looked down, meeting her wide, emerald eyes. “I can’t imagine ever being angry with you. Why do you ask?”
“After Rivan purified the water, you looked at me and I sensed—something. Was it because I urged you to tell the paladins that we are in Vaylin?”
“Oh, my dear,” he breathed, taking her hand. “No, that wasn’t it at all. I was not angry with you, but with myself.” She waited for him to explain. “I’m ashamed to admit that your attentiveness to Rivan sparked an unexpected reaction in me, one I believed was impossible—jealousy.” She tilted her head with bemusement, oddly touched by his reaction. “We’ve barely been bonded for two days and I’m already acting a fool. I’m not sure how the Druids did it.”
“Did what?”
“Let go of their nymphs. A Druid is their first, but never their last.”
Isiilde stepped aside to avoid a jagged rock, pulling his arm across the distance, unwilling to relinquish his hand. When they returned, side by side, she looked up and smiled, reminding him of everything wonderful. “But I don’t want you to let go of me, Marsais.”
Warmth entered his eyes, chasing away his disquiet. “Perhaps,” he mused, “it’s as simple as that. After all, a nymph never does anything until she is ready.”
“Why is Oenghus angry with you? Was it so surprising—you and me?”
“Hmm, that’s a delicate subject. You are better off asking him, but don’t worry, it’s not the first bone he’s had to pick with me. I’m more afraid of your wrath.”
“Like in the King’s Walk?” Heat rose to the tips of her ears.
“Absolutely.” Excitement flashed across his eyes. “I feared a goddess was about to smite me.”
“I’m sorry I said those things.”
“You said nothing that I did not deserve,” he uttered softly. “As I told you in the King’s Walk, I glimpse many paths. I wanted nothing more than to draw you close and keep you from harm, but that path ended very badly, and yet—I was sorely tempted.”
“You saw what would happen in the kitchens,” she said in a thready whisper. “That’s why you asked me to stay away.” She could not bring herself to say the word rape. As if the attack were her fault, and her shame. But wasn’t it her doing? She was, after all, a nymph.
“Your attack in the kitchens was one of many possibilities, but—” he sighed, gazing into the trees. She feared he was lost again, but he recovered without prompt. “Not so brutal. I tried to steer you from that fate, and I failed. Even then, it did not end this way�
�with you and me as we are now. You are quite unpredictable, my dear.”
Minutes passed in silence, with only his bandaged palm against hers and an easy gait.
“I’m not really unpredictable, Marsais,” she said at length. “You failed to realize how much I wanted you. How much I needed you.” Her words were as soft and beautiful as a breeze. “I would endure it over again, if only to be with you. You have nothing to fear with Rivan, or any man, because there is no comparison. Despite what I once said in anger, you are very much a gentleman.”
Marsais pressed his lips together. Though it must have pained him, he squeezed her hand, and when he found his voice, he was forced to clear the emotion from his throat.
“I don’t know—I thought Rivan rather handsome.”
“Are you trying to make me jealous now?” Isiilde smiled up at him, but her amusement was short lived, as memory gripped her. She glanced back at the chiseled warrior, and shivered. “I don’t want to be alone with any man but you, Marsais. Even before—Stievin. They are cruel and they frighten me.”
“I wish I could tell you otherwise, Isiilde, but as I said in the King’s Walk, the realms, for you especially, are a cruel place. One day, however, you will meet a good man who is worthy of you.”
“I already have.”
“I’m far from worthy—trust me.”
“But I do, completely.”
Marsais raised her hand to his lips, briefly closing his eyes. He did not utter another word for some time.
Nine
THE MAN HAD needed help finding a house. He paid well, too much to pass up. The work would have been enough to feed Zoshi’s brothers, sisters, and mum for a week.
But the three boys never stood a chance. A sharp crack on the back of the skull had knocked them out, maybe a bit more. Pip stirred behind him, but Tuck hadn’t moved since he crumpled to the mud.
Zoshi couldn’t make a sound. Something raw and burning seized his throat. It was worse than eating sand. He couldn’t open his mouth, and every breath was a hard won fight in the stifling confinement—never mind the pounding against the back of his head.
The cage rattled and dipped. The three boys were stuffed in a rolling wagon, hidden under a tarp like fish in a barrel. There were others. Children, women, and men, snatched from the docks like the three of them, packed so tightly no one could twitch without someone knowing.
There was a criminal element in Drivel, Runners they were called, who knocked drunks over the head and dragged them to a captain’s moored ship. Zoshi always thought it a good business, if dangerous. A Runner earned ten gold a head. But Runners didn’t usually take street rats as young as Zoshi and his brothers. The whole situation worried him.
Zoshi wormed his way around until his head was closer to Tuck. If there had been more room, any room, he could have slipped his tied hands around his feet and had them in front. But for now, wiggling was the best he could do. His shoulder cramped with the movement as he grit his teeth, focusing on his brother, nudging Tuck as best he could with his forehead. Nothing. Not a stir. But Zoshi didn’t cry.
Cryin’ never did nothin’ for no one. That’s what his mum always told him.
The wagon stopped. A rough voice gave a sharp command and something heavy opened—gates from the sound of it. Zoshi tried to think of all the places he knew with gates in Drivel. There were a lot, and all of them belonging to rich lords and Wise Ones strutting around doing only the Guardians knew what. Not making a decent living like the hard working common folk. That’s what his mum always said.
Zoshi had met a few Wise Ones with common sense in his short lifetime, like the Giant, but most of the stone dwellers didn’t have a copper’s worth of decency.
Maybe the Wise Ones needed slaves, he thought. That wouldn’t be so bad. After all, slaves ate pretty good.
The wagon lurched. It rolled along for a while before it stopped again. Wherever they were, it was somewhere big. The wagon swayed as the driver hopped down and voices called out.
“No trouble, I take it?” Definitely not a sailor. The voice had a high and mighty sound.
“None. This should be the last batch.”
“Bring them in.”
The tarp was thrown back and a dim sun shone through the mist. Seagulls circled overhead and pine trees rose up all around. They had stopped somewhere by the coast, with trees—that narrowed it down. Zoshi knew of ten gated manors that fit that description.
Rough hands hauled them out and Zoshi was tossed to the ground with the rest of the captives. There wasn’t much to see. They were in a courtyard surrounded with high walls and pleasant fountains. Armed men in steel helms stood guard, watching the motley assortment with indifference.
The soldiers weren’t wearing uniforms, but they didn’t look like local militia either. These men were focused and didn’t slouch at their posts. They were too disciplined to be militia.
Zoshi tried to stand—he always liked to have his feet under him. At eight years, he could outrun the best of them. But the blunt end of a spear knocked him back down.
One by one, the captives were dragged into what looked like a simple shed. Inside, a gaping stairwell plunged into the ground. When Zoshi saw the stairs disappearing into the pit, his predicament settled like a stone in his gut.
There was something about the darkness in the center of the shed that terrified the boy. It was wide, the stairs too big to be some simple pit for slaves. Zoshi’s heartbeat filled his ears, and the older folks started panicking, but it was useless. The guards were too eager with their spears.
Zoshi bolted. A large guard scooped him up. The boy kicked and thrashed, but he was no match for the tall man. Eventually, Zoshi gave up, letting his feet drag over the stone. He craned his neck, and caught sight of his brother Tuck dangling from the soldier’s left hand. At least he was with his brother, but Tuck wasn’t moving and there was a sickly stain on the back of his head.
Tuck was only four.
Tears came then, streaming down Zoshi’s cheeks. He couldn’t stop them, no matter what his mother said.
At the bottom of the dark stairwell, the guards sliced off the prisoners’ clothes with long knives. Some struggled, and were quickly stilled with a blunt cudgel. The sight of discarded rags and shoes made him sick. It reminded him of the way fisherman discarded the entrails of their catch. The guts were of no worth to anyone but the birds and rats.
A guard dragged Zoshi forward and tossed him into something that was more corral than cage.
“This one’s dead,” his guard said.
There wasn’t anything worse than hearing those three words. Hope sparked in his heart—maybe they were talking about another prisoner? But the spark was crushed when his four-year-old brother wasn’t tossed in afterwards.
The door slammed shut and the bolt was thrown. Most of the prisoners lay where they landed, staring blankly forward. Men, women, and children—there wasn’t no rhyme nor reason, Zoshi thought.
Despite the tangle of limbs, Zoshi squirmed and twisted. With a child’s limberness, he worked his shoulders, slipping his hands under his feet so they were in front. The ropes were tight, his wrists bled, but he struggled with them anyway as he scanned the tangle of bodies for Pip.
Some of the prisoners had found their feet. They looked to one another with the same helpless plea. In his experience, it wasn’t good when the old folk started looking like that. He didn’t like those looks. And he had no clue where they were. Curiosity laced with dread nudged him into action. He pushed his way through the press towards what he figured would be the front of the corral.
He wished he hadn’t moved.
The underground chamber was large, the stone shaped by skilled hands, smoothed to a polish. It smelled of death. Other corrals opened up across the way and a walkway traveled around a circle of sand that was white and grainy and pure. A silk-robed man with black hair stood in the center tracing a maze of strange markings into the sand’s pristine surface. He held a foul looking sta
ve capped with a twisted sun.
Obsidian stone slabs were spaced evenly around the sand pit. They were angled downwards like a slide, with deep grooves running the length of smooth stone. A carved, open-mouthed face decorated the front of each. The wide, lolling tongues and gaping mouths reminded Zoshi of the adornments that served as gutters on manors.
The forced silence imposed on the prisoners made the chamber eerily quiet except for the careful work of the figure. A copper-skinned Rahuatl walked into view. Ritual scars decorated his face along with the ivory studs common to his kind. Despite his tribal markings, he wore a robe, and looked like he knew better than everyone else—like one of those Wise Ones.
Anyone who calls themselves wise, isn’t wise at all. That’s what Zoshi’s mum would say.
“The exit point is ready,” hissed the Rahuatl. Zoshi could not hear them, but he could see their lips move. He had always prided himself on his ability to read lips.
“I want them dead, N’Jalss,” said the black-haired man. “I want their heads.”
“It shall be done.”
The black-haired man nodded, as if his orders had already been carried out, and then he paused in thought, surveying his work. “We’ll need ten from the herd for each. Get them in position.”
The Rahuatl turned towards the shadows. “Bring the Devout!”
Zoshi scrambled backwards, pushing himself between legs. With a sense of growing panic, he searched for Pip.
Whatever entered the chamber startled the prisoners. The captives retreated at once, fighting to push their way to the back of the corral, heedless of those being crushed underfoot. Zoshi nearly fell, but kept his feet, moving with the tide. The gate at the front swung open, and the panic reached a crescendo. Through gaps in frantic limbs, Zoshi saw the guards. They grabbed people at random, snapping collars around the necks of the unlucky.
A mud covered child was on the ground. It was Pip. His hands were free, and he was squashed against the side of the corral, digging like a dog in the dirt. There was a hole between the steel and the earth, where the slats had rusted away.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 7
