The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isiilde’s sharp ears stiffened. “What has he done now?”

  Rivan gave her a lopsided grin. “Nothing recent. I mean he hasn’t helped himself much.” The paladin cleared his throat, and glanced furtively around, hoping the man would not suddenly materialize. “It’s what he did in the past. Every Mearcentian child is told about the Trickster. I didn’t realize He was the man himself.”

  “The Trickster?”

  “You haven’t heard the legend?”

  “No.”

  “The Trickster abducted the Sea God’s own daughter: Faamu-sami. Her name means to ‘make the sea burn’.”

  Isiilde frowned. “How could you have not known? He started telling you the story while we were walking through Vaylin on the ridge.”

  “The fish woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he didn’t abduct that, er... woman.”

  “Maybe the legend is wrong.”

  Rivan began worrying a splinter in the railing. “Or maybe Marsais lied,” he murmured.

  There was that. Isiilde could not deny it. With a sigh, she turned towards the ship, leaning back against the rail. Since her transformation, she felt the touch of eyes constantly, from the soldiers and sailors, from men and women alike. But when she looked the humans in the eye, they turned away—averted their gazes as if she had caught them in the midst of a shameful act.

  Were humans afraid that she would see what dwelled in their eyes, reach into their minds and pluck out their thoughts? The nymph did not know, and she no longer cared what humans thought of her.

  A sailor scraped flint against stone, and a spark leapt to a pile of wood shavings. He picked up a tinder and touched it to the bowl of his pipe. Before the man shook out the flame, Isiilde called to the spark with a gentle whisper.

  The flame leapt from the tinder to her finger, and the sailor blinked, glancing in her direction. He dropped tinder and pipe as if he’d been burned, and ran away without them.

  But Isiilde only had eyes for the flameling on her fingertip. It flickered around her skin as if it were a part of her. She could feel its heat, the smoldering rage under its surface, and above all, its hunger. But for now, the flameling was content, and so was she.

  The nymph hummed a soft tune, and the flame flickered in the vibration. It grew, and she shaped it into a roiling ball that sat in her palm. She tossed the tiny fireball to her other hand, casually moving it back and forth.

  Rivan’s eyes widened. With his overgrown, shaggy brown hair, he looked like a little boy. The eyes of the crew were on her once again, but this time, when she let her gaze rove over the deck, not a soul moved.

  Rivan swallowed. “Please don’t start the boat on fire.”

  She arched a brow. “As long as everyone behaves, I won’t,” she promised.

  “Have you mastered your fire, then?”

  The nymph lifted a slim shoulder. “Can you master the sea?”

  “Of course not. Only a fool would ever believe such a thing was possible.”

  “And yet, humans have been ordering me to control it my entire life,” she said with feeling. “No one ever thinks to blame a ship captain for a storm at sea. It’s the same with fire, like the wind and sea, no one can master it.”

  Understanding lit Rivan’s eyes. “I see.” And she believed him.

  Isiilde stared into the hypnotizing flicker. “Isn’t it odd? Fire warms, fire cooks, fire comforts, and yet, it kills. Humans both love and fear it.”

  Rivan’s brows knit together, a crinkle of skin on his forehead. “I suppose,” he finally said. “But maybe that’s part of its wonder.” Rivan stuck a quick finger into her ball of fire and withdrew it before the flame latched onto his flesh. The tendrils flickered and danced merrily, and the nymph smiled.

  “Tell me the Mearcentian legend about the Trickster.”

  “It’s been a long while since I’ve heard it, and I’m no bard, but the gist of it is that the Trickster abducted Nereus’ daughter on the eve of her wedding to Aesir’s son, the god of the winds. That way, the sea and wind would be united, and the winds would no longer fight the currents, pushing ships backwards.

  “After the Trickster abducted Faamu-Sami, he seduced her, and tricked her into giving herself to him—forgetting her promise to the wind. It sparked a war. Many ships were lost. The seas became too dangerous to sail. The armies of wind and sea searched for Faamu-Sami, but the Trickster hid her in plain sight and threatened the gods with her life. But Malietoa, Aesir’s son, unraveled the Trickster’s puzzle and took back his bride, uniting wind and sea. That’s why the Windtalkers can beseech the wind for safe passage.”

  “Are Aesir and Nereus really gods, or are they simply kings?”

  Rivan turned dark with anger. “Of course they are gods. Our prayers reach their ears.”

  She looked towards the drumming priests. Their prayers were not working now. Coincidence or curse? Isiilde tossed the ball of fire from hand to hand, watching it twirl in the air. “The only thing that separates a common man from a god is knowledge,” she said, repeating the words that Marsais had once whispered.

  The scar on Rivan’s cheek went taut. “Those are words of heretics and fiends.”

  Isiilde smiled. “By your Order’s own decree, I’m only an animal, so it shouldn’t matter what I say.”

  He deflated. “You’re not an animal.”

  “Are you a heretic, then?”

  He shifted, uncomfortable with the conversation. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know that you are no animal.”

  “Except when I was a parrot.”

  Rivan blushed. “If I had known—”

  “You did not.” She closed her hand, and the fire melded with her skin, trailing into a wisp of smoke. She could feel the flameling, sense the echo of joy that it had burnt—if only briefly. But that spark wasn’t far. Flame roared, constant as a bonfire, deep in her marrow.

  “That’s nothing like the story Marsais told me. But I suppose that both versions could be true,” she said.

  Rivan frowned in thought. “I don’t think so. There is only one truth.”

  “I think it depends who is telling the tale. Just like my fire, it can be many things.”

  “If Marsais didn’t lie, and he didn’t abduct her, then why would a god’s daughter go to him for help?” Rivan asked.

  The question gave her pause. And it lingered with her through the night. King, madman, seer, archlord, friend, master, heretic—who really was Marsais zar’Vaylin?

  As the drums continued their steady drone, Isiilde lounged on the longboat beneath the sun. The wind refused to stir. Repairs were finished, decks swabbed, and a few sailors had been lowered to scrape the barnacles from the hull. The sailors were restless, uneasy, and that put the Elite on edge. The soldiers no longer appeared on deck without leather armor and weapons. Whether it was the still sea, or Marsais, or her own presence, she did not know. But something was stirring, and every single Mearcentian gave the nymph a wide berth.

  A shadow blotted her sunlight. Isiilde cracked an eye at the intruder. Captain Acacia Mael stood beside her perch. She had traded her own armor for the desert gear that the Elite wore—otherwise, the paladins would be cooked in their steel.

  “Oenghus wants to send you back on the first friendly ship we encounter,” Acacia confided.

  There had been sadness and pride in the captain’s eyes when the nymph had first appeared. But Acacia had not said a word then; she had only nodded.

  “Why are you telling me?” Isiilde asked.

  “I don’t think it’s a bad plan, but I think you have a right to make that decision.”

  “At least someone agrees.”

  “The problem is that you are a liability, Isiilde.” Acacia settled herself on the edge of the boat, and the nymph sat up, watching the woman’s every move. “If any of these sailors try to join us, I will tell them no.”

  “Rivan is coming.”

  “Rivan may be young, but he is a soldier,
trained and prepared for war. You are not—you don’t even have proper clothes. And what will you eat? We have provisions: bread, nuts, rice and dried fruits, but that won’t last. Salted meat and whatever we can hunt in the wasteland will be all that’s left.”

  Isiilde plucked up the pouch she had slung over a shoulder, and showed it to the captain. “My clothes and provisions are in here.”

  “In there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Plenty,” she said vaguely, wondering if it was true. “And as for clothes, I’d be just as happy to walk over the hot sand in full daylight without a scrap on my skin.” She closed her eyes, and tilted her face towards the sun.

  “You’d stand out like a beacon, to friend and foe alike.”

  “I stand out wherever I go, Acacia.”

  The barest of smiles lifted the woman’s lips. “I’ll try to talk him out of it.”

  “Are you angry with Oen? Is that why you are so keen to help me? Rivan said he caught him with a woman—one of the Elite.”

  Acacia hesitated, weighing her next words. “The wait before a battle is the hardest part of all. Some warriors, men and women alike, need a release—some way to ease the wait. I was never one of those warriors, but I am happy for those who find a moment’s respite. There is small chance that we will return.”

  Isiilde narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you warning me of his plans? Why do you want me to come?”

  “Because the only man who has an inkling of where to find Finnow’s Spire is currently drunk and senseless, and steadily losing what is left of his mind.”

  “What else can Marsais do?” she defended. “There isn’t any wind.”

  “I don’t know, but the rum certainly isn’t helping.”

  “What do you want me to do? We are no longer bonded.”

  “I see the worry in your eyes, Isiilde. You still love him, and you are still friends.”

  It was true. Despite the anger and lies, Marsais was her friend whom she loved. That thought gave the nymph pause. He had hooks in her heart, and his slightest move tugged on the barbs. Love, she decided, was a decidedly painful thing.

  “So is Oen,” she pointed out. The statement wasn’t said out of spite or anger, but simple truth. Oenghus and Marsais shared a bond far deeper than hers—one of tested time and long hardship.

  “Oenghus isn’t having much luck with him.” Acacia nodded towards the hatch, and Isiilde looked aft. Marsais had climbed on deck, but he was far from recovered. He wore the same loose breeches that barely clung to his narrow hips. His eyes were vacant. She was reminded of Thedus on the Isle.

  Oenghus stood at Marsais’ shoulder, murmuring under his breath, hands flexing to fists and slackening, caught between wanting to pummel the seer and to gently redirect him to a soft cot.

  “There are some things that only a woman can mend,” Acacia confided.

  Isiilde sighed, and after a moment’s hesitation, she stood, walking over to the men. Marsais stared, unseeing, and seeing all of time. His eyes were wide and white.

  “Don’t touch him,” Oenghus warned.

  Isiilde chewed on her lower lip in thought, watching Marsais shuffle towards the fore. A ripple of movement swelled over the boat. Sailors scrambled to get out of the seer’s way—or perhaps it was the giant’s glare. Still, she did not like the look in the crew’s eyes: dark, calculating, and full of fear.

  The paladins closed in, forming a casual semi-circle around Marsais—even Lucas, whose stomach had calmed with the sea.

  “Can’t we just toss him overboard ourselves?” Lucas growled to his captain. The veteran paladin was scarred from his bald head to his missing toes, and his temperament was no less coarse.

  “You have my permission—after the Isle is safe,” Acacia replied dryly.

  The man smirked.

  Oenghus rolled his massive shoulders, and cracked his knuckles. The air was heavy with threat. Isiilde could taste it. She looked at Marsais, frowned, and reached for him.

  “No!” Oenghus warned. But he was too late. Isiilde laid her palm flat on Marsais’ chest, over his heart. His entire body stiffened, and his back arched as he rose to his toes, dragged upwards by some unseen force. His head fell back, mouth stretched wide towards the sky. Drops of bloody sweat rolled down his forehead and his fingers were pulled towards the deck. A scream tore from his throat.

  “Marsais!” she gasped.

  Something cut his strings, and he fell forward into her arms.

  Isiilde sat in the dark cabin, watching Marsais. Wood creaked, and a single candle flickered, casting shadows across his sharp features. From dark to light, and back again—not unlike the man himself. The question from the night before lingered, and as she studied his face, she wondered what she really knew about her former master and bonded.

  Lover of fiends. The thought of Saavedra set her on edge. But then another unlooked-for memory drowned out the smirking fiend and her upswept ears: he had also set the nymph’s blood on fire with his touch. Lover of nymphs. Isiilde exhaled slowly, and tried not to think of their nights together.

  Instead, she considered the days leading up to that fateful meeting. Of the attack on the Lome, her capture, and the Ardmoor fortress. Memory played like a child’s top in her mind’s eye—spinning constantly, around and around, until she thought she would go mad, as if she had done it all wrong, and her mind wanted to try again. But no matter how she tried, the end was the same—everything toppled.

  In the cave, with the chained girl, when the water had churned, she had glimpsed a vision in the pool: Marsais bent over the girl, his blade sliding into her throat. But his hands were so gentle, and his eyes so full of love, that one might think he had simply lulled the girl to sleep as would any caring father.

  Light and dark; a constant conundrum.

  Shadows ringed Marsais’ eyes. He was so very gaunt. She worried for his health, and so did Oenghus.

  A whimper escaped his lips. Eyes snapped open, and a hand flew to his chest, searching his skin as if he feared something was missing. Marsais snatched his blanket, and lifted, peering down the long length of his body. He stared at what lay under the fabric.

  Isiilde smirked. “I’m sure it’s still there.” Concern had not dimmed her anger.

  Marsais looked at the nymph. There was steel in his eyes, the kind that reminded her of daggers. A breath passed, and recognition softened the grey gaze. He let his head fall on the pillow.

  “Isiilde.”

  “We are not bonded,” she explained, sensing his confusion. “We are on a boat bound for Fomorri that is currently dead in the water. The crew is scared of you and likely mutinous. Oenghus is distracting them with ale and stories of valor.” Pounding feet and loud, raucous voices were echoing throughout the ship. The night, and her father’s boisterous presence, had brought cool relief to tempers.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he breathed.

  Isiilde crossed her arms and leaned against the bulkhead. There was pain in his eyes, but whether it was genuine or affected, she no longer knew. “I barely know you,” she spoke her thoughts aloud.

  Marsais turned his head on the pillow, and looked at her. “Do you need to?” His voice was rough, like nails scraping against her ears. To give herself time to answer, she reached for a waterskin. With a sigh, he scooted up, slumping wearily against the bulkhead. She helped him drink.

  When he had drained half the waterskin, she asked, “What is real and what is an act?”

  Marsais laughed bitterly. “My existence in this realm is one large and ugly act, Isiilde. I tire of it.”

  “Of living?”

  “By the gods, yes.” His fervor pricked her eyes, and she blinked. She could not imagine a life without Marsais. Faced with that grim vision, anger seemed a silly thing. She tossed it aside.

  “I think you knew what Saavedra would ask of you. You knew it would destroy our bond. You wanted to protect me—even if that meant pushing me away.”
>
  He did not reply, so she continued.

  “You stole my blood for the very same reason. To protect this realm at any cost, even to yourself.”

  Still nothing. His lips were sealed, but there was a tremble, so very faint, and yet so deep.

  “I love you, Marsais, whether you let me or not—I always will,” she whispered. “But you are not the only one who wants to protect this realm. I bear responsibility for this mess.”

  The mask cracked. “You bear none.”

  “Regardless of what you believe, I do. Even unknowingly, I played a part.” Her voice was firm.

  “As large a part as a single brick in a building whose foundation gives out.”

  “However small, I was still present. Stop shielding me. I will not run away—no more than you or Oen will.”

  He waved a tired hand. “You are here. There is no changing that.”

  Silence wrapped around the two, heavy with things not said and everything that could not be taken back. Isiilde looked down at her hands—the very same that had struck him with anger.

  “I’m sorry I slapped you in the garden.”

  “You had every right to.”

  She shook her head. “It was childish. You are trying to stop a madman on the other side of this realm. You sacrificed far more of yourself than a vial of blood. Despite what you said in the garden, your heart was not in it.”

  Marsais snorted, a derisive, bitter sound. “A whore sells her body every day of her life for a crust of bread to feed children she never asked for. It is a sacrifice for survival. There’s little difference. I simply whored myself out for a realm.”

  “Both are born of desperation. Not done willingly.”

  “I have no pride left to lose,” he said bluntly. “I have endured far worse, and I would suffer a thousand such nights to see you safe. Do you understand? The only thing that concerns me is your safety.”

  “I won’t be put into a box.”

  “I offered you a luxurious island!” he snapped.

  “It’s still a cage,” she bit out.

  “If Mearcentia is a cage than Fomorri is the Nine Halls.” There was anger in his voice, but pain in his eyes. His breath was shallow, as if his lungs could not draw breath.