The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isiilde reached out, placing a palm on his chest—over his scar. The tension in his brow lessened. Quiet tears rolled down his cheeks; tears that he did not notice.

  It was hard to speak, but Isiilde swallowed past the emotion, focusing on his eyes. “You told me once that there are a thousand terrible deaths; a myriad of unbearable Fates—all suffered before by others. You are afraid for me. But I am sick of being afraid.”

  “Fear makes us human.”

  She ran her fingers over his cheek, catching his tears. “I am not human. I am a nymph who will not be collared; who will not be chained; who will not be treated like a fragile vase to be locked away. Until you understand that—I will not share my bond with you. I can’t.”

  “I’m not asking you to give yourself to me again. I do not want it. I severed our bond for a reason.” The moment he said it, he clenched his teeth, lips forming a thin, hard line.

  Isiilde narrowed her eyes. “Why?” She waited, hand on his warm skin, feeling the rapid gallop in his chest. When he did not immediately answer, she leaned forward. “Answer me, Marsais,” she demanded.

  “There is nothing but death down this path,” he finally whispered.

  The words triggered a cascade of thought. Pieces connected like a pattern of runes on a board. In that instant, she glimpsed his scheme, as she so often did when they played King’s Folly.

  “Our spirits were bound. If one dies—what happens to the other?”

  “There is a reason I did not want Oenghus to kill Stievin while he held your bond.”

  At the mention of the man’s name, bile rose in her throat. Her body quivered, but she swallowed it back, reaching for the fire burning in her breast. It burned away fear, leaving her cold with calm.

  “Two spirits intertwined,” she mused. “The death of one would take part of the other.”

  He nodded, once.

  Isiilde took a breath. She had not thought of that. A severing such as that would be like losing a limb. She shivered at the thought, imagining the cold touch of death brushing her bond. But worse, she imagined a life without Marsais. Isiilde shook the thought away, and gathered her thoughts. “When we arrived in Mearcentia, you said that visions of death are never set in stone.”

  Marsais sighed. His entire body seemed to collapse in on itself. He looked defeated. “The heart does not always listen to reason. When it comes to you, I’m a sentimental old fool.”

  “You’re not old,” she whispered, remembering a happier time, an echo of a conversation when she thought the worst thing that could happen in her life was to provoke Thira.

  “Then a fool at the very least.”

  “I’ve said as much,” she agreed.

  A pained laugh escaped his lips. He choked on it, and took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  He scraped a palm across his eyes. “For not asking to use your blood.”

  “I wouldn’t have given it to you—not for a Blood Portal.”

  “I know.”

  She arched a brow. “Then don’t be sorry. It had to be done. Just as you killed that girl, the Scryer, so she would not slow us down.”

  There was a chill in her voice that gave the seer pause. It was like the first splinter of ice on a pristine pane of glass. Marsais looked away. “A Blood Ritual dragged a fiendish spirit into this realm and bound it to her pliable mind. She could not have survived outside of that pool,” he murmured. “But yes, I did what needed doing.”

  That such a thing was possible made her sick. She remembered that collar around her own neck, that relentless, choking hold that Stievin had had on her own spirit.

  ‘It is a mercy’, Marsais had said before killing the girl. But she had thought it was an excuse—an easy way out. How could she have thought so ill of him? He had not murdered the girl for convenience, but rescued her from torment in the only way he could. As he had rescued her.

  A jumble of words rose in her throat, but in the end, they all fell short. Isiilde sat speechless, silently berating her own foolishness. But then, had that not been part of his plan? Did he want her to believe that he was capable of such a selfish act to push her away? Her mind spun with possibilities.

  He shifted, and when his gaze returned to hers, he inclined his head. “There is business at hand. Do as you will, Isiilde. I will play my part.” He struggled to rise, waving her off when she moved to help. The blanket slipped, and he stood, his hips stark and bony.

  “Marsais,” she finally managed. Her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Hmm?” he asked, reaching for a shirt.

  “You can’t do your part if you starve yourself to death. You need to eat.” She untied the strings of her pouch and plucked out a strawberry. His eyes locked on the fruit poised between her fingertips. The grey of his eyes turned to mist, and he swallowed. She wanted to throw her arms around the man and kiss him—hold him, offer him comfort. But the fire in her heart raged, drowning the impulse.

  “That is an exquisite weave,” he said, plucking the berry from her hand. It disappeared into his mouth, stem and all.

  “Did you expect any less?” she asked, pushing a plate of food towards him.

  “Never.” He sat down and she watched him eat.

  When bread and cheese had been reduced to crumbs, she ventured, “What did you see earlier?”

  “What don’t I see?” he retorted.

  “On deck... when you screamed.”

  “Ah.” Marsais paused, and then smiled—a quick twitch of his lips. “The end.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acacia Mael knelt on deck. Her forehead rested on the hilt of her sword, knuckles white around the leather. She clutched the Sacred Sun, pressing it between flesh and hilt. The echoes of singing bellowed from the depths of the hold, but she ignored the distraction, focusing on the holy implement in her hand.

  When she opened her eyes, there was no flare of light, no warmth between her fingers. Her prayers had gone unanswered.

  Footsteps stopped at her shoulder. Acacia opened her eyes, and looked at the intruder. Lucas Cutter stretched his broad shoulders. A few beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin, but only where he was unscarred, which didn’t leave much. He had lent his back to the oars.

  “Rivan looked about to try his hand at drinking, so I had him take my place on the bench.”

  Acacia climbed to her feet with a creak of leather. She glanced at the holy symbol in her palm. Still cold. Despair threatened, and she looked to the Sylph’s moon. Its red companion trailed in its light, while the Dark One’s moon was a vague, swiftly approaching silhouette.

  If only they had more time.

  “It’s not too late, Captain,” Lucas said. “To turn southwest, and sail for the Fell Sea like normal men.”

  “Has anything about this past month been ordinary, Lieutenant?”

  “Not a thing,” he admitted. “I want to heave that seer into the sea.”

  “The crew already tried.”

  Lucas chuckled, a rare sound that bubbled from deep in his chest. After what her lieutenant had lived through, she knew humor was buried at the bottom of the well, and it had a long way to travel, giving his laugh a frigid edge.

  “There is that,” he said. “It helps to have a berserker as a friend.”

  “Of the two, the seer is far more dangerous. Have you heard the legend of the Trickster?”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “The Trickster challenged Nereus, the God of the Sea, and lived.”

  “Nothing but fear and superstitious myth.”

  “Maybe so, but you were there when Marsais fought the Hound.”

  A muscle in Lucas’ cheek spasmed. He could not deny that duel.

  “I don’t know what we’ll find on the Isle of Wise Ones when we return, but I do know that we need that man.”

  “If we return.”

  She looked at the clear heavens. Not a cloud, not a breeze. Even the water looked lazy, like a slow rolling pond of s
ilver. The Windtalkers continued their steady beat, but their drums had taken on a note of panic. There was a good chance that their god had in fact abandoned the sea-folk.

  The Knight Captain knew that feeling. That same fear clutched at her own heart. The cool metal in her palm felt unbearably heavy.

  “Do you want to reach Fomorri?” she asked her lieutenant.

  He looked her in the eye; a long history lay between the two warriors. Shared horrors and agony, and sights that could never be scoured from memory.

  “I’d like to put a hole in this ship right now, and let it sink.”

  Acacia understood completely. “I’m not sure what to do about Isiilde. If we do what Oenghus wants, we either leave her on the ship, or we send her away with a passing merchant. Whatever we do, she’ll need an escort. There are the Lome siblings to worry about too. Aside from Marsais, myself, and Oenghus, you and Rivan are the only two who I’d trust to guard her. You don’t have to come, Lucas.”

  The paladin stiffened. “I would follow you into the Nine Halls and beyond.”

  “You already have once. You don’t need to again.”

  “Always so humorous.”

  She smirked, and extended her arm. “To the Nine Halls, then.”

  “And beyond.” He gripped her forearm. “My blade has been itching to repay Fomorri hospitality.”

  She eyed the scars covering his body. Fomorri relished torture; the creatures were masters of the craft. Years ago, Acacia had rescued what was left of her lieutenant. And on most days, he resented her for it.

  “There is no place for vengeance on a battlefield.”

  “You know me better than that, Captain. If I promise to keep a clear head, will you swear that you won’t let them take me alive again?”

  “I swear.”

  “Good.” Lucas ran a finger along a patch of mottled scarring. “All in all, I have to admit to being curious—I’d like to see what the ol’bastard does next.”

  “You’ve been in Oenghus’ company for far too long.”

  “Without a doubt.” His lips curled upwards with a twist of scars. “And long enough to go join the festivities.”

  She smiled. In the past month, she had seen more life in the warrior than she had seen in years. “Have at it, Lieutenant.”

  “You?”

  Acacia shook her head. “I’ll keep praying. Perhaps Zahra will answer.”

  He touched his fingers to the Sacred Sun around his own neck, and bowed, leaving his captain alone beneath the moons.

  Acacia returned to her knees, pressing forehead against the pommel of her sword. She clutched the Sacred Sun as if she could etch the symbol into her palm. A mark; an answer; an acknowledgement. Anything would be welcome. But the Guardians felt distant.

  The seer’s words had wormed under her skin. Doubt, confusion, and now heresy. The Knight Captain of the Blessed Order had conspired with a fiend. The gods, she feared, had abandoned her. And rightly so. She had broken the Law of her Order.

  “The gods have abandoned you, Captain!” a voice cut through her prayers. “But I have not.” Acacia jerked, and looked up. There was strength enough in the voice to thunder over carnage.

  Marsais stood on deck. He was dressed in a clinging robe and trousers, and his hair gleamed white in the moonlight. For a second, his eyes flashed silver, or so she imagined. Isiilde stood at his shoulder. The nymph’s head was cocked with curiosity.

  The words had not been spoken to Acacia, but to the ship’s captain, Carvil. Unnerved, and always feeling as if the seer could pluck out her thoughts, Acacia hastily stood, sheathing her sword. Was Marsais trying to incite a murderous mob? If so, the Windtalkers looked as though they were planning on throwing the first stone.

  She hurried up the companionway, joining the seer and nymph at the helm. The Windtalker Chieftess stood in front of Marsais. Her weathered features were creased with anger.

  “You have cursed us. The wind no longer sings to my ears.”

  Acacia was fairly sure that Marsais zar’Vaylin would chase away the gods wherever he walked.

  “My dear woman,” Marsais said softly. “Once the blight is removed from your ship—namely me—you will hear the wind again. But not in the way the captain had planned.” He gave a pointed glance at Carvil. “I’ll be gone from your sight soon enough. Is she ready to sail?”

  “She has been ready to sail for days,” said Carvil.

  Marsais looked at the limp sails. Not even a flutter. “Quiet your drums, if you please, clear the poop deck, save for the helmsman. The wind is about to pick up, Captain.”

  Carvil did not question the seer but called for all hands on deck. The cry was taken up through the ship, and sailors poured out of the depths—those who could still stand at any rate.

  Marsais stepped in front of the helm.

  “Do you know what he’s doing?” Acacia asked the nymph.

  Isiilde gave a slight shrug. “I spoke with him, as you asked.”

  Oenghus stomped up, and looked from Acacia to Isiilde. “What’s he up to now?” A strong smell of ale billowed off the giant.

  “Marsais never tells me anything—even when we were bonded,” Isiilde said, ears twitching with irritation.

  Acacia doubted that the seer confided in anyone. Time spent with Marsais was like a continuous game of King’s Folly. She wondered if his secretive ways were deliberate, or born from simple habit.

  Oenghus crossed his arms. “Well, you don’t need to worry about him. You’re going back with the ship.”

  The nymph turned on her father. “I will burn this ship into the water before that happens. Do you understand?”

  Oenghus bared his teeth. “I’ll have Acacia truss you up and dunk you in the sea.”

  “Do not bring me into this, Oen,” Acacia warned.

  He leaned against the rail. It creaked. “I was hoping you’d join the festivities.”

  “I’m told you found another woman with calloused hands to distract you.”

  “I didn’t have a kilt handy,” he replied. “Figured I didn’t stand a chance with you.”

  “You don’t. And won’t.”

  “You’re still talking to me.”

  “Would it help if I ran a blade through you?”

  “Do you know, that’s how I met Morigan. She ran me through, and we took an Oath.”

  Before she could ask for the rest of the story, Marsais dragged his toe across the deck, tracing a perfect semi-circle. Conversation died, and all eyes went to the seer.

  “Whatever happens. Do not disturb me.” Marsais looked from the ship captain to Oenghus, issuing the same order with his eyes.

  He stood for a moment, body taut, face raised towards the stars, bathed in the light of the moon. Acacia had seen that stance before—in the wilderness of Vaylin, when he stood on a rock in a river.

  With a breath, he began to move, as fluid as a dancer. Ethereal runes flared to life as his fingers weaved. The Lore sped from his lips, a low murmur of breath that echoed in her ears. Slowly, it grew to a whisper, gaining strength with every added rune.

  Isiilde watched with wide, captivated eyes. Her lips parted, and Acacia edged away from the combustible nymph.

  “Do you know what he’s weaving?” she asked Oenghus.

  “Void if I know.”

  “He’s weaving wind,” Isiilde answered.

  “Bollocks.” Oenghus spat.

  And then Acacia saw the wind, the ethereal runes took shape, rising into the sky over the ship. Marsais’ voice boomed like thunder, the coins woven into his goatee chimed wildly, and he thrust out his arms, fingers splayed. A spidery tendril of mist wavered from each fingertip, racing towards the sails.

  A squall slammed into her back. The entire ship groaned, and Isiilde lurched, catching herself on the rail.

  The wheel spun wildly, and Carvil and a helmsman tried to wrestle it back under control. As a wash of waves rose like a beast to drench the deck, Acacia pulled Isiilde down beside the bulwark, but one man
stood in the wind. Marsais had not moved. He floated over the deck. With a powerful chant that thrummed over the sea, he spread his arms and brought his hands together with a slap.

  The whirlwind calmed, and a steady gust pushed at the sails, filling them to bursting. The Squall leapt forward. The wind blew steady, and the captain called for adjustments to the sails. Men raced up ratlines, climbing aloft, while others secured lines on deck. The clipper heeled so far that its lee rail touched the water.

  “Twenty knots!” a man yelled.

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t summon more wind.” Acacia heard Carvil shout to his second.

  Oenghus held Isiilde firmly by the arm, keeping her upright. But the nymph barely seemed to notice. Her gaze was fixed on the swirl of runes that pushed at the sails.

  “Is this normal for a Wise One?” Acacia hollered in Oenghus’ ear.

  “Not one bit. Are you surprised?”

  “No.”

  “Sprite, can you tell what the ol’bastard did?”

  “He bound the wind to each sail,” she answered without hesitation. There was wonder and fear in her eyes. “But that’s not all...”

  “What more is there?” Acacia pressed.

  “Do you remember when he taught me to weave a Barrier?”

  Acacia nodded.

  “There’s a Barrier over his air weave. He’s juggling all those runes, and if he loses concentration the weave will fall.”

  “Why would he need a Barrier for the wind?” Acacia asked.

  “The same reason he needed a Barrier for his water rune against my fire. He’s pushing against another weave.”

  “Nereus,” Oenghus growled.

  Acacia blinked “That’s impossible.”

  “It explains why there hasn’t been any wind,” Isiilde answered.

  “Blood and ashes,” Oenghus cursed. Acacia followed his gaze. A single drop of blood trickled from Marsais’ hawk-like nose. Acacia did not know much about Wise Ones, but she knew that blood was a bad sign. When a Wise One drew too much of the Gift, they cracked like a dried waterskin.

  Another drop leaked from his nose. And she wondered how long the seer could keep channeling the weave before he burst.