King's Folly (Book 2) (56 page)

Syre shook his head. “She has never shown interest.”

“But she has a mark.”

“Yes, bonded to a spoiled nobleman in Nefir. The Knight Captain helped with the acquisition.”

“He’s dead, then?”

Syre nodded.

Isiilde frowned, and Syre stood, relinquishing his position to her. She bent over the nymph, placing a hand on her forehead. Kaia was cold.

“You want to sit with her a bit, Sprite, and sing to her like you did with that other lass?”

The question blind-sided Isiilde like a slap from his massive hand. She jerked back, standing quickly. “No,” she said sharply. “I would like to rest.”

Without waiting for an answer, Isiilde hurried away, fleeing the dying nymph and the rest of the empty-headed faeries, silently wishing Kaia a swift, and peaceful journey to the ol’ River.

AS
IT
SO
often did, sleep eluded the ancient. Marsais sat beneath a tree in a garden courtyard. A breeze sighed against his cheek, and he closed his eyes, listening to the whisper of leaves. Time was silent, and for that he was grateful, but there was still one final step to take before the path was set. The hardest part yet.

Coins chimed, drawing his attention to the present, showing him a vision of beauty wandering through the moonlit garden a second before she arrived. Those seconds could have been years, and still, he would not have had the time to fortify his heart.

To delay the moment, he closed his eyes, and took a breath—one, and then another, until the moment was shattered by her voice.

“You could have asked, Marsais.”

“You would have said no.” He opened his eyes to a goddess, all fiery-haired to match the fury in her eyes.

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” he arched an arrogant brow.

“You
should
have asked.”

“I could not risk your refusal.”

“So you took my blood—you used me as potion fodder!”

“I did,” he nodded.

“You manipulating bastard,” she seethed.

“Not manipulation, my dear, but strategy.”

“Do not presume to call me ‘dear’. I am not yours.”

“As you wish,” he said, climbing to his feet.

“As
I
wish? Do not mock me. You never once took my wishes into account. How long have you been scheming? How far back? Did you chart our course after that very first night in the ruins? Using the Lome as our shields, risking Oenghus, and using me as bait to lead you to the scryer? Did you send Luccub to that fiend, did you help bait her trap so the paladins would have no choice but to play along with your scheme?”

“I could not risk it.” Marsais gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “As with King’s Folly, sacrifices must be made. One cannot become attached to a single rune—not even the fire rune.”

The nymph took a step back. Fury turned to mist, and his resolve nearly shattered.

“Answer me one thing,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” Marsais waited, senses swimming as her voice drifted on the warm breeze. The same breeze that stirred the thin silk clinging to her body, the same that brushed a stray tendril of hair curling around her tipped ear.

“Did you enjoy your night with that fiend?”

All he had to do was tell the truth and she’d be in his arms again—in his heart with spirits melded. Marsais did not trust himself to speak. Heart warred with mind and every passing moment confirmed his betrayal. Soon, it would be too late, but if he spoke now—he shook the thought from his mind, focusing on the journey ahead and her Fate if they failed.

“I’m a man, Isiilde,” he answered casually. “Vedra and I have a long history. We were lovers once. Of course I enjoyed certain aspects of my night with her, or I wouldn’t have been able to finish the deed.”

Eyes flashed and a striking slap echoed in his ears. As arousing as a single touch could be from the dream, the strike left an equally acute sting. Slim shoulders trembled, and she gave him another slap for good measure before hurrying from the garden, her head bowed.

Marsais could not bring himself to move, to turn and watch her gliding form. He stood stark still, swaying in the night, long after the sound of a single sob died in the courtyard.

Eventually, a massive presence stepped beside him, knocking him out of his stupor. Marsais drew a ragged breath.

“I’m not usually one to eavesdrop, but that conversation was hard to miss from my balcony. You really are a cold-hearted bastard.”

Marsais wasn’t in the mood. “Isiilde will be safe here. We are no longer bonded, her spirit will remain intact—no matter what happens to me in the days to come.”

“Don’t bloody insult me. I know why you did what you did, or I would have killed you by now. You’ve always been more of a cold-hearted bastard to yourself than anyone else, Scarecrow.”

“It had to be done.” His voice cracked.

“Aye,” Oenghus rested a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.

“Blast it, Oen, if you bloody hug me, I’ll break down and that would be awkward, more so than our trip through the mountain pass.” His voice wasn’t as light as he would have liked.

“Void,” Oenghus swore, removing his hand. “I told you to never—”

Marsais turned abruptly, cutting him off, “Put me out of my misery,” he begged.

“What?” Oenghus blinked in confusion—at the desperation in the grey eyes.

“I enjoyed every second of plowing your daughter senseless,” Marsais crowed. A scarred fist filled Marsais’ vision, relieving him of his suffering.

The seer fell to the earth.

“Bollocks,” Oenghus cursed in realization. “You’re a manipulating bastard.” The Nuthaanian sighed at his slow wits, and nudged the rangy ancient with his boot. Marsais’ eye would be swollen shut for days. Grumbling, Oenghus knelt, slipping his hands beneath the loose linen, over stomach and forehead. He did not like what he saw. Marsais’ spirit was dim.

There was no point in bolstering what was broken, so he healed the bruises and the eye, and quickly withdrew, shaking the fractured spirit from his senses. He dragged Marsais to softer earth, and stood staring down at his old friend.

The seer’s bond with the nymph had been severed unwillingly. That would, Oenghus knew, be the end of Marsais, no matter the outcome on the Isle.

WAVES
BRUSHED
THE
sand with the rhythm of the moons. A gentle roar, breathing in and out, that soothed her fury to an ache. Isiilde sat on the beach, beneath the Sylph’s silver moon, watching its light dance in the lagoon. Tears mingled with the sea.

The nymphs were sleeping. Isiilde was all alone in the moonlight, and in her heart. The ship would sail with the rising sun and Isiilde would never have to see Marsais again. But his words would forever be frozen into her mind.

One cannot become attached to a single rune—not even the fire rune.

She traced a fire rune in the sand, adding her own touches, until it rippled with heat. Cycles within cycles, schemes within schemes. Marsais had always favored misdirection in his games. She knew him as an opponent well.

Sacrifices must be made.

A movement off to the side caught her attention. She tensed, fingers splayed, but relaxed, feeling foolish. As quiet as a cat, Kaia emerged from the forest. The slender nymph walked across the sand, and stopped, noticing the redhead on the beach. She hesitated, glancing back at her refuge.

“It’s all right,” Isiilde reassured. “Are you feeling better?”

Kaia cocked her head.

“Do you want to sit with me?”

Isiilde did not feel like having company, but something in the nymph’s eyes tore at her heart. Kaia appeared anxious, but she came. The frightened nymph sat on the sand, trembling.

“Why are you sad?” Isiilde asked, wondering if anyone had bothered to ask.

Kaia’s eyes fell, and Isiilde waited, but the nymph did not answer, or so she thought at first. Kaia was tracing something in the sand: a tree.

“You’re sad about a tree?”

Kaia nodded, drew a line through the trunk, and erased the top, until it resembled a stump.

“It was cut down?”

The nymph nodded again, tears flowing from her wide eyes.

By the gods
, Isiilde thought, trying not to think of all the trees she had recently burned and wondering what on earth was she going to do with a crying nymph.

“There are other trees,” she ventured.

Kaia burst into tears.

Panic fluttered in her throat. Isiilde had no idea what to do. She had always been on the crying end of things. She patted the nymph awkwardly, and Kaia curled in a weeping ball, laying her head on Isiilde’s lap.

“Maybe you can grow another?”

“Friend,” Kaia’s voice shook.

“The tree was a
friend
?” More tears.

Isiilde stroked the nymph’s hair, frowning in thought. Did all nymphs share a connection with an element, whether trees, water, or fire? Isiilde thought this likely. After all, she did not like it when people took her fire. It was more alive to her than most humans.

There was nothing to say, no words to comfort. Kaia wanted to follow her friend. At a loss, Isiilde did the only thing she could think of—she began to sing. Though it pained her, though it tore at her heart, she sang for the nymph’s sake. The first notes were hoarse with pain, full of sadness and memory, but she willed warmth into her song for the innocent beneath her hands.

She felt a mother. And in that moment, she finally understood what it meant to protect another.

❧

The sun peeked over the horizon, stretching lazily from its watery bed. Isiilde leaned on the balustrade, watching the sun rise. Oenghus had already come and gone, warning her not to burn down the palace. He had nearly crushed the life from her before storming out. Her father did not like goodbyes.

Acacia came too. Helm tucked under her arm, armor polished and restored, looking every bit the part of a Knight Captain of the Blessed Order. She offered the nymph her hand and Isiilde shook it.

“Keep up your sword training.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

And for a moment, Acacia relaxed, removing her stern mask, hugging the nymph to her armored breast. “You’ll be fine, Isiilde.”

Isiilde was left speechless.

No one else came.

She leaned against the balustrade of her balcony, watching the distant harbor, and the sleek Mearcentian warship that was anchored on the pier. Sailors crawled up its masts, and porters lifted supplies into its holds, while soldiers marched up its gangplank.

When the moor lines were untied and the ship edged towards deeper waters, Isiilde turned from the view, and sat at her writing desk, reaching for quill and parchment. She dipped the nib into the ink well with a flourish, and began to write. Her words flowed across the parchment. After signing her name, she dusted the parchment with sand and rolled it into a tidy scroll, sealing it with a weave.

She placed her scroll on the desk.

Isiilde slipped out of her robe, letting it slither to the ground. An early morning breeze brushed her naked skin. She picked up a small pouch and carried it out onto the balcony, setting it carefully on the balustrade.

A voice whispered from the past, full of warmth and sincerity:
There is very little in this realm that I would not do for you, Isiilde.

Isiilde pressed her lips together at the memory. She looked out to sea, to the white sails catching wind, and the ship that was carrying her friends away.

“You are an utter fool, Marsais,” she said to the horizon. The seer’s careful plotting had one very significant flaw: the nymph was free and she could do as she pleased.

Words flowed from her lips, tying her to the Gift, and her fingers flashed, weaving careful runes from memory, layers upon layers, until the weave fluttered over her skin like a cloak. And then it crawled, seeping into her flesh. Isiilde gasped with pain. Bones cracked, light flared, and when the transformation was complete, a vibrant red parrot flapped on the balcony.

With a beat of wings, and a musical squawk, the parrot snatched the pouch and took flight, soaring towards the distant ship.

Coming 2016

Legends of Fyrsta: Volume Three

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NOVELS BY SABRINA FLYNN

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From the Ashes

When I started writing, I never imagined that the solitary activity would lead to so many friendships. I’ve met so many wonderful people, whether they started out as readers, fellow fans of other authors, or the authors themselves, I value their insight, advice, and friendship. I am grateful for all their help. And count myself extremely lucky to have their support.

Annelie Wendeberg never fails to push me to do better—even when my mind is tired and lagging—she never holds her red pen back. For that, she has my gratitude.

Merrily Taylor and Alice Wright have nurtured my writing for years. I can never repay them for their time and honesty. Without those two gracious ladies, I would be at a loss.

I have a wonderful group of beta-readers, too. Thank you, Janis McDermott for your time and sharp eyes. And Caleb and Selena, for their love of fantasy books. Without your comments, I would have been doubting myself even more.

To my husband, Ben: I’ll thank him properly at another time for his unwavering support of this hobby of mine.

And last but far from least. A huge thank you to my readers who encourage, comment, and share their enthusiasm with me on Facebook. I absolutely love chatting with everyone, and I consider them friends. You all keep me motivated when I want to toss my pen across the room.