Flame of Ruin, page 27
“Rivan,” Lucas warned.
Isiilde arched a brow, waiting.
“You don’t look real,” Rivan blurted out.
Isiilde stared at the man for a second before bursting into helpless laughter. Heat rose from Rivan’s collar to the top of his broad brow.
“Sit down,” Lucas growled, tugging at the soldier.
“I’m sorry, Rivan,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s just that if I’m not real, that means you’ve been losing to yourself at King’s Folly every night.”
“I’m just bad enough to do that, aren’t I?” He gave her a lopsided grin.
“I’ve seen worse.”
Lucas smirked. “You’re a good liar, Nymph.”
This pleased her no end.
“Can I get you some water or mead?” Rivan asked.
“No, thank you.”
Isiilde was keenly aware of the men, of their eyes, of their presence and threat. She hesitated. It would be easier to retreat to her sleeping chamber, but she was tired of hiding. She settled beside the firepit to eat, studying the pair across a barrier of flame.
Rivan wasn’t much older than she. Strong, square, with tightly curled black hair. His eyes reminded her of chocolate.
“Just so you know, the captain is tough on everyone,” Rivan said, poking at the coals with a stick.
“Is she all right?” Isiilde asked. She actually cared to know. And that surprised her.
“It would take a lot more than you to stop the captain,” Lucas said. “Knight Captain Mael has led armies, fought Voidspawn, and stood against fiends. I have no idea why she’s taking orders from that seer.”
Isiilde frowned at her bread. “If you trust your captain, Sir Lucas,” she said, looking up to meet his eye. “Then you would not question her decisions.”
“Not a question. It’s a statement. You and your lot aren’t worth her time.”
“Not fit to shine her boots?”
“That’s right.”
Isiilde flashed a smile. “Good. I dislike cleaning boots.”
Rivan snorted into his mug. And much to her relief, Lucas ignored her presence while she ate. When she’d finished her meal, Lucas nudged the younger man with an elbow and Rivan finally breeched the quiet. “Would you feel up to helping me with King’s Folly again tonight? I think I’m making progress.”
“You are,” she admitted.
“I appreciate it. So uhm… Does Marsais ever tell you about his visions?”
Not a very subtle pair, she thought. “Why would he?”
“Well, you’re…” Rivan shifted. “He’s, erm, you and him—aren’t you?”
Isiilde rescued Rivan from his fumbling attempt at spying. “I don’t really want to know the future, do you?”
Having been Marsais’ apprentice for four years, she was accustomed to people trying to wheedle information out of her about the recluse. What did his chambers look like? Did he sleep? Did he have a temper, consort with dark fiends, trail his fingers through cat guts, and splatter its blood over runes—the nymph had heard it all. And she had enjoyed spinning bizarre stories, feeding rumor.
Isiilde had once convinced a group of Wise Ones that the Archlord never physically left his chambers. His body was floating in midair, in an empty room of swirling runes. And that what they saw of Marsais was only an elaborate illusion. She had thought nothing of her tale until one of them was overcome with curiosity and threw an apple at his head.
That had not ended well for the Wise One.
“Enough of the future to know what he’s planning, yes,” Lucas said.
“You’ve made that clear,” Isiilde said. “But generals aren’t expected to share strategies with their troops, are they?”
“The seer isn’t my general.”
“And yet the Hound respected him.”
“Aren’t you a smart-mouthed nymph?”
“No, just a logical one.”
“I prefer your kind when they’re silent.”
“You mean chained.”
“Gagged works, too.”
“Lucas,” Rivan hissed. “By the Sylph, please just leave her alone.”
The lieutenant muttered a curse, set down his mug so hard it cracked, and stomped out of the common room.
“Is he always so polite?” she asked Rivan.
“Yes, actually. Don’t take it personal. He’s restless. Doesn’t like tight spaces or waiting, or… well, much of anything.”
“Was he like that before his injuries?”
Rivan shrugged. “Don’t know. Lucas and the captain go way back, though. Just, whatever you do, don’t ask him about those scars.”
“I gathered as much.” She met his eyes across the fire. And Rivan shifted, picking up the bag of runes. He sat on the edge of his fur and began placing them in their swirling cycles on a smooth patch of stone. She edged closer, meeting him halfway.
“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” he said, without taking his eyes off the runes. “I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”
Isiilde was surprised he’d noticed her unease. “I’m sure you believe that.” She corrected his rune placement, and he followed her example, shifting his cycle.
“I don’t expect you to.” His hand stilled and he looked up suddenly, his gaze haunted with memory. “The Fomorri took my sisters during a raid. The captain found me under my mother’s body.”
“What happened to your sisters?”
“I don’t know. I try not to wonder.” He dropped his eyes to the game and nudged a rune stone in place. “The captain is my family. Has been for a good long time.”
“I’m sorry, Rivan.”
“She’s a regular drillmaster.”
Isiilde smiled at his attempt at lightness. “I meant your family before.”
“I know.” He smiled, shy and crooked, but it vanished as he admitted, “I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t even try—I hid.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight, or thereabouts.”
“You were eight, Rivan.”
“But I hid, and I remember.”
There was nothing more to say. They played in silence, manipulating runes to shift cycles, concentrating on the pattern under their eyes. After a time, Rivan began to talk, describing Mearcentia, its sun and fruit and crystal oceans. And she told him of her time on the Isle, which led to darker matters: the Unspoken, foul gods, and madmen.
“Are you worried?” Rivan asked. “That Tharios will open a portal to the Nine Halls?”
Isiilde chewed on her lip, sliding her fire rune towards her air. The rune swirled with fire and burst over Rivan’s earth rune, burning it to a crisp. A moment later, the illusion faded, and the stone reappeared, unharmed. She plucked it up and added it to her growing pile of captured runes.
“I try not to worry about the future, Rivan.”
“Hmm,” a voice mused from the shadows. “You’ve been spending far too much time with me, my dear.”
As Marsais walked out of the tunnel, she watched his long-legged stride with appreciation. For a split second, she caught Rivan watching him, too. Then the paladin hastily jumped to his feet, looking guilty.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account.” Marsais waved an elegant hand, and Rivan sat back down at its command. Marsais bent to kiss her hand. Something was troubling him; she could see it in his eyes.
“I think you’re hungry,” she said.
Brows rose in surprise. “Ah, yes, have I not eaten?”
“No, not at all.”
“An excellent place to start, then.”
Marsais appeared lost, so she rummaged through the sack, brought out cheese and bread, and pressed it into his hands. He sat beside her and ate, but didn’t appear to notice.
“Marsais,” she said, touching his arm. “You’re in the Lome city.”
Grey eyes fixed on her. “I am, aren’t I?”
“I hope so.”
“I do too.” He placed a hand over hers and tightened his grip, blinking away confusion. “Hmm, that’s right. We’re bonded, and you are an enchanting vision, whom I am currently frightening.”
“That’s about it.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to worry?”
“Where you’re concerned, that isn’t possible.”
“Are you up to practicing weaves today?”
“After you finish eating.”
“You’re worrying again.”
“I have a vested interest in your stamina and health.”
His eyes twinkled, and he took another bite.
Isiilde faced Marsais across an expanse of stone. “Will you teach me to weave a more powerful bolt?”
“No, we’re going to work on your less than average ability to concentrate.”
Isiilde glanced back to the firepit. They had been working on her less than average ability to concentrate every afternoon. She’d rather keep teaching King’s Folly to Rivan. With a sigh, she returned her attention to Marsais.
“Have some faith in your former master.” Marsais picked up a stick from a pile of wood and held it over the fire. She brightened.
Fire made everything better.
Marsais traced a rune around the end of the brand, tethered it with a bind, and crooked a finger. The flame left the stick to hover in midair at his command.
“We’re going to levitate fire?” she asked.
“Ah, I see I’ve captured your attention.”
“You usually do.”
He beckoned her closer. “Something more interesting, my dear. Your weaving has progressed, and so has your control.” His eyes glittered, and she nearly abandoned her self-control and dragged him back to their bed.
“I’d rather spend the afternoon perfecting it.”
Marsais cleared his throat. “As tempting as that suggestion is, I have something else in mind—I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself against other weaves.”
Isiilde frowned, watching the flameling’s dance. “You mean Barriers?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t they advanced? Oen can’t even defend against weaves.”
“He has a natural resistance to weaves. The Hound possessed a number of Barriers woven into his armor and flesh. It took me a while to find his cracks.”
“Is that why you were able to kill the Lome barbarian so easily?” Rivan asked.
“Yes, and I completed the weave before we began.”
Rivan narrowed his eyes. “That’s not—”
“Honorable?”
“Not really.”
“But preferable to my blood on the stone, and Isiilde handed over to the chieftain as a prize, I hope?” He arched a brow at the paladin, who nodded. “Hmm, now the problem with Barriers is you have to know what your opponent is throwing at you; otherwise, you can’t adjust your weave. That’s where King’s Folly comes into play—the rings of cycles and interaction of runes. Weaving a Barrier and manipulating the Gift during a battle is exactly like King’s Folly, only faster, deadlier, and far more challenging.”
Her emerald eyes lit with excitement, and Marsais knew he had her undivided attention.
“I swore to you that I wouldn’t snuff out your fire, but this time, Isiilde, it’s up to you—you must protect your fire from my water rune.” His eyes shifted to the hovering flameling, and she looked at the trembling heat with the affection that a mother would feel for an infant.
Isiilde nodded. “Where do I start?”
“The base for a Barrier is the same as the first cycle in King’s Folly: wind, fire, earth, and water. You’ll need to bind them together with spirit.”
“You can’t bind them together, Marsais. They’re all opposites.”
“You’re right, they can’t be bound; however, a cycle requires constant shifting and sustained concentration. Let me show you.”
Marsais selected two apples from their stores, tossed them up in the air and deftly began to juggle one-handed. “These are wind and fire.” He snatched up two more, juggling the new additions in his left hand. Both hands moved with a blur of intersecting green.
Isiilde stared, mesmerized, and even Acacia emerged from her nook to watch.
“Earth and water, and air can stir them all.” He switched the cycle, all four apples circling from hand to hand and into the air, in one constant ring of motion. He stole a bite, and she beamed with delight. “Shall we add spirit?” he crunched.
Isiilde’s eyes went wide. “Another?”
Marsais shifted on his feet, nudged an apple from its pile with his toe, and flicked it upwards, adding it to the cycle. “I think that apple was wormy,” he coughed. “Now, here comes the hard part. Say you were to petrify me. It involves a binding of stone, much like armor, but with malevolent intent. What would you use to counter the weave?”
“Do I want to deflect it or destroy it?”
“Oh, gods, you’re absolutely brilliant.” There was ache and longing in his tone, and it warmed her to her toes. “Most Wise Ones don’t think beyond unraveling a weave, but deflecting one, especially back at your opponent, is extremely useful. For the time being, let’s focus on destroying the weave.”
“An iron would break the weave, but it might not be strong enough… No, it would be difficult to insert into the cycle.” Isiilde chewed on her lip in thought. “A power rune mixed with water?”
“Perfect as always,” he purred. With a flick of his foot, he added yet another apple. The circle widened, nearly brushing the tip of a stalactite. “Now we have a Barrier against petrify.” That was a lot of apples to juggle, but Marsais made the feat look easy.
“I get to do this part,” Oenghus said. She had not noticed him enter. He picked up an apple with a ruthless grin, tossing it from hand to hand.
“One crown.” Marsais started the time-honored tradition of wagering on anything and everything with Oenghus. “From the back wall.”
“Make it two, ya smug bastard. Remember, I’m up one hundred crowns.”
“Ten crowns to me for the singed beard,” Marsais corrected the standing debt. “And the ocean counts as two.”
Oenghus turned to the captain. “What’s your ruling?”
“Sorry, Marsais, but I’m going to have to give that to Oenghus. In the future, I’d suggest only angering smaller kingdoms.”
“Don’t forget that Oen owes you a hundred and eighty crowns, plus interest.”
“That’s right!” Marsais nearly dropped his apples. “You ruined that tavern in Drivel while I was gone.”
Oenghus grumbled at Isiilde. “Turncoat.”
“Ten crowns interest?” she asked.
“That’s cutthroat, my dear.”
“Make it an even twenty, since it involved my paladins,” Acacia suggested.
“Aha!” Marsais beamed. “You owe me a hundred and ten crowns.”
Oenghus glared at the paladin. “I’m not asking for your help again.”
Acacia smirked.
And Oenghus threw.
Six apples flew in various directions as Marsais abandoned them to catch the one with a resounding smack. “Curse it!” He clenched his teeth, dropping the apple to clutch his stinging palm. An apple that was more juice than fruit plopped on the stone.
“You owe me, Scarecrow.”
“I caught it,” Marsais defended. “I’m up one hundred and twelve crowns.”
“You dropped your balls.”
“He caught it, Oen. You really must iron out details before you wager—especially with Marsais.”
“Very wise, my dear.”
“Bollocks. You’re just defending him because—” Oenghus ground to a halt, tugging his beard.
“Because of what?” she asked, with a flutter of lashes.
“Never mind. I’ll win it back.” Oenghus planted himself beside the captain to watch the enfolding lesson.
“Now,” Marsais shook out his hands, “for the real thing. Don’t get frustrated, Isiilde, this isn’t easy. Watch carefully.”
“Or there will be ill occurrences.”
“Precisely. I’m going to show you how to add a power rune to air, to deflect a bit of water.”
Isiilde followed his exaggerated movements. It was a complicated weave which resulted in a swirling shield of shimmering air. The air in front of Marsais was distorted, as if he were standing behind a veil of water.
“Got it?”
“I think.”
“Never think, my dear. One more time.” He tugged on an ethereal strand and the weave unraveled, falling to the stone floor with a splash of runes. This time, as he wove the Barrier again, she caught what she had missed. He bound power to air last, to keep the cycle moving.
Isiilde nodded. “I’ve got it.”
Oenghus climbed to his feet, standing at the ready. Ill occurrences indeed, she thought.
“Don’t hide your runes. I need to watch you weave.”
Isiilde summoned the Lore, weaving without worry or thought, feeling the currents of the Gift stir with her words. But when she tried to weave the final rune with the shifting cycle, everything unraveled, slipping through her fingers.
The air imploded. Something rammed into her body, and she opened her eyes. Warm hands cupped her face, attached to a worried face and moving lips.
She tasted blood.
Isiilde coughed and jerked, her muscles spasming. She was on the floor, crunched against a stone wall. She dimly remembered the squashed apple.
“Sprite?” Oenghus snapped his fingers in front of her eyes.
The cave spun, and she groaned. “What happened?”
“You put a foot in the current, my dear, but a bit more is needed, I’m afraid.”
Isiilde stared at Marsais who crouched by her side, studying her with a careful eye. “More?”
“Yes.”
“But what if I draw too much? What if I crack?”
Every Novice was warned about drawing too much of the Gift—a backlash. And every Wise One feared doing it one day. Those who drew too much died. They bled out from every crevice and pore, until there was nothing left but a dried husk. Not for the first time, Isiilde wondered how Marsais did what he did with the Gift.
“Do not try what I do,” he warned, sensing her scattered thoughts. “You can draw more, Isiilde, trust me. Try again when you are able.”
When the room stopped spinning, and spots stopped dancing, she climbed to her feet and steadied her nerves, focusing on the lean man standing opposite. The flameling still flickered in midair, waiting for her leisure.
