King's Folly (Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

wavering flame that was Isiilde curled around a blazing sun.
    Careful not to disturb the precarious flame, Oenghus withdrew from their bond, leaving her to Marsais’ care. When the link was broken, the cave returned, and Isiilde spiraled into a deep sleep. She slumped against Marsais. A healing always demanded a price from the body.
    Oenghus blinked away the familiar disorientation as his focus returned to the cave. Acacia was unwrapping Marsais’ hands, revealing the crushed flesh and bone beneath. “What was the traitor who came through the portal weaving?” she asked.
    “A message to Tharios,” Marsais answered.
    “Were you able to stop it?”
    “Not precisely.”
    “A Blood Oath,” Oenghus guessed.
    “Of course.” Acacia frowned at the seer’s mangled hands. “A Forsaken is bound by deeds. His spirit will return to the Oath Taker. But to enter that state willingly as he did with that blade—” The hardened veteran shivered. “It’s madness.”
    “Fanaticism,” Marsais corrected, and then gasped, bracing against a wave of pain as she slid the rings off his broken fingers.
    “In the dungeon, when you were trying to distract Zander, were you serious about Karbonek?”
    “Unfortunately. Only an Unspoken would be so devout. Tharios will know we are alive. And if a Blood Oath was involved then he’ll see through the spirit’s eyes.”
    “Save your breath, Scarecrow. You’ll need what strength you have left for this.”
    At the healer’s words, Acacia relinquished her position, moving to the side. Oenghus unlaced the long sleeves of Marsais’ robe. Working slowly, he peeled the fabric from the seer’s skin, and finally over his head. The rain had washed away the grit and sand from the duel, leaving a clear view of the damage. Burns covered his body, a Reaper’s bite had savaged his right shoulder, and the bandage around his side was soaked with fresh blood.
    “Water,” Oenghus grunted.
    Acacia grabbed her helm and searched the cave for suitable water. A moss covered ledge provided a clean flow. She filled her helm with the trickling stream and brought it back. Oenghus took the offering. After helping Marsais drink from the helm, he uncorked his flask of Brimgrog, and added a single drop.
    Sensing Acacia’s puzzled eyes, he explained, “If I heal him with debris in the wound—sand, cloth, what have you—it’ll fester. Brimgrog burns the water clean.”
    “You’ve been guzzling that since you were poisoned. Won’t you run out at this rate?”
    “I haven’t refilled it since my Rite—six hundred years or so ago.” While Acacia tried to swallow this claim, Oenghus poured the water over his patient’s wounds.
    Marsais clenched his teeth, closing his eyes. Wiry muscles strained across his narrow chest.
    “The Hound nearly gutted you with that spear,” Oenghus observed. He instructed the captain to keep dousing the wounds with water and gently picked up Marsais’ right wrist, resting the mangled mess in his own massive hand. “Am I right in thinking you want these back the way they were?”
    “Hmm, you know how vain I am.” Marsais’ light tone was forced, but the words that followed were a whispered plea. “They’re the only weapons I have, Oen.”
    “I know, old friend,” Oenghus said, steeling himself for the task ahead. “By the way, I’m up a hundred crowns.”
    “A hundred?” Marsais looked skeptical.
    “I was exiled from Kambe. That puts me one kingdom above you.”
    “No,” Marsais argued. “We would be tied if you hadn’t singed your beard.”
    “The Void we are,” Oenghus glared, stuffing a piece of leather between Marsais’ teeth. “I have Gwaith, the Isle of Winds.” He directed a pointed glare at the captain. “Kambe and that little kingdom along the coast—Carpinvale. That’s four kingdoms I’m exiled from.”
    Before the seer could argue with his tally, Oenghus invoked the Lore. One by one he began pulling each finger straight, mending the delicate