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

bones an inch at a time.
    Marsais spat the leather out. “I have Gwaith, Kiln—” He forced each word past clenched teeth, fighting to stay conscious. “—and the entire bloody Ocean. That counts as two.” Sweat beaded on his forehead.
    “The ocean counts as one,” Oenghus growled when he was done. “Bandage that hand, Captain, and wrap it snug. The bones need to settle and mend for a few days or he’ll end up with crooked fingers.” He started on the left.
    “That’s absurd, Oen.” Marsais’ voice cracked with pain. Bone shifted, grated and straightened. He gave a harsh cry, arching his back. The veins on his neck strained, and he fought for breath, forcing out his words in defiance. “I had a blasted god banish me from his domain. Carpinvale is ruled by a self-proclaimed king who was a fisherman.”
    “Isn’t that what you were?” Oenghus grinned, surveying his work. After a moment, he huffed in satisfaction. “I think these will stand up to your scrutiny, ye bag o’ bones.”
    “We are tied,” Marsais persisted, slumping with exhaustion.
    “Not if you want me to heal the rest of you.”
    “You can go to the Pits. I’m the one who taught you how to use the Gift.”
    Oenghus snorted at the remark. “Aye, like my father taught me to swim. Tossed me in a river and hoped I’d float while he watched and laughed.” He placed his hands on Marsais’ stomach and forehead. “Shut your trap, Scarecrow. And don’t you dare dream about Isiilde.”
    Oenghus surged into Marsais, repairing wounds and closing flesh, transferring pain to his own body.
    Marsais was never easy to heal. His spirit was blinding. And confusing. There was not just one, but a multitude that stretched into eternity. Oenghus focused fully on the task, avoiding the fractured spirit of the ancient. To dwell on its every shifting shape, to study it, to even comprehend, would drive him to insanity. As soon as flesh was mended, he withdrew, shaking the chaotic spirit from his mind.
    Marsais was sleeping as soundly as his nymph.
    Lucas and Rivan returned with pitch wood. The two paladins stopped, puzzling over the rise in temperature. The glowing rock in the middle of the cave quickly cleared their confusion.
    “All quiet, Lucas?”
    “All quiet, sir.”
    “Still want a fire?”
    Acacia looked at Oenghus in question.
    “I’d rather not try that weave again,” he murmured.
    “A fire will do. Take first watch, Rivan. Stay in the crevice, unseen.” The young paladin set down his armful of wood, and wearily trudged towards the exit, disappearing again.
    Oenghus rose, refilled the helm, and took a long drink. When he turned, Acacia’s slanted gaze was focused on his leg. He followed her eyes and discovered that a Reaper had gnawed on his calf.
    “I can heal that,” she said, cinching the last of Marsais’ bandages. “And your other wounds. Although my skill is nothing compared to yours. You have a gifted touch.”
    “You sound surprised.”
    “The word healer and berserker don’t exactly go together.”
    “I’m a man of many talents.” He offered her his most charming smile.
    “I’m sure you think so.” Eyes flickered to his calf. “Are you talented enough to heal yourself?”
    “I’m fine.” He sat down on the other side of Isiilde.
    “I’ve seen a corpse look brighter.”
    “Aye, well, the stone adder venom almost sent me there. It’s all the worthless drinking I do. Not much will kill you when your veins are full of brew.”
    Acacia snorted. “You don’t trust me.”
    “I don’t trust the other two,” he corrected.
    “They’re good men. I chose them for a reason.”
    “So was Isek Beirnuckle,” he argued.
    “So you’re going to stand guard until you pass out?” Acacia smoothed her short hair. “Typical Nuthaanian.”
    “Don’t you dare call me stubborn. I only permit that from my Oathbounds.”
    “You’ll be no good to the nymph until that poison is gone.” His beard twitched. “Would it help you