Couldn’t he see? This was bigger than any of them. The entire fate of their races rested on following these carefully crafted directions. Though she offered him every assurance his cooperation would ensure the security of his family, he continued to view his actions as treacherous.
The true betrayal would be to succumb to their enemies without mustering any semblance of a fight.
A stocky, sneering guard marched to her cell. “The Master wishes to see you, nymph.”
Ekho rolled her eyes and cut off her connection with Petraeus. The less he knew about her situation, the safer he would be. She’d finish the persuasion later.
One month in King Philaeus’s dungeon hadn’t broken her. As long as her sisters were held captive alongside her, Ekho would fight to her last breath to save them.
Well, as much as any nymph could fight. Being creatures of love, nymphs were incapable of its opposite—any act of violence. Which made them easy prisoners.
She grimaced at the unjust treatment of her people; hundreds of them kept like livestock in these cages, paraded about and forced to perform in the King’s court.
Not Ekho. Though nymphs were obedient creatures, her talent allowed her the option of not submitting.
One whisper and she could coerce any being to any task.
This past month, she’d relished her visits with the King, compelling him to drink water from the bowls used by his hounds.
To bathe in the horses’ troughs.
And to find his release against a statue of Apollo.
She smiled as she stepped through the gate of her cell, the guard prodding her down the corridor. What torment would she drag him through today?
Ekho strolled into the gloomy Great Hall and curtseyed before the male seated upon the ember throne. King Philaeus. She scrunched her nose before righting herself. The scoundrel had recently claimed the throne, after the death of his equally unworthy father, King Pirithous III.
Philaeus made no secret of his contempt for nymphs. Ever since he’d assumed the crown four months ago, he’d hunted her people, enslaving them in his palace. Since most nymphs lived in seclusion, presiding over their wells, trees, and meadows in isolation, he’d been able to pick them off, one by one.
Not that they would have been able to withstand capture anyway.
Ekho raised her chin and met the King’s sinister stare. A lavish, jewel-encrusted gold crown graced his head, followed by pristinely swept ruddy locks and narrow shoulders encased in a heavy burgundy cloak. Those mousy eyes gleamed at her and a haughty curve quirked his mouth.
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “How may I serve thee, my King?”
“You won’t, not today.” From the shadows stepped a male whose presence sent cascading shivers of anxiety down her spine. She shuddered at the pure menace in his fair features. With his azure eyes, flaxen locks, muscular form, and bronzed skin, his godlike beauty concealed the darkness she sensed beneath his surface.
Panic rushed through her and she opened her mouth.
“Ah, ahn, not so fast.” The new male flung out his arm and squeezed his fist. Without touching her, he snared a vice around her throat, constricting and preventing her speech. “You’ve played your games for far too long, nymph. Now, you’ll submit to us.” He clenched his fist tighter and she staggered to her knees, wheezing.
“That is enough, Deimos.” Philaeus waved his hand and Deimos eased his grasp enough for her to cough, but not to speak.
Nor to employ her powers.
And save herself.
***
Petraeus patrolled the balcony of his chamber, waiting for the voice to return and torment him further.
Hours passed, yet she did not.
The hairs on the back of his neck pricked and his horse stomped inside him. Something was wrong. Who had spoken the word “Master,” and why?
He ought to rejoice that she’d finally left him alone, but instead, restlessness jabbed at his insides. Tossing his head, he attempted to clear his mind, yet the agitation in his gut remained. The nymph was in trouble. Damned if he should care. She was at last leaving him be.
Bloody hell, he did care. Despite her compulsive demands, the nymph had claimed she was aiding his family.
He stiffened as a cool breeze ruffled those hairs on his neck once more.
Help.
The plea crossed his ears, a whisper so slight he barely caught it.
“Nymph?” he called into the empty air, but no response came. Oh, curse the gods. He sniffed and caught the direction of the breeze. Southeast. Lapith country. Enemy territory. Centuries ago, the centaurs and the human Lapiths had been at war. A brutal series of battles had left both their races devastated. Under the supervision of the gods, they’d formed a peace.
It hadn’t lasted.
After the new King’s failed attack on centaur lands five months ago, the coming conflict between them had brewed, slow and steady, yet ever intensifying. It was only a matter of time before war would crash over them.
His shoulders sagged and he huffed while the voice’s persuasion claimed his will. Well, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d snuck into Lapith lands because of the nymph.
Petraeus packed a saddlebag with supplies and departed his castle, heading toward the origin of the breeze.
As a centaur, his two hearts and two lungs meant he could traverse great distances in short periods of time. Two hours later, he’d crept past the sentinels guarding the Lapith border and inched nearer his destination.
Cursing every step of the way.
How in Hades had the nymph managed to find herself inside the Lapith King’s palace? If his brothers or father knew Petraeus now stood outside its gates, they’d surely send him a swift kick inside.
Foolish, asinine dolt that he was.
Prince Philaeus, now the King, had attempted to invade his father’s lands once already. Petraeus’s next actions just might provoke him to try again.
Puffing and shaking out his nerves, he performed the morphos from a centaur into a human, his limbs condensing and reforming. He tugged on the collar of his tunic and waited for his opportunity.
Villagers, or rather, slaves, marched in and out of the castle grounds, carrying out their duties. Armed guards allowed them passage after a thorough inspection of both their wares and their papers. He had no such identification, and it was doubtful the mark of King Cheiron’s line—an owl birthmark on his right hind leg—would grant him entry into anywhere but the dungeons.
He sniffed the air once more, and yes, the floral scent came from within. The nymph had compelled his aid; he had no choice.
Staying within the cover of the forest, he crept closer to the village and scouted the area. A lone male of about his size strolled forward. Petraeus stole forth behind him and snagged an arm around his neck, smothering his cries with his free hand.
The Lapith struggled, but Petraeus squeezed with his centaur strength until the male succumbed at his feet, unconscious but not dead. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, searching within his victim’s pockets for his papers.
The document secured in his hands, he towed the Lapith into the bushes and hid him among the leaves. Then he snatched the handle of the wagon the male had been pulling and hauled it forward, toward the castle gates.
He waited in line until the others before him had passed through, forcing his feet not to shuffle and reveal his agitation.
Just another day in the life of a Lapith slave.
One guard waved him forward, holding out his hand for Petraeus’s identification. He handed him the papers, and after the sentinel had scrutinized them, the guard waved him through.
Petraeus expelled a deep breath. Once inside the castle, he followed the throng of bustling villagers until the crowds thinned. He emptied his wagon of its pottery at a barren alcove and hid the wagon beneath a table.
Now, to seek out the nymph. Scratching his jaw, he surveyed the castle’s layout. The grim dark stones contrasted vastly with
his father’s alabaster castle, and the cool draft flowing through the corridors truly ought to be attended to.
He followed a winding hallway downward, edging into the bowels of the castle. The floral scent of the nymph’s breeze grew stronger. As did other fragrances.
More nymphs?
He shoved through a thick wooden door and his heart dropped into his stomach as he scanned the chamber.
Oh, dear gods, no.
*****
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Masterful Lord of Thessaly (Halcyon Romance Series Book 5) Page 10
