Untold Tales

by Flynn, Sabrina

  Soataen’s personal chambers were not extravagant, but well lived in, with protective wards covering every inch of wall space. Soataen huddled in a worn armchair, close to a fireplace that reminded Oenghus of a giant maw. The emperor was pale—shivering beneath a heavy fur blanket. At first, Oenghus feared fever, but there was no spots, no boils, and no sheen to his skin.

  “Leave us.”

  The steward bowed and left, as did the emperor’s personal healer. The Hounds, however, remained, ever watchful, ever on guard, as alert as the animals they were named for.

  The door closed, and Oenghus walked to the fireplace, eyeing Soataen from the side. The ruler’s sharp eyes were faded, turned inward, as if searching his memories.

  “You appear ill, your majesty,” Oenghus said, hoping to speed things along. The chill radiating along Yasine’s bond was like a shield. He could not reach out to her.

  “I only just dispatched a message. How is it that you arrived so quickly?” Soataen did not look at the Wise One.

  “I came back to Whitemount for supplies,” he lied.

  “How goes the outbreak in the south?”

  “Contained,” Oenghus reported. “Morigan mixed an elixir that targeted both Blight and the fever. It worked. The Blessed Order would have burnt the district to the ground.”

  “Precisely why I value my Nuthaanian allies—for their loyalty and resourcefulness. Sometimes,” Soataen murmured, “I fear we rely too heavily on our gods.” The words were heresy, as far as the Order was concerned, but Oenghus’ kin felt the same. The emperor’s blue eyes flickered to the towering Nuthaanian. “I have a request. It requires your word.”

  “I do not give my word without knowing the task,” Oenghus rumbled.

  “Your discretion as a healer, then.”

  “Has something happened, your majesty?” he asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his words. Patience had never been a strong point. He tightened his fist to keep his words in check and tried again to reach out to Yasine through their bond. This time, she responded. The icy shield melted, and she reached back, brushing his spirit. There was grief in her touch.

  “My nymph is not well,” the emperor murmured, turning his gaze to the fireplace. Oenghus’ heart lurched. He wanted to shake the answer loose from the pale man. “When my healer, or anyone approaches, she—becomes distressed.” A muscle twitched in the emperor’s jaw. And every word brought Oenghus closer to understanding. The fear, the panic, the pain—the berserker stepped forward, flexing his fists. But Yasine frantically reached out to him through their bond, silently pleading for control. He stopped himself.

  “I trust you, Oenghus,” the emperor continued, too lost in his own misery to notice the looming Nuthaanian. “See if you can heal my nymph—she trusted you in Northolt and I think she will trust you now. Speak of this to no one.”

  “Aye,” Oenghus could not keep the disgust out of his voice.

  Soataen did not look at him, but kept his eyes purposefully ahead. “Leave and come back to me when she is healed.”

  Oenghus vibrated with restraint. “Yes, your majesty,” he said through clenched teeth. It took all his considerable will to turn his back on the coward and force his feet to move. Without a backward glance, Oenghus strode from the chambers. A Hound broke off, escorting him to the rooms at the other end of the wing—where the empress had once lived.

  Two women guards flanked the arch. Both of them frowned at the Nuthaanian. Without a word, Oenghus was given over to one of the guards. The Hound waited outside while the woman showed him into the wing.

  “The nymph is in her garden,” the guard said. “When anyone enters—she grows agitated.”

  “I wonder why,” he growled, scanning the trio of fretting attendants who stood by an open doorway, gazing out into the night.

  “Bring her here,” the guard ordered the attendants. They paled as one. And Oenghus looked out the elegant doors to the garden beyond. It was wild and overgrown.

  “There’s no need,” he said, stepping onto the balcony.

  “I cannot allow—” the guard began.

  He cut her off. “The emperor asked me to heal his nymph without causing her distress. She knows me. I’ll not have to hack my way through that.” He gestured at the thorns and briars. Still, the guard looked hesitant. “Do you want me to go bother his majesty, and ask him to give me my orders again in your presence?”

  The guard’s eyes flickered from the shelter of warmth to the threatening foliage. “I’ll wait here.”

  Oenghus grunted and walked down the steps into the garden. As far as cages went, hers was spacious. The garden walls were high and mysterious and Yasine’s mere presence made the foliage thrive.

  In a matter of months, a single glimpse of the nymph in the throne room had become legend. Yasine’s arrival ignited a wild fire of imagination, spawning a deluge of romantic drivel from every harper in the kingdom.

  But in Oenghus’ experience, romance was for fools. Love had nothing to do with flowery speeches or wooing flattery. Love was in the simple things—the every day. In a laugh, a smile, and most especially tears.

  The foliage folded back as he approached. And he eyed the splinters in a few branches, as if someone had hacked his way through. Oenghus let his bond pull him towards the Sylph. She sat under a wide oak, watching the rain dance on a nearby pond.

  “The fool,” she said without turning.

  Her voice was like a glacier and he stopped in his tracks. A fine wool cloak hung loosely around her shoulders, exposing part of her mark. The sprawling oak tree was vibrant in the dark. He could trace its branches and leaves by memory, could feel its same pattern spiraling around his spine. Still intact, through death and beyond, and other men—the Sylph’s bond was as eternal as their love.

  “Soataen forced himself on you,” Oenghus broke the chill.

  She turned. Dew misted her eyes, but no tears fell. “I planned to go willingly to his bed, very soon, but he grew impatient. When I fled, he sent his Hounds after me. They hacked their way through my garden.” Yasine sprang to her feet, radiating power and anger. “He didn’t even have the bollocks to run me down himself.”

  Shadows caressed her skin, as dark and cold as her heart, but beneath the frost, he sensed pain. Oenghus stepped forward, reaching for her. She flinched, and he paused. Slowing his movements, he gently cupped her chin, eyeing her injuries. There were bruises on her face and she held her arm close to her body.

  “I’ll kill the bastard,” he growled.

  Yasine looked him in the eye. “Do not interfere.”

  “I never swore.”

  “It is my right, Oenghus,” she snapped, taking a step back. “By your own Nuthaanian law—vengeance is mine. And I swear mine will be far slower and more painful than any brutish attack you could inflict. I may not be able to use my power directly in this realm, but Soataen entered mine when he invaded my body. Everything he inflicted upon me, I shall return upon him a hundred-fold.”

  “What if he comes again?”

  “He will not,” she said coolly. “He’ll find his manhood as flaccid as a dead fish.”

  There was something in her tone that reminded him of a spider that devoured its mate after a coupling. He was fully aware of the Goddess in front of him—the immense power coursing through her veins, the essence of all Life, above shame, or even pain.

  “You could have stopped him, used your power—”

  A tilt of her brow stopped his tongue.

  “I could have, yes,” she said. “And ruined my guise as a nymph, earned the Void’s attention, and put the lives of everyone in this city at risk—to say nothing of the realms.”

  Oenghus frowned down at the Sylph. She was not without physical prowess.

  Yasine sensed the errant thought. “I wanted to see how far he would go, what an innocent truly meant to him—not the facade he puts on when people are watching. I am disappointed with Soataen,” she said simply. With that, the matter was closed.

>   Moving slowly, he opened her cloak and drew out her arm. Her wrist was swollen and bruised and bent at an odd angle. And suddenly, at his touch, all that power and strength sought comfort, and she gave herself over to his arms. He wrapped her in an embrace, cradling her head to his chest.

  “You have never disappointed me, my rock,” she whispered into his shirtfront.

  “I’m bound to, one day,” he said gruffly.

  “You always say that.” Tears slipped down her cheeks, mirroring his own pain. With Oenghus, for him alone, she let her walls down—for what was power without compassion, and what was wisdom without grief?

  When Yasine pulled away, she settled herself in a cradle of roots, and he knelt at her side on the damp earth. “Soataen asked me to return after I heal you.”

  She nodded. “Heal him—it will do no good.”

  Oenghus tugged on his beard. Suddenly weary and drawn, she touched his arm, cooling his fury. “Please, my love,” she whispered. “Spend these remaining months with me in peace.” She led his hand to her stomach and he spread his fingers over warmth.

  “When?” he asked in realization.

  “Weeks ago, I think, before the rains. She is yours, and was not harmed.” Yasine closed her eyes. “I can feel her already—a spark of life that will rage over this realm.”

  Oenghus placed his free hand over her forehead. The Lore was on the tip of his tongue when she spoke, “Swear to me.”

  She opened her eyes to his.

  “I’ll come back when I am done.”

  Yasine smiled. “I should like that.”

  He murmured the Lore, tied himself to shore and waded into the currents of Life, into the very same power that coursed through Yasine’s veins. But where the Gift was a river, she was the sky and the sun and its endless source. He dared not stray close to her spirit. Instead, Oenghus directed his awareness straight to her bone, to the cuts and bruises marring her flesh. The injuries pained him, not for their severity, but because of his love. His concentration tottered, battling with grief and rage, until he gently peeked into her womb.

  The child was like none that he had ever glimpsed: a roiling flame. Startled, Oenghus retreated, pulling himself back along the thin tether that tied his awareness to body. The currents tugged on him, but he persisted, focusing on shore until it released its hold. Oenghus blinked away the disorientation and shook himself, dislodging his unease.

  Yasine was asleep. He smoothed back her hair, but kept his hand on her stomach, expecting heat, or a glow—something that betrayed the child within. But all was normal.

  Had they spawned a fire elemental?

  Oenghus frowned at the thought. He tucked the cloak firmly around her, and watched as the roots grew and shifted, creating a protective cocoon around the Sylph.

  Before leaving, he touched the oak tree. “Watch her, old ones,” he murmured, and instantly felt foolish. Marsais talked to trees, not him. With a final glance, he left to find the emperor and steeled himself to face the man who had just raped the love of all his lives.

  The emperor sat in front of the fireplace where Oenghus had left him, hunched and shivering like a man caught in the Keening. Oenghus wanted to pummel the man. He wanted to beat him into a squishy pulp and render his bones to dust. But Yasine had right of vengeance. And in Nuthaan, to ignore a woman’s choice was to demean her, a crime as despicable as the rape itself. The berserker kept his body in check, but not his voice.

  “She’s with child,” Oenghus announced without preamble.

  Soataen’s eyes sharped on the Nuthaanian. “You can tell so soon?”

  “Aye—I can tell a lot of things.” He let the words linger in the room.

  With effort, Soataen straightened. “You gave your word. She is, after all, a nymph.”

  “I said nothing, your majesty,” he growled. “But I suggest, for your health, that you stay away from the nymph.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I’m a healer. It’s advice.”

  The emperor closed his mouth, gripped the armrests, and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, and grabbed the mantel to steady himself. “Can you heal me?”

  “I can try,” Oenghus said. “What ails you?”

  Soataen shifted. Color spread across his high cheekbones. “I have heard of a nymph’s bond, but—” he faltered, glanced at his Hounds, and beckoned the giant closer. Oenghus loomed over the emperor as he watched the man’s shaking hands. Soataen untied his robe, revealing a smooth, muscled torso, and then his fingers dropped to his trousers. The laces fell and Soataen looked away, unable to stand the sight.

  Oenghus looked down. A mark of thorns wound around the emperor’s shaft.

  “What has she done to me?” Soataen asked in a thin, tremulous whisper.

  Oenghus scratched his beard. “Didn’t you know? That’s the way of nymphs, your majesty. You got what you gave.”

  “But the legends?” Soataen rasped. Fear filled his eyes and Oenghus relished it.

  “Do you believe every legend about yourself? How much truth are in those?”

  “How do I get rid of it?” Soataen snapped.

  Oenghus bit back a suggestion of an axe. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in the brothels, but nothing like this.” Oenghus thought the emperor might faint. He had no intention of catching him, so he pressed on, “A healing might help. But I think, what matters most, is the nymph’s comfort. Treat her well and maybe you’ll feel better.”

  “Of course,” Soataen said, looking as though he’d be sick.

  “On the bed, your majesty.”

  Eager to be free of the mark of thorns, Soataen obeyed, settling himself on his bed. Oenghus tried not to think about this bed, of what the coward had likely done here, in this very room.

  Oenghus placed one hand on Soataen’s stomach and the other on his forehead. To say he was not tempted to snap the emperor’s neck, would be an understatement, but Yasine’s plea echoed in his ears: would he give her months of peace, would he honor her choice, or follow his own rage?

  If Oenghus Saevaldr had learned one thing from his old master Marsais, it was the value of manipulation and blackmail. While the Nuthaanian usually had no stomach for underhanded tactics, he employed them now, “There is one other thing, your majesty.”

  “Anything.”

  “Allow me access to your nymph’s garden day and night.”

  Soataen’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

  “That you keep your nymph happy.”

  The emperor looked into the steady gaze of his only hope. Soataen closed his eyes and breathed, “Granted. I don’t want to see her again.”

  “Very wise of you, your majesty,” Oenghus murmured.

  Nymphs and men bonded, but whereas nymphs had no control over the connection, the Sylph shaped it to her will. As Oenghus plunged inside of the emperor, he saw the poison, the pain, and the shame—a mirror of the betrayal reflected back on the emperor.

  Oenghus did not even try to ease Soataen’s suffering.

  Only a Hope

  AS THE DAYS passed, the emperor regained his strength and returned to his duties as if nothing had occurred. Spring turned to summer, and Oenghus spent long days with Yasine, and longer nights.

  During the days, they walked in her garden where she grew exotic plants and flowers for his brewing. And together, they worked and refined, unlocking secrets in his workshop. Yasine taught Morigan as well, gifting the healer with her knowledge of plants.

  The days were peaceful and easy, and all the while her belly grew. Summer turned the trees gold and autumn bowed to winter, until life emerged with gentle rains.

  A soft patter mingled with the pop of flame. The room glowed with warmth in the wet night. Yasine lay on her side, moulding to his body, savoring his heat. Oenghus’ arms encircled her; one hand rested on a full breast, round with pregnancy, and the other on her swollen belly.

  Oenghus smiled into her hair as the child pressed a foot against its womb. Such a s
mall foot, smaller than his thumb. He traced its outline, and then ran his fingers lightly over the heel, tickling. The foot withdrew, and he waited. When the foot returned, he tickled, and again, it withdrew, coming back faster, trying to stretch. Oenghus poked back and the tiny foot pressed hard against his finger. And then like a drum beat, his child pounded against his fingertip, kicking.

  Yasine moaned and shifted, rolled on to her back, found that uncomfortable, and rolled towards her bedmate. “I’d forgotten how miserable this part is.” Oenghus wrapped her in his arms and rubbed the small of her back. “Hmm, that nearly makes it tolerable.”

  The infant kicked against Oenghus’ gut.

  “You’ll be able to play with your father soon,” she murmured.

  Oenghus’ hand stilled for a moment. When he moved again, it was to tighten his hold on the Sylph. He did not want to exchange the mother for the child—he did not want to lose her. Despite the fire, the warm furs and blankets, the room turned cold.

  “I’ll be with you,” Yasine whispered, pulling back to meet his eye. “Our bond is as eternal as our spirits.”

  “Not the same,” he croaked.

  Yasine ran her fingers through his unruly hair. “I am restless. It’s not just this child. I want to walk my realms, stretch my mind.”

  “I know.” He could not find the words, but he sensed her growing disquiet. A walled garden was hardly suitable for a Goddess.

  “She will need you. Protect her, let her grow.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The Goddess of All smiled, sadly. A tear slipped down her cheek. “So much depends upon her.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought you said there was no vision?”

  “Only a hope. A spark in the darkness.” There was fear in her voice. And Oenghus realized that she was holding something back. She did not know if they would be reunited.

  His eyes flickered down to her belly, as if he could peer into the womb that held the tiny spirit of flame. As if the child sensed his gaze, Yasine’s belly hardened, contracting with a cramp of pain, and a tremor. Yasine closed her eyes. It had begun.