“The Unicorn’s Horn?” Acacia asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s a myth,” Lucas said.
“No, it is not.” Marsais climbed slowly to his feet, but his shoulders bowed with a heavy yoke that none could see.
“Tharios possesses Soisskeli’s Stave; however, he only has one of the end caps—the artifact that can open a Gateway.”
“And the other end cap is in the Unicorn’s Horn, in the middle of Fomorri?”
“Yes.”
“What good will that do us?”
“It’s the binding artifact, Lucas,” Acacia answered.
“Oh,” Rivan realized aloud.
“The Cleric of Chaim with whom I spoke is aware of my plan, and supports it,” Marsais added, glancing pointedly at Acacia. “Wraith Guards are being sent to the Isle, and while visions of death are never set in stone, any fool could tell you that sailing to the Isle and challenging Tharios, the current Archlord, and an unknown number of Unspoken, would be suicidal. I do not wish to leave things to chance.”
“We could just as easily be slaughtered on Fomorri soil,” Rivan spoke up. “You can’t possibly be thinking about taking Isiilde there?”
“Isiilde is no longer bonded to me, she may do whatever she wishes.”
Acacia’s gaze slid from the seer to the nymph. “King Syre is a good man, I am sure he will give you sanctuary—along with Kasja and Elam.”
Isiilde said nothing.
“And to be absolutely clear about where you and I stand, Marsais,” Acacia continued. “After this is over, I will have you stand trial for consorting with the likes of Saavedra.”
Marsais inclined his head. “After, Captain, that’s all I ask. I will willingly stand and answer for my crimes, and you may personally draw and quarter me.” There was a plea in his words, as if he wanted the deed done now, to escape some misery.
“And I will stand too,” Acacia said quietly.
“What the Void did you do?”
“I haven’t dragged him to a Chapterhouse yet.”
Oenghus grunted.
Gathering what dignity was left to him, Marsais limped towards the source of water, but was stopped short by the captain’s voice.
“What was in the vial you gave to the fiend, Marsais?”
White hair brushed bruised shoulders as he turned his chin slightly, as if listening to a distant call. In the end, he let the captain’s question go unanswered.
“Blood,” Isiilde answered when he was gone from her sight. “My blood. Taken without my knowledge—without my permission.” The air smoldered around her form, wavering like a mirage in the desert. She looked at the captain. “Where is the palace?”
❧
Mearcentia was as white as the sands. Tall spires climbed like trees towards the azure sky, buildings overflowed with greenery, spilling from windows and sweeping arches. Canals, sparkling with clean water, flowed through the city, running down tiers, creating waterfalls and misting fountains.
Guards in shining silver and flowing blue rode on white horses escorting the group through the city—not as captives, but as guests. Isiilde rode in a smooth carriage with Acacia and the Lome strays, eyes turned out the window, pondering pathways, and the myriad of ways that a life could take. What, she wondered, would have happened if King Syre had won her bid instead of the brutal course her life had taken?
The nymph felt the captain’s eyes on her. “What is it?”
“Your bond.”
Isiilde tore her gaze from the window. “What of it?”
“Only death, or another man can sever it.”
“The bond was broken when he—bedded that fiend.”
“Perhaps it has to do with the fiend, then.”
“Perhaps.”
“They are foul creatures.”
Isiilde frowned in thought. “Your Order thinks that of my kind too.”
Acacia did not argue the point; instead, she ventured a question, “If I may ask, what does your bond feel like now?”
Isiilde raised a slender shoulder. “I have my fire.”
“Are you all right, then?”
“I am perfectly fine.”
The captain frowned.
While the city was grand, the palace was an oasis of elegance in paradise, a blend of sculpted beauty and strength. The palace reminded the nymph of the sea. Her breath caught when she stepped out of the carriage, catching sight of that sparkling gem. The southern sea was not grey and moody like the western. This ocean was vast and sparkling and clear.
“Wait until you swim in it,” Rivan commented at her shoulder. She looked over at the native paladin, and he smiled, eyes alight. “You can see the bottom of the ocean, the sand, the canyons, and even the fish. They’re as bright as the parrots.”
“How could you ever bear to leave here?” she breathed.
“Because I wanted to protect my home.”
His words touched a nerve. A thought stirred in the back of her mind, but it fluttered just out of reach when the palace doors opened. A tall, elegant man in flowing blue robes came down the stairs. The sun glinted off his silky black hair, and his bronzed skin glowed with health. His shoulders were broad and he carried an air of confidence that was unmistakable. King Syre II didn’t need a crown, he wore nobility on his brow.
The Knight Captain stepped up and bowed, but he seized her hand with both of his, shaking it with surprising warmth. “Always an honor, Captain.”
“The honor is mine, your highness. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I am happy to see that the rumor of your murder was highly exaggerated.”
“Rumor is so often twisted. May I present Marsais, the former Archlord of the Isle.”
Syre turned to the battered ancient, and inclined his head. Marsais returned the gesture, and the King eyed his broken nose. “In Mearcentia you are a mythical figure. I hesitate to say it is an honor, but just so.”
“I understand completely, your highness, but considering our mission, I think Nereus will not look unkindly on you and your people for welcoming me into your lands.”
Syre glanced at the sea with a thoughtful eye, clearly intrigued and concerned by Marsais’ words. “Then welcome,” he said, and turned to Isiilde.
Surprise stirred the green depths of his eyes, and the King stepped forward, bowing deeply. But Isiilde did not return the gesture. She was tired and wary and heartbroken. The thought of bowing to any human made her sick, much less one that had partaken in a bidding war over her body.
Acacia frowned at the nymph’s rudeness. “Isiilde Jaal’Yasine, your highness.”
“I gathered as much,” he straighten with a shift of ivory tokens woven into his long hair. “Welcome to my home, Princess Isiilde.”
“Isiilde will do,” she said.
“Finn for me then, too.”
“I’d rather not, your highness.”
Acacia cleared her throat, and quickly stepped forward, making further introductions. The King escorted them into his palace, and after determining if they’d like to rest before discussing business, turned them over to the proficient hands of his servants. As they were escorted to separate rooms, Isiilde did not meet Marsais’ eyes, and he did not try to catch her attention.
Fifty-seven
A POLITE KNOCK interrupted the nymph’s turmoil. She turned from the balcony and the paradisiacal view, walking into her vast chambers. She had never known such luxury. The comfort seemed out of place, a dream after the weeks of horror and flight.
A servant entered, bowing low. “Lord Oenghus Saevaldr to see you, your highness.”
The title felt uncomfortable on her shoulders. It prickled her ears, and they twitched. Apparently, Oenghus shared her dislike of ceremony—he stomped in without invitation. In another time, Isiilde would have ran into his arms and taken refuge, but now, she only stood, unsure what to say.
Too much had happened for words.
Oenghus looked around her chambers. “You go
t a better place than me,” he said, walking to the balcony. He glanced over the balustrade, at the sea far below, and quickly took a step back, planting his hand on a solid stone column. Isiilde hopped on the top, settling herself on the precarious seat.
“Why don’t I affect you, Oen?”
The Nuthaanian shifted, reaching for a long pipe. She watched him carefully as he took a pinch of tobacco, tamped, and puffed, until a sweet fragrance mingled with the tropical flowers.
“That’s a complicated matter, Sprite.”
“As complicated as I suspect?”
Eyes as bright as the sea met her own. “Aye,” was all her father said.
Her heart lurched. Yet another lie she had been fed, and all these years she had been too oblivious to see the truth. The stone beneath her seemed to quiver, as if it was not as sturdy as it had been a moment before.
Oenghus sat in a chair that creaked under his weight, and he smoked, letting the fact settle in her heart. After a time, he studied the pipe in his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Isiilde. I only wanted the best for you.”
“Words without actions are meaningless, aren’t they?”
“Blood and ashes, you do listen,” he said with surprise.
She snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Sometimes.”
His peppered beard twitched upwards in a smile.
“Why should it matter?” she asked, softly. “You’ve been a father to me in every way except word.” The sea misted, and her heart melted. She slid from the balustrade and buried herself in his arms. He pressed her head to his chest, and she listened to thunder beating beneath the crag that was her father.
“Gods, Sprite, this is not what I wanted for you. Never wanted you to—” his gruff voice caught, and he stopped.
“I know,” she finished for him.
The entirety of the nymph’s skull fit in the giant’s hand, but he held her with gentleness, as if the earth itself cradled her.
“And I understand why you couldn’t risk telling me.”
“Stays between you and me, right?”
“Of course,” she said.
“It’s not all that bad being a princess, is it?”
“I am happier being your daughter, Father.”
Tears slipped from the giant’s eyes, and he sniffed, wiping them away with a rough hand. When he found his voice, it was rough, “Careful with that word, all right?”
Isiilde nodded. “And Marsais, did he know?”
“Aye,” Oenghus admitted.
Isiilde sighed, rising from the earth to curl in the chair across. Marsais was a complexity, and she kept puzzling over his actions versus words, over visions and schemes, and only the gods knew what else the man had done.
“What of my mother—was she like other nymphs?”
Oenghus scratched his beard. “Uhm, not really.”
She arched a brow.
“I mean, not that I’ve had a whole lot of experience with other nymphs—just her.”
“How was she different?”
Oenghus blew a long breath past his lips.
“Oen,” she warned.
“She was unique.”
“Could she summon fire?”
“No, not exactly—about that, Sprite,” he thrust his pipe stem at her. “Floating with Brimgrog as I am, Marsais thinks it was my fault, your mother being a faerie and all. You got a fair amount of berserker in you.”
Isiilde tilted her head. Everything clicked, and suddenly, without warning, she began to laugh—long and hard, until her belly ached and tears streamed down her cheeks. When her laughter died, and she wiped her tears, she looked up to find her father staring at her with worry.
“A nymph berserker,” she said with a grin. “Do you have any idea how relieved I am to find out why I am the way I am?”
Oenghus chuckled, worry draining from his face. He sobered and leaned forward with a dangerous glint in his eye. “What did you do to those bloody bastards in the fortress?”
Isiilde told him, but her tale lacked boast, or pleasure. Oenghus, on the other hand, was mightily proud, slapping his knee at the conclusion. “Wait until you meet your brothers and sisters,” he growled. “You’ll have an epic tale for the clans meeting.”
“And I’ll get to visit, won’t I?”
“Aye, you’re free to do as you like.”
“I am, aren’t I?” she smiled, but it was filled with sadness.
They were interrupted by the servant’s return. “Knight Captain Mael to see you, your highness.”
“Show her in, please.”
Oenghus rose hastily as Acacia entered the nymph’s chambers. The captain had shed her customary armor in favor of a light, flowing wrap. Despite the woman’s shorn hair, her scars and callouses, and warrior’s physique, she appeared relaxed in the native dress.
“Am I interrupting?”
“I was just talking to Isiilde about finding myself a kilt.”
“You’d likely die of heat exposure in this climate.”
“It’d be worth it,” he purred.
Acacia ignored the comment. “King Syre, as always, has been generous. We sail with the tides tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“And, Isiilde, King Syre has offered you his protection. Fomorri is no place for a nymph—any woman, child, or man for that matter.” A quiver shook the steel in the warrior’s voice.
“Aye, Sprite, you’ve already been through more than most. Leave this nasty business to us. Besides, someone’s got to look after that feral woman and Elam. Keep an eye on them for me, will you?”
Isiilde looked towards the endless horizon. “It is beautiful here.”
“You can lay about in the sun all day, like you’ve always dreamed,” Oenghus pointed out.
“With other nymphs,” Acacia added. “King Syre said his nymphs are eager to meet you. He wondered if you would like to do so now, and—one of them is ill. I’ve personally vouched for you, Oenghus.”
“Don’t worry, there’s only one woman I want to carry off in this palace.”
❧
Walls within walls and ornate gates separated the nymphs from the rest of the palace. Grand pillars supported tiered walkways with wide trees and lush vegetation. Isiilde gaped at the construction, the canals of flowing water, the sculpted pillars and flourishing splendor.
Children ran through the pathways, laughing and playing, while their mothers tended the plants. It did not feel like a prison.
“I wanted them to feel safe, but not trapped,” King Syre explained as he led them through the cultivated wilderness.
“Did you build this before or after you started collecting nymphs?” Isiilde asked at his side.
“I know how this must appear to you, Princess Isiilde.”
“You have no idea, your highness.”
Syre smiled sadly. “When I came of age, as is our custom in Mearcentia, my father sent me to sea. When I returned alive with a number of successful sea battles under my sash, he purchased a nymph from a slave market, thinking that I would find amusement with the creature.”
There was a rumor that Finn Syre II had hired the Widow’s Own to assassinate the late king. Hearing the distaste in his voice, Isiilde began to wonder if rumor was fact.
“I found no amusement, only sympathy.” He gestured towards a wide archway of jasmine, and they followed a winding path that flowed downwards. “Alara had been kept on a leash, passed from owner to owner like a dog. I could not bring myself to touch her, nor could I bear to keep her confined to a small wing of rooms. I noticed she seemed happier outdoors, in the trees and ocean, so I asked my father for one of the gardens, and a contingent of female guards and eunuchs. She flourished there.
“When rumor reached my ears that a pirate band had captured another nymph, I went after them with my elite—unfortunately, she died shortly after. There was no will left in her.” King Syre stopped on the path, turning towards Isiilde “I do not like the way things are either, but they are what they
are. I do not collect nymphs, I rescue them, and protect them just as—and I hesitate to say this in the presence of a Knight Captain—the Druids of old.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, your highness.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
The path ended at a cove. A crescent of white sand curved around crystal blue. Isiilde’s breath caught in her throat. Syre had brought the ocean to the palace.
Observing her amazement, he explained, “There are tunnels that flow beneath the city bringing in fresh sea water with the tides. We keep the sharks out.”
But his words fell on deaf ears, and her feet pulled her onto the sand. Two nymphs played in the water, and another lounged beneath the sun. Their eyes were wide and joyful, their skin glistened, and bodies were full and ripe. When they caught sight of Isiilde, the trio beamed with delight. And all at once, Isiilde was surrounded by a trio of giggling nymphs, moving around her, touching her clothes, her hair, and even her ears with unabashed curiosity.
Their ears were not like hers. Isiilde’s swept up and back, ending with a tip, while theirs were far shorter. And their marks, she noted, hung loosely around their necks, a faint twining vine that looked more necklace than collar.
“Hello,” she said. One of them, with skin as rich as chocolate and eyes as blue as the water, kissed her innocently. The second, with long golden hair, giggled and tugged at her wrap, gesturing towards the water.
“Hello,” the third said.
Relief filled Isiilde. She looked at the nymph who had spoken and smiled, politely holding her ground while the other two tried to coax her towards the lagoon. “I’m Isiilde.”
“Alara,” the nymph smiled in return, tilting her head. She touched Isiilde’s arm, trailed fingers through her hair, over the tip of her ear, and finally her cheek. “The sun and moon,” Alara breathed in wonder.
“What do you mean?”
Alara did not, or could not explain, but she stepped forward, and hugged Isiilde. “You will stay?”
Isiilde did not answer; instead, she asked, “Do you like it here?”
“Oh, yes, there are trees and water and Finn.” The nymph’s eyes slid sideways, and she abandoned her guest, or forgot about the redhead entirely, running towards Syre. She threw her arms around him with delight, and color rose in his cheeks, as the nymph kissed him with abandon. The others rushed to him as well, and he was surrounded by the sumptuous trio, until they caught sight of Oenghus, standing off to the side. With an attention span of a hummingbird, they flitted over to the giant, and their naked bodies swirled around the Nuthaanian.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 43
