King's Folly (Book 2) (55 page)

“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.

“Leave me be, Lass,” Oenghus rumbled. They erupted with laughter. Hands went to his beard, stroking the braids with curiosity, and finally, the golden-haired nymph simply put her arms around him, snuggling against his bulk. Oenghus kept his hands up, looking helpless.

Syre stared in shock. “They are not usually so—affectionate with strangers.”

“Aye,” he sighed, relenting, giving the golden-haired nymph a fatherly pat on the back. “Wisps and sprites torment me too.”

When Alara plucked Oenghus’ pipe from his belt, Syre reined in his bold nymphs. “Alara, Nimue, Luna, leave him be.”

A chorus of laughter answered, and they darted off into the trees. Isiilde stood on the beach, watching their exploration as they gathered fruit, stroking leaves and sniffing flowers as if it were the first time they had ever seen such things.

Despite the sun, the sand, and everything that was beautiful, she shivered, turning her back on the trio of nymphs.

“Not what you expected?” Acacia asked at her shoulder.

Isiilde shook her head. Had she ever been so empty-headed? Isiilde frowned at the internal question. Surely not?

“But they are happy,” Acacia pointed out.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and turned back to her kin. Nimue and Luna were attempting to feed Oenghus fruit, and Alara was draping herself around Syre.

“They certainly appear so,” she wrinkled her nose. “I am nothing like them now, but I fear I may have been a month ago.”

“Perhaps, but no longer. These faerie do not think beyond a moment. I doubt they remember their lives before Syre brought them here.”

Envy filled Isiilde’s heart. To be that innocent, and free. Yet, if given the chance, she would not go back. “I have never felt so alone as I do now.”

“That’s what my youngest daughter said when we moved to Haven.” Acacia slipped an arm around the nymph. “You are not as defenseless as you once were. You can come and go as you please, and perhaps—they will learn from you, and you from them.”

“What could I possibly learn from them?”

“That innocence is a beautiful, precious thing.” Acacia squeezed her shoulder once, and removed her arm, wading into water.

The nymphs abandoned the men, and ran across the beach, diving into the water, coming up splashing. The stern-faced Knight Captain of the Blessed Order grinned and splashed the nymphs back.

Isiilde closed her eyes with a sigh, and walked back up the beach, to where Oenghus and Syre stood.

“What do you think, Princess Isiilde?”

“I think that they have a splendid home.”

“It can be yours too.”

“I do not need rescuing.”

“Then you can visit, whenever you wish.”

“Thank you,” she said, but did not think she would ever return. “Where is the fourth—Kaia, did you say?”

“This way.”

Oenghus tore his gaze from the captain, and followed in the king’s wake. Syre led them into a grove of trees. Kaia was curled in a bed of leaves. Her chestnut hair flowed around her like a blanket, and eyes the color of autumn flickered towards them as they approached. She was smaller than her sisters, lithe and agile, with ears that were more akin to Isiilde’s.

Syre gathered his robes and knelt, placing a hand on her brow, smoothing the hair from her face, whispering her name. She looked at the king, but there was no hate, or loathing, only weariness in the nymph’s eyes.

Isiilde had seen that look before, so long ago, on the Isle, when she had sung to a woman who was well into the Keening. Though at the time she did not understand why someone would want to die. She understood now.

“Kaia, this is a healer—Oenghus and Princess Isiilde Jaal’Yasine.” Eyes danced between the strangers, finally focusing on Isiilde. “We can barely get her to eat,” Syre confided to Oenghus. “The captain said you may be able to help with the Keening?”

“I can try,” Oenghus grunted, kneeling on the ground. “Have you ever been healed before, lass?”

Kaia looked at the giant beside her, and nodded her head. She could, it seem, understand the trade tongue.

Isiilde drifted closer. As much as she had wanted to hate Syre, she found she could not deny his kind intentions. “Are you bonded to her?” she asked.