Untold Tales

by Flynn, Sabrina

  “Moonlight,” she said softly, brushing the unruly hair from his eyes. “There is always power in the moon’s light. I can step from one pool to the next.”

  “Like a teleportation rune,” he surmised.

  “Something like that, yes.” There was a knowing glint in her eyes. “Trees too.”

  “I’ve seen the Scarecrow do that.”

  “Once upon a time, in another age, you could do the same with stone.”

  A flash of pain stabbed his temple and he winced.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” she soothed, brushing the spot as if the pain were her own, which it was—what one felt, the other sensed. “I won’t mention such things.”

  “I’ll not be coddled,” he growled.

  “You let Morigan tend to you,” she retorted.

  “She healed me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you jealous? She and I haven’t been Oathbound for near a century.”

  “Yet her bed is not unfamiliar to you.” Yasine toyed with one of the braids in his beard. He opened his mouth, but fell silent at a twinkle in her eye “Why would I be jealous of a woman who has taken three Oaths with you? A woman who has born your children? How can I feel anything but gratitude towards Morigan, who loves and cares for you when I cannot?”

  For Oenghus, who had spent the majority of this life in ignorance, the long separation was not as keen, but he could feel the ache in the Sylph’s heart.

  “I like Morigan,” she smiled. “I always have. She is one of my favored in this realm and one of the few who has put up with you. Not an easy feat.”

  “It’s my cock.”

  She laughed, a musical, wonderful sound that bridged the years. Oenghus let himself remember the last time he had heard her laugh, and his heart ached. As he had that day, in another Age, of another name, he never wanted to let her go—never wanted to leave their bed. With mist in his eyes, he cupped her face, tracing the curve of her ears, and she nuzzled her forehead against his beard. His chest shuddered with control.

  “You know I can’t stay in this realm long,” she breathed, lips brushing his skin, her tears mingling with his. “As you said, every day is a risk.”

  “Then why risk yourself at all?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “A child—yes, and nothing else.”

  “Do you remember the first time you spoke to me?”

  For her, he spoke the words of another; the dead god whose spirit resided in his flesh. “I am the lightning, I am the crag and the rocks and the raging storms. I am the sea and its roar.”

  When his voice grew gruff with pain, she finished for him, “I am passion and fire, and everything you cannot control.” Her fingers brushed through his hair, soothing the pain in his heart. “Your spirit is worn, my love. Although formidable, you are but a shadow of what you once were. And yet, still, after all these Ages, from one life to the next, I cannot tame you.”

  Oenghus untangled himself from her embrace, and sat up. “But you come and you tell me not to act—to stand aside. You ask the impossible,” he snarled.

  He felt her rise. A gentle hand touched his back, as light as a feather’s brush on his recent injuries. “I do not ask it for myself, Oenghus. I ask it for our child. I have made many mistakes. The more I try to interfere, the more I fight the Void, the worse it becomes. You were not here for the Shattering—for our daughter’s death.” He cocked his head, as if the tilt would dislodge a memory. But the veil remained. “Your spirit was greatly damaged after your fight with Karbonek. I feared you would not return, and you did not, for many, many long years.” Though he did not turn, he could hear the tears in her eyes, feel them falling down her cheeks as if they were his own.

  “Karbonek,” he tasted the name, but no memory came. It was frustrating.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “The Void is powerful, it devours all Life. But Life cannot fight what consumes—so I must trust to what I cannot control. I must stand back and hope.”

  He looked at her then, where she sat cross-legged on their bed—exposed, vulnerable, and full of fear.

  “Does the Scarecrow have anything to do with this?”

  “By the Light—no,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “Even if he were whole, I am sure he would disapprove and attempt to stop me. You must not tell him the child is mine.”

  Oenghus tugged on a braid. That, at least, gave him satisfaction. Currently he had a bone to pick with the ol’ bastard. “So this isn’t some bloody prophecy?”

  “It is a thought—a last desperate hope.”

  “So you can’t control me?” he growled, and moved towards her on all fours. Yasine fell back, settling herself on the mattress between his arms and legs. “What is stopping me from knocking you over the head and carrying you away as I once did?”

  She sighed. “To where? Nuthaan? And spend my pregnancy in a freezing cabin—hunted by the Blessed Order and Void, living in fear that our daughter might fall into Wedamen hands? Absolutely not, Oenghus,” she said firmly with a shake of her head. “If I’m going to carry your child, then let me do it in warm luxury.”

  “What of the Emperor?”

  “Many children are born prematurely,” she lifted a shoulder.

  “You’ll be his—as a nymph.”

  “You are not the only man I have shared my bed with,” she reminded. “If the Emperor thinks she is his child, then she will be protected. Aside from Iilenshar, Kiln and Kambe are the most powerful kingdoms in this realm. Kiln will crush her, and I’ll not have a child of mine fall into the Guardians’ hands again. That leaves Kambe.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either, but I had hoped you would enjoy keeping me company for nine months.”

  His eyes flickered to her stomach, all softness and curves, not the slim figure of a slip of a girl, but that of a woman—ripe and sumptuous. His body hardened, striving to reach her. “Do you have what you need already?”

  Yasine stroked his shaft, fingers curling around its girth, gently tugging him to her. “I don’t know. Everything from here on out is chance. You don’t have to, my love,” she purred. “I won’t force myself on you.”

  Oenghus snorted, and lay to the side, cupping her breast, teasing her nipple to life as he kissed the curve of her neck. Her legs parted and his fingers touched the moist triangle of fine hair, moving towards heat.

  “Swear to me,” she gasped.

  “Never,” he growled in her ear.

  Whitemount

  IN THE DAYS that followed, a flurry of messengers and Whispers came and went. Kambe’s army marched from the pass, into the valley that was no longer dead, and made camp at the foot of the castle. Horses were brought, a female guard was organized, and with the usual efficiency of Kambe, the long line of war weary solders marched home.

  Yasine did not visit him again. She was guarded day and night, kept hidden beneath a veil and placed in the midst of her honor guard. Much to his relief, Morigan stayed at her side. Inquisitor Ashe could not find any reason to dismiss the kindly healer who calmed the nymph. If not for Morigan’s vigilance, Oenghus thought he would go mad.

  Days became weeks, and their journey quickened when mountain passes gave way to the spacious stone roads of Kambe. A carriage was provided for Yasine, and fresh horses for her guard. Oenghus rode alongside as their company met with new soldiers from the Emperor’s elite. The escort broke off from the main force and rode towards Whitemount. Emperor Soataen Jaal III eagerly awaited his nymph.

  Whitemount crowned a hill, above the sea and fog, watching its domain from white walls and rising towers. Through the ages, many would-be conquerors had been deceived by its elegance, mistaking beauty for weakness. But Kambe’s strength lay in its order and discipline, and save for the Shattering, its walls had never been breached.

  As the escort climbed the winding road, the silver, blue, and white flags of Kambe swelled like sails. The fog parted, and a clear, sweeping view of the harbor lay at Oenghus’ feet. But he only offered it a b
rief glance; his eyes were on the carriage that rolled steadily towards the palace. He could feel Yasine through their bond. She was serene and slightly irritated with him—for he was far from calm.

  In all his long years, Oenghus had avoided setting foot in the palace, and he wasn’t keen on doing so now. Royalty annoyed him at the best of times, and this was far from joyous—he was about to place the woman he loved in another man’s hands.

  With a surge of anger, Yasine dropped a veil between their spirits, shoving him and his foul mood far away from her. Oenghus glared at the carriage as they rode through the gates. Going along with her scheme was one thing; being happy about it was quite another.

  The palace courtyard gleamed with guards in all their finery. The regiment snapped to attention with a clap of steel as standards waved over a bailey of polished heads. As the carriage entered, the line of soldiers stepped neatly to the side, pressing their fist to heart in salute: a king’s welcome—or in this case, a queen.

  The carriage settled in front of a waterfall of white steps. Grooms stepped forward, taking control of the horses, and Oenghus dismounted, flashing half the courtyard as he stepped down to the cobblestones. Kilts were not made for modesty.

  Whitemount’s towers did not match the Spine in height, but the arches and delicate lattice work put the Wise Ones’ tower to shame. Tearing his gaze from the curving beauty, he handed his reins to a groom, and patted his gelding in gratitude.

  A dapper Chamberlain bowed to the Inquisitor, and Oenghus turned towards the soldiers, sizing them up. He ignored the useless court pleasantries and introductions—until he heard his name.

  “What?” he demanded of the pointy-eared dandy.

  “Lord Saevaldr, His Imperial Majesty requests your presence, along with Lady Freyr.”

  “Aye, fine.” Oenghus frowned, recounting all the generals, captains, and officials he had yelled at over the past twelve years. Morigan, however, was the one who had bullied the Field Marshal.

  Ashe kept her face blank, but her eyes smoldered as she stepped towards the carriage, opening the door. Yasine stepped lightly down. The ‘nymph’ was unveiled, her auburn hair fell in waves over her shoulders and the silk robe of white she wore did little to conceal her lush outline. The air thickened and the hush could be heard. All eyes followed the ethereal creature as she glided up the steps in the company of her honor guard.

  Oenghus offered his hand to Morigan and she accepted, climbing out of the carriage with little grace.

  “You’re a lady,” he murmured.

  She snorted.

  “His Majesty wants to see us.”

  “Oh, Void.” She nearly spat, but caught herself. Together, they walked up the stairs, following in Yasine’s wake. “By the gods, try to behave yourself, and don’t get me executed.”

  He bent down, so he could whisper loudly in her ear. “You’re the one that gave the Marshal what for.”

  “And I’d do it again.”

  He bared his teeth. “Always after my heart, aren’t you?”

  Morigan glanced sideways at him. “Your heart is otherwise occupied at the moment. Are you going to be all right?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “You have that certain look about you,” she whispered. “Of a berserker about to rip someone’s head off.”

  He grunted.

  They stepped through the gates, into a resplendent great hall of white marble. Six Guardian statues flanked the entrance hall like pillars. Zahra the Radiant, shining in golden armor; Chaim the River God, draped in his white robes; Zemoch, the Stalwart, holding his double-headed flail; Asmara, the Everchild, who had not aged a day since the Shattering; Oshimi, the Serene, sitting cross-legged with his fingers joined; and finally, Yvesa, the Peaceful, a winged sprite. Beyond, through an impossible archway, the throne room and its multitudes were gathered.

  “Remember, Oen, in Kambe, we are not only Wise Ones, but as the parents of the Clans Head, we represent Nuthaan, too. Whatever you do will reflect upon our daughter’s honor, which has already been jeopardized once, thanks to you.”

  Of all the voices that could reason with the berserker, Morigan’s got through the most. He tugged on his beard, trying not to think of their daughter who was rightly angry with him; instead, he nodded, and focused on Yasine. He could feel her again, and he soaked in her serene presence. Her spirit wrapped around his own like a caress, soothing and untroubled as a mountain lake.

  It calmed his mind.

  Like the great hall, the throne room shone white. The marble was polished to a reflective sheen, and the high windows bathed the sunburst throne at the end of the room in warm light. It was difficult to look at, nearly blinding.

  Silk and lace and perfume assaulted Oenghus as the party walked through the sea of courtiers towards the throne. The colors of the Great Houses hung from the high ceiling like the great sails of a Mearcentian trade ship. Oenghus was unimpressed; his practical nature wondered how many people had wasted their lives embroidering the useless fabric so some lazy lord could get his twig up.

  The Chamberlain’s group stopped at the foot of the first dais. The Emperor’s bodyguards, known as the Hounds, flanked the stairs. They stepped aside and Yasine was escorted up to the first dais by a woman in ceremonial armor.

  Perched on his sunburst throne, Emperor Soataen Jaal III looked down from the second tier, studying his nymph to be. His hair was as golden as his throne and the diadem on top of his head. With pointed ears and a noble bearing, he looked every bit a Kamberian. It was rumored that Lindale blood ran strong in his family’s line. Oenghus had never put much stock into the rumors, but looking at the ruler now, in the flesh, he could not deny the stories. Soataen was tall and chiseled with high cheekbones and striking blue eyes.

  Oenghus might have placed him as a dandy lord, but there was intelligence in those eyes, and Soataen had a reputation as a just and fair ruler. His people loved him.

  Currently, those eyes were locked upon Yasine—his gift. And then he stood, and all heads bowed, save the nymph’s and Nuthaanians’. Soataen stepped from his throne, joining Yasine on her dais. A murmur of anger rippled through the crowd. Oenghus figured it was his and Morigan’s erect spines. But Nuthaanians bowed to no man or god, and the last ruler who forced a Nuthaanian to do so found a horde of berserkers on his doorstep.

  “All may rise,” the emperor’s voice carried to the farthest reaches of the chamber. Backs straightened, and the audiences’ anger was soon forgotten as they watched their beloved emperor take the nymph’s hand and bow over it with a brush of lips. Anger turned to surprise.

  “Welcome to my palace, m’lady. My house is yours.” His voice was strong, but kind. And in a lower voice, Oenghus heard the emperor inquire of her name. Yasine did not reply.

  Soataen looked to the Inquisitor, still standing on the floor beside Oenghus. “Does she have a name?”

  “I do not know, your majesty. The nymph has only spoken to the Nuthaanians.”

  A sharp eyebrow shot upwards. Soataen looked at the pair and Oenghus spoke up before the emperor could ask, breaking yet another rule. “She needs trees, a garden, lots of earth to roam.” His voice rumbled like thunder in the hall. And the Hounds tensed at his breach of protocol.

  Soataen raised a hand, silencing the murmur. His gaze returned to Yasine. “You shall have everything you desire. Please, go with my chancellor, she will see to all your needs.”

  Yasine inclined her head. The woman in ceremonial armor stepped forward, along with two female Hounds. They escorted the nymph through an archway off the second dais. A sea of heads turned, following her departure, including Soataen’s.

  When the nymph disappeared, the audience seemed to shake itself out of a dream. The emperor turned his attention to Inquisitor Ashe. He did not invite her onto his dais, nor did he return to his throne, but remained standing on the first tier.

  “I received numerous reports on the taint in Northolt. It is well that such evil is vanquished. I
mourn the lives lost. You have my gratitude, for preserving the life of the nymph when others wished her harm, Inquisitor Ashe.”

  “I thank you, your majesty. I upheld the Law of my sacred Order, nothing more.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “And the Law rewards those who uphold it. Chamberlain Emerich will see to your reward.”

  Oenghus cleared his throat, loudly. And the Hounds twitched with threat. The emperor looked at him again. “Yes, Lord Saevaldr?”

  The title grated on his ears, but he ignored it for now. “I think the Law states that the finder’s fee for a nymph goes to the person who first found her—doesn’t it, Inquisitor?”

  Ashe frowned severely, but nodded.

  “Well, I’d just like to point out that Sergeant Farin found her, didn’t he?”

  “Is this true?” the emperor asked.

  “He did,” the Inquisitor confirmed, “and brought her to the keep. He thought her a witch.”

  The emperor looked to his chamberlain. “See that the reward is split. That is all, Inquisitor Ashe.”

  The Inquisitor bowed low and stepped back, but not before she shot Oenghus a seething glare. His finger twitched, and he fought down the urge to offer the Inquisitor a pointed gesture.

  The emperor motioned to his chamberlain, and the prim man looked to the Nuthaanians. “You may ascend the first dais.”

  Another murmur traveled through the audience as Morigan and Oenghus stepped up, the latter towering over the emperor.

  “I welcome our allies of the north. Your deeds in the Wedamen war have reached my ears countless times. Lady Morigan Freyr, mother of the Clans Head of Nuthaan, you honor Kambe with your presence.” He offered his shield arm, as was customary to all women in Nuthaan. Morigan gripped his forearm heartily.

  “May Death find you with enemies at your feet, your majesty.” And then, to show her appreciation for his knowledge of their customs, she curtsied to show her consideration of theirs.