Page 14 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

“No. I don’t—I’m done with all that, but I can get someone else to take you,” she said in a clipped manner.

Owain held her gaze for a beat longer, making her feel exposed. Mercifully, they made it to his room, effectively ending the discussion.

“The king has asked me to act as guard for you in your meetings later with the other nobles. I’ll be back this afternoon to get you.” And with that, she turned and strode down the hall.

* * *

Orla left the palace and headed towards the stables. She needed fresh air and an escape. Most of all, she needed to be alone. Riding seemed like a good way to accomplish that. She tacked her champagne-colored horse and prepared to ride. Owain’s suggestion that she spar with him had flustered her so much that she didn’t even bother to change into something more comfortable for riding. She still wore her silver leather armor, sword and daggers still strapped to her. A part of her knew that she should inform the king about Owain’s interest in their warriors, but fear consumed her at the thought of it. What if the king ordered her to take him and spar? What if she was forced to discuss Fontina in even greater detail? No, she couldn’t do that. This piece of information would have to stay with her.

She rode for several hours trying to clear her head from the noisy cacophony of thoughts that dogged her, losing herself in the rhythmic sounds of her horse cantering through the grounds. She thought of riding back in Benin, the tranquility that came when it was just her, her horse, and the forest. She thought of rides with Rhyan and Cessly. Cessly was never a fan of riding for fun but would join them now and again when the three of them were on leave from duty. But mostly, she thought of her father, Duncan. He had taught Orla everything she knew about horses when she was a girl. He was a proud man with hard onyx eyes, fine horns, and a standoffish demeanor.

She had been told by others in her village that he had once been kinder, but that was before his heart was broken by her mother. Once a week when she was a girl, her father would take her out riding around the land near their cottage. He would tell her stories and fables about how Elves came to be. How they defeated lesser creatures to become the most magically powerful creatures in their lands.

These stories always made Orla feel small.

Her father rarely acknowledged that Orla was only half Elven. When her magic manifested in the nature-based way of all nymphs, he refused to acknowledge it. Whereas most Elves could do things like change form, summon objects, have dominion over the weather, or even read minds, Orla could do none of those things. And because her mother had absconded shortly after her birth, she had never really gotten a handle on it. Sure, she could make things bloom out of season, she could even cause seeds to sprout within a day of planting. But it was also unpredictable, bursting out of her at random. Her father had been no use in helping her master it.

She knew her father loved her. He was never cruel or unkind, just… indifferent. When Orla would tell him about how the other children at the village school would ignore her or ask her questions about her strange, rounded ears and lack of an Elven mark, he would tell her to ignore it or to get tough and fight back. Neither piece of advice was particularly useful for a young girl wanting to belong.

Growing up in a kingdom primarily ruled by ruthless Elves, the flighty soft nature of nymphs was often ridiculed. Others either pitied her, thought she was unserious, or they wanted to bed her; there was usually little in between. Orla tried hard to be more than an object of lust or someone others thought of as impetuous. It didn’t come easy for her though.

Her father hadn’t known how to shield her from the judgment of Elves; his advice had always left her wanting. Keep her head down and blend in was all he had to offer. He ignored the fact that others would immediately recognize that Orla was different. Or Duncan was so wrapped up in his own grief that he had little time to think about the challenges his daughter faced being a nymph in a world ruled by Elves. His advice was especially useless because she was so obviously not fully Eleven.

The most damning tell of all that Orla was different, besides rounded ears, was her lack of an Elven mark. All Elves were born with a mark, noting their superiority over other beings. The most coveted were wings. Typically, only nobles like King Mikki had those. Talons were also considered a particularly desirable mark, useful in battle. Antlers and horns were common, and tails were the mark most seen on Elves who lacked any rank or title.

Orla had always wished she had the Elves elegantly pointed ears, but she wished she had a mark even more. In her youth, she had even fashioned herself a headband with antlers from the carcass of a buck she had found near her family cottage. The teasing she received after attempting to pass them off as real had lasted for moons.

Her father had never acknowledged these challenges, continuing on with his teaching and stories as if she were fully Elven. One story told of how the deity of mischief and trickery, Gaius, tricked the god of creation, Jove, into making a creature who could only speak the language of ruthlessness. Gaius made a bargain with Jove. If Jove made the creatures, Gaius would ensure that the creatures worshiped him above all else. Jove was known to be a vain god and adored the idea of being the sole creature worshiped by these new creations. From that bargain, Elves were made. But Gaius hadn’t told Jove that he would tell the creatures about free will. Gaius planted the seeds of free will in the creations. All these millennia later, Elves still spoke Gaius’s language; the language of cruelty and cunning. But many no longer worshiped Jove alone. Many didn’t worship him at all, preferring to worship Gaius instead.

Her horse bucked, pulling Orla from her thoughts of her father. She returned to the stables, knowing that she only had a little time before she would have to lead Owain to his meetings with the various nobles at the palace. She had heard mention that kings from four of the other kingdoms on the continent would be in attendance. King Mikki was clearly trying to secure his kingdom, leaving no room for future wars. The warrior in her strongly suspected that peace between Emmental and the Kingdom of Edam was unlikely. One did not simply put aside a century of animosity and bloodshed, and Orla found it hard to believe that King Mikki would want to share Emmental’s immense power with Edam. But the nymph side of her was desperate for peace.

Chapter Eight

After being dropped off at his rooms, Owain couldn’t help but replay his last interaction with Orla. Owain didn’t know why he had apologized to her about their conflict in the gardens. Only that his remark had clearly bothered Orla and that made him uncomfortable. He told himself that it was because he had to gain her trust to get information out of her. Yes, that must have been it.

Sitting down on the low settee in the parlor, Owain scratched his head at the base of his antlers and thought about his time with Orla. He hadn’t spent much time with her, but what little time he was spending with her made her feel more like a mystery to be solved. He struggled to find traces of the vain, bloodthirsty warrior she was rumored to be. He tried to get a glimpse at the warrior side of her, he even suggested attending training and sparring with her, but her response was peculiar. If he didn’t know better, he would say she looked stricken, almost scared when he suggested they spar. His ego could interpret that as her recognizing how adept a warrior he was, but he knew that wasn’t it. He had seen her take down males much bigger than him at Fontina. He knew she was a skilled killer, and that magic of hers could more than make up for her small size on the battlefield.

As he sat in his thoughts, a knock sounded at the door. Chrys came to join him before they met with the kings from the various other kingdoms. He knew King Admon from Pommel and King Blodwyn from Roquefort would both be in attendance. He wasn’t so sure about the kings from Urdhe and Mondseer though. Both of those kingdoms had allied against Edam during the war and did not seem interested in brokering peace talks with the defeated kingdom.

“How’d it go today with the chit?” Chrys asked before striding over to the cellarette and pouring himself a glass of brandy. Something about him calling Orla a chit bristled at Owain. He wasn’t sure why.

“It was… uneventful.” He could tell Chrys about the gallery. Chrys was the only person, besides Aengus, who knew that Owain was an artist. But it didn’t feel relevant. He knew Chrys wouldn’t judge him, but he also knew that even here he had to portray a sense of strength. Staring at old pictures all day would be considered weak and frivolous to most Elves. Plus he knew Chrys’s real goal was to find out if Owain had learned anymore about the king’s army and what they would be up against by succeeding at their plans.

“I asked Orla for a peek at army training, and she was strangely aloof. She said that she would get someone else to show me. It seems like she doesn’t spar anymore.” Owain had puzzled over her response for over an hour now. The way her body seemed to draw tight when he spoke about training. It was similar to how she acted in the rose garden.

Usually, warriors spent all their free time training. Or in Chrys’s case, fucking whatever pretty thing looked his way. But not her. Well, he couldn’t be sure about that second part. A pang of curiosity hit him as he thought about what that side of Orla might be like, but he quickly squashed the thoughts.

Before he had mentioned training, she had seemed, well, not relaxed, she always seemed on edge, constantly picking at her fingers or taking deep breaths. But at the gallery, she had seemed almost as relaxed as she had been in the rose garden the day before.

“She could be avoiding having you see what she can do,” Chrys said as he sipped his brandy. “She is their most famed warrior after all,” he said in a sarcastic tone as he rolled his eyes.

“She could be.” But for some reason Owain didn’t think she was. “She’ll be taking me to more of the palace this week. I will find out more then.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, Orla led Owain and Chrys through the palace corridors to an ornate office along the same wing of the palace as the throne room. Waiting for them were the kings from Pommel, Roquefort, and surprisingly, King Fiorello from the Kingdom of Mondseer. The King from Urdhe did not make an appearance. At the head of the long marble table was King Mikki. His advisor, Lord Kennedum, was standing to his right.

The meeting was tedious to say the least. Kings Admon and Blodwyn used the meeting to highlight their distaste for the idea of lifting the trade embargos with Edam, while King Fiorello used the meeting to show how faithful Mondseer was to their alliance with Emmental. He never missed an opportunity to cast aspersions on Edam or question Owain and King Vernon’s intentions about improving their relationship with Emmental. None of this was surprising. After the war, the other kingdoms on the continent had all bandied together against Edam. None of the other kings were willing to have King Mikki’s ire directed towards them, and this meeting was nothing more than a show to keep King Mikki’s favor.