Page 62 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

“I imagine you’ve both survived more perilous journeys than this serving in the king’s battalion.”

“Yes and no. The first few years of our service, we didn’t really see battle. King Vernon sent me on diplomatic missions across the continent, and in a rare show of kindness, allowed Chrys to join me. When we first saw combat, Chrys saved me and nearly died doing so.”

“What happened?”

“It was my first time fighting Emmentalian warriors. I was only twenty-four, headstrong and cocksure. I thought I was invincible. It wasn’t even a real battle, more like a skirmish, nothing like the fighting seen in Byaslag or Fontina, but the warriors of Emmental were fierce, and I wasn’t prepared for that ferocity. I left my back exposed and was nearly cut down, but Chrys pushed me out of the way at the last moment, taking the brunt of the blow. The fight was over quickly after that, but I remember seeing him lying there. So much blood, and his skin was becoming ashen.” Orla could picture it so clearly, seeing Rhyan like that still haunted her, and from the look in Owain’s eyes, seeing his friend nearly dead haunted him too. “Our commanding officer told me Chrys was all but dead already. I had never healed anyone other than myself before that point, but I knew I had to try. It was a shitty healing job; he still has the scar, but somehow, we both survived.”

“He owes you his life.”

“No more than I owe him mine. That’s how it’s always been. Yes, we fight— well, fought— for Edam, but at the end of the day, our loyalties lie far more with each other than with our kingdom.”

“How did you and Chrys even wind up in the army to begin with? You never told me.”

“When I turned twenty-one, King Vernon told me that it was time I do something respectable, so as not to sully his name. He told me I could either join his battalion, or I could join the clergy.” She let out a loud belly laugh at that, eliciting another smile from Owain.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine you as a clergyman. The vows of abstinence and celibacy alone would have done you in.”

“You’re not wrong; I would have been a terrible priest. Even beyond those vows, I don’t think the temples would appreciate me calling their creation stories fables.” He smiled softly to himself. “That day I asked Chrys to join me in the battalion. Chrys had scowled at me before telling me that at least in the battalion, they would have better ale than if he kept working in the horse stables.”

“So to the battalion you went.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“Did you ever regret it?”

He looked wistfully at Orla before responding. “Not for one second.”

Daybreak the next day, they set off again. The higher altitude of the mountains made it difficult for Orla to catch a full breath, and Owain was moving slower than he had been previously. But still they trudged on.

Wheezing and out of breath, Orla asked, “How do horses survive up here?”

“They don’t,” Owain replied, wheezing just as much.

“You said we would get a mount once we made it to Iridaceae. If it’s not a horse, then what is it?” They both stopped, Orla’s hand on her knees as she fought to catch her breath. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire every time she inhaled.

“Hippogryphs. There’s a way station just on the other side of the border where we can get them. I’ll do the talking when we get there. Iridaceae has its own language that’s pretty far removed from how we speak here.”

“Why hippogryphs?”

“They’re faster than horses, less temperamental than griffins, and they can handle the altitude. Plus they have an impeccable memory and sense of direction. If you tell them where you need to go, they usually have no problem getting you there.” As Orla caught her breath, Owain grabbed her pack.

“No, I got it,” she protested.

He shook his head. “You’re dead on your feet. Come on, I’ll carry it for a while before we set up camp.”

* * *

They were close, another hour or so and they would be able to cross into Iridaceae. The pair was dirty, winded, and beyond exhausted when they set up their camp for the night. Being so close to the border, Orla had wanted to keep pushing forward, but night had fallen and the pair were tripping over their own feet in the dark.

Still, unease fell over their little camp. Both of them were on edge and restless, despite their tiredness. They chalked it up to being so close to the magic at the border and the effects the border had on their Elven blood.

Shortly before the witching hour, Owain bolted up from his sleep.

Gently, he shook Orla awake next to him.

“Wha—” Owain silenced her with a finger to her lips. As she sat up, Owain pulled her close to him. She noticed he had unsheathed his broadsword as his head swiveled back and forth, taking in the dark night around them. Something rustled in the dark making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“I think someone is out there,” he whispered into her ear. “Grab your sword and dagger. We aren’t far from the border, another hour heading northeast. The way station is only a mile or two east from a grove of redwoods.” He pulled her with him as he made to stand. She went to reach for her pack when Owain quietly hissed.

“We need to move, Orla.”