Untold Tales (11 page)

A week had passed since their arrival. The days had been filled with banquets, feasting, a week long celebration for the victorious soldiers. For the sake of Yasine, in hopes of catching a glimpse of her, Oenghus endured the court idiots, their flowery speech, and prim little pointed ears; however, in the end, she had not attended a single banquet with the emperor. And while he was glad Soataen was not parading her around like a prize horse, he was also worried. Would she be kept in the palace under lock and key? A cage may be gilded, but it was still a cage.

If not for their bond, Oenghus would have stormed the emperor’s private wing. He could, at least, sense Yasine’s moods, and knew that she was content and safe.

Sensing his distress, Morigan reported daily, assuring Oenghus that Yasine was fine. She had an entire wing of rooms and a walled garden was being extended so she might come and go as she pleased. So why hadn’t Yasine come to him?

One moment, Oenghus was alone, and the next he was not. The Sylph stepped out of a pool of moonlight, and crossed her arms gracefully beneath her breasts. “Stop fretting. It’s tiresome.”

Oenghus did not hesitate, he swept Yasine off her feet and carried her to his bed. In the firelight, he made love to her, slow and purposeful, savoring every curve. When the lovers were spent, they lay intertwined in a tangle of bedding.

The flicker of flame caressed her naked flesh, playing with shadow beneath his eyes. Yasine idly combed his hair with her fingers, brushing the nape of his neck, and tracing the lines of powerful shoulders.

“My attendants have been overly attentive,” she explained. “They didn’t like me venturing into the garden at night. I had to convince them that I was safe and wanted to be alone—not an easy thing when one doesn’t speak.”

“And the emperor?”

“He comes daily, along with his children at times,” she answered. “We eat in the garden and walk. Soataen talks while I tend to the trees and flowers. It is not an unpleasant way to spend my afternoons.”

“It’s dangerous playing the innocent.”

“I am supposed to be a nymph,” she raised a shoulder. “What other role would you have me play?”

“You are helpless as you are.”

“Shall I tell the emperor that I’m the Sylph in disguise?”

“I didn’t say that,” Oenghus grumbled.

“Do not think that I am blind to how my nymphs are treated in this realm,” she sighed. “Unfortunately, my power is diminished here, and in other realms. Still, I do what I can, but more often than not, I can only watch the abuses heaped upon them from my grove.” Sadness filled her eyes, and her hand dropped to his beard, where she curled one braid around her finger. “Sometimes there is truth in legend, you know. And other times—most times—truth is sorely twisted. A nymph does not make men mad, Oenghus. Nymphs uncover what is already there. Man, or god, an individual’s true nature is revealed.”

“Is that why you gave nymphs as gifts to the gods?”

Yasine’s eyes grew distant, looking back over the Ages with sadness. “I learned much about my
allies
.”

He grunted.

Green eyes sharpened. “You think me cruel?”

“Cunning—necessary, perhaps, but not so fortunate for your army of unknowing spies.”

“Nymphs live in the moment, Oenghus,” she explained. “Give them a chocolate, or show them a butterfly, and all is forgotten. But—” she frowned in thought, “—even my nymphs changed during the Shattering.”

“Didn’t everything?”

“Not you.” Yasine pressed her cheek against his, savoring the feel of his beard on her silken flesh. He kissed her throat, tasting the shiver that skipped down her spine. “Eventually, I will have to go to Soataen.”

The kiss turned sour on his lips. Oenghus was Nuthaanian—women chose who and when and as many men as they pleased. But there was no joy in Yasine’s words. It turned his stomach.

Sensing his unease, she tried to conceal her own. “Soataen is hardly repulsive. He is confident, possessed of an acrobat’s body and grace—smooth and muscled, and clean shaven. I wager there isn’t a hair on his chest.” Yasine ran her fingers through the thick black hair that covered his own. “His hands are fine, not coarse as a rock. I shall enjoy him—he’s everything opposite of you.”

“You like every inch of me,” he growled, pulling her on top.

“All nine,” she quipped.

He bared his teeth, and she slid down his body, appreciating every inch until he forgot about the future, her words and worry, and even his name.

Thawing, 1993 A.S.

EMERALD
HILLS
ROLLED
like waves to the sea. A strong breeze cooled the sun as a group of riders meandered over a crest. A copse of trees greeted Oenghus on the other side of a shallow valley. He walked alongside the prince and princess of Kambe, leading his horse, while the heirs to the empire rode. He was eye level with the eight year-old twins.

“Why do you wear a dress?” Sarabian asked.

Soataen chuckled at the question, his gaze resting softly on his daughter. The girl was striking, with the red hair of her mother and the blue eyes of her father. Beyond a doubt, she would grow into a beautiful woman, just as her mother had been. The late empress had died in childbirth and Soataen had not taken another Oathbound.

“It’s not a dress, your highness. It’s a kilt,” Oenghus replied. His rumble was soft, like that of an amused bear. The child was not afraid, but then why should she be? The royal party was surrounded by a ring of the emperor’s Hounds, two nursemaids, and a line of servants.

“It looks like a dress to me,” the prince remarked. Aristarchus Jaal was as striking as his sister, but he had a sharp nose that when he spoke, he already looked down.

“Maybe so,” Oenghus shrugged, “but it keeps my legs free. I’ve a long stride, and—” he stuck his pipe between his lips and deftly untucked the long folds of wool from his belt, lifting the fabric up and over his head. “It makes for a cloak when it’s cold. Pockets and all.” He put his hands in the voluminous space at his sides to demonstrate. “Or you can dress up a bit.” Another quick adjustment and he reached back, draping the loose ends over his shoulder and tying them together to create a respectable sash.

“That’s hardly any better,” Aristarchus drawled.

“I like it, Ari,” Sarabian retorted. “Do Nuthaanian women wear kilts, too?” She wore a stiff riding outfit with voluminous split trousers that retained its appearance of a dress. No doubt freedom of movement appealed to the young girl.

Oenghus shrugged. “They wear whatever the Void they like.” Both children’s eyes went wide at his curse and he received a disapproving sound from their nursemaids. “In Nuthaan, our women rule—bloodlines are traced through mothers. Men have no place as clan chiefs.”

“In Kambe,” Aristarchus inserted, “those with the rightful blood rule.”

“Aye, well blood is thin, your highness. It spills easily in Nuthaan.”

“A testimony to your own daughter’s rule, Lord Saevaldr,” Soataen remarked. “Chieftess Freyr has held the throne longer than any other.”

Oenghus tugged on a braid. “Kari got her mother’s mind and wisdom, and my stubbornness.”

“And fierceness, no doubt.”

“You don’t much know Morigan,” Oenghus grunted. “Don’t get that woman angry.”

Soataen chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Your nymph likes Morigan very much, Father,” Aristarchus remarked.

Oenghus flinched at the possessive term. He looked away, out to the sea of green, before his eyes could betray his anger.

“The nymph is very skittish with all others,” the emperor agreed.

“Including us,” Aristarchus sniffed.

“Give it time,” Soataen replied. “I once had a horse that was as wild as could be. It took patience and persistence, but eventually it responded to me. We Jaals are like a river, my son, the strongest rock will eventually give way to our will.”

Oenghus was on the verge of snarling out a sharp rebuke, but Sarabian’s focus was still on his kilt and the girl’s enthusiasm stilled his tongue. “Father, can I wear a kilt?” the girl asked. Her face was so bright that it softened Oenghus’ mood and reminded him of why he was here in Kambe. Oenghus felt a pang of memory for his own daughters—some grown, most dead. Denying them anything had always been a grueling ordeal.

“If you like, Sara,” Soataen replied. Apparently, an emperor was no different. “I’ll have the tailors fit you for one.” He nodded to the nursemaids who were riding behind. The nod was a silent command, a gesture that Oenghus had seen repeated many times. Soataen rarely issued direct orders. He simply spoke, nodded, and expected everyone surrounding him to take note and carry out his wishes. “What about you, Aristarchus?”

“I do not wear dresses,” the boy said, raising his chin.

“Nuthaan and Kambe are close allies. Dress or no, you would do well to learn the customs of other lands, especially our allies.”

The emperor had invited Oenghus on their weekly ride through the brisk countryside for just such a reason. Oenghus was not the typical Nuthaanian ambassador who came to the palace—he was not interested in court politics or pleasing royalty. Rather than being offended, the emperor found the berserker’s blunt nature a refreshing change, akin to having a wild bear chained in the palace.

“I have, Father,” Aristarchus protested and turned to Oenghus, “Is it true that berserkers feel no pain?”

“We feel it, “Oenghus grunted. “But we use it—same as channeling the Gift. In battle, a berserker is only half the fighter until he is wounded. When the blood begins to flow, he becomes stronger—until he drops dead.”

Sarabian looked thoughtful as she reached forward to stroke her horse’s neck. “Can women be berserkers?”

“Our women aren’t foolish enough to risk the grog.”

“Is that your Brimgrog there?” Aristarchus pointed to the flask on his belt. Oenghus nodded in reply and unconsciously touched the flask out of long habit. “May I see it?”

“You may not, lad.”

Aristarchus bristled.

“It is sacred,” Oenghus explained, holding the prince’s gaze.

“I thought Nuthaanians did not worship the Guardians,” Sarabian smoothly inserted, nudging her pristine horse between her brother and the berserker.

“We don’t,” Oenghus stated. “Only a fool would want to be worshipped. Respect, however, is an honor, and it is earned. But how can we respect someone we have not met, or for that matter, worship something we do not know?”

“You must know your flask very well then, sir.” Amusement danced in the girl’s eyes.

Oenghus barked a laugh. “Most Nuthaanians do, your highness.”

The emperor beamed with approval at his daughter. She had deftly diffused tension with a well chosen word, and accomplished it without prickling prince or guest.

“I have heard,” Aristarchus drawled, “that berserkers cut down their allies.”

“Aye, in the heat of battle,” Oenghus confirmed. “But every veteran knows not to get near a berserker when he’s drunk his grog.”

“Hardly desirable allies,” the prince smirked.

Oenghus bared his teeth. “We are the ones who go first. We soften the enemies for Kambe.”

Aristarchus arched a brow. “That is what a cavalry is for.”

“Berserkers run in front of the cavalry charge.”

“Impossible,” Aristarchus said, but there was more disbelief than demand. “The horses would overrun you.”

“Are you sure about that, your highness?”

Both heirs looked down, and then back up, taking in his height. “Lord Saevaldr
is
tall, Ari. But I doubt he could outrun Snow,” Sarabian said leaning forward to plant a kiss on the mare’s neck.

“Would you indulge my children with a demonstration, Lord Saevaldr?” the emperor requested.

Oenghus chuckled, passing his reins to a guard. “Aye, your majesty. To the tree on that hill over there.”

The Hounds shifted, the servants huffed, and Soataen looked at Oenghus in surprise. The emperor was not often challenged to a race. By the look in his eye, he was not displeased.

“At your leisure,” Soataen said, bringing his horse to bear.

“If you’ll count down, your highness,” Oenghus nodded to Sarabian as he adjusted the folds of his kilt, unslung his targe and slipped his arm through the straps, taking up his war hammer in the same hand so the haft wouldn’t tangle in his legs.

Sarabian beamed, and began the count, starting at ten with an air of breathless anticipation. “Three, two, one—Go!” In the heartbeat between words, the young princess dug in her heels. Both men started in surprise when Sarabian bolted ahead. Soataen’s amusement vanished as he urged his steed into action at the same time Oenghus surged forward.

Snow was a blur of white and the princess clung to the mare’s back as rider and horse flowed through green grass like a white sail over the sea.

Oenghus caught up to the horse at the basin. Snow took one look at the giant racing alongside and her eye rolled with panic. She veered sharply to the side, colliding with the emperor’s steed. Snow tripped, sending the emperor’s horse dancing to the side with a stumble.

As Snow went down, Oenghus dove for the child, knocking her off the rolling horse’s back. Equine and human screams filled his ears. A heavy weight rolled onto to his leg, and then a hoof bit into his calf as the horse staggered upright.