Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Jarek is suddenly beside me again. “For the record, I do not trust these beings, and I am against walking into this place without your full affinities returned.”
“Yes, you’ve made your position clear.”
“And yet you do not listen.”
I don’t have the energy for this fight. “I’m the Queen of All, aren’t I?”
“Unless you’ve served your purpose by opening the nymphaeum.” He eyes them as a warrior sizing up his adversaries. They in turn watch him with equal wariness. Or maybe it’s the two giant dragons behind me that they’re cautious of. “We know nothing of these nymphs, other than they have the power to hide an entire realm, and they can undo the fates’ work. That is troublesome enough for me.”
But are they the agents of chaos people have come to believe them to be? “Gesine said everything to do with the fates was mostly guesswork.” Fed by vague foretelling and a few old books. Ingrained beliefs that have survived millennia, only to be proven false within weeks. According to Lucretia, they were never banished by the fates. It was the nymphs themselves who chose to leave this world, taking away their power and, with it, the ability for the fates to walk this realm in flesh and blood. And the key to releasing them from their self-imposed exile had nothing to do with the nymphaeum door in Cirilea, but the one at Stonekeep.
“Yes, and it seems we have been wrong about much,” Agatha says, as if reading my mind. “We are all in a state of great learning now, myself included.” She smooths her hands over her skirts. “But your commander is right to be concerned.”
“We must be more than concerned.” Jarek spares her a sideways glance, as if suspicious of her agreement.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out, because we can’t stand here all day.” I step forward.
The gargoyle on the end snarls something in another language, and as one, the line of guards drops to a knee. Meanwhile, the faery-nymphs bow deeply.
“That’s a good sign,” I murmur. “And I didn’t even need my crown.”
“The one you lost?” Jarek throws back.
“I did not lose it. It vanished.” Along with the wings and dress, from the tent where I left it with a servant, on my way to battle last night. He shook as he described the moment it disappeared from his guard, afraid I would punish him.
I check Caindra’s position, who seems preoccupied with a tiny green bird that flutters near her snout.
“You trust her far too much for my liking,” Jarek whispers, as if afraid the dragon will hear him disparage her.
“I don’t think she would have brought me here if I had to worry about my safety. And besides, if it were up to you and Zander, we would never trust anyone, and then where would we be?” Without Kienen and Radomir, who have proven invaluable ten times over. I give him a knowing smirk.
Two lean, leather-clad figures emerge from the shadows of the tunnel then.
A rare, genuine smile stretches across Jarek’s face as he takes in his fellow legionaries. “I never thought I would be happy to see your ugly faces.”
“Nor I yours, Commander,” Zorya retorts, her one good eye crinkling with her grin.
That their swords sit holstered in their scabbards as they pass the nymphs tells me a lot. The tension slides from my shoulders.
“It seems we’ve missed a worthwhile battle.” She passes through the gate. “You look ill. And injured.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Jarek snaps.
Zorya gives me a once-over from head to toe, before dipping her head in greeting.
One of the faery-nymphs—the female in a gauzy green dress that leaves little to the imagination—reaches with clawed fingers for Loth’s arm as he passes. The quiet legionary shoos her away like a horse switches his tail against a fly, earning her titters.
The same gargoyle who snarled at the guard earlier shouts at her now and, with a jolt, she and her companion dash out.
And vanish.
My mouth hangs as familiar childish giggles touch my ears and, a moment later, an invisible fingertip skates across my cheek. I follow the sound of their laughter down the stone path, but they never reappear.
“Yes, they can live among us without us having a single clue.” Zorya confirms my unspoken question, her tone dripping with displeasure at that notion.
Jarek glares at Agatha. “Did your seers tell you about that?”
“I do not recall such a thing.” But by Agatha’s wondrous smile, it doesn’t disturb her as much as it does us.
Zorya’s eye narrows. “You’ve brought another witch here?”
I stifle the urge to groan. I thought we had moved past the legionaries’ loathing for casters. “This is Agatha. She is Mordain’s Master Scribe, and she knows more about prophecy than anyone else.”
“If it appeases you any, warrior, my own guild wants to execute me for my part in all this,” Agatha says.