“And how would you describe them?”
I glance over my shoulder to find his mouth curved in a thoughtful frown. “Fierce warriors. Adapted to a humble lifestyle.”
She grunts as if his answer is proof of her claims. “I doubt they’ve ever even seen a rosebush. They’d probably eat it if they did. Mother was corresponding with the king for years through letters couriered by Seacadorian ships. My betrothed is to come of age next year, and with your union to Zander, she was hoping to secure safe passage for me through Ybaris. Then, all Islor would need is for Atticus to flash his dimples at a Kier princess, and our family would have its fingers touching four thrones.”
“Will Zander make you honor the arrangement?”
“Even if he wanted to, they will want nothing to do with me given what happened in Cirilea. Islor is too volatile. Besides, I cannot sail to Skatrana. The sirens do not allow immortals to pass in the waters, and I’d prefer not to spend the rest of eternity at the bottom of the sea.”
I file these sea sirens under “more monsters to learn about.”
“I guess we’ve all avoided marriages arranged by our parents.”
She purses her lips. “Does my brother not appeal to you at all?” There’s genuine interest in her tone.
He appeals to me more with each encounter I have with him, but I’m not about to admit that to his sister. “Forgetting Zander’s utter hatred for me for a second, since I woke up in the hedge that night, he has sliced open my hand, locked me in a tower and condemned me to death, then imprisoned me indefinitely.” I use my fingers to mark the many ways Zander has made my life hell so far. “Oh, and now I’m being forced to play his future queen.”
She smiles. “Is that all?”
“Actually, no. There’s the whole ‘bringing women to his bedroom to feed on them’ issue. I’d say we have a few too many hurdles to overcome.”
“He does not enjoy it, if that makes any difference to you.”
“He sure looked like he did,” I mutter before I can stop myself. But I’ve seen and heard enough to suspect that what she says is true. “Why are you asking, anyway?”
She shrugs. “Most would scheme and kill and trip over themselves to be in your position, even if it’s nothing more than a farce.”
“I’m not like most around here. I don’t have any interest in being a queen. And besides, Zander likes obedient women, remember? I can’t even pretend to be that.”
“That is not the woman for Zander.” She shrugs. “For what it’s worth, I do not think my brother hates you any longer. Or at least, he’s beginning to separate this incarnation from the previous version.” She gestures ahead of us. “Here it is. The nymphaeum.”
I study the stone pavilion and its unadorned surroundings—a stretch of meticulously groomed lawn banked on three sides by tall cedar hedges but otherwise, there are no shrubs or flower beds. The open structure itself reminds me of something that might belong in a cemetery, the four corners comprised of pillars with carvings of the fates. In the center is a simple rectangular stone block maybe seven feet long by two feet wide and a foot high. The back is closed off with a wall decorated in an intricate swirling design.
“This is it?”
“You sound underwhelmed.”
“I just expected something … different.” I step onto the base. It’s not a sacred garden. It’s like an open tomb. And it’s small. I doubt it could fit five people. And where are these nymphs that have supposedly been banished here?
Her musical laughter carries. “Most do.”
Above the block—an altar, perhaps?—is a circular opening in the roof.
“To allow the blood moon’s light to shine in,” Annika explains, following my gaze.
To shine onto the stone.
I press my hand against its cool, smooth surface. Is this the stone Malachi means? There is no “retrieving” this. It must weigh several tons.
“You would not believe how many offspring have been produced on that spot.”
I peel my hand away, earning her tittering laughter. It dawns on me. “When Wendeline said people come to the nymphaeum to be blessed, she meant …”
“They must take the stone and go through the act of conceiving, yes. That is how children are produced. Do you require lessons on that? I’m sure my brother would be willing to explain it all to you,” she teases.
“Oh, I’m sure.” I mock. “But right here. Out in the open. Taking turns.” Wendeline said hundreds of immortals beg to use the nymphaeum every Hudem. I study the long path leading here. Is that where they all line up?
“Their desire for breeding outweighs their need for privacy. And besides, what does it matter? We assume the nymphs are somehow watching it all. They were known to be devilish creatures.”
“Islorians are strange,” I mutter, circling the sex altar. But Annika’s words trickle down my spine like icy water.
She said they must take the stone.
I am supposed to take a stone in the nymphaeum.
Is this what Sofie meant? Did she mislead me in her choice of words? Does retrieving this stone for Malachi mean lying on my back for one of these Islorians in some bizarre ritual? One that would produce a child?
No wonder she didn’t tell me. A flare of anger sparks as I realize I’ve likely been duped. And if she was lying about this, what else has she lied about?
“Something troubles you?” Annika asks.
I’m scowling. I smooth my expression, refocusing on the stone altar and on the little that I know of this nymphaeum. An eeriness clings to the air—of many years and countless histories untold. “Wendeline said Farren came here to open a door for Malachi.”
“You are such an astute pupil,” she mocks, but then points behind me. “That is the door.”
I study the wall of stone and the odd alphabet carved into it in a swirling pattern. For something so old, it is preserved as if etched just yesterday. “What language is this?”
“The language of the nymphs. We cannot read it. No one can, not even the casters. Believe me, they have tried.”
The letters are odd, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, a medley of curves and swirls and circles, some converged, others apart. None run in a linear manner. On impulse, I graze my fingertip across the engraving.
Faint female laughter coils within my ear, as if carried on a breeze.
I frown curiously and retrace the lettering. More faint laughter echoes, a high, playful giggle like that of a response to a tickle. It’s joined by others. “Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Annika asks.
“Your Highness,” Elisaf interrupts in a murmur. “Approaching.”
Annika and I turn in unison to see Saoirse gliding along the path toward us with an air of purpose, a flock of four females surrounding her.
My disappointment swells. It wasn’t something otherworldly that I’d heard. It was one of them.
“Just what we need,” Annika mutters, stepping out of the nymphaeum. I follow her, my pulse racing. Zander told me to stay away from this one. “Oh, look. We were just talking about you.” Annika’s smile for Saoirse is thin as the others curtsy. I assume they are all immortal. There are no ear cuffs to mark them as tributaries.