Page 135 of A Queen's Game
“Gods,” Marietta said, clutching her chest where the fabric dipped low. “King Wyltam, you scared me.” She offered a quick curtsy. At her side, Amryth dropped to a knee, her right hand fisted over her heart.
“Apologies, Lady Marietta,” he said, his expression showing nothing of an apology. “I didn’t intend to sneak up on you.” He looked past Marietta. “Amryth, you are dismissed. I wish to speak to Marietta alone.”
Amryth glanced at Marietta for a second with her nose flared. Gods, she didn’t want to leave, especially after hearing what happened with her previous outing with the King; yet, she was dutiful, nodding her head once before she stood and went back down the hall.
“I’ve always loved this room,” the King murmured, looking up at the female creature at its center.
“That’s surprising, King Wyltam,” Marietta said with a dip of her head. “You don’t strike me as someone who appreciates art.”
A laugh loosened his icy demeanor, the sound like rolling thunder. “And what makes you say that?”
Marietta despised the King and what he stood for, yet she felt compelled to stare. With his skin pallor and black eyes and hair, he was drab; most would overlook the beauty in him. But Marietta saw how he contrasted with the world around him, like the way dark storm clouds could make a rainbow brighter. In all her travels, she had met no one quite like him.
Fascination and anger fought in her gut. Anger for what he represented, regardless if he did not hate pilinos himself, or for allegedly not slaughtering the people of Olkia, because his inaction was just as incriminating. Her fascination was the inability to grasp him as a person, as if he existed behind shifting smoke, letting brief glimpses show through. Curiosity drove her to keep looking for those glimpses.
“Art seems frivolous,” she whispered, taking in his features. “And you don’t strike me as a frivolous person, Your Grace.”
“All beauty is frivolous. The world could be ugly, and yet all would function the same,” he said, glancing at her. “No, I don’t appreciate art, but I enjoy the secrets these statues hold.”
Marietta tilted her head, her gaze finding the inky blackness of the King’s eyes. “What secrets do they hold?”
He smiled—not smirked—but smiled, cracking the cold features with something warm, something personal. The sight made Marietta breathless. “No one knows who sculpted the statues. There’s no record; no book holds the name. Yet throughout Syllogi, these statues are prevalent, exposed to the elements, yet remain unmarred. I can’t help but think of who—or what—carved them.”
Marietta studied the statues, lingering on the nearest satyr. The carved stone was flawless, every detail exact and realistic. Pure euphoria exuded from the smiling face, Marietta sensing it in her core. The female creature at the cave held menacing anger in her expression. The pure, undiluted rage cut deep within Marietta, much of what mirrored her own emotions. “These statues might hold secrets, but they hold something deeper.”
“And what would that be?”
“Pure emotion, like crashing waves,” she said, turning to him. “Just look at their faces, so expertly carved that I can’t help but sense what they feel.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. “And what emotions do you feel? Are they all the same?”
“No. The satyrs are euphoric, carefree. The female creature in the cave holds rage so deep, so heavy, that I have nothing I can compare to it.”
“A naiad.”
Marietta smiled. “I remember my father sharing the stories of naiads. I always loved the one about Callithyia.”
The King raised a brow at her. “That is a very uncommon feyrie tale to recall. What do you remember of it?”
“I’m surprised you even know of it.” Marietta turned her attention to the fountain. “Callithyia was a naiad to a water fey of the elemental domain, ordered to protect one of the fey’s rivers. The feyrie tale said she was beautiful enough to draw the attention of a powerful arch fey who stole her from her river. Callithyia tried to escape, but the arch fey caught her. As punishment, he transformed her into a white cow, thinking being a beast would dissuade her from ever leaving his side again. However, Callithyia was determined to be free of his control, be it as a naiad or as a beast. When she eventually escaped, the arch fey sent his minions after her, so she was destined to roam forever in order to remain free.”
“It’s a dour story to be a feyrie tale you love,” noted King Wyltam.
“I’d argue that it’s inspiring,” Marietta said, glancing at the King. “That no matter what body you are in, your freedom is worth fighting for.”
“Quite a parallel to you.”
Marietta took a deep breath, the likeness not lost to her. For the King to point out the comparison sent chills down her spine. “They’re just stories, anyway.”
“Stories hold meaning. Just because they’re imagined doesn’t mean they don’t hold significance.” The King paused, stepping to Marietta’s side. “Do you believe they ever truly existed?”
“The fey?” she asked, turning to him. “I’m not sure. My father always said it was possible that they had existed, even though no one alive had ever seen them. We have all these stories, all this knowledge about them. Do you know about the domains?”
A slight smile hinted at his lips. “I do. Elemental, beastial, botanical, and ethereal. Each of the domains responsible for their own ilk and creatures.”
“Exactly. Sometimes their world seems too complex, too elaborate to be stories.” Marietta said, turning to the satyr statue before them. “When I first saw the statues in the Central Garden, I couldn’t help but be in awe. Their renditions were always how my father described such fey creatures. I wish I could meet the artist.” Their skill was similar to that of Tilan’s, to the detail woven into the nymph dagger that she loved.
The King’s smile deepened as he inspected the nearest nymph. “They were indeed a master of their craft, and I’m glad they caught your eye. You and I are more alike than I thought.”
