Chapter 7 #2
The ladies all looked shocked at the familiarity of him calling Orla by her first name.
While she hated being called lady, it was customary to use the title at court.
She was sure Owain knew this, being a lord himself.
But she was also sure that he knew she didn’t like the title.
Had he refused to use it out of respect for her wishes, or did he not care about the rules of court?
Strange, she thought. She inclined her head to the ladies before ushering Owain towards the picture gallery.
The gallery was one of the oldest in Emmental, housing over ten thousand paintings, as well as other items like busts, sculptures, and old artifacts from before the continent of Esrom split into six kingdoms. One could spend several days in the gallery and still not see everything.
When the two walked into the gallery entrance, Owain’s breath caught.
He paused at the entrance of the room, taking in the massive collection of art.
The walls of the room were a dark blue that contrasted beautifully with the gilded frames of the pictures housed there.
The dark wood floor and the soft mage lights gave the grand room an intimate feel.
Seemingly forgetting about Orla, Owain walked towards the far side of the gallery through a set of doors that labeled the art as impressionist, whatever that meant. Orla had enjoyed the breadth of the art present in the gallery, but she was no artist.
He was staring at a particularly impressive painting of a group of Elves gathered around a lake in a city Orla didn’t recognize.
“Do you know how hard these are to come by?” He said it more to himself than to Orla.
It was curious to see him this way. She had only known the male for a day, but from that day he appeared to have two moods: bored and cocky.
Though there was the slightly affronted mood he displayed when she called him out for play acting as a lord.
He hadn’t even so much as glanced at the ladies who had been making eyes at him in the hall. He had been the picture of apathy.
But here, as he walked along the halls of the gallery, he seemed as excited as a schoolboy.
His face was set in an expression that could only be described as awe as he looked at the paintings.
He moved slowly from painting to painting, making remarks on brush strokes and texture.
He would note what this color had meant or what another painting was trying to evoke.
He stopped the longest on a series of illustrations.
All unfinished works that had landed in the gallery because some famous Elven prince or lord had drawn them.
“You’re an artist,” she said. Not a question; it was plain on his face.
Plain in the way he had looked when they walked into the room, and with his knowledge of the various kinds of art and the history of the artists. He looked at the items in this gallery the same way Orla looked at a particularly beautiful flower.
As if remembering Orla had been in the gallery, following him the whole time, he straightened. He looked over his shoulder at her. “I dabble,” he shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that it wasn’t a big deal.
“Hm, seems a strange pastime for a warrior,” she said, repeating his words from yesterday back at him. She couldn’t help the teasing tone as she said it, smirking at him while she spoke.
He let out a loud belly laugh, and a heart-stopping smile flashed across his face. It was a genuine smile, not the cocky smirks he wore most of the time. She liked hearing his laugh, it was deep and resonant. She wouldn’t mind hearing him laugh again.
“Touché,” he said. “I probably had that coming.” He turned and looked at her, his expression softer than it had been over much of the last day.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry I upset you yesterday. I wasn’t meaning to be cruel when I made that remark about the gardening.” He looked earnest as he said it.
Orla knew she had overreacted when he mentioned her being a warrior.
But it reminded her of all that she was supposed to be while here.
For a moment, in the rose garden, she had forgotten the role she was to play.
It was always like that in gardens. She could just be in them.
Even as a child it had been that way, though back then she fought it, hating how the soft flowers made her feel like being a nymph was a weakness.
It had surprised her that she found that ease even with Owain in the garden with her.
She knew better than to let her guard down in front of an enemy Elven warrior.
Especially one she was meant to pass information about to King Mikki.
But it had been so long since she had played this role that she forgot herself.
Or maybe her nymph side was tired of constantly being guarded.
It wasn’t in the nature of nymphs to always be on guard or ready for a fight.
They were creatures meant for a soft life of pleasure and beauty. Not whatever life Orla was living now.
“It’s all right. I also apologize for being rude yesterday. It’s difficult being back at court, and I forget myself sometimes.” All the eyes on her, the expectations. She felt raw, like an open wound being back in this palace, and she had lashed out at him.
In a way she blamed him; if he and his advisors hadn’t come here, the king would have left her to her quiet life in Benin.
Truthfully, she blamed Edam for all her woes.
When she wasn’t busy blaming herself for Rhyan’s death, she blamed them.
If they hadn’t been so selfish, so power hungry, her and Rhyan would have never been on that battlefield.
Maybe that’s why she lashed out at him. It gave her someone to blame for her misery besides herself.
They walked around the gallery for a while longer, Orla looking at the various sculptures of famous Elves while Owain continued to marvel at the paintings on display. They made for the double doors to head back towards the rest of the palace.
“Thank you for taking me here.”
“Only doing my job. It’s open to anyone at court, so you can come back here anytime you’d like. You won’t need me next time.”
“I enjoyed the company.” He smiled gently at her as he said it. He looked surprised as if he hadn’t meant to say it.
They walked in silence for a bit before Owain started asking her about the army and if he would be able to sit in on training.
Orla hardly caught his words; once he asked about where the king’s army trained, her vision started tunneling.
She inhaled sharply, heart beginning to pound in her chest. That hadn’t been part of the bargain; she couldn’t go train with the army.
She hadn’t even picked up her sword to fight in years.
Any time she had tried after Fontina, she was gripped with panic.
She had to maintain composure. Inhale for four, exhale for five. Owain glanced at her, waiting for her response.
“I can ask someone else to take you to see them train,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
“Why? I had hoped to see the great Orla Afeani in action. Maybe practice sparring with you myself.”
Training with the army, sparring with Owain. It would be too much; she didn’t even know if she could remember how to use her weapons. Or worse, she would break down in a panic the second she unsheathed her sword and every warrior would see how broken she was.
“No. I don’t—I’m done with all that, but I can get someone else to take you,” she said in a clipped manner.
Owain held her gaze for a beat longer, making her feel exposed. Mercifully, they made it to his room, effectively ending the discussion.
“The king has asked me to act as guard for you in your meetings later with the other nobles. I’ll be back this afternoon to get you.” And with that, she turned and strode down the hall.
* * *
Orla left the palace and headed towards the stables.
She needed fresh air and an escape. Most of all, she needed to be alone.
Riding seemed like a good way to accomplish that.
She tacked her champagne-colored horse and prepared to ride.
Owain’s suggestion that she spar with him had flustered her so much that she didn’t even bother to change into something more comfortable for riding.
She still wore her silver leather armor, sword and daggers still strapped to her.
A part of her knew that she should inform the king about Owain’s interest in their warriors, but fear consumed her at the thought of it.
What if the king ordered her to take him and spar?
What if she was forced to discuss Fontina in even greater detail?
No, she couldn’t do that. This piece of information would have to stay with her.
She rode for several hours trying to clear her head from the noisy cacophony of thoughts that dogged her, losing herself in the rhythmic sounds of her horse cantering through the grounds.
She thought of riding back in Benin, the tranquility that came when it was just her, her horse, and the forest. She thought of rides with Rhyan and Cessly.
Cessly was never a fan of riding for fun but would join them now and again when the three of them were on leave from duty.
But mostly, she thought of her father, Duncan.
He had taught Orla everything she knew about horses when she was a girl.
He was a proud man with hard onyx eyes, fine horns, and a standoffish demeanor.