Nir-yat’s face paled at the enormity of Dar’s request. “Bite my neck! Why?”
“If your life is mine, you’ll be free from Muthuri’s authority.”
“She’ll be angry, and she’ll still have one hold on me. Only muthuris can bless unions.”
“Would she withhold her blessing to punish you?” asked Dar, who hadn’t foreseen that possibility.
“She might.”
“I wouldn’t ask this if my need weren’t great.”
“Why me? I’m too young to be wise.”
There was no word for “trust” in Orcish, for that would require an understanding of deception. Thus, Dar had to explain her reason in another way. “Whenever I’ve sought wisdom, I’ve been told to follow my chest. That’s what I’m doing now. I want advice that springs from love. Even before I was reborn, you took my side.”
“Because you saved brother’s life.”
“I think Muth la has sent me to save more than him. Perhaps, to save all urkzimmuthi. I’m only living mother who has witnessed war. If my reign fails, many others may see it also.”
“I know nothing of wars or matriarch councils,” said Nir-yat. “What use can I be?”
“I’m ignorant of royal duties and etiquette. Little mistakes make one seem foolish, and fools have few followers.”
“If you bite my neck, Muthuri will make my life difficult.”
“I know, so best you live with me.”
“Forever?”
“If I succeed, I think Muthuri will forgive you. If I fail, I’ll perish. Then you’ll be released from your obligation.”
Nir-yat thought a long while. Dar, sensing her inner struggle, waited patiently. At last, Nir-yat spoke. “Sister, I’ll follow my chest.” She sank to her knees, bent her head, and pushed her hair aside to expose her neck.
Dar knelt beside her sister. As tenderly as possible, she bit Nir-yat’s neck hard enough to leave a mark. Then she embraced her.
Othar was surprised by how many officers visited him. He had already seen two sustolums and a tolum, and it was not yet noon. Karg was the second tolum he interviewed. There was a stigma attached to serving in the orc regiments, and the displaced officers were anxious for positions. Othar needed no special powers to perceive their desperation.
The sorcerer had questioned each officer, for spoken answers were more precise than the impressions he obtained through reading minds. Nevertheless, Othar usually based his judgments on the latter. He had already decided that Karg was as unsuitable as the others, perceiving he was unadept with women. Othar was about to take Karg’s mind when he uncovered an interesting memory. “The orc queen served under you.”
Karg looked surprised. “How did you know that?”
“I have my ways.”
“Aye. She was in my shieldron. She was only the orc wench then. Once, I even had her whipped.”
Othar smiled beneath his silver mask. “That must have been amusing.”
“I didn’t do it. Only gave the order.”
Othar discovered another memory—one that was far more useful. “Too bad Murdant Kol didn’t do the flogging.” As soon as the name was uttered, Karg’s thoughts filled with images of a rugged man with piercing blue eyes. Karg feared him, thought Othar, as a cur fears a wolf.
Karg was unaware of the scrutiny. “Aye, if Kol had his way, it would have been the end of her. Then things wouldn’t have gone to shit.”
“Were they enemies?”
“She was the only woman Kol never tamed. He couldn’t abide that.”
“Where is he now?”
“Who knows? The regiments have scattered.” Then Karg’s face went blank as Othar seized his mind.
The sorcerer leisurely probed the memories of his latest victim, seeking additional information. The more he learned, the more he was convinced that Kol would be perfect for his plans. When Othar was finished with his examination, he spoke. “Return to your lodging. Tomorrow, seek out a duel. Lose it.”
After what remained of Tolum Karg departed, Othar called for Gorm. The youthful-seeming man quickly appeared. “Aye, Master,” he said without a trace of subservience.
“I’ll see no more officers. Instead, find a man named Kol. He was high murdant in the orc regiments. Persuade him to see me.”
“A promising candidate?”
“Very promising.”
“Every hanmuthi is Muth Mauk’s hanmuthi,” said Nir-yat.
“Does that mean I must give first greeting?” asked Dar.
“Hai. But don’t state your name, for everyone knows it. Instead, you bless ranking mother.”
“May Muth la bless you?” said Dar.
“Hai, but you must bless her by name. That’s important. Always learn it before you enter.”
Dar recalled with embarrassment visiting Metha-yat’s hanmuthi. “So I’ve been doing it wrong.”
Nir-yat sighed. “You’ve been doing everything wrong. You should only wear green kefs and color your claws same shade. Your nipples, too.”
Dar suppressed a smile. “My nipples?”
“Hai.”
“Why green?”
“It’s royal color.”
“My predecessor did none of these things.”
“She did before washavokis imprisoned her.”
“Where do I get this green for my claws and nipples?”
“It called ‘talmauki.’ Jvar-yat provides it.”
Dar recognized the name. “She’s latath who gave me my tattoo.”
“Hai,” said Nir-yat. “And her lore includes secret of making talmauki.”
Dar clapped her hands and a son entered the hanmuthi. “Tell Jvar-yat to bring talmauki.”
After he departed, Nir-yat spoke. “You should send for Thorma-yat, next. You’ll need to order proper clothes. Then have Gar-yat come to help plan your feasts.”
“Feasts?”
“You must invite each hanmuthi here for feast, starting with most lowly.”
“How will I know which one is that?”
“Yev-yat is lorekeeper. She’ll help you.”
Dar was starting to feel overwhelmed. “There’s so much I don’t know. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“They were forbidden.”
“By whom?”
“Muth-yat. She said it was test of fitness.”
A test she took pains to ensure I’d fail, thought Dar.
Ten
Nir-yat returned to her muthuri’s hanmuthi late in the afternoon, accompanied by two sons who were to fetch her things. To her dismay, Zor-yat was waiting for her. “Why are these sons with you?”
“They’re to carry my chest and sleeping mat,” replied Nir-yat.
“To where?”
“Muth Mauk’s hanmuthi.”
“I thought as much,” said Zor-yat. “Dargu takes you from your work, then suddenly Jvar-yat is preparing talmauki. I suppose you told Dargu about it.”
“Hai, Muthuri.”
“Then you disobeyed me! I told you not to help Dargu.”
Nir-yat pulled her hair aside to reveal Dar’s teeth marks on her neck. “She’s Muth Mauk, not Dargu, and my life is hers now.”
Zor-yat’s face darkened. She glared about her hanmuthi and made a gesture that caused everyone to retreat. When the room was empty, Zor-yat scowled at Nir-yat. “Your foolishness has placed us all in peril.”
“I followed my chest.”
“Because your head’s empty. You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
“I agreed to help my sister.”
“Ask your sister about Velasa-pah. Then you’ll regret your rashness.” Zor-yat sighed with frustration. “Yet that bite can’t be undone. Gather your things and leave. You’re dead to me.”
“Muthuri…”
Zor-yat turned her back to her daughter. “Go!”
Dar was unsettled by how distraught Nir-yat looked upon her return. “What happened?” she asked.
“Muthuri said I’m dead to her.”
The news st
unned Dar. “I’m sorry.”
“She called me foolish, and told me to ask you about Velasa-pah.”
Dar’s stomach lurched at the mention of the wizard’s name. It made her wonder if Zor-yat knew about her vision, though Dar couldn’t imagine how that could be possible. “Did she say why?”
“Thwa. But she said I’d regret my rashness.”
“I don’t know why Muthuri would say that,” said Dar. “You already know of my encounter with Velasa-pah. I told you all about it when I first arrived.”
“Have you had visions of him since?”
Nir-yat’s question came uncomfortably close to the mark. “I’ve had another vision of Velasa-pah,” said Dar, “but I’ve no idea what that vision meant. None of my visions have been comforting; yet not all have come to pass. Some were only warnings.”
“Are you sure?” asked Nir-yat.
Dar realized that she was not. She recalled the horrific vision that had prompted her to rescue Zna-yat. The figure burning at the stake could have been anyone. Her most recent vision renewed the terror of the earlier one. I could be that burning figure! Keeping those thoughts to herself, Dar replied, “It would be cruel of Muth la to send visions of things one can’t change.” Then Dar recalled her vision of Twea’s death and the ambush at the Vale of Pines. Both came to pass despite my efforts.
Nir-yat smelled a whiff of fear. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Sister. I was seeking reassurance.” She sighed. “Muthuri has upset me. She thinks that by helping you I’ve placed everyone in peril.”
“Are you sorry I bit your neck?”
“I don’t understand Muthuri’s thinking. You’re Muth Mauk. What threatens you threatens us all.”
Dar wondered if she should tell Nir-yat about her vision of the burning hall. She didn’t want to upset her further, but she felt guilty about keeping secrets from someone who had given her everything. Dar was still wrestling with the matter when Jvar-yat entered the hanmuthi, providing a welcome interruption.
Using her newly acquired knowledge, Dar addressed the latath in the appropriate manner. “Muth la’s blessing, Jvar-yat.”
“Shashav, Muth Mauk.” Jvar-yat bowed, then set a polished stone tray on the floor. “I’ve prepared talmauki as you requested.”
“You have pleased me,” replied Dar, using the correct formality.
After Jvar-yat left, Dar examined the tray. It held a little brush, a piece of cloth, and two small vessels. The latter were carved from the same dark stone as the tray. They gave the impression of being very old. Dar lifted the top of one. Inside was a paste that matched the blue-green of fir trees. “That’s for your nipples,” said Nir-yat.
Dar touched the paste. It felt like greasy clay. “When do I wear this?”
“Always,” replied Nir-yat. Then she added, “Unless you’re nursing.”
Dar thought the last comment was irrelevant. She applied the paste, then wiped her fingers on the small cloth that accompanied the tray. Afterward, she opened the second vessel. It contained a thick liquid the same color as the paste. “That’s for your claws,” said Nir-yat. She gazed at Dar’s fingernails, then took the brush from the tray. “Let me paint them.”
Dar held out a hand and Nir painted a nail. Instead of coloring its entire surface, she painted only its center so it resembled an orcish claw. “What do you think?”
Dar smiled. “It looks more natural.”
“I think so, too.”
When Dar’s fingernails were painted, Nir-yat painted her toenails in the same manner. Afterward, Thorma-yat was summoned to make Dar’s royal wardrobe. The seamstress stated that kefs of the proper shade would require several days to make because the cloth was woven from specially dyed wool. Producing enough material to make a talmauki cloak would take even longer. Thorma-yat apologized for the delay. “It’s been five winters since queen has lived here. I’ll speak to dyer right away.”
“You can make Muth Mauk’s other garments,” injected Nir-yat. “She need not wait for those.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Thorma-yat, appearing flustered. She bowed to Dar. “I’ll get my samples.”
After Thorma-yat hurried off, Nir-yat spoke. “Sister, let me guide your choices. I’ll praise many fabrics, but when I say, ‘Does this one please you?,’ that is cloth you should select.”
“Why not just choose for me?”
“That would give wrong impression. Great mothers often receive counsel, but they decide.”
Dar appreciated Nir-yat’s subtlety, especially once Thorma-yat returned. When the seamstress had made Dar’s first outfit of orcish clothing, she had brought a few dozen swatches. On this occasion, she was overburdened with all kinds of material. Dar had never seen such a variety of cloth. There was a wide range of colors and patterns, and the material also varied in many other ways. Besides the familiar wool, there was cloth that Dar had never encountered before. The samples ran from sheer to weighty, and the weaves differed greatly.
Thorma-yat presented the plethora of choices without expressing any opinions, but Nir-yat helped Dar without being obvious. She eschewed bright colors and strong patterns, steering Dar toward a rich but understated look. She preferred textured weaves, soft greens and blues, and warm earth tones. Toward the end of the fabric showing, Dar perceived that Nir-yat’s recommendations fit together to create a harmonious look. Having grown up wearing a single homespun shift until it became a rag, the idea of coordinating outfits was novel to her. If it hadn’t been for Nir-yat, Dar would have selected only a few fabrics. Instead, she chose dozens. When the selection was over, Thorma-yat surveyed the pile of cloth. “What garments shall I make from these?”
Dar thought quickly and answered. “I wish to look at them awhile. We’ll speak tomorrow.” As the seamstress gathered up the rejected fabrics, Dar said, “You have pleased me, Thorma-yat.”
After Thorma-yat bowed and departed, Dar turned to her sister. “Why don’t you like red?”
Nir-yat made a face. “Only sons wear that color. You’re Muth Mauk now, not some pashi farmer.”
“Queen Girta has red robes.”
“And she’s washavoki. It proves my point.”
Dar recalled the gaudy fashions she had seen in King Kregant’s court. Their bright, contrasting colors and gold embroidery differed markedly from the fabrics destined for her wardrobe. My clothes will look plain in comparison.
Nir-yat spoke as though she had read Dar’s thoughts. “You’re everyone’s muthuri,” she said. “You should appear serene.” She held up a piece of cloth, the color of willows in a fog. “Look at this weaving. Three different threads were twisted to make this color. This is elegant work. Discerning eyes are mark of wisdom.”
“Among washavokis, only powerful ones could wear bright colors.”
“Here, every mother can choose anything from Thorma-yat’s stores, as long as it’s not talmauki. She can have her neva made from this or that ghastly blue-and-yellow pattern you fancied.” Nir-yat grinned. “You thought I didn’t notice, but I did.”
“I like butterflies,” said Dar.
“Then let them fly on your sleeping cloak, not on your neva. Speaking of nevas, we’ll discuss them next. You should be prepared when Thorma-yat returns.”
The concept of fashion was new to Dar, and Nir-yat’s discussion of clothes seemed in another language. Dar knew the skirtlike garment was called a “neva,” and the paired capes “kefs,” but the rest of the terms were new to her. Dar found the topic dull, but calming. The immediacy of deciding on the cut and hem length for a neva kept darker matters at bay. Moreover, it cheered up Nir-yat, who was clearly interested in the subject and quite opinionated. The two planned Dar’s royal wardrobe until time for the evening meal. Dar sent sons to fetch it, glad that she would not eat alone.
Murdant Kol had forgotten when he had eaten last or whether it was day or night. Racked by fever, he was delirious. His entire body ached and burned, but the festering wound below his shoulder hurt the wors
t. It felt as though a hot poker were pushing into his flesh. He no longer knew where he was. Instead of a dingy room in a shabby inn, he thought he was astride Thunder, whirling his whip as he galloped toward Dar.
He relived the moment again and again, each time thinking it would end differently. He saw the orc queen by Dar’s side, too feeble to flee. He watched Sevren fighting the soldiers, outnumbered and preoccupied. Everything happened at a slowed pace. Dar turned, looking panicked. She groped for the dagger slung at her waist. Where did she get a weapon? Dar turned the dagger in her hand, grasping it by the blade. Then she threw it. The dagger moved through the air so slowly that Kol could watch it gracefully flip so its point was forward. His horse traveled just as slowly. I need only move and it’ll miss me. It didn’t, and Kol was just as shocked—and enraged—as he was the first time. The events that followed were a haze to the murdant’s fever-stricken brain. Something about orcs. There were muddled impressions of an escape and a growing pain. Then Kol was astride Thunder again, galloping toward Dar.
Two men sat on the room’s other bed, strangers as disreputable as their surroundings. They watched Kol, waiting for him to die. “Can’t be long, now,” said one. “He’s out of his head.”
“His stink’s more tellin’,” said the other. “Like rotten meat.”
“Maybe we could hurry him along.”
His companion eyed a recent bloodstain on the dirty wooden floor. “And get what that other fella got? That’s a hard one there, dyin’ or not. Let’s bide our time.”
“Hope it’s worth the wait.”
“Well, he sold that horse.”
The other man laughed. “To a cheatin’ bastard.”
“Aye, the innkeep’s a sharp one, and this fella was half-dead when he came.”
“From where, do you suppose?”
“Taiben, most like. It’s all stirred up.”
Kol was rolling on his sweat-soaked mattress, trying to dodge Dar’s blade, when the door opened. The innkeeper, a rat-faced man, entered and spoke. “Clear out, the both of ye. This room’s been let.”
[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny Page 6