[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny

by Morgan Howell

  “I thought the spell might pass,” said Sevren. “It seems that hope was empty.” He moved to set the chair upright.

  “Don’t bother,” said Thamus. “She’ll only topple it again and perhaps hurt herself further.”

  “I’ve an errand to do,” said Sevren. “Afterward, I’ll come back and take her from your hands.”

  “Leave her with me. The guards will not be kind. She’s vexing, yet I grieve for her.”

  “Karm’s blessing on you,” said Sevren. “You’re a goodhearted man.”

  Sevren left Thamus’ house and went to the guards’ stables. There, he obtained a coil of thick rope, saddled up Skymere, and rode to the corpse pit that lay outside the city. As he neared the place, he noted the lack of tracks in the snow. The frigid air bore only a faint hint of putrefaction. Thankful that it was not summer, when the dead ripen quickly, Sevren dismounted and walked to the pit’s edge. He had hopes of spotting Othar’s blackened body, but none of the frozen faces that peered from the snow were his. Mayhap he’s covered by snow or corpses.

  Though loath to enter the pit, Sevren had no choice if he was to ascertain whether the mage was dead. He tied the rope to Skymere’s saddle and lowered himself among the frozen bodies. A gruesome search uncovered no black robes or charred flesh. The sorcerer was gone, though Sevren felt certain that no one would take his corpse or even willingly touch it. He used the rope to climb from the open grave. Even when Sevren was free of the pit, its odor still clung to him. He shuddered, not from the stench, but from knowledge far more loathsome. Othar lives!

  The conclusion seemed to defy logic, but magic always defied logic. Othar was missing from the pit, and someone was practicing sorcery—someone who moved about in a litter. Valamar had told Sevren that Othar’s body had no feet, so at least the litter made sense. Little else did. Sevren’s conclusion gave him no clue as to what the mage was about. He also had no idea who to tell. Dar’s dead, and Queen Girta’s dismissed me. Dar’s fate had left Sevren resentful toward the orcs, and disinclined to warn them. He supposed he could tell the municipal guard, but decided they would only ridicule him.

  In the end, Sevren told no one beyond Valamar. His friend listened dubiously and counseled silence. It seemed like good advice.

  Thirty-one

  After her meeting with the matriarchs, Dar returned to her hanmuthi to speak to Nir-yat. “Sister, will you go with me to Taiben?”

  Nir-yat bowed. “I’ll do whatever you command.”

  “I won’t command it,” said Dar. “I want you with me only if you’re willing.”

  “I’ve never been to Taiben, or seen any washavokis before you…” Nir-yat stopped herself.

  Dar grinned. “Before I came?”

  “You’re reborn. I shouldn’t call you washavoki.”

  “I still look like one.”

  “I’ve also seen Sev-ron. Are all washavoki sons so small?”

  “Most are,” replied Dar. “Small but dangerous. This journey will be perilous. You should know that before you answer.”

  “Sister, I wish to be by your side.”

  Dar smiled. “Your words warm my chest. Fetch Thorma-yat, for we’ll need new clothes for our visit.”

  When the seamstress arrived, Dar explained what she wanted. “There is washavoki garment they call ‘shirt.’ It covers torso and arms. Nir-yat and I will need several.”

  Thorma-yat looked puzzled. “Why would you wear this thing?”

  “To cover breasts,” said Dar.

  “Don’t washavoki mothers adjust their kefs when they’re cold?” asked Nir-yat.

  “They don’t wear kefs,” replied Dar, “and they don’t cover breasts for warmth. They wish to hide them.”

  “Why?” asked Nir-yat.

  Dar blushed as she explained. “Among washavokis, sons rule mothers. They feel free to take pleasure from their bodies, even if mothers are unwilling. When sons see breasts they aren’t reminded of mother’s dignity and authority. Instead, they feel encouraged to…to…”

  “Give love?” asked Nir-yat a shocked tone. “Give love without permission?”

  “I wouldn’t call it giving love. And some sons do even more than that. They thrimuk without blessing. Washavokis call it ‘rape.’”

  Nir-yat’s face expressed her outrage and horror. “I never imagined such things were possible!”

  “Not all washavoki sons are like that,” said Dar, “but some are. I’ve witnessed it. That’s why we’ll wear ‘shirts’ in Taiben.” She turned to her shaken sister. “Do you still wish to accompany me?”

  “Knowing this, how could I leave your side?”

  Thorma-yat seemed as stunned as Nir-yat by Dar’s revelations, but she also had a job to do. “I’ve never made garment so outlandish. How does one get into it?”

  Dar took a thin, clay-whitened board and drew a picture of a collarless, long-sleeved shirt that fastened in the rear. The seamstress left and returned with some cloth and sewing gear, then attempted to fashion a shirt to Dar’s liking. It took several tries before she came up with a satisfactory pattern.

  Between fittings, Dar discussed another project with one of her mintaris, Tatfa-jan, and his clan’s matriarch. The Jan clan was known as the Iron Clan, but its members did all kinds of metalwork. Dar spoke to the two about what she wanted. “Washavokis expect rulers to display their power in their apparel,” she said. “Powerful sons and mothers dress like gaudy birds. I won’t do that, but I’ll need some sign of my authority and might. I can do that with something washavokis call ‘jewelry.’ It’s object of yellow iron that’s worn on clothing.”

  “What kind of object?” asked Muth-jan.

  Dar pointed to the shallow reliefs carved into the stone walls of her hanmuthi. “Something like that. Flat and small enough to hang about neck. Washavokis call such jewelry ‘necklace.’ Since they prize yellow iron, it should be large.”

  Muth-jan examined the reliefs. “What should this ‘naklas’ portray?”

  “Tree is Muth la,” said Dar, “so tree would be appropriate.”

  “That choice seems wise to me,” said Muth-jan. “Tatfa-jan is skilled in casting.”

  “Hai, Matriarch,” said Tatfa-jan, “but another makes my molds.”

  “Muth-tok is stone carver,” said Muth-jan. “She creates designs such as those on Muth Mauk’s walls. Perhaps you two could work together.”

  Muth-tok was brought in and the four discussed the necklace. Dar wanted its pendant to be the size of a hand with its fingers outstretched, an impressive chunk of gold. Orcs did not especially value the metal, and procuring enough to fashion the pendant posed a problem. However, it was one that Muth-jan felt confident of solving. After the discussion was over, Muth-tok left with Tatfa-jan to work on tree designs while Muth-jan sought to obtain the gold for it.

  When Thorma-yat returned with fabric samples for Dar’s and Nir-yat’s shirts, Dar gave her one more task. “I want band of talmauki cloth to wear about my forehead so it covers this mark.” Dar pointed to the scar made by the king’s brand. “I don’t wish washavokis to see it.”

  “Will this band go beneath your crown?” asked Thorma-yat.

  “Hai,” replied Dar. “And it only need be thick about forehead.”

  The seamstress bowed. “I’ll make one, so you may see if it suits.”

  Dar returned the bow. “You have pleased me, Thorma-yat.”

  When Dar served dinner in her hanmuthi, she felt satisfied with what she had accomplished. It was dark when the dishes were cleared, and Dar was surprised when a son appeared with a message from Muth-pah. “She requests to see you in Great Chamber.”

  “Tonight?” asked Dar.

  “Hai, Muth Mauk. She said it must be dark.”

  “Tell her I’ll meet her.”

  After the messenger departed, Dar went alone to the Great Chamber. She extinguished her lamp when she reached it. The moon had risen and its soft, dim light illuminated the room. She climbed upon the throne and waited for
Muth-pah. The matriarch arrived shortly.

  “May Muth la bless you, Muth-pah.”

  “Shashav, Muth Mauk.”

  “I’m glad for this chance to speak with you, for I’ve thought much about my visit with your clan. After we entered darkness together, did you know I’d be queen?”

  “Perhaps I should have known,” replied Muth-pah. “Yet I didn’t. Visions are always vague. Besides, our clan had waited generations for your arrival. We expected someone glorious.”

  Dar smiled. “Not some barefoot washavoki?”

  Muth-pah returned Dar’s smile. “Certainly not. I thought you were queen’s harbinger, not queen herself. Only when I arrived here, did I learn you were Muth Mauk.”

  “So you were surprised.”

  “Hai, but it made sense. But I didn’t ask to see you to speak about that,” said Muth-pah. “I have gift for you. Heirloom of my clan. It was made by Velasa-pah himself.”

  “It must be precious.”

  “It is. There’s only one in world.”

  “What is it?” asked Dar.

  Muth-pah gave Dar a dark cloth pouch containing a heavy object the size of a woman’s fist. Dar opened the pouch to reveal a smooth, black stone. The darkness permitted a faint glow to be seen within its depths. It moved like a luminescent fog, shifting in shape and color as Dar watched. “That is Velasa-pah’s Trancing Stone,” said Muth-pah.

  The stone grew warmer as Dar held it, heating her hand instead of the reverse. “Is it magic?”

  “Hai. Like you, Velasa-pah was once washavoki. Washavokis speak of Dark Path where spirits go upon death. Do you know of it?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s said spirits leave their memories behind as they journey upon this path, and I believe this is so. Velasa-pah’s stone allows those who hold it to find those memories and relive them. He created this stone after Tarathank fell, so he might recall perished loved ones. Yet, be warned that such glimpses can be perilous.”

  “How?”

  “They can disturb your chest. Some memories are stronger than others. Those of great fear or sorrow are especially potent. I don’t know what Velasa-pah saw, but I know it brought him sorrow. He said that when he gave this stone to my ancestors. He also told them that this stone was meant for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Queen from west.”

  Dar glazed at the stone, fascinated but wary. “How does it work?”

  “Hold it in dark and think of one whose memories you seek. They will come.”

  “Have you ever used this stone?”

  “Only once.”

  “What was it like?”

  “I can’t speak of it. Forgive me, Muth Mauk, it’s too painful.”

  “Shashav for this gift.”

  Muth-pah bowed and departed.

  Dar sat in the dark gazing at the mysterious stone. Its shifting colors fascinated her and also the idea that she might experience moments from departed lives. Her mother immediately came to mind, but the traumatic memory of her death in childbirth made Dar rethink the choice. Dar could easily see how reliving that night would open old wounds.

  Dar also thought of Twea. Her death was even more terrible. But it was also mysterious. Who killed her? Dar didn’t recall Muth-pah saying that the stone revealed only moments that were fearful or sorrowful. Besides, my dreams of Twea are already painful. Could the stone’s visions be any worse? Dar imagined not and yielded to temptation. Holding the stone, she thought of Twea.

  What happened next seemed less real than waking life, but more vivid than any dream or memory. She was staring down at two bare feet. They were small and dirty. One foot swung from side to side, its big toe marking a crescent in the dirt. Above the thin legs was a ragged, oversized shift. Dar realized those were Twea’s feet, as seen from Twea’s perspective.

  “Look at me!” shouted a woman’s voice.

  The view changed to a hard-faced woman whom Dar had never seen before. Yet she knew the speaker. Twea called her Auntie. “Ye’re garbage,” said Auntie. “Yer mother throwed ye away. That’s why ye can’t sleep in the house.”

  The image faded to be replaced by another. Dar recognized the setting. It was one of the army’s encampments in enemy territory. Dar saw Taren stirring the porridge pot, and then she spied herself. She was dusty from the day’s march and burdened with a load of firewood. Then—since this was Twea’s memory—she felt a surge of love. It was so intense that she dropped the stone.

  Dar was alone in the Great Chamber, still experiencing Twea’s love. She believed I was her mother! Seen from the child’s perspective, it didn’t seem impossible, and Dar understood how need and imagination had made it so. She never told me.

  Dar held the stone again and was in a different place. It was dark. She was in a wagon bed, hidden under a coarse cloth. There were shouts and screams horrible to hear. Weapons clanged. She was anxious and terrified. When’s Dar coming? She said she’d get me.

  There were soft thumping sounds at the rear of the wagon. Someone moaned. Dar recognized the sounds, though Twea did not. They were arrows striking someone. Taren’s just been killed, thought Dar, steeling herself for what she knew would follow. Still, she gripped the stone, reliving Twea’s last memory.

  The cloth is jerked aside. “Dar?”

  Not Dar. Soldiers. She had served them porridge just that morning. One speaks. “Nay, birdie. Dar’s been hurt. We’re here to take ye to her. Where’s she at?”

  “I don’t know! She said wait here!”

  “Are ye sure, birdie? Dar’s hurt real bad. She needs ye. Needs ye now.”

  “I don’t know where she is! I don’t know!”

  Sobbing.

  “She’s useless,” said a soldier. “Do we take her to Kol?”

  “Nay,” said the other. “He only wants Dar. He said do it here.”

  A sword blade flies out. It feels like burning. It’s sticking in my chest! Blood! My blood! Burning. Growing darkness. Burning. Nothing.

  The Trancing Stone fell from Dar’s hand, yet pain lingered in her chest. Not the pain of a sword strike, but pain equally as hurtful. Dar wailed with grief and rage. Gradually, rage dominated. It colored the darkness red.

  “Kol!” screamed Dar. “Kusk washavoki!” Washavoki filth! “Ga dava-tak fer!” You killed her!

  Thirty-two

  Although Kovok-mah pined for Dar, he found life in the garrison an improvement over that in the palace. Two barracks had been refurbished for the orc guards. Their circular walls made them feel homier and each contained a proper hearth, which vented through a hole in the ceiling. Reed mats covered the dirt floors, the rough stone walls had been plastered, and wooden doors replaced the hide door flaps. Better yet, another barracks had been turned into a bath with a flagstone floor, a stone bathing pool, and means to heat the bathwater. Even the food had improved somewhat. It was still served by woe mans. They and the black-garbed Queen’s Men were the only washavokis within the garrison, which was otherwise empty except for the thirty-six orc guards.

  The gates of the garrison were always open, and sons went freely into Taiben to serve at the palace. Two orcs guarded the queen by day and another two by night. This number bothered Kovok-mah, for it seemed inadequate. While two armed and armored urkzimmuthi were formidable protectors, he knew they could be overwhelmed. Separating the queen from her troop of orcish guards seemed foolish to Kovok-mah, and he worried that Dar would be displeased by the change.

  Kovok-mah had felt isolated ever since Zna-yat had left for the royal hall. He had received no news or instructions from Dar, and Sevren hadn’t visited the garrison. Kovok-mah had yet to send his report to Dar. He wanted to deliver it personally, but feared that would jeopardize her. After vacillating for days, Kovok-mah acted. He wrote out his account and asked Garga-tok to provide a courier. Watching the messenger depart, Kovok-mah nearly ran after him to trade places. Instead, he returned to the barracks. He opened his pack and withdrew the tunic he had worn on the night Dargu
slept in his arms. He had not washed or worn it since. Kovok-mah held the garment to his face, breathed in Dar’s scent, and sighed.

  Queen Girta gazed out the window at Taiben’s rooftops. After the previous night’s snowfall, the city appeared pristine under a cloudless sky. I used to love winter, she thought. That was before her late husband had taken to warfare. Then winter became a pause between campaigns, a time when drunken men caroused and boasted of bloody deeds. Girta had come to feel that cold weather transformed the palace into a kennel for vicious dogs. But worse than them was the mage, whose ominous presence oppressed the entire court.

  The demise of her husband and his sorcerer should have ushered in more peaceful times, but Girta felt they hadn’t. Instead of the mage, there were orcs, who seemed equally menacing. Rumors of plots bedeviled her, and a string of misfortunes had overcome her closest confidants. Lady Rowena, Girta’s friend from childhood, had been strangled by a deranged servant. General Gotha’s wife had committed suicide, and Lord Nothur’s spouse had suffered a fatal fall. All three women had always provided support and useful insights. Others were gone as well. Military officers, noblemen, and counselors had perished by mischance or random acts of violence. All were good men. Even Girta’s lady’s maid had been murdered by a lover. It had been a trying winter.

  The queen’s bulwark against her fears and misfortunes was General Kol. He was always self-assured, and she had come to depend on him. Sometimes Girta felt that she depended on him too much. There was occasionally something in his manner that sparked her resentment, a condescension that appeared at unguarded moments. These usually occurred when she was speaking to the prince and took the form of a look on Kol’s part. It seemed to say, “Ignore your mother’s foolishness.” I shouldn’t think like that, Girta told herself. General Kol’s my protector. No wonder my son adores him.

  A knock interrupted Girta’s musings, and the door opened before she could respond. General Kol entered and bowed. “Your Majesty, another orc has abandoned your guard. The Queen’s Men saw him leave this morning.”