by Megg Jensen
"There was an assassin here. She was taken off guard when I entered. That's when Hugh took his own life. I didn't have a chance to stop him."
"So he took away her kill. Now she has to choose to tell her guild master she failed or keep her silence, though her dark lord knows she failed. What a quandary." Hilthe chuckled, her hands on her stomach.
"How can you laugh at a time like this?" Ademar asked. "He also put me in a difficult spot. I, too, have a secret to keep. I can tell our order what he did, or I can pretend he's a martyr."
"Hugh would have wanted you to keep up the pretense." Hilthe sat in a chair, resting her hands on her knees. "Hugh never did anything by accident. There may be more we do not yet know."
Ademar pressed his lips together. Preaching against the cult of death when his master had taken death into his own hands. It made little sense.
"Why don't you lead our order?" Ademar asked Hilthe.
She laughed again, her hair dancing as her shoulders shook. "A woman? Lead the Order of the Sun? It's unheard of. Who would listen to me, other than you?"
"If they would only hear what you have to say—”
"They would hear me, but they would never listen. Most men think a woman should be silent." Hilthe grabbed a pipe from Hugh's stash. The bowl was already stuffed, and she lit it using the candle on the side table.
Ademar thought of the female assassin who had tried to kill Hugh. Clearly someone, somewhere, thought she was worthy of such an important task. Still, Ademar knew Hilthe was right. Her words would go ignored by the Order, no matter how wise she was.
"Well, if you choose to stay, I would appreciate your counsel." Ademar knelt on the floor at Hilthe's feet. "I know so little. Our master taught me everything he could, including the value of your ideas, but I don't feel ready for what's coming."
Hilthe patted Ademar's sandy hair. "Of course, my dear. But don't expect me to service you the way I serviced Hugh. He wasn't just my employer. He was also my lover, and a damned good one."
It was Ademar's turn to laugh. "I swear I will never ask you to be my lover."
"You're young enough to be my grandson. It would be scandalous. Still..." Hilthe let her eyes roam over Ademar's body. "If you ever need an introduction to pleasuring women, I wouldn't turn you away."
Ademar swallowed hard. He had pledged to remain a virgin in dedication to the Order of the Sun. As had Hugh, he thought. There was much he didn't know. "I appreciate your offer."
Hilthe cackled. "It was only a jape, young boy. You couldn't handle me anyway." Hilthe winked and stood. She glanced down at Hugh's body once more. "I loved you, old man, though I am not surprised at your end. You used your last moments to spread the gospel of the Order of the Sun. You will be missed. But I think we are in good hands."
Hilthe extinguished her pipe.
"Hilthe, I want you to leave for Soleth with Matthew. I will stay here to wrap up Hugh's business." The priest had immersed himself in orc society as no other human had done, even becoming friends with many of them. Ademar had accompanied Hugh as he walked among the orcs, but always sat in silence in the background, awed by the orcs and their lives, so different from his. "I don't know if I'm worthy, though."
She turned to him, squinting her right eye harder. "You are, Ademar. You just don't know it yet."
Ademar wandered to the window after she left, resting his hands on the sill. He looked out at the dark night, punctuated by an uncountable number of stars. One shone brighter than the others. It was the star his order looked to guide them. Instead of twinkling like the others, it maintained its light, telling them perhaps there was more to life than seeking death. It gave them the strength to spread their word, to teach others of goodness. To preach the sanctity of life.
Ademar sighed, his shoulders drooping. It would be a long road without Hugh's leadership. Still, he would persevere. He believed in the teachings of the Order of the Sun as deeply as Hugh had. At least he thought Hugh had believed. Ademar couldn't reconcile Hugh's suicide with their teachings, though Hilthe seemed to understand. Perhaps in time, with meditation and prayer, he would understand, too.
A scream ripped through the still night. Ademar leaned out the window, looking for someone in distress. Seeing nothing, he backed away.
In spite of his grief over Hugh, Ademar hoped it wasn't the assassin who cried out in pain. She had only been doing her job, as Hugh and Ademar had been doing theirs. The orc lifestyle, though very different from the one Ademar grew up with, had its own intricacies. Hugh had taught him to see the light in every living being, no matter how much darkness surrounded them. Ademar couldn't help but wonder if the assassin had light in her heart, too.
Chapter 3
Nemia crouched in a dark corner of the throne room, her black hair falling over the right side of her face. She took in long, labored breaths, her chest aching with each inhalation. Another young orc girl sat on a smaller throne next to Nemia’s parents. Raven curls cascading over her shoulders. Tusks decorated with precious jewels. Her bright brown eyes were attentive to the line of commoners stretching from the throne to the outer door.
They had brought chickens, grains, jewels, and slaves. All tributes to Nemia's father: King Rafe, Lord of Agitar, Keeper of the Night.
"Princess, you are stunning today, as always." A peasant dropped to his knees in front of the girl on the throne, proffering an emerald in his pale hand.
The girl leaned forward, her eyes quizzical. "You are so pale. Are you from Agitar or a neighboring village?" She snatched the emerald from him.
"My dear." Queen Agamede put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Children should be seen, but not heard. Particularly when they ask inappropriate questions." The queen whispered the last sentence, then turned her gaze to the orc who was still bowed over. "We accept tribute from anyone who is loyal to the Lord of Agitar."
He stood, a mop of light brown hair flopping over his eyes. His tusks were cracked and splintered. The sign of an orc who'd had a hard life of labor. "Thank you, my lady."
The girl tossed the emerald from one hand to the other, clearly bored.
Nemia held back a sniff. She would never make such a ridiculous remark to the common orcs. They should be treated with as much respect as possible. A princess should be a shining beacon of the Lord of Agitar, not a nattering imbecile. If Nemia were allowed to sit on the throne where she belonged, she would make her parents proud.
Instead, they’d chosen a slave girl to be the princess because their own daughter was too hideous for the public.
Nemia crept out of the throne room through a cleverly hidden hole in the wall. The scene made her sick. Lowly Sabniss, the slave girl, pretending to be Princess Nemia, First of Her Name, Future Bride of Agitar. It was nauseating.
Would the orcs really revolt if Nemia took her true place on the throne? Her mother used to snuggle Nemia on her lap, whispering the truth in her ear.
I love you so, so much, but the orcs must love you, too, not fear you.
It was the same mantra every night before bed. For years, Nemia believed it. She thought doing her duty to the crown meant hiding from the other orcs. Allowing Sabniss to play her role in public.
The night Nemia turned eight she realized the charade meant never living in the light. She'd never rule. She wouldn't marry. Sabniss would. Sabniss would have her entire life, the life Nemia was born to.
When Nemia confronted her mother, the woman she'd loved so dearly had tilted her head to the side, her expression one of confusion. “Oh, you poor thing. You aren't the princess. You are the servant Sabniss. Have you forgotten again?" Then she called for the nurses to take Nemia away.
Grasping Nemia's arms with gnarled fingers, they had dragged her down the hall, her heels digging into the stone floors. By the time they'd taken her to the infirmary and forced her to swallow a pill that made her care much less, Nemia's feet were shredded and bloody.
It was a week before she could hobble. Two before they released her to Sabniss's pare
nts, living in the underground servant quarters.
When she questioned Sabniss's mother, the woman averted her eyes, neither confirming nor denying Nemia's claim she was the true princess and their daughter had been stolen from them. Instead, she remained quiet, lips pursed as she went about straightening their tiny abode.
It was no more than a cell carved deep into the walls of an abandoned mine. Logs stacked in rows, alternating direction with each layer, held up their entryway. A wool blanket hung from the ceiling, landing only a whisper above the dirt floor.
Sabniss's father only came home at night, to eat and sleep. He worked deep below in the mines. Nemia quickly learned he was deaf. The cacophony of axes against hard rock had destroyed his hearing. Sabniss's mother spoke to him with gestures, and occasionally he would hold her face in his palms while she mouthed words to him. It was sweet. Nemia's parents never treated each other with softness. Her father and mother ignored each other when they weren't in public. Her mother once told her it was the duty of the queen to provide heirs, and no more. Few royals were lucky to find love in their marriages.
Sabniss would be one of those wives someday. She would serve a king as Nemia's mother served her father. Except Sabniss was stupid. Uncultured. She could never learn how to carry herself as a queen. Her small outburst today was proof.
Nemia rolled her eyes as she headed down the hallway. She ran her fingers along the damp walls, shivering at the dampness. It was uncomfortable. Nemia liked being uncomfortable. It gave her a strange pleasure.
She strode past her abode, continuing down the hall, her eyes focused sharply on the entrance to the mines. Instead of turning right into the active part of the mine, she turned to the left, plunging herself into darkness. Her fingers still on the wall, she counted steps, turning left after twenty steps and turning right after thirty. Three more steps and she sidestepped between two rock walls that, even with a torch, to the unprepared eye would appear to be one solid wall.
"Azlinar?" she whispered.
"Come closer. Let me see you."
Nemia took four more steps, then stopped. She dropped her arms to her sides as two hands rested on her head. Fingers entwined in her hair. Thumbs rested on her cheeks. Then her hair was pulled back from her face.
Nemia held her breath, refusing to flinch. The first time, Azlinar had slapped her for not trusting him. Now she knew better.
His fingertips found her right cheek. He traced the lines of her curse, the thing that had kept her from her duty as princess. Traveling over the bumps and valleys, Azlinar's touch sent shivers down her spine.
Her whole life she'd been ashamed of her hideousness, of the raised red birthmark swirling on her cheek like a tornado. Others would see it as a bad omen. Azlinar was the only orc who had ever stared at her in awe. He had cajoled her until she followed him into the abandoned cavern. He had promised her things she would never get elsewhere.
Power.
Respect.
Love.
"You are beautiful." His hands dropped.
Nemia tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart. No one ever said she was beautiful before Azlinar. He saw past her curse and into her soul.
"Thank you." It came out only as a whisper. It was all she could manage. At twelve, and the height of self-consciousness, Nemia knew how to properly receive his compliment, but she didn't believe it. She was ugly, no matter what he said.
"A well of magic has opened." His voice echoed in the dark.
"What?" That was the last thing she'd expected to hear from him. When she'd received his message, imploring her to meet him in the cavern, she'd expected something quite different. In the past, they had mainly spoken of their god, Drothu, and their devotion to him.
"You can wield it. The princess, the true princess. You must use the new magic and save us all."
Nemia balled her hands into fists, her fingernails cutting into her flesh. She could never be the true princess. Her parents wouldn't allow it. As for magic? Yes, some had it, but not her. Never her.
"Yes, yes. More of that. I can feel your magic rising." Azlinar's hands returned to her face, caressing the cursed birthmark.
Nemia leaned in toward Azlinar. "The only magic I have comes from you. You make me feel strong." He was the only orc who treated her as whole, not damaged.
"No. You are powerful in your own right. Tonight you will learn to access magic. Dark magic. But only if you are prepared..."
Nemia shied away from him. She liked Azlinar because he had never feared her. He spoke to her plainly. He let Nemia be Nemia. But this... speaking of power and magic? She had been born to royalty, but other than her birthmark, there was nothing exceptional about her. Magic was for those chosen by Drothu.
Azlinar grabbed Nemia's shaking hand. "I can feel it coursing within you. Your power is unparalleled. Consider me your humble servant. Allow me to teach you. To bring you to your full potential."
"I'm afraid."
"Open yourself to the power of Drothu. Close your eyes. Breathe."
Nemia did as he asked, despite the fear growing inside her. She'd touched darkness in her anger, anger usually kept locked up by fear. But Azlinar wanted her to peek at it again, to bathe in the feelings that scared her so.
A dark wave crashed over Nemia as she gave in to her deepest, darkest thoughts. Rage exploded inside at how her parents had treated her.
"It is beginning." Azlinar reached up, resting his fingertips on her cheek once more. "Yes. It has grown."
"What? The birthmark? It's larger?" Her frantic fingers reached up to her cheek.
It was as he said. Her birthmark had once only covered her cheek. Now it swirled under her chin and over her nose, nearly extending to the left side of her face.
Her heart pounded. "No! I can't cover it with my hair now. I will have to drape fabric over my face. I won't be allowed out in public any longer. More than just a curiosity, I will be feared. Attacked. Stoned."
"You will never have to fear again." Azlinar took Nemia's hands in his. He opened her palm. A faint light glowed upon her skin, projecting onto the ceiling of the cavern. "Think of your parents. Think of how they discarded you as if you were garbage."
Azlinar reached up, pushing sideways on her lip until it was pierced by one of her tusks. "Drink of the blood."
Nemia sucked on her lip, swallowing the blood as if it were a draught of water. Her body felt as if it were lit on fire. Flashes of warmth crawled up her neck.
"Delve deep," Azlinar said. “Feel all of it.”
Tears streamed down Nemia's cheeks as she recalled all of the hurt she'd never allowed herself to feel until that moment. She'd loved her parents. They'd hated her. Feared her. Discarded her. The deformity wasn't her fault. She'd done nothing to deserve the way they treated her.
Nemia thought of her mother, the person who, above anyone, should have loved her and protected her. She imagined her mother's neck. Such a beautiful hue of green. So smooth. Nemia's hands trembled as she brought her fingertips together. Then she squeezed, imagining them around her mother's neck. Squeezing until there was no life left.
She choked, dropping her hands into her lap, feeling guilty. She would never kill her mother. It was a momentary fantasy brought on by intense feelings.
"I will teach you. Serve you. Together, we will save Agitar."
Nemia's head fell into her hands as tears poured down her cheeks. She hated the darkness lurking in her soul.
Chapter 4
Damor rested in the palanquin, his head weary against the feather pillow. "Take me outside."
The palanquin remained in place. His lazy bearers were probably sleeping again.
Damor coughed, phlegm rattling in his throat.
Still no response.
He reached with one bony, pale hand, his fingers waggling outside the light linen. "Take me outside," he demanded again.
"Huh?" The stupid orc on the left mumbled.
"Outside!" Damor screamed. "Now!"
"Wake
up, Gashta. The mage needs to go out!" The palanquin shook as Nishta kicked her twin sister.
Damor rested his head in his hands. He'd asked the queen for new bearers to replace the incompetent idiots he'd had before. These weren't any better. He'd specifically asked for orcs because they were strong. They had been captured on the border of the Barrier Mountains. Apparently, these two had traded their brains for brawn.
The palanquin teetered to the right as they lifted. Damor clutched the linen, his long fingernails catching in the fine fabric, pulling the threads out. The linen would need to be replaced... again. Damor hated disorder. It distracted him from the deep concentration he needed to maintain his magic.
Most who wielded magic could rely on their bodies to support them when their magic was low. Without his magic, Damor's body would give in to death. He'd already died multiple times and only come back to life on the strength of his magic. He accredited it to the power of Sornal, the life-giving god of humans.
The two orcs finally found their rhythm, carrying the palanquin at an even clip without threatening to dump Damor from his throne of pillows.
"Where do you want to go?" Nishta asked.
"To the queen. I must speak with her immediately." Damor had been jarred from his nap by a vision. A nightmare of the future. Fire. Death. Destruction.
Queen Lissa respected his visions. She believed them, and Sornal had rewarded them both for their faith. The visions came true. Damor's worth had been established, and the queen had elevated him to the royal seer, displacing all the others who had won their favor through trickery. Damor's visions were true, straight from Sornal.
Today's vision was a dire warning.
"Hurry," Damor said, his breath catching in his throat.
When he became excited, his blood pumped harder and his heart struggled to keep up. He could feel the veins throbbing on the left side of his chest. Damor forced himself to breath more slowly. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. His eyes closed, blocking out all the extraneous noise from the world outside the tent.