by Aaron Crash
Sinaj loved a man who already had a dozen wives. This man, this king, lived in a castle in the clouds, held there by the most powerful of Moons magic. Sinaj only had one skill: she could cook. This was where Tori would generally laugh and say at least as a dwab she could fix things. Her laugh would be wistful, every time.
The story went as people would expect. Poor Sinaj won the man of her dreams through her xocalati, giving him such a lust that twelve wives couldn’t keep him satisfied. He married Sinaj, and she cooked for him and his wives, and all of them were so happy in their castle in the clouds.
Such a comedy might have sold some candy, but a tragedy would sell more.
The king was killed by a demon, who hated him for his happiness. The castle fell from the heavens. Many of the wives were killed, and those who survived left to find other husbands. Sinaj’s wings were broken in the battle, but she’d stabbed the demon through its heart. She was a hero. She was shattered.
Ever after, Sinaj couldn’t tolerate anyone’s touch after knowing such passion with her husband and his harem. She was penniless, and yet, she wanted to share her gift with the world. This was the Amora Xoca. Sinaj made the candy delicious, but she also cast magic so that others might enjoy the passions she would never feel again.
Tori would then shake her head sadly. It was so expensive getting such a rare delicacy from Tubaqua through the Scatter Islands and up the coast. The Undergem Guild’s tariffs were very unfair. The only reason it was at Old Ironbound was because Tori loved it so, and she wanted to share Sinaj Pjolin’s gift. Sinaj only received pennies despite the price tag.
The pretty dwab begged people not to tell anyone, not a professor, not the Princept, and certainly not the proprietors of The Paradise Tree because if anyone found out, Sinaj’s business would end, and the thought of her life’s work being stuck on a dock in Reytah would break her poor, tragic heart. Tori would sniff back tears.
Almost every word of the story was a lie. There was a port city called Tubaqua, and there was a legend of a Wingkin woman named Sinaj Pjolin. An obscure text referred to her as a warrior who slayed dragons, like the far more well-known Lalindra Namenri. Lalindra had been a historical figure. Many thought Sinaj was fiction. Regardless, very few would connect a cook with such a minor heroine. Besides, Ymir liked the exotic sound of the name.
This story was for the women at Old Ironbound, not so much for the men since the market was ninety percent female. Lillee had laughed at how very dramatic it was. At the same time, she cried for poor, tragic Sinaj. Ymir liked a story as much as the next person, but he wasn’t built to write fiction. For his elf girl, it was as natural as breathing.
They sold out of the Amora Xoca in three days, at full price, a platinum sheck a pound. That was half of the sum Ymir needed. He wanted to pay back Jenny, and he would once they made a couple more batches. The swamp woman wouldn’t hear it. As for Tori, the dwab said the ingredients and packaging wouldn’t be a problem for a while. That greatly helped their profits.
Ymir needed more money for tuition, both for himself that year, and for himself and Lillee the next. They’d have to double the batch because raising the prices might make even the most starry-eyed customer pause. Also, Sinaj Pjolin shouldn’t become too greedy
At least now they had a cover story for why it took so long between batches. Poor Sinaj was working as hard as she could and sending it all up north.
One afternoon, in her mezzanine office, Ymir worked with the Princept on a payment plan. He’d pay half of his tuition then, and half at the end of the year. When Della asked how he could afford it, he smiled and said he’d made some friends who had enemies in StormCry. He mentioned Jennybelle’s name a few times, but he never outright said she was paying.
The Princept surprised Ymir by not asking too many questions. She was thinner, her face pale, and she was clearly distracted. At her desk, he caught her staring down at someone. Turning, the new half-elven professor, Hayleesia Heenn, returned the heated look.
Della did a relatively good job hiding the exchange. Not good enough. Being in love altered a person. The Princept hardly looked at his request to get the Scrolls of Obanathy. She checked to make sure it contained simple cantrips, then she signed her name, folded the letter, and stamped the wax closed with a special stamp with an intricate design.
They had three weeks until the Third Exam. Della hadn’t seen anything new in her Flow magic, but she said she would ask Haylee—the half-elf was gifted in a variety of magic, not just Moons.
Ymir left the exchange worried for the Princept. Calling the professor Haylee and not Professor Heenn was a mistake Della would not normally make. Or maybe the Princept, her lover, or both, had gotten some of his xocalati. It wasn’t that powerful a magic, but it did stir a person’s loins.
Jenny ate a piece every night. All the sex helped her sleep, yet she was still struggling, withdrawn, and drinking too much kaif during the day, too much wine at night.
Lillee said that the Amora Xoca muddled her thoughts too much to enjoy it, either the taste or the more amorous aspects of the confection. That meant they had to stop by The Paradise Tree to buy the elf girl normal xocalati. So far, neither Nan Honeysweet nor Ziziva let on they suspected they had competitors at the school.
On his last day of work, he’d given Gurla a kiss on her cheek, which she growled at. She said if Gharam learned the barbarian had kissed her, he would come for Ymir’s head. The clansman had laughed and left.
Free, finally, free, with no other work but schoolwork, Ymir got serious about researching Flow cantrips, Focus rings, and demon summoning. Those books were harder to get, and the few that were in the Coruscation Shelves were mostly pedantic warnings about how the world was better off without summoning magic. Or morality tales that all ended with the summoned demon eating the summoner.
Life was school, his classes, Jenny and Lillee, and secret smiles with Tori. She hadn’t needed an Inconvenience Partner. And they were out of the Amora so she couldn’t have tried any anyway.
Monday, the beginning of March, the rain changed from cold to lukewarm. Spring was right around the corner—still cold at night, the days were getting warmer.
Ymir took the Princept’s letter of permission to Gatha, who sat at her desk, reading a modern Homme romance, a novel based on one of Willmur Swordwrite’s plays, the Tragedy of Ckaj and Niadne.
Ymir wanted to tease her. Why wasn’t she reading the original text of the play and not some cheap imitation? He stopped himself. It wouldn’t be the right way to start. Besides, the task before him wasn’t going to be easy, and Gatha had already showed she’d not be an easy one to tempt. She’d enjoyed the xocalati sample he’d given her, but it hadn’t been enough to win her heart.
“What?” she grumbled. “What books do you want? I’ll only get you five. I hate it when you ask for more.”
“No books, Gatha,” he said. “Can I sit down?”
Gatha wore a white tunic with a large brown belt that matched her boots. It was somewhat formless, but her breasts and hips couldn’t be hidden. The white made her green skin seem darker. She motioned for him to sit.
He laid his satchel down, full of his sand parchment and his grimoire. If all went well, he’d need them. Ymir sat and put his hands on his thighs, feeling the leather of his pants. He and Lillee had hung their storm cloaks on the hooks at the entrance of the citadel. The elf girl was at his table above them on the second floor.
Gatha hissed out a sigh. “This is new. And annoying. I don’t want to chat. I’m at my favorite part of the story.”
Ymir knew the story. “When the lovers first fall in love? Or when they kill themselves.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not as interesting as the priest. It’s his story, really, and how he was forced to serve his gods by breaking the rules he swore he’d uphold.”
“The old gods,” Ymir said. “Willmur Swordwrite liked to set his stories in the Age of Discord, which makes sense since there was so much dra
ma back then. Do you think the priest did the right thing? The lovers died because of what he did.”
Gatha spit out her disgust. “They killed themselves. Archaka Lawreen wasn’t to blame for that.” She sighed, then she lost control of herself. Her tusks popped out of her mouth, from out of her jaw, sticking up above her front lips. “He was put in an impossible position. And his gods were silent. He had to choose, and I believe he chose to do the right thing however wrong. There is law, and there is chaos, and this world can be too cruel for either, in the end.”
Ymir couldn’t have asked for a better segue. “Gatha, you were there, in the shower. You know someone is trying to kill me and possibly Jenny.” He set the sealed and stamped permission letter in front of her. “The Princept has allowed me access to the Scrollery. She’s given me access to the Cantrips of Obanathy, but I need the Scrolls of Octovato. I can make a ring, a powerful Flow magic ring, to help find out who the assassin is.”
The she-orc ripped open the letter, read it, and slammed it down. “What you are asking me to do is wrong. I could get reprimanded or worse. You’re a clansman of the north. You know about honor. Yet, you would ask me to tarnish mine?”
Ymir leaned forward. “In the north, on the Ax Tundra, we are a free people. Yes, we know honor, but we also know this world doesn’t give two wet squirts of shit about our honor. We do what we must to survive, to keep our families safe, and to keep our clans safe. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I’m alive. My family is alive.”
Gatha still had her tusks out. With her dark pink eyes, she looked like a monster. If they met on the open tundra, he’d have attacked her immediately. And yet, this monster was bound by so many rules. How could the Gruul court war, personal combat, and honor, and yet be so bound?
Gharam Ssornap said every man serves something. You simply had to be careful what you served. Gatha served the library. She had given it her life. She clearly loved the books more than anything else. She had no friends or lovers. She only had her library. And he was asking her to risk it all for him.
The she-orc’s growl came from deep within. Her response was short. “You’re not my family. I owe you nothing.”
“The archaka wasn’t family to either Ckaj or Niadne. You said it yourself, this world is too cruel for pure law, and even when we long for pure chaos, we are put in chains.” Ymir knew he wouldn’t win her over with logic. In the end, he would have to appeal to her heart. “Remember how you felt when the flames nearly took me? I heard your concern, Gatha. We aren’t family, but we are something. If I die, how will you feel when you pass my table up on the second floor?”
She retracted her tusks. The pain was evident in her eyes. “You are a troublesome sort, aren’t you?”
“I am.” He nodded. “You take me down into the Scrollery. You lead me to the Cantrips of Obanathy. You turn away while I copy the Octovato document. We return here.”
“And why would I not simply bring you the Cantrips of Obanathy like I bring you other books?” That question meant she was considering his plan.
Ymir had the answer. “There are numerous works by Obanathy down there. The scrolls below aren’t bound in iron. They are delicate, and so you didn’t want to risk any damage. I pressured you, I was relentless, you finally relented because of the Princept’s letter.”
“You take the blame. I appear weak. I am not weak.”
Lillee approached them, gliding across the floor in her cape and tunic. She asked uncertainly, “Is it all right if I sit down? I heard you two talking. The sound carries when the lightning isn’t cleaning the books.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t talk secrets in the Librarium,” Gatha warned.
“That isn’t a problem at my table,” the clansman said. He’d chosen it partly because he wanted a view of the Princept’s office, but also because of the acoustics.
Gatha’s eyes went to Lillee, up her body, and to her face. The she-orc touched the side of her own temple. “The mark of the Sullied. I’m sorry.”
Lillee didn’t get her invitation to sit, but she sat anyway. “You don’t need to apologize to me. I’d rather not talk about it.”
The she-orc shrugged, and her eyes found Ymir’s. “She wanted chaos. She was bound by the laws of her people.”
The Sullied elf sighed. “I wanted law, Gatha. I was given chaos. And then I was marked because of that gift.”
Gatha raised her eyebrows. “You call it a gift?”
Lillee reached out and found Ymir’s hand. “I used to think of it as a curse. I’m changing my opinion, though. More and more, it feels like a gift. My lust draws people together. My lust gives the people in my life such pleasure. And afterwards? We know love. Such a powerful thing that brings so much joy must be a gift. A little chaos. A little law. Mostly love.”
Gatha picked up the letter. “Reading about Archaka Lawreen has put me in a mood. We’ll go down, the three of us. If I’m to break the rules, I might as well shatter them completely. It’s what I fucking did before, and I might as well do it again.” Her laughter came out shredded with bitter amusement and savage regret. “You have little idea of who I am, Ymir, or the impossible battles I’ve fought.”
He stood, went over, and looked into her eyes. “Someday, I think, you’ll tell me.”
She laughed. “No. That day will not come. But tonight? Tonight, I can smell the chaos in the air. I can feel the call of the old gods, the warrior and the reveler. Tonight, perhaps, you two can do me a favor. I’ve kept my rahgaht in her cage far too long.”
Ymir grinned but said nothing. Sometimes words could destroy events, especially when lust was involved.
Chapter Twenty-Two
LILLEE FOLLOWED THE she-orc to a locked gate in the southeast corner of the citadel. Stairs circled downward on the other side of the bars. Lillee adjusted her essess. She’d felt Gatha’s eyes on her, and the “favor” she mentioned was clearly sexual in nature. The idea didn’t excite Lillee, it couldn’t, but it did have her thinking.
How would Lillee answer Ymir’s three questions? How would Gatha?
The she-orc was as isolated as Lillee, though in Gatha’s case, it was clear she wanted it that way. There were many other Gruul women at Old Ironbound, and any one of them would’ve welcomed Gatha. The Gruul were a race who enjoyed camaraderie, drinking, fighting, and teasing one another. They were warm, in their way, far warmer than the Ohlyrra. Kacky and Gluck’s relationship had that warmth, that love, though the pair liked to say the most terrible things to each other. Kacky laughed at Gluck, claiming she had the figure of a lamppost, while Gluck teased Kacky that the university would go broke trying to keep the fat she-orc fed. Kacky would pat her stomach proudly, proclaiming she was just giving those horny orc-fuckers more skin to love. The pair were brutal to each other.
Gatha was different. She was alone. The only places Lillee saw her were the feasting hall, the Librarium, or the Sunfire College. The she-orc librarian wasn’t even carrying a full class load, which was strange.
Though Gatha had the wide jaw, Lillee couldn’t help but think of her as pretty, with her long hair she kept so clean and those rose-colored eyes, full of passion. She hated as passionately as she loved. Of course, her long hours training for battle had left the she-orc with a lean body. It was a testament to her beauty that she had curves at all.
The she-orc touched the gate and whispered, “Ignis fascinara.” An internal lock clunked and she pushed through. Sunfire torches flared to life, one after another, in sconces on the wall.
Lillee didn’t comment, but Ymir did. “That was fascinara magic, but you didn’t use the common incantation. Gatha, you’re an imprudens, are you not?”
The she-orc scowled. “I’m Gatha of Ssunash, the princess of the Pits, death’s bride, war’s wet cunt. I didn’t have the luxury of learning magic slowly. It was either know the enchantments or die. I didn’t want to die.”
The she-orc’s words were harsh, but they also sounded desperately sad. Gatha’s life hadn’t
been easy, that was for sure, and it was tragic that her few years had to be so hard. Orcs only lived a half century—she was nearly through with her years.
The fact saddened Lillee. Her first century and a half might’ve been painful, but the elf girl still had centuries left to enjoy all the many lessons she’d learned.
“So you’re an imprudens who can do fascinara magic.” Ymir’s voice bounced off the stone walls. “Gharam said you had a story as odd as my own.”
“That word, ‘odd,’ makes it sound interesting or colorful,” Gatha said. “My story is wretched. Or it was until I came here.”
“Why are you at Old Ironbound if you’re so advanced?” Ymir asked.
Gatha growled, “So I can ruin my life more, obviously. Now hush!”
Lillee found herself liking this hard woman, so tall, proud, and confident.
Down they went, deeper and deeper, until the stairs levelled out. They were fifty feet underground if they were an inch. There was another iron gate. Beyond was a dark room, large and cavernous. Being so deep under the stone made Lillee think of the exam rooms in the college towers.
Gatha touched the gate and again used the powerful magic. “Ignis fascinara.”
“Why Sunfire magic?” Ymir asked.
“The burning flame of knowledge? The irony of fire and paper together? Who knows?” Gatha pushed open the gate. Lamps flared to light in a massive rectangular room as wide as the citadel was long. There were long rows of tables down the center. On the sides were the dungeon cells, remnants from when the citadel had been a fortress—every cell matched a letter of the alphabet. Each of the small rooms held a latticework of hexagonal stonework behind iron doors. Scrolls lay in the rock honeycomb. There were also shelves everywhere, between the cells, mixed in with the tables, and all around. Those shelves held a variety of books: some bound in leather, some bound in woven reeds, some books large, and some books small. Some volumes matched each other, but most did not.