Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (3 page)

She shouldn’t go back. She should forget she had ever discovered the strange mirror and the man trapped inside. She should put it all out of her head at once, and never think on it again. For Isabel and Rodric, for her own sake and her own skin.

But a small voice in the back of her mind still hummed. If he protected his people so fiercely, withstood the king’s cruelty without betraying them long enough for his wounds to heal into scars, maybe he could survive.

And maybe, if she was careful and cautious and secured his help, she could do more than survive. Maybe she could live.

The next morning, she slipped out of her room while Isabel still slept, determined not to be caught by Alviss at breakfast. He’d threatened to come knocking upon her door the night before, claiming an interest in the surroundings in which she spent so much of her time, and she had no interest in being available to him there, either. How she’d managed to keep him from taking her to his room the night before, she still was not certain, but he seemed to enjoy her discomfort. Mistaking her barely contained disgust at his pawing for the trepidation of innocence.

She was innocent, but even if she had been practiced, she still would not have welcomed his touch. For the first time, she fully appreciated her mother’s disdain on the wall. Arianna was beginning to think she’d prefer an orc in her bed, too. At least then she might have some hope of escape, for in all the stories, orcs were brutish, stupid beasts, and even with their pig-noses, they could not slobber as much as Alviss did. All she’d have had to do to escape the orc was pretend she wasn’t in her room when he knocked on her door.

The servants were already at work in the kitchens, and the headwoman never refused her a basket of bread and cheese, no matter what the king would have said. How her kindness had survived in the king’s castle was a mystery Arianna did not wish to solve, for fear of bringing any attention to it, but she thought from the soft lilt in her words, perhaps the woman had come to Gautar with her mother. Which perhaps explained why she seemed to care for her princesses, even if she had no love for the king.

“You’re much too thin,” she said, pressing the food into her hands. “Run along now, before the steward catches you.”

Arianna did not hesitate, setting out at once for the north wing and the tower that stood bleak and empty. At least the king’s captive, whoever he was, could not paw at her. And Alviss would never find her, for he would not risk the king’s displeasure when he wished for so great a boon as a princess for his bride.

With one final glance down the hallway to be sure no one had seen her, she eased the heavy door open just wide enough to fit through. It shut as silently as she had crept, and her stomach unclenched at last. But she froze inside, her back against the door, her gaze caught on the mirror.

His broad shoulders rippled as he straightened, muscle upon muscle beneath grey-green skin, emphasized by black tattoos and puckered with deep, ribboned scars and still weeping wounds. She hissed in sympathy, knowing too well what must have caused them, and the pain… One taste of the whip had been enough for her, and he had been served a banquet, time and again.

He stiffened with a grunt, glossy black hair falling between his shoulder blades as he half-turned his head. His face was still in darkness, but she could have sworn his eyes glowed yellow. The basket fell from her hand, landing with a thump on the floor.

“You again.” Iron rang against stone and he was gone, nothing more than shadow behind the glass.

She swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat and bent to retrieve the basket, her thoughts whirling. Green skin and yellow eyes. And those markings all over his body, to say nothing of the way he was shaped to begin with. She had never seen a man with muscles like his. Not even the strongest of her father’s knights came close to his size.

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“You will win no sympathy from me.”

She sidled along the wall to the embrasure. The wind was cold, but she needed fresh air to clear her head. Her mind couldn’t make sense of it. “You’re not human.”

The chains clanked, but he said nothing.

“I’ve never seen—” she stopped herself, her mother’s words too fresh in her thoughts.
I’d just as soon spread my legs for an orc.
But there was no such thing. That much she knew. Even Alviss had given up his attempts to hunt them. “Some of the men brag about facing dragons in the far north. Is that what you are? Some kind of dragonkin?”

He snorted. “You know so little of your own world, too busy grasping for more to understand just how far you have overreached. Dragonkin! If I were, I would not be held by iron fetters and a magic mirror.”

“Is that what it is?” she asked, diverted from the puzzle of his body by the strangeness of his prison. She studied the frame, carved from a knotty wood and stained with something dark and ugly. The markings along its frame made no sense to her, round and sharp at the same time. She frowned. Hadn’t there been markings like these on the queen’s headboard, as well? And the tapestries on either side of her door. It was so long ago, she couldn’t be sure. “A magic mirror?”

“Your king is a foul monster playing with forces beyond his ken.”

“But…” She touched the stain, her fingers coming away sticky. “Magic and dragons and elves. Those are just stories.”

The chains scraped as his shadow resolved into gray-green skin and a wide, powerful chest. He wore only a tattered loincloth, and his front was as muscled and marked as his back, with three distinct triangles interlocked over his heart.

“You know
nothing
,” he snarled, yellow eyes glowing beneath a heavy brow. His pale lips curled to reveal eye-teeth as long as her little finger, curving up like a boar’s tusks.

It took her a moment to find her voice again, and she only managed a whisper, her mouth too dry for more. She strained to see more of his face, half shadowed and so strange. The marks on his chest—they were not so different from those carved into the frame. “What are you?”

He lifted his chin, drawing back into the darkness until all she could see was the glow of his eyes. “I am orc. And I swear by my Ancestors, when I am free, your king will suffer our wrath.”

She stared into the mirror, unable to tear her gaze from his, and forced herself to step forward. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He growled again, a low rumble that vibrated in the pit of her stomach. “Then you are as foolish as your king.”

“Perhaps,” she said quietly. But her blood roared in her ears and her heart lurched at the thought of a race of these creatures, powerful and terrible and not stupid at all. Creatures the king should fear. Had her mother known they lived? And if there were orcs, there must be elves as well, and her mother had known. She was certain her mother had known. “Or perhaps I simply feel something stronger.”

He stirred, his glowing eyes raking over her, his tone grudging. “And what is that?”

She smiled and raised her hand to the glass. “Hope.”

But her fingers passed through the framed glass as if nothing stood between them.

CHAPTER TWO

Bolthorn charged forward, throwing himself at the glass. She jerked her hand back, eyes wide with fear, and the pounding of her heart in his ears as he smashed against it.

Solid again, now she no longer touched it, and he was thrown back again by the force of his leap. He roared with frustration, so great it overwhelmed the pain. The barrier between them had not so much as rattled, but he could feel the impact deep in his bones, aching dully.

“I don’t understand,” she was saying, her voice wavering. She reached out as if to touch it again, and he tensed, ready this time to fling himself forward without delay. If he could only reach the other side, his bonds might be severed…

But she stopped short of the glass, dropping her hand. Her cheeks, already rose-bitten by the cold, flushed a warmer pink. “If I try it again, will you hurt me?”

He growled, crouching on the other side. Blood magic did not respond to just anyone. Was the king so foolish he had sent his own daughter? But surely he would have commanded her not to touch the glass. Unless he did not know the limitations. Bolthorn smiled slowly, baring his tusks. Her heart fairly leapt in her chest, though he could not be certain if it was fear or—or something else.

“If you free me, I will owe you a debt,” he said, his voice rough with the nearness of his escape. “But I am bound by honor. I will not betray my people, Princess.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “I’m not—you’re mistaken!”

“Am I?” He grinned now, for that was fear quavering beneath her words, though she raised her chin, masking it with defiance. If he could provoke her, what might she do to prove him false?

To prove him true.

She turned away, hiding her face in the curtain of her dark hair. A rich brown, perhaps the match of her eyes, though he could not quite tell in the poor light. From experience, he knew he saw better than the king in the dark and more than once he had used it to his advantage to evade the worst cuts of the whip. But he wished now he could see better still, to tell if her eyes were the color of freshly turned earth in the river valley, or the deep umber shot with red that his people found in the mountain clay of the far north.

“I have bread and cheese,” she murmured, crouching beside her basket. “If you promise you will not harm me, I would share it with you.”

“Dipped in poison?” he asked, his lip curling.

“No.” The bread steamed when she broke it, and he drew a deep breath, scenting the yeast. His eyes closed in pleasure. He could not remember the last time he had eaten fresh bread. Before he had found the passage through the mountain, to be certain. Long before he had found himself trapped here. She held it out to him, just shy of the glass.

He grunted. “I am to trust your word?”

She tore a piece from the loaf, bringing it to her lips. He watched her with narrowed eyes as she chewed and swallowed. A crumb caught in the corner of her mouth and he lurched forward half a step, though he did not know why. By force of will, he kept his hands at his sides, fisted tight.

“Will you trust me now?” she held out the bread again.

“I trust the bread, at least.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Can I throw it to you?”

He shrugged. “If you will it, perhaps.”

She bent again, wrapping the half loaf in a cloth, then she rose and came toward the glass. Her forehead creased and her eyes searched the space between them. She would have been beautiful as an orc; the clan marks would have made her eyes look even darker and more liquid. And there was strength there, beneath her fine clothes. The same strength which turned fear into hope, perhaps, though he did not understand how it was so.

He pressed his palm against the glass and her gaze locked upon his hand, her expression softening. Her hand rose up, hovering on the other side, so near he could almost feel the heat of her skin. And then she raised her eyes to his, warm and entreating.

“You have not given me your promise.”

“Nor will I.”

She withdrew, back to the wall and her basket on the floor, and his chest tightened. So close. So close, if he would only trade his honor.

“What must I do then, to prove myself?”

“Free me,” he said at once. “Free me, and you need not fear for your safety.”

“I wish I could believe that were so,” she murmured.

He dropped his hand. “Surely you cannot blame me for refusing your trust, when you do the same.”

Her lips twitched. “It is the king’s wrath I do not trust, my lord Orc.”

She threw the parcel then, and by reflex, he caught it, moving far too late to take advantage of the moment for escape. He cursed low and harsh but she banked his anger with a laugh, her eyes alight with her success. He could not really blame her, he thought, all things considered, but that she took the risk chafed as much as the iron fetters that bound him.

“My gratitude,
Princess
,” he growled.

The light in her eyes died, and her face drained of color. And then she left.

Much better, he decided. Fear was something he understood.

She would have stayed away, she told herself, if she’d had anywhere else to go. But Alviss was insufferable. Worse than insufferable. At least the king’s motives she understood, but with Alviss—she did not know his plans for her at all, and even if she had not been put off by him before, he would have made her uneasy now. She’d had no choice but to go to his rooms after supper the night before. The king had ordered her to entertain him until midnight.

“You’re far too pale, Princess,” he’d said, circling her like a wolf. Now he had her to himself, and with the king’s blessing, it seemed he meant to take his time. Though with what, she still was not certain. “I’m not permitted to mark your flesh, but surely the king wouldn’t refuse me the right to add a touch of color to your skin. Here and there.”

When she’d heard the change of the guard signaling midnight, she’d had bruises blossoming in spots from her shoulders to her bottom, all created by the deliberate application of his thumb, pressed deep into her flesh. She’d learned quickly to bite her tongue on any sign of her pain. His enjoyment of it was much too obvious, and she was determined not to give him any more pleasure than she absolutely must.

And so, the following morning, she found herself in the tower room again, another basket in her hands, with bread and a bit of honey, and a prayer to the Ancestors that whoever he was, the monster inside the mirror might be willing to bargain.

“Back again, Princess?” the orc said when the door had shut behind her.

She swallowed, searching his eyes for some trust between them, some binding, but the orc only bared his teeth. A smile or a threat? She could not tell from the way he loomed, half in shadow. “If the king learns of this, there will be no forgiveness. Bad enough I am hiding, but to come here of all places…”

“What do you hide from, that you prefer the company of a prisoner?”

Her cheeks burned at the memory of Alviss forcing her to stand before him naked while he stared and circled and spoke of all her faults. She turned her face away before he saw the evidence of her shame. “Nothing.”

“You make a poor liar.”

“And if I spoke truthfully, would you believe that, either?” She set down her basket in the pool of light falling from the slit of the embrasure. His eyes followed her, she knew, but it was different from the way Alviss had watched her. Safer. Strange, that. “You don’t deserve it, but I brought bread enough for both of us.”

He snorted. “I did not ask for your kindness, Princess, and I will not be bought with bread.”

“I only wish to buy your silence, not your honor. Do not speak of my coming to the king, I beg of you. This is the only refuge I have left.”

“Strange that you would choose to find safety in the company of a monster.”

She laughed, the sound strangled and strange even to her own ears. “You’re less of a monster than many in the king’s court, I promise you. It was different before the queen’s death. She tempered his cruelty with small kindnesses, protected those who could not protect themselves. The servants and the maids. No man was permitted to meddle with them, noble or not.”

“And you would have me believe that is all that you are? A maid hiding from the importunities of a noble you cannot escape?”

“Why not?” She was a maiden, at least. And Alviss was a nobleman. It was hardly a lie at all.

“Your dress is far too fine for a servant,” he said, his yellow eyes narrowed. “And while you may have shown meekness at first, you’ve thrown it off like an ill-fitted cloak.”

“What do orcs know of clothes and servants?” she demanded. All her life, she’d been told stories of beasts, and this orc had more sense than the whole of her father’s court, put together. She was not certain if it pleased her or infuriated her, but surely it meant he must know something that would help her, something about her mother’s place in all of this.

The chains rattled and he hissed. “Quickly, then, if what you say is true. Your king comes, even now.”

“What?” She spun to face the door. A half-step toward it and she froze. If he was already in the hall, she could not escape. He would see her leave, and know.

“You cannot run,” the orc said as if reading her thoughts. “There is only one way, now.”

She strangled her fear, turning back to the creature behind the glass. He stood less in shadow now, watching her. His yellow eyes seemed to pierce her soul, and with the dim light that reached him, she saw the other marks, beneath the tattoos and the scars. Bruises. She hadn’t noticed the bruises before.

“Gather your basket,” he said. “Quickly!”

She snatched it from the floor, another transgression, that basket. Her fingers fumbled, thick and slow, and she nearly dropped it when she heard the first murmur of the king’s voice. Why had she been so foolish as to bring it here? If the king knew of the headwoman’s kindnesses, she would suffer for them. Whipped at the least, if she did not lose her position altogether, and all because Arianna had been too careless. Just as she and Isabel had gotten Rodric punished for trying to protect them from Alviss.

“Come through the mirror,” the orc said, stepping back. “Come through, and I will make certain you are not seen.”

Footsteps paused outside the door as she stared wildly between it and the mirror.

“Come!” he demanded, his low voice carrying the weight of a king’s. He held out his hand, palm up, as though he might pull her through. “I give you my word, I will not harm you.”

She reached out, a shiver slipping down her spine as her fingers passed through the glass. His hand closed around hers, glowing eyes locked on the door behind her. He jerked her from her feet, lurching back from the frame with a clatter of chains until he held her pinned against a damp wall.

The darkness swallowed her whole, the shadows so thick they pressed upon her, cold and clammy.
Let it be enough.
If the king found her here, it would be her death even more certainly than if he had found her on the wall nine years ago. Both their deaths.

“Do not move,” he breathed, and then even the spare comfort of his body against hers was gone, a bone-deep chill replacing his warmth.

“Bolthorn!” It was the king’s voice, and she closed her eyes against it, fearing he would see the shine of them in the dark. “Show yourself, beast!”

“I am not your dog, Gunnar,” the orc said, the words ground between his teeth. “I will not come to heel at your call.”

The snap of the whip started her trembling. Her lungs burned, and she reminded herself to breathe. Carefully, slowly, quietly.

“Would you rather I come in?” the king asked.

The chains rattled, and when she dared to look Arianna did not see more than a darker shadow moving against the dim light of the tower room.

“Try it,” the orc growled.

Her father sneered. “One day even you will bend your knee to me, orc. I’ll have what I want soon enough, if not from you, then from another. And when your women are hanging from the gallows and I drink the green blood of your children, you will regret the insolence you’ve shown me now.”