Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (5 page)

“Your Highness,” Lord Alviss found her at once after she entered the hall. “We missed you at the morning meal.”

She forced herself to smile. “I left early to gather the last of the herbs before winter freezes them all in earnest.”

“Ah,” he said, his fingers closing too tightly around her own. “You must forgive me then, for absenting myself this afternoon. The king called a hunt.”

Of course he had. What better way to salve his private humiliation at Bolthorn’s hands than by bleeding some other innocent thing in return. In his most foul moods, the king preferred to toy with his game, making it a wager to see how many arrows the poor beast would take before dying from exhaustion and loss of blood. Those who showed pity and aimed true were punished harshly if they were caught. None dared anymore, but Alviss delighted in the king’s reinvention of the sport.

“What did you hunt, my lord?” she asked, keeping her interest no more than polite.

“Boar.” He led her to the long head table. “The tusks were magnificent.”

Arianna hoped he did not feel her shiver. Tusks, not unlike Bolthorn’s. And if the king had his way, it would be the orc’s head pitted on a stake as a trophy for all to see. Her stomach churned at the thought of Bolthorn’s warm glowing eyes made empty and dull. All for nothing. All because she hesitated, betraying his kindness and refusing to act.

But if the king was truly her father… Even if she had never known her father’s love, had never loved him? Did it matter at all? She was her mother’s daughter, without question, and her mother would have acted, would have done what she could to protect even an orc, if he were made helpless by the king. Her mother would have acted—but would she have gone so far as to kill her husband?

Mother, guide me now. If you are with us still, protect me.

And what would become of the kingdom if he died? One of her brothers would inherit the crown, but they were young yet. Would any of the nobles stand loyal to her brothers or would they simply kill them and marry her sister to secure the throne? But she had to believe in Isabel. The Ancestors had protected her, always, and even if she were married to a fool, she did not believe any man would risk the ire of the queen, even in spirit. And Isabel would have Rodric to protect her, as well.

There would be no knowing how the kingdom would settle until the time came, and by then she would be well away. Free, but at what cost to all those she left behind? Isabel would protect the innocent, she felt certain, all the more powerfully if she were made queen. And as for the men who stood by now and did nothing, men like Alviss, who only saw her as an object of desire, a sign of the king’s favor and a vessel for his pleasure, why should she care for their fates?

His hand settled upon her thigh beneath the table, his fingers forcing an intimacy she could do nothing to stop. She waved for a servant to bring them wine. Perhaps if she got him drunk enough, he would fall asleep before he managed to violate her any further. She would simply have to encourage him to drink freely of the king’s good wine, for how often would he have the honor of an unlimited supply?

When she felt the king’s eyes upon her, she fed Lord Alviss from her own hand and smiled.

Seven days, she reminded herself. In seven days, all of this would be behind her.

The tower room was black as pitch, but she could hear the scrape of the iron chains as Bolthorn stirred within the mirror. The moon was no more than a sliver, and no light came through the narrow windows.

Arianna felt her way along the stone to the wood frame and the emptiness inside it. Empty but for Bolthorn. Her fingers grazed his warm skin, puckered and calloused as his palm. He caught her hand and drew her in, his yellow eyes glinting in the dark. His heart sped beneath her cheek when she pressed it against the hard muscle of his chest. Strong and fast, just like hers, even if his skin was grey-green. Tonight they were much alike, beaten and bloodied for the sake of others. He held her like so much blown glass, unwilling to let go but afraid of his own strength.

Her shoulder was bare where her dress had been torn and the chill night air sent a shiver down her spine. She breathed deep, taking comfort from the earthiness of his body, but the tears still spilled, splashing hot against cold skin.

“Shh,” he murmured, though she hadn’t said a word. “You are safe, now.”

For a time, a fleeting moment. No one could touch her here. No one would see her red eyes, or her swollen face. Not even Bolthorn, while they remained in the dark.

And in that moment, free within his prison, she wept.

“Dawn comes, Princess,” he murmured into her hair. The scent of wine and roses filled his nose and her hair tickled his jaw, but he had not dared to move once she slept at last. Nor did he ask what had happened. Her torn gown told him enough and her quiet sobs stuck like arrows deep into his chest.

He brushed her hair from the smooth skin of her shoulder and she sighed, lifting her face from the curve of his neck. She was so small, fitting across his thighs so easily he had barely noticed her weight. Or perhaps it was the warmth of her body that distracted him.

She rubbed her face, blinking the sand from her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, then froze, straining to see what the darkness had hidden from him. Her mouth was swollen, her lower lip split. He growled under his breath. “He struck you.”

She ducked her head, her hair falling in a curtain between them. “I—refused him. So he forced the issue. It was foolish.”

“Brave,” he said. “You should have been born orc, Princess. Your strength is wasted here.”

“Are orc women free?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. “Will I be free?”

“Yes,” he promised. For the price she would pay in blood, he would make it so. He was Gothi, and though he did not often make use of his power, he could give her that much in return for her aid. No orc would question her right to it, in all honor. If she followed him that far.

For a moment, he saw her in the village, her face tattooed with the black marks of his clan and her satin gown traded for supple leather. For a moment, he saw her waiting for him, her eyes warm, welcoming him home after a long hunt. Beautiful and strong. His chest tightened and so did his arm around her waist.

“I would like that,” she said softly.

He couldn’t bring himself to admit that the same hard won freedom would prevent her from returning.

Not yet.

CHAPTER FOUR

She left him not long after and Bolthorn turned it all over in his mind, struggling to dampen his rage. It did him no good while he waited behind the glass, and he did not wish Arianna to believe his anger was for her.

His fingers itched to encircle the man’s throat. How did this Alviss not see what she was worth? Bolthorn snorted. No honor. Just like his king.

Soon enough, she would be free, if she could only avoid the man a few days more. He hated being trapped this way, unable to stop her suffering. The iron fetters chafed his wrists more with each moment Arianna was gone. He should be with her, looming over her shoulder. No man would dare touch her then. No man would ever touch her again, once they left this place behind.

And what would she think of that? A life spent in huts instead of castles, cold and bare. He had so little to offer her. No fine silks, no soft beds. Their rough-woven wool would scratch her smooth skin, and in the winter… It was far colder in the mountains during winter. Even if he bundled her in furs he could not be sure she would survive outside. And then what? What would she do during those endless winter nights, when the sun did not rise at all and she was trapped within the warm circle of the fire?

Better trapped there than left to the mercy of her father. Better months of darkness than beatings and abuse. Surely she must agree. Surely after all she had endured a simple life would not be without its pleasures. And he would see to it that she was given all that they had to offer.

He would have to persuade her. They may not have so many fine things in the far north, but if she wished it, he could bury her in gold and jewels. They kept mountains of them for trade with the elves. Ah! The elves! He had not even considered what they might provide. Fabrics so fine what she wore now would look like rags, and magic—a fur lined cloak woven with the right magic, and she would remain warm through all but the deepest winter storms.

Bolthorn smiled, settling to his heels and leaning back against the dank stone wall. Once they arrived in the mountains, he would show her how a princess should be treated. He would see her eyes light with laughter and her lips curve with joy, all her sorrow forgotten.

The door swung open and he rose, moving forward to greet her. He had not expected her back so soon, but all to the good. They had much to discuss, much to plan.

The chains stopped him, jerking his arms back before he reached the glass, then tightening even further. He stumbled back a step, then another, and a third.

Bolthorn cursed, struggling against the pull, but still his back hit the wall.

The king stepped through the mirror, setting a torch into the bracket just inside the frame. The flickering light spilled over the small room. Bolthorn threw his weight against the chains with a roar, ignoring the cut of the metal against his wrists.

“I’ve decided to accept your challenge, orc,” Gunnar said. A flick of his finger and two more chains slithered from the stone, coiling themselves around Bolthorn’s ankles like snakes.

The king smiled and bent, retrieving his whip.

“Shall we see who wins?”

With a split lip and a blossoming bruise on her cheek, it had been easy to convince the headwoman to fill the basket to brimming with food. Sympathy and pity had resulted in more than just bread and cheese, but a skin of wine for her discomfort, cut only lightly with water; several apples; and a large portion of smoked pork, so she need not show herself for the mid-day meal.

Arianna had accepted each gift with sincere gratitude and slipped out of the kitchens as quietly as she had arrived. As a child she had perfected the art of ducking into alcoves and hiding behind tapestries to avoid being found by her maids and tutors, and she found that her skill had not faded in the years since. When she reached the tower, she breathed relief.

Until she heard the king’s voice behind the door. She jerked her hand from the iron ring and stepped back, her eyes searching for the deepest shadows. She prayed to her mother’s spirit that it would be enough, tucking the basket beneath her skirt and pressing herself against the wall. No alcoves here, no tapestries, only darkness. She hid her hands behind her back and turned her face away from the door, letting her hair fall across her cheek and chest.

The door opened and she held her breath. If she so much as twitched, now…

“Such a pity,” the king said, pausing in the doorway. “We might have conquered the whole continent by now, if you’d only seen fit to help. A little magic, a little brute force, and we would have persuaded them all, one way or the other. But don’t worry, I’ve found an even better way, now. It seems I’ll have a use for my cuckoo, after all.”

The words froze her completely. And even after he left, the door shutting heavily behind him, her mind raced. His cuckoo. The queen’s cuckoo. Her. And if he had found some use for her beyond entertaining Alviss, she did not intend to remain in the castle long enough to learn what it might be. Not when he spoke of her in so delighted a tone.

The click of the king’s booted heels striking against stone faded as he marched back toward the main hall, but she waited until she no longer heard even a whisper of his steps before she risked looking. The tower was empty.

She exhaled, her hands trembling, and gathered her basket before ducking into the room her father had left. If she had been even a moment later, the king would have seen her. Not just in the tower, but with stolen food in her hands. A moment later, and she would have lost all hope of freeing Bolthorn.

Bolthorn, who had held her as she cried, whispering words of comfort in the night. She flushed. What must he think of her? She had proven herself to be nothing more than a foolish, weeping girl. But he had been so kind—so gentle.

Sunlight peeked through the arrow slits to warm the cold stone. Perhaps the king would hunt again today, and Alviss would not miss her. At least they need not fear discovery. The king did not seem to visit his captive more than once a day, or so Bolthorn had led her to believe. They would have the whole day to spend together.

“Bolthorn?” She swung the basket from her hip. Strange that he hadn’t shown himself. After yesterday, what purpose would it serve him to hide from her? “I’ve enough food for two meals, even sharing it.”

He didn’t respond. Not so much as a rattle of chains. The silence rang overloud in her ears, a thousand ways the king might have hurt him flooding her mind. She dropped the basket and stepped through the mirror.

His body was a lighter shadow against the wall, standing oddly—no. Not standing. Chained, hand and foot, his arms spread wide. She had not realized how broad he was, for his arms reached from one wall to the other, his head hanging limply against his chest.

“Bolthorn!” Her voice broke and she crossed the small room, nearly tripping over her skirt in her haste.

She touched his arm, drawing her hand back at the sensation of slick skin. He groaned, his shoulders tensing, pulling against the chains. What had happened to the length of them? His head came up but his eyes were dull and dark.

“Arianna.”

Tears pressed against her eyes, blurring her vision. “What can I do?”

“The chains.”

“I have no key. No way to break them.”

He grunted. “A little blood.”

“I don’t understand.” But her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and blinking back her tears only brought reason for more. The skin of Bolthorn’s chest was flayed open, ribbons hanging in strips. Her throat thickened, strangling her breath.

“Blood,” he rasped again. “The iron obeys the blood.”

The headwoman had included a table knife with the meat, and she ran for the basket. A quick stroke across her palm and she returned to him, her hand blooded. “Where?”

His arm jerked. “The fetters.”

The iron was cool against her palm as she wrapped her hand around it. His wrist was as thick as her ankle.

“Will it,” said Bolthorn.

If you will it.
That’s what he had said when she asked if she could throw him the bread. She swallowed and closed her eyes, willing the chains to loosen, the fetters to fall away.
Please, please, please.

The iron gave, cracking like a hammer against the anvil. Bolthorn stumbled from the wall and fell to his knees. She caught him before he slid completely over, but only just. He was so heavy. His hands gripped the fabric of her gown as she eased him back in a slump against the stone. He grunted, his eyes drifting half-closed.

“My thanks,” he mumbled. “Forever, my thanks.”

She smoothed his hair from his face. Her hand drifted down, hovering over the ragged wounds on his chest. Did she dare to touch them at all? She had no bandages, even if he could risk wearing them. She sighed, dropping to her knees with him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice low.

He met her eyes, one broad hand lifting to her face. She pressed it against her cheek and held it tight. “I am orc.” He bared his tusks. “I am strong enough for this.”

Arianna helped him from the mirror, though he would not let her tend his wounds at all. At least it was not so damp and fetid outside of the glass and the fresh air from the windows would cool his skin. She settled him upon the floor with the draft of the window at his back, and set out the food between them. If he would not let her see to his wounds, at least there was plenty of wine to dull his pain.

“Before you leave, you must bind me again, that if he comes in the morning, he will not know the difference.”

She sucked on her lip where it had split, taking the sting of the wine from it. “What is it he wants from you?”

He stiffened, his gaze going hard and strange. “Does it matter, Princess?”

She flushed at the coolness of his tone. “You can’t still think I’d betray you?”

“I think your king is cunning, and he knows far more than he ought, already.”

“But he spoke of his cuckoo,” she said, for he was still staring at her as though she might yet be a snake. “And before, when you protected me inside the mirror, he spoke of my mother.”

“Yes.” Bolthorn’s jaw tightened, his voice rough with anger. “He speaks often of the queen. And what he says is nothing you would wish to hear. Her spirit haunts him, tortures him in his dreams. All the power he let slip through his fingers with her death. And fortunate for all of you that he did not know then what he does now.”

“She goaded him.” Arianna looked away, swallowing against the thickness of her grief. Even after so long. “The things she said. She always knew what to say to calm his rages, but that day—it was as if she had given up. As if she could not hide her hatred any longer. The mask of her loyalty fell away, and then she did, too.”

“You saw?”

“I’ve never spoken of it. Not once in all these years. Not even to my sister.” She shook her head, hardly certain why she spoke of it now, except that she felt as though she must. That if she did not, she would burst. “If the king knew, I think he’d have killed me. Thrown me off the wall after my mother.”

“Why do you tell me this, Arianna?”

She let out a breath, looking up at him. His gaze had softened again, warmed with pity. “I wish to know why she died, Bolthorn. I want to know why she kept this mirror hidden in her rooms. Why the king was so enraged by it. What she knew that he so regrets her murder.”