The Cost of Betrayal (31 page)

They announced the news as the Eschaton broke their fast. Everyone cheered, including Brug, although his was limited to a few quick claps before diving into his meal with ferocious intensity.

“About time,” Tarlak said. “I think I speak for everyone when I say the wait was driving us insane.”

“Are you going to have a wedding?” Delysia asked, staring at the ring in awe.

“Are we, Harruq?” the elf asked, jabbing her fiancé with her elbow.

“Um, uh, yes?”

Aurelia smiled. “Good boy.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Haern said, rising from his seat so he could shake both of their hands. “Did he kneel correctly?” he asked Aurelia as he kissed her wrist.

“He didn’t kneel at all,” she said.

“No kneeling? Egad, you’re marrying a dimwit,” Brug said. When all eyes turned to him, he pretended to have said nothing. Aurelia, though, did not let him off so easily.

“It was a lovely ring you made me,” she said, gliding over to where he sat. “I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for helping my dimwit.”

“Was nothing,” he mumbled.

“It was everything,” she corrected. She kissed him on the forehead, drawing forth the red cheeks and ears that sent everyone into laughter.

“You’re evil,” he said.

“I know. I love it.”

“You are one to be envied,” Tarlak said to Harruq. He stood and grabbed his glass. “A toast for the groom and bride-to-be?”

Everyone joined in a toast for a long, healthy marriage. Except for Brug. His toast was for a decent meal after the wedding.

T
hey set a date for two weeks later, neither seeing reason for drawing out the engagement. Harruq had no clue what to do, about the wedding, preparation, dress, or even why they were not already married.

“She’s got my ring, and she’s wearing it,” he argued. “Why aren’t we married?”

“Because someone other than you two needs to say you are,” Delysia explained. “Ashhur needs to accept the union of your souls.”

“Ashhur? When did I start caring what he thought?”

The priestess winked. “Since now. I’ll get you ready while Haern helps Aurelia with the wedding.”

“Wait, if Haern’s doing wedding stuff, what are you helping me with?”

Her evil, mocking laugh was far from comforting.

Minutes later, Harruq sat outside with a towel wrapped around his neck. His hair was dripping wet. Delysia sat behind him, a gleaming pair of scissors in her hand.

“When was the last time you had your hair cut?” she asked.

“Couple months at least. You’d have to ask Aurry.”

“No need,” she said, snipping away. “We need you dashing for your wedding. Long, homeless half-orc hair is not going to cut it.”

“Me? Dashing?” he tried to glance back but she held his head in place. “How the abyss are you going to do that?”

“My life is devoted to miracles,” she said.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he said.

“Keep still, unless you want to lose an ear,” she said.

“Wouldn’t that ruin the whole dashing thing?”

A loud snip made him jump. “I’d heal them afterward.”

The way she said it, without a hint of jest, terrified him. He sat still as a stone until she removed the towel. Unfinished, though, she examined his face, tapping her lips as she did.

“Do you shave?” she asked.

“Shave? Not really. I don’t think elves are known for their facial hair.”

She ran a slender finger across the brown stubble covering his jaw line.

“Obviously, it is time you learn.” She pulled out a thin razor, which gleamed in the morning light.

“Is this going to hurt?” he asked.

“You’ve never shaved before, correct?” Delysia asked.

“Nope.”

“Then no, it won’t hurt,” she said as she pressed the razor to the side of his face.

15

H
is face decorated with thin cuts, he sulked for the next two days, ignoring all pleas from Delysia to prepare for the wedding, caving only after Aurelia threatened to polymorph him into a caterpillar.

“So what do you plan on wearing?” Delysia asked him. They sat in Harruq’s room, speaking for the first time since the shaving incident. The half-orc shrugged and gestured to his armor with a careless wave of his hand.

“That’s the best I got, really.”

The girl frowned at the black armor.

“Hardly elegant. What will you wear underneath?”

“What I’m wearing now.”

Delysia’s frown sank to a new level of disagreement. He wore brown pants and a weathered white shirt stained a wide variety of colors. The sleeves were frayed around the edges, and in many places the fabric had begun separating.

“Under no circumstances are you wearing that,” she declared. “I’ll see what we can do about getting you clothes. Put your armor on, and let me see how it looks. Perhaps if we polished it up a bit…”

He strapped on the various pieces of stained leather, muttering to himself. His appearance was one thing, but he spent hours each day making sure his swords sang when swung through the air, and that his armor shone clean and bright whenever worn.

“Look good?” he asked. He flexed his muscles and posed.

“It’ll do,” she said, pinching her lower lip with her fingers. “Maybe some red underneath, your shirt for instance, and then get you some nice pants. Something is missing, though.”

“What?” he asked. Far as he could tell, he had every piece of armor strapped on. Delysia continued staring, deep in thought.

“Of course! Take off your pauldrons.”

Harruq shrugged, unlaced his armor and handed them to her.

“Here,” he said. “Ruin them and I’ll kill you.”

“So melodramatic,” Delysia said, tucking them underneath her arm. “I’m heading to Veldaren to buy you some clothes.” She pulled out a long strand of rope with markings all along the side. “Stand up straight so I can measure you.”

The half-orc endured the seemingly hundreds of measurements with calm, quiet grumbling. Finished, Delysia mentally rehearsed numbers, eyeing him with a growing smile.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re so cute. You’re being domesticated.”

She fled down the stairs, a barrage of pillows, bed sheets, and other non-lethal objects hurling after her.

T
wo days later, Delysia barged into Harruq’s room with an armful of clothes.

“I need a door,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I won’t peek,” she said, tossing him pants and a shirt. She put a bundle of black cloth on his bed, not yet unfurling it. “Now put those on.”

He did as commanded after the priestess turned around. She knew when to look by the half-orc’s complaints.

“You must be pulling jokes, missy.”

She beamed when she saw him. The black pants were a bit too loose, but she could fix that, and she was still proud of the exquisite stitching along their sides, so small and tight as to be invisible. The shirt was a bright red, with the sleeves and chest lined with tiny silver buttons.

“I look like an idiot,” he said.

“You haven’t finished yet,” she said, rushing over to him. She buttoned his wrists and then his chest, all the while telling him how dashing he looked.

“You’ve lost your mind,” was his response. “This is not me. What are these pants made of? They itch like a whore’s…”

He wisely didn’t finish the rest.

“Sorry,” he said instead.

“Just put your armor on,” she said, a bit of her good mood dampened. Harruq felt bad, so he buckled his armor without complaint. It gleamed brighter than usual, the result of extra attention by a half-orc determined to show Delysia he was trying.

“Where’s my shoulders?” Harruq asked when he was almost done.

“Right here,” she said, grabbing the wad of black cloth and unfurling it. The half-orc coughed at the sight. Attached by silver clasps to his shoulder guards was a long, flowing black cloak. She turned it back and forth for him to see. Across the back of the cape was a giant red scorpion, identical to the one across the chest of his armor.

“I’m wearing a cape?” he asked, staring as if it were dangerous. “Surely you’re joking.”

“I’m hurt,” she said, her lower lip pouting. “I attached it myself, and stitched on the scorpion. Trust me, you’ll love it. Now put these on.”

She handed them to him, which he took without a word. He slid the shoulders on. The cloak billowed down his back and teased his elbows. He slid his arms across the fabric, pondering. Suddenly, he had a desperate urge to see himself.

“One sec, going to go look at myself in a stream,” he said, marching to the door, a childlike thrill in his heart at the feel of his cloak trailing behind him.

“No need, I have a mirror right here.” She pulled a small square object from her pocket and gave it to him. Harruq took it and held it as far back as he could.

“Can’t really see too much,” he said.

“Grow and show,” Delysia said to the object. It squirmed in his hand. Startled, he let go. Instead of falling, it floated, grew many times its original size, and then hung suspended in air. Harruq grinned at the sight of himself in the floating mirror. His well-oiled armor perfectly matched the red and black clothes peeking out underneath, and as much as he hated to admit it, the cloak made him look a tiny bit dashing, like some noble rogue from fireside stories. Coupled with his long, well-cut hair, he had to admit. He looked good.

“You look like a prince,” Delysia said, smiling.

“Prince of orcs, maybe,” he said, twisting side to side. “Not sure who around here would follow a half-blood like me.”

“Oh please. You look spectacular. I’ll tell Aurelia to come up and see you.”

“No!” he said. “Let her wait until the wedding.”

The priestess laughed.

“Very well, then. That’s not too far away. I can wait to see her reaction until then.” She hugged him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re too fun, Har. Too bad the elf got you first.”

A snap of her fingers returned the mirror to its original size. She caught it on its fall, slipped it into her pocket, and hugged him once more.