[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny (23 page)

“They’re my memories, too, and the next queen shall have them.”

“For Karm’s sake, Dar. Come away with me.”

“For Muth la’s sake, I won’t. Fathma was her gift, and I must pass it on. The last queen died so I might receive it. Can I do anything less?”

“You’re right; I do na understand. ’Tis daft to throw your life away. Zna-yat said it would be hard to see you, but this is worse than anything I imagined.”

“I’m sorry for you, Sevren. But it’s Muth la’s will.”

“I’ve learned about Muth la. I thought she was compassionate.”

“We can’t always see her ends. I don’t want to die, Sevren. But I won’t run away.”

Sevren shook his head sadly. “Nay, ’tis na your nature.” He sighed. “I can na stay.”

“You just arrived. You need food and rest.”

“I’d be glad for some food for the journey. There is na rest to be had. Na here. Na in Taiben. Na place.”

“Besides food, is there nothing I can give you?”

“Since you’ve inquired, I’ll make bold and ask for a kiss. I’ve treasured every one, for they’re great rarities.”

Dar was about to refuse, but smiled sadly and relented. She grasped Sevren’s shoulders and brought her lips to his. They lingered there longer than she intended.

When Dar pulled away, Sevren gazed at her with shining eyes. He was silent, and Dar found his silence unbearable. “I must go,” she said, backing away. “I’ll send Zna-yat with food.” Then she fled the room.

Twenty-six

Soon after receiving food from Zna-yat, Sevren headed back to Taiben alone. He felt angry, sorrowful, and completely helpless. As he saw it, Dar was set on sacrificing her life needlessly and there was nothing that he could do to prevent her. Sevren was glad that the road was a hard one. He attacked the snowdrifts, hoping to gain a small measure of peace through exhaustion.

As Sevren struggled, Dar finished writing down her story on clay-whitened wood. Yev-yat promised to produce a permanent copy of Dar’s account by burning the words into a board and waxing it. Dar was glad it would be preserved. She not only recorded her history, but her insights and visions as well.

Dar thought her insights were important because no orc truly understood washavokis. Her experience in the regiment showed how easily orcs fell victim to human guile. She hoped her deetpahi would serve as a warning. Yet when she recalled her predecessor’s fate, she despaired.
Othar kept her ensnared for years, and Kol’s just as crafty.

After recording her warning, Dar set down her visions. Most were easy to interpret, having come to pass. The mysterious “woman” by the hedge was a glimpse of the former queen waiting for her successor. The lights winking out in the valley were the orcs dying in the ambush at the Vale of Pines. The hole within Dar’s chest was the poisoned wound and the precious thing inside her had been Fathma. Only one vision remained mysterious and unfulfilled—Velasa-pah’s appearance in the burning hall. Dar hesitated to record it, knowing that Yev-yat would read her account. She pondered the consequences, then decided to go ahead. Convinced that she was doomed, she saw no benefit in concealing what Muth la had shown her.

Dar finished writing in ample time to prepare for her feast. It was a modest affair, for as the families she hosted rose in status, the food became more ordinary. The evening’s feast would be Dar’s thirtieth. The meal she would serve Jvar-yat and her family would differ from an everyday one principally because falfhissi would be served at its end.

As a lamp wick burns brightest when the oil is almost gone, Dar was incandescent that evening. She bestowed her fullest measure of warmth and grace upon her guests. Yet Dar’s charm only increased their unease, for they knew her fate. Jvar-yat had spent two days searching the snow beneath yew trees for their poisonous seeds. Tomorrow she would steep them in burningwater to prepare Muth la’s Draught. When Jvar-yat witnessed Dar’s composure, she felt her chest would burst from sorrow. Being an orc, she was unable to disguise her feelings. Neither were her family members, who were aware of what Jvar-yat had been asked to do.

When the falfhissi urn made its rounds, Dar drank sparingly. Jvar-yat did not. After her fourth time with the urn, she rose shakily and bowed deeply to Dar. “Muth Mauk,” she said in a slightly slurred voice, “you honor me and mine.”

“It’s you who honor me,” replied Dar.

“Your chest is so, so big,” said Jvar-yat. “Yet there’s no cowardice within it. Not any. I…I don’t understand.” The latath slumped down and began to make the keening sound that Dar so rarely heard—the mournful cry of orcish weeping.

Jvar-yat’s display of emotion silenced the room. Everyone knew its cause, but no one seemed capable of addressing it. Then Dar spoke. “Muth la’s greatest gift is love, not life. Her creation lasts forever, and against eternity even long lives seem brief. Yet brief lives are full, if they encounter love. Shashav, Jvar-yat, for my full life.”

Sevren did not reach Taiben until dusk the following day, and he barely made it inside the city before its gates were closed for the night. He went to the barracks of the municipal guard to discover if he still had a place with them. Companions from the royal guard had covered his absence, so he still had a cot for himself and a stall for Skymere. Sevren’s dark mood kept everyone at a distance, except Valamar. He approached his friend with a flask of spirits. “This will warm you, Sevren, though that’s its only virtue.”

Sevren took a long gulp and winced. “A brew befitting our new station.”

“Did you see Dar?” asked Valamar.

“Aye.”

“And?”

“She’ll die soon.”

“I’m sorry. So the mage succeeded with his poison.”

“Nay, and that’s what I can na abide. It’s some orcish business I can na fathom.” Sevren stared at his friend, his face screwed up in anguish. “They’re going to kill her, Valamar, and she’s just going to let them.”

“Piss eyes! They’re worse than brutes!”

“Dar does na think so. Even now.”

“Well, she was daft to stick with them. And you were daft to stick with her. I warned you on the day you met. You’ve always been drawn to reckless women. This is Cynda all over again.”

Sevren sighed. “Only this time it’s poison, na the noose.” He took another long swig from Valamar’s flask.

Dar had three more feasts to host before the Council of Matriarchs met, and she dreaded each one for a different reason. Her thirty-first dinner would include Meera-yat, who had fled from her in panic. The next night, Dar would host her own family, an awkward situation at best. Word was out that the council had requested that Muth la’s Draught be prepared, and Dar anticipated a mournful evening.
Muthuri might not be upset
, thought Dar,
but she’ll pretend to be.
Zor-yat and her sister were the only orcs that Dar knew who were capable of duplicity. She did not look forward to seeing her muthuri. Dar’s final feast would be for Muth-yat’s hanmuthi, and that meal promised to be the most strained of all.

Dar spent her days roaming the Yat clan hall, as if saying good-bye to it. She found that if she let her thoughts flow freely almost every sight evoked some memory from a former queen. Thus she saw the building through many different eyes that viewed it from the vantage point of earlier times. She gazed at Muth la’s Dome and saw it as a rude hut on a nearly empty mountaintop. She peered through bricked-up doorways into vanished rooms. She ventured onto snow-covered terraces and saw brak blooms swaying in spring breezes.

Occasionally, Dar encountered someone who spoke to her, thus pulling her back to the present. The round of feasts had served their function well. Everyone knew her. It was also apparent that everyone knew what she was about to face. Some were certain that Dar would pass the test. Most were apprehensive. Others were deeply troubled. No one spoke what he or she was thinking, for that would be discourteous. Yet Dar had little difficulty discerning their emotions. While it was heartening to sense the outpouring of sympathy and concern, it also increased Dar’s sense of doom. It drove her to seek the loneliest corners of the hall. Most of those were in the oldest part, where many of the rooms and hallways were used for storage.

The last three feasts proved to be the ordeals that Dar anticipated. Meera-yat refused to come to hers, so only her daughter showed, embarrassed by her muthuri’s rudeness. Dar’s feast for her own family had the gaiety of a funeral. The meal for Muth-yat was the worst of all.

Muth-yat once had three daughters. While visiting the late queen in Taiben, they had contracted her mysterious “illness.” Othar pretended to treat them, but he provided no antidote for his poison. So, unlike the queen, all of Muth-yat’s daughters had died. Her hanmuthi was diminished to herself, her husband, and a youngling grandson, the only child of her eldest daughter. Dar blessed each as they entered the royal hanmuthi. When they were seated, a son brought forth the evening’s repast, which Dar had ordered specially. It consisted of a single dish, a traditional stew called muthtufa. After Dar served everyone, she looked Muth-yat squarely in the eye and said, “This is same dish Velasa-pah prepared for me and my companions when we journeyed from west.”

Muth-pah calmly returned Dar’s gaze. “Gar-yat prepares it well.”

“Hai,” said Dar. “But Velasa-pah’s stew tasted different. I suppose it’s because his recipe was older.”

“Very likely,” said Muth-yat.

“When I saw him in this hall, I should have asked for his recipe.”

Muth-yat dropped the pretense of unconcern. “You saw him in our hall?”

“Hai,” replied Dar. “This time, it was vision. Haven’t you read those deetpahis in lorekeeper’s locked box? Velasa-pah was allowed to die after he greeted me.”

“That is secret lore,” said Muth-yat, “and there are sons present.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Dar. “But when time grows short, it should not be wasted.”

Only Dar, Muth-yat, and Nir-yat fully understood the conversation, but the others sensed its import from the tenseness in the air.

“Visions are warnings of trouble,” said Muth-yat, “
and
troublemakers.”

“Muth la sends us trials,” replied Dar. “We flee them at our peril.”

“I intend to face danger,” said Muth-yat, “and eliminate it.”

“Do you question my fitness to rule?”

Muth-yat smiled. “I’m only one of seven.”

There was a long span of awkward silence before Dar spoke again. “Did you ever forgive Zeta-yat for becoming queen?” She smiled as Muth-yat’s face grew pale. “I possess Fathma, so I have your sister’s memories. You were enraged that she was deemed more worthy than you. She backed you for clan matriarch in hopes of winning back your love, but she never knew if she did.”

Muth-yat looked away.

“You might as well speak up,” said Dar, satisfied that she had struck a nerve. “Next queen will have my memories, and silence speaks loudly.”

“Zeta’s spirit doesn’t belong in you!” said Muth-yat.

“Do you think you’ll be comfortable with her memories? Or
mine
?” countered Dar. “Crown is burden. I know that all too well. Think upon what you seek.”

“You’re most discourteous!” said Muth-yat.

“Families sometimes bicker, Auntie,” said Dar. “Yet I have hope that all can be mended. I was reborn in this hall. I love it deeply. Trust in love rather than fear.”

Muth-yat refused to meet Dar’s gaze. “All I can do,” she said, “is what I think best.”

Twenty-seven