[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny (47 page)

The interior of the dome looked pitch-black. Dar couldn’t see Kol, but she could hear him. He was hacking at the door with his sword. Dar heard the blade snap, and Kol let loose a string of curses. She waited for him to quiet down. “It’s no use,
General
Kol,” she said, giving the rank a mocking inflection. “You’re in sacred space, where the World’s Mother is commander.”

“Tup your World’s Mother!”

“That’s not the proper attitude. This dome’s for contemplation, and you’ve much to contemplate.”

“Othar will set me free.”

“I think not. You were his tool, nothing more. He used you like you used that sword. Who saves a broken blade?”

“I’m not broken yet!”

“You’ve been broken for years.” Dar saw the stone cover for the opening and began to push it over the hole. The heavy cover was hard to move. “Think about those you wronged. Loral. Frey. Twea. All those you sent to the Dark Path.” The cover got stuck, and Dar changed position so she could tug it over the opening. She called down the partly covered hole. “Darkness will help you concentrate.”

A voice screamed from below, “Dar!”

A dagger flew past Dar’s face, nearly grazing it. She flung herself back as the blade lost its momentum and tumbled down, striking the dome and skittering to the ground below. Dar’s sudden movement loosened a block at the hole’s edge. Perhaps the fire had weakened the stone’s mortar; perhaps another force was at work. Either way, the block teetered for a moment, then crashed to the floor below. A second stone fell. Dar’s vision had shown her what would happen next. The hole enlarged as the stones encircling it tumbled down. Dar slid down the dome’s side and dashed from it before turning to see it crumble. The roar of the dome’s collapse was followed by eerie stillness.

Gorm sweated as he stirred the cauldron. Foul steam saturated his sleeves, scalding him. Despite the pain, he continued to stir, certain both his life and soul depended on it. He paused only to scoop blood from the floor with his cupped hands and dump it into the cauldron. That ingredient was new, causing Othar to ask, “What’s that for?”

“Shhh!”

“Don’t shush me! When did you start doing magic?”

“Long before your mother breeched you.”

“What’s that brew for?” asked Othar.

“Assurance.”

“Against what?”

“Shut up! I need to hear.” Gorm cocked his ear, as if listening to a conversation in an adjacent room. After a spell of silence, he said, “Kol has failed.” Gorm tensed, as though expecting a sudden blow. After a long moment, he relaxed and assumed the appearance of one who has received a reprieve.

Othar stared at Gorm in puzzlement. “How do you know?”

“I was just told.”

“Now what?”

“It was all or naught. Well, it’s naught.” Gorm resumed stirring. When a loud rumble resounded through the hall, he appeared unsurprised.

“What was that?” asked Othar.

“Kol just died.”

“And Dar still lives?”

“Aye.”

“Get her! She must die, too!”

“I shall serve my master,” replied Gorm.

“Then do it! I want her.”

“You were never my master. I told you that. You were only its vessel.”

“But your master and I are inseparable.”

Gorm reached into his robe and pulled out a black sack, its fabric stitched with spells. “You’ve been deemed inadequate. My master must retrench.” Gorm strode over to the litter and lifted Othar. The mage struggled in his grasp, but feebly with leaden limbs.

“Retrench?” said the mage with rising terror. “What do you mean?”

“It must return to the bones.”

“It can’t. Dar destroyed them.”

“Aye, she did,” said Gorm. “But you possess a set.” Then he threw the mage into the cauldron.

The mage’s dying shriek echoed through the ruined hall. Though horrible, it reassured Dar. She headed for its source with no idea what she would find, but certain her peril had diminished. Nevertheless, she peered through the kitchen’s entrance cautiously. She saw that the black-robed man still stirred the cauldron. His hands were bloody. While she watched, he used the metal stirring paddle to fish something from the pot. It was Othar’s robe. Dumping the sopping garment on the floor, the man probed its steaming folds and plucked out a bone, which he quickly tossed into the cauldron before it burned his fingers.

Dar stepped into the room. Its blood-puddled floor felt unnaturally warm to her bare feet. “Who are you?” she asked, brandishing the dagger Kol had thrown at her.

The man eyed the blade nonchalantly. “A servant. My name is Gorm.”

Dar changed her grip on the dagger to the throwing position. “Othar’s servant?”

“Never his.”

“Then whose?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet. It won’t have one for ages.”

“Yet it’s unholy, I know that.”

“Unholy?” said Gorm. “I’m not so sure. Is divinity benign?” He resumed his stirring. “You’re thinking of killing me, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Can you kill what’s in this pot?”

“What’s in there?”

“Bones.”

“Then they’re my enemy,” said Dar. “I’ve been warned.”

“They
were
your enemy, but you subdued them.”

“By stopping Kol?”

“By stopping war. My master thrives on slaughter.”

“I know. He wished to slaughter me.”

“That was Othar,” said Gorm. “Revenge always goaded him best. Perhaps your death would have reversed his fortunes, perhaps not. Now it’s too late to tell.”

“So all that remains is to destroy the bones.”

“Their power can’t perish. You know that. Be content that you’ve subdued it awhile.” Gorm sighed wearily. “A very long while.”

“Yet I can’t let evil abide.”

“The Creator does. Who are you to question her? She made men, and men nourish darkness.”

Once again, Dar considered killing the man.
He probably deserves it.
But she sensed he was being truthful; murder was no cure for evil.
Only light banishes darkness.
Dar dropped Kol’s dagger in the blood and walked away.

Fifty

Dar found her boots where Kol had thrown them. She retrieved the leggings, wrapped her bloody feet, and put on the footwear. Then she descended the mountain by the same trail that the fleeing mothers had used. She found Skymere and Foeslayer still tied where she and Girta had left them. Dar mounted Skymere and rode toward the orc encampment, leading Foeslayer by his reins.

The idea of facing Girta, her son, or any of the soldiers had no appeal for Dar. She wanted to be alone awhile. Moreover, she felt that Gorm should complete his task unmolested, so he could remove the bones from orcish lands. With certainty that came from Muth la, she knew he would vanish for generations.

Dar rode without triumph, for Kol’s death brought no joy. She felt empty, without anything to distract her from that emptiness. She wanted to be among the urkzimmuthi, yet she had misgivings.
I’m dead.
She recalled what happened after she had received the crown.
Muth Mauk said it’s unnatural to talk with spirits.
Yet the former queen had spoken to her.
Only briefly.
Dar craved a few final words.
Then what?
She had no idea.

Halfway to the orc encampment, Dar encountered a group of soldiers. She recognized some of them as the officers who served the king. Foremost among them was the high tolum. He, like all the others, bore no weapons as he trudged through the snow. Instead he carried a tree branch, the sign of truce. “Lady Dar!” he called out.

When Dar rode over to him, he bowed graciously. “Lady Dar, what news?”

“The traitor’s dead. So is the sorcerer. Tolum Farnar and his men were slain by his magic.”

The high tolum made the sign of Karm’s Balance. “These are mixed tidings indeed!”

“They are,” said Dar. “Please bear them to the king and Queen Girta.”

“You haven’t spoken with them?”

“My heart was too sore. I’ve endured much. When you retrieve the bodies of Tolum Farnar and his men, know the hall is now accursed.”

Then Dar rode on, not wishing to accompany the men. They would soon be going home, resuming the lives they had left behind. Dar’s home was a ruin. She wondered if the hall was truly cursed.
It is for me. And my life? It’s gone.

Dar arrived at the orc encampment before noon. Only Sevren rushed out to greet her, his expression joyful and expectant. But when he saw Dar’s face, he grew subdued. She dismounted solemnly, handing Sevren Skymere’s reins. “Kol and Othar are dead. The washavokis have surrendered. Truce bearers are approaching.” Then, without a further word, Dar went to find her sister.

Muth Mauk was discussing something with Muth-yat, Zor-yat, and the Pah clan matriarch. The conversation halted as soon as Dar approached, and all its participants drifted away from the queen, as though they had suddenly recalled some neglected duty. Dar’s sister stood alone, the only one who had met her eyes.

Custom permitted the reigning queen to speak with the former one, but it was viewed more as a séance than a conversation. Muth Mauk bowed to Dar. “Sister, you dwell within me now. I had no idea what you endured.”

Dar thought that her sister’s eyes glistened. She smiled and embraced her. “Our foes are dead. Washavokis come begging peace. Give them what food you can, then lead them homeward on Old Road. New one is sealed. When spring comes, seal old one also.”

“I understand your wisdom. Should we rebuild our hall?”

“You’re Muth Mauk,” said Dar. “That’s for you to decide.” She paused, knowing it was the last time they would speak and wondering what to say.
She knows how much I love her; she has my memories.
“Look after Kovok-mah.” Then Dar embraced the mother who had once been Nir-yat and held her one last time.

Dar parted from Muth Mauk. To everyone she encountered, she was a beloved memory and just as insubstantial. Thus she was surprised when she felt someone touching her. She turned to see Muth-pah. The matriarch smiled briefly, then averted her eyes. “I wonder what happened to the Trancing Stone,” she said, as if speaking to herself.

“I left it with my things,” said Dar.

“I hope it’s lost forever,” said Muth-pah. “I only used it once. Like all matriarchs of my clan, I relived last Pah queen’s memories.” She sighed heavily. “From inside my rude hanmuthi, I saw Tarathank’s wonders. Then all was bitterness. What is past is gone, and longing can poison living. In her wisdom, Muth la has departed spirits forsake their memories. Forsake that stone.” Then Muth-pah bowed and departed.

Dar wanted to shed the soldier’s garments, but wished that she could wash before she changed. She thought Sevren could find her some warm water and a scrubbing cloth.
At least he doesn’t believe I’m dead.
She assumed he would be tending Skymere. The horses had been sheltered in a copse of evergreens, and Dar was headed in that direction when she heard a voice. “Dargu!”

Kovok-mah was hurrying after her.

“Don’t you know that it’s unnatural to speak to those who are dead?”

“What do sons know of spirits? I only know this: You filled my chest before Dargu-yat was born. I smell your scent. I hear your voice. If I touch you, I’ll feel your warmth again.”

“You can’t.”

“Why? Because my muthuri has forbidden it? She can’t forbid me to be with spirit.”

“You can’t because I
am
spirit.”

“Perhaps that’s so, but we can be together.”

“Where? Whose hanmuthi shall I haunt?”

“I’ll build you one on land apart from any clan’s. I’ll grow your food, and tend goats to make hard milk to trade. We’ll be alone, but we’ll be together.”

“Together, but not alone,” said Dar. “I can bear daughters. Lorekeeper has told me so.”

Kovok-mah grinned. “Daughters!”

“Hai,” said Dar, her face serious. “And what latath will bestow their clan tattoos? What son’s muthuri will bless ghost mother’s children? I would love my daughters, but give them empty lives.” Dar caressed Kovok-mah’s cheek. “I can’t do that.”

“Dargu…”

“You should go,” said Dar as her eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry, Kovok. You gave me joy, and I’ve repaid you with sorrow.”

“Thwa, Dargu. Not only sorrow.”

Dar turned away as she had in the river when she and Kovok-mah parted that summer. She couldn’t bear to watch him go, but she listened to every footstep. They were slow and reluctant. Soon they were accompanied by the low, mournful sound of Kovok-mah’s weeping. It almost made Dar turn and run to embrace him. She trembled from the effort to resist the impulse and remain silent. Only when the sounds died away did her heart burst from the strain. Then Dar wept bitterly.