Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (21 page)

Bolvarr sat back upon his heels, his expression distant and strange. “But if it is true—even if it isn’t—Vanadis had no right to keep you from my brother. If Bolthorn is lost because of it, the Hrimthursar will not forget.”

Vanadis.
The name caught in her memory. Bolthorn’s voice, soft and filled with sorrow, when he told her the story of his people, before they learned to love. “Surely Vanadis cannot still live.”

“The first elves were not tainted with the stain of death,” Bolvarr said. “Vanadis serves the Ancestors still. But you know her, Princess. She is the one who brought you here.”

Arianna lay on a pallet, watching the flicker of shadow and flame. Bolvarr had given her much to think on before he had been called by the council. He had left them grim-faced, his eyes glowing yellow, and gone to speak with the Vala.

Vanadis. She was not certain why it mattered, but knowing her as the first of the exiled elves made Arianna uneasy, and the way Bolvarr had spoken—she was not certain if it made her heart ache more or less to know that Bolthorn had wanted nothing more than her return to his side.

But then why had the Vala kept her from him? For the sake of their baby, perhaps. Or was it simply to ensure she had strength to lend him when he needed it, in the hope he would live instead of die?

She had hoped that Bolvarr would come back, but in the endless night of winter, exhaustion crept through her limbs, weighing against her eyelids. The Gythja had put her to bed, nothing more than a straw-stuffed mattress against one of the rounded walls, for the hut was all one large room, with the hearth in the center.

Ever since Bolvarr had spoken of their bond, the Gythja had been distant. She made all the proper offerings of food and drink, expressed all the right concerns as to her comfort, but instead of talking easily, as they had earlier, the Gythja seemed to forget not to stare. It was almost a relief to pull the fur up and burrow into the mattress, where she would not know she was watched.

After a time, she heard the Gythja settle into her own bed, and then the return of the Gothi. They murmured together at the other end of the room, voices too low for Arianna to understand the words. The bed frame creaked, and the murmurs turned to sighs and soft moans.

She covered herself with the bearskin and shut her eyes, but all she could think of was Bolthorn. The hollow of his throat, the curve of his shoulder, the weight of his body held carefully over hers while his lips traced the line of her jaw.

Her heart ached with the remembering, the realness of the moment she could never have again. The roughness of his palm against her skin made goose flesh rise along her arms, but she clung to it all the more fiercely. The agony was too sweet, and Bolthorn’s touch too fleeting to refuse. How much longer could she summon him this way, before she no longer remembered exactly how it felt to lie in his arms?

Arianna.

She was alone again beneath the bearskin, hollow with the knowledge of his death, but at least the room was silent, her hosts spent and snoring. She peeled the bearskin down, letting the crisp night air prickle her cheeks. The fire was little more than glowing coals, and she missed Bolthorn’s warmth beside her. It had been so long…

Never again.

Do not doubt me, Arianna!

There was nothing left to doubt. Whatever love had been between them, whatever vows and bindings, they were broken now.
Forgive me, Bolthorn. I wish I had been strong enough.

It was the last thought she had before falling into sleep.

The Gythja scowled at Bolvarr when he ducked his head beneath the hide. The Gothi had left not long before to return to his council and Arianna was helping his wife with her mending. It was the first work she had been given since she crossed the mountain, and her fingers fell into the old habit as if she had never stopped. Bolvarr’s arrival gave distraction enough that she pricked her finger and swore.

“I hope it is not my presence which offends you, sister,” he said, searching her face.

The Gythja clucked her tongue. “You know what Vanadis said, Bolvarr.”

“What did Vanadis say?” Arianna asked, pulling her finger from her mouth.

Bolvarr shrugged. “I am forbidden to upset you.”

“You are forbidden to see her altogether!”

“That choice belongs to Arianna,” Bolvarr said, his eyes glowing yellow. “Bolthorn swore she would be free among us, or would you deny my brother in death as the Vala denied him in life?”

The Gythja raised her chin. “Your word that you will go, if she asks it of you?”

Bolvarr’s eyes narrowed, but he opened his hand, accepting. “If she asks it, I will honor her wish.”

“My lady?”

Arianna studied Bolvarr, sidelong. His gaze was intent, his face grave. She could not say for certain what Bolthorn would have wanted. He had not spoken of his brother at all on their journey, nor had she spoken of the sister she left behind, though it was not for any lack of love. There had been much they had not had the time to discuss, or the attention to spare for it, but she knew her own mind, and Bolvarr’s presence gave her some small peace. As long as he lived, Bolthorn was not gone completely, just as Isabel would keep some part of her alive, in Gautar.

“I would know you,” she said. For the sake of Bolthorn’s child, if not her own.

Bolvarr crouched beside her, the tension leaving his shoulders. “And I would know the woman my brother risked so much to love. But I fear we will have little time. Vanadis says you mean to go on in two days time, to Tiveden.”

She turned her gaze back to her mending. “Bolthorn suggested I might be more comfortable among the elves, before we ran away. Vana—Vanadis believes I will be safer as well. If it were only me, I would choose differently, I think, but I have not the luxury now.”

“You mean if Bolthorn had lived?”

“If he had lived—”

Nothing had gone the way she had thought it would, once they had passed through the mountain. But surely the Vala would have released her in time. Bolthorn would have come. His brother believed it to be so.
Do not doubt…
No, she should not doubt his love. Not now.

“We spoke of living among the Hrimthursar. And picnics together, in the summer. He said I would be welcome there. That the children we might have would be blessings.”

“I cannot take you up the mountain in full dark, but would you not consider staying here, sister?” he asked gently. “Until the sun rises and the ice melts.”

“I had not thought of it.” Bolthorn’s child would have no place among the elves, but here it would be different. Surely she could survive the winters here, with the trees to cut the wind and if she might spend summers with Bolthorn’s brother, his family...

But it was not only her survival that mattered now, or even the child’s. She must think of his people, too, and her own. And she could not protect her child, Bolthorn’s child, unless Gautar left the orcs alone.

“Vana thought to have me taught by the elves and returned to my people, to stop them from warring against you.”

Bolvarr glanced at the Gythja, silent all this time. “Even among orcs, one female alone does not make an army,” he murmured. “Is that not what you would need to wrest the kingdom from your brothers? Or is it yours to take, if you choose it?”

She shook her head. “It is not mine. As you said, I am only a woman. Among my people, I am owned by my father. My brothers, now that the king is dead. Vanadis said with the right magic—”

“Magic?” Bolvarr’s voice was sharp, all gentleness gone.

“Better magic than blood spilled, is that not so?”

Bolvarr pressed his lips into a grim line. “Go on.”

“She said with the right magic, I might persuade them to follow me.”

“Those were her words?”

“They surely were not mine. I never meant to return to them, after—after what happened.” She set the mending aside, wiping her hands on her skirt. “I feared they would know what I had done, or worse, use me as the king had hoped. And I did not want any more blood spent, or the queen’s secret spilled. But if it might serve you, I would go. For Bolthorn.”

“And did she tell you, too, it would be what Bolthorn wished?” he growled.

“Bolvarr.” The Gythja’s warning unlocked his jaw, and he turned his face away.

“She said that Bolthorn always dreamed of peace, and in this way I might make it so.”

“Peace!” Bolvarr’s knuckles were white. “Is that what she would call it? She of all people!” He rose, paced the length of the room. “No wonder she did not wish me to see you again. She knew that I would ask. No orc would ever stand for this! And they would rally even more strongly once they knew of your bond with Bolthorn.”

He sucked in a breath, turning abruptly to stare into the Gythja’s eyes. “Vid-Gythja?”

Her face had paled. “I begin to see.”

“The Hrimthursar must know of this,” Bolvarr said. “It cannot wait for the sun.”

“The mountain is treacherous in the dark. Even for a Hrimthursar,” the Gythja said. “And you are not the strongest of your clan, Bolvarr.”

His expression became even grimmer. “If what she says is true, the mountain itself must hurry me on my way.”

“Bolvarr, I don’t understand—” He dropped to his knees at her side again, and all the questions she might have asked died on her lips with the look in his eyes. Desperate and angry, even afraid. She had never thought to see fear in an orc’s face.

“The Gythja will protect you, now. Delay your journey to Tiveden, I beg of you. Refuse to continue on. There must be some excuse you might give. Any means will do. If you can only wait until my return. But if not—and I begin to fear—if not, there is an elf in Tiveden who lives by the river. Fossegrim. He might even know of your mother’s bloodlines, if there is anything to know at all. Seek him out. Trust no other.”

“Bolvarr, wait!” She grasped his hand before he could rise again and when he looked at her, she saw all her own grief mirrored, and worse. Her throat thickened. She had cost him his brother, and now he risked himself. Was she death to their whole family? “I would not lose you, too.”

He squeezed her hand. “I am not so foolhardy as my brother, to climb the mountain in a blizzard with no kindling and no food. You need not fear for me, sister. I will live.”

And then he was gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Gothi—built as leanly as the Gythja with the same blue-gray skin she was beginning to associate with all the Vidthursar—returned with Vanadis not long after, his eyebrows rising in silent question to his wife. The Gythja only shook her head and served them all with cups of mead and bowls of stew. Everything was made of wood, but for the cook pots, elegantly carved and as fine as anything that had been set upon the king’s table.

Arianna ate quietly, turning Bolvarr’s words over in her mind. The Gythja had already warned her not to speak of his coming, for though the Vala could not punish him, the council could, and to discover him missing now would only hurt their cause.

“Tomorrow we go on to Tiveden, if the mountain is amenable,” Vana said, sitting down beside her. “And you will see sun again, at last.”

Arianna chewed her lip for a moment, her gaze sliding to the Gythja and her husband. If her bond with Bolthorn had startled them, how much more so the child?

“I think I would prefer to stay here, Vana. At least until Bolthorn’s baby is born.”

The Gothi stopped eating, wooden spoon raised halfway to his mouth. “You carry his child?”

“So the Vala tells me,” she said. “Though it is another month yet, before I can know by my own means.”

The Gythja touched her husband’s arm. “It would mean much to Bolthorn to know the child was raised among his own.”

Vana shifted slightly beside her, but Arianna did not dare to meet her eyes. “Nine months is too long to wait, Arianna, if you mean to return home.”

“And what place would an orc have among humans?” The Gothi demanded. “When you said you meant to take her to the elves, you did not say she carried his child. There is no place for a half-blood in Tiveden.”

“She might still lose the child, especially in this cold,” Vana said. “Would you risk Bolthorn’s baby?”

“The baby is mine as much as Bolthorn’s,” Arianna said, meeting the Gythja’s eyes. “Once we might have made this choice together, he and I, if I had been permitted to return to his side, but the burden falls to me alone, now. Bolthorn would want his child to be considered a blessing, not a curse, and no matter what magic I might wield, or how much power I hold, my people will see Bolthorn’s child as a sign that I am cursed, as well. They will not suffer me upon the throne. If I must return to Gautar to protect the orcs, I will, of course. But I would have my child left safe with Bolthorn’s family.”

“Yes,” the Gythja said softly. Beside her the Gothi nodded, his expression hard.

Vana pursed her lips. “What of the rest, Arianna? Would you rob us all of peace? One life traded for so many? By the time the child is born, it will be too late to stop this. The people of Gautar will have marched upon us, and there will be no safety for anyone, then.” Her gaze shifted to the Gothi, unflinching. “Is even Bolthorn’s child worth a war?”

The Gothi scowled and looked away. “I must speak with the council before any decision is made.”

“Thiassi!”

“Forgive me, Menja,” he said, covering his wife’s hand on his arm. “But is it not better that we think first, than make such a choice in haste?”

“It is not your choice to make, Vid-Gothi,” the Gythja said, jerking her hand away. “Nor is it the Vala’s!” She rose, moving toward the door, her chin held high. “Come, Hrim-Gythja. Let us go pray that the Ancestors give the Gothi back his wits.”

Hrim-Gythja.
Arianna’s face burned, but the Gythja could have meant no one else. She set her bowl aside, and went to her, careful not to glance at Vanadis. The Vid-Gythja nodded, sweeping back the hide, and ushered her out.

“Fool orc!” the Gythja said, not even waiting until they had left the low-roofed hut behind. “That he would even consider denying you is shame enough, but to bring it to the council of elders—as if they had any right!”

Arianna shivered, her breath frosting the air, and wrapped the bearskin close, grateful she had not left without it. “Forgive me, Gythja, but do they not?”

Outside the hut, an eerie twilight lit the village. It seemed even in winter, the Vidthursar did not suffer full dark. The round huts stood in neat circles, around a large central hall, built of the same wood and earth, and thatch-roofed. The same place Vana had gone to meet with the council when they first arrived. Beside it was a smaller shrine, smoke rising through a hole in the roof. The scent of incense grew sharper the nearer they drew. The forest enclosed the village on every side, leafless trees stretching bony fingers to the night sky.

The Gythja snorted. “I do not know how it was done among your people, Princess, but among ours, children belong to their mother first. Even if Bolthorn stood against you, the fate of this child would be yours to choose. Your voice is the only one that matters.”

“Even if it threatens war?”

She shook her head. “Vanadis does not give the Hrimthursar the credit they deserve. But regardless of the rest, there is only one appeal a father might make in any circumstance, and that is to the mother of his wife. If she is dead, the appeal is made to the Gythja. The Gothi has no place in any of it, nor the council.”

So different from what she knew. Bolthorn had not lied to her about the freedom of orc women, to be certain. But Arianna was not orc, no matter how badly she wished to be. Not without Bolthorn beside her. She hunched against the cold, her stomach twisting. If only Bolvarr had stayed to lend his voice as well. Perhaps she should have told him about his brother’s child.

“I did not mean for any of this, Gythja,” she said when they paused before the shrine. “But whatever comes, I would not take more from your people than I have already. If I could give Bolthorn back—” her voice broke. If she could give him back! If she could only know his touch, the warmth of his love once more. Better her life lost, than his.

“You would have made him a fine wife, Princess.” The Gythja smiled sadly, touched her cheek, and slipped inside the shrine.

For three days, the council deliberated. Vanadis had forbidden more than Bolvarr from speaking with her, and those orcs who came to the Gothi’s hut dared not even meet her eyes, nor did they stay long enough to listen to anything the Gythja might have said. Menja was not permitted to take her from the hut, and having promised Bolvarr to protect her, the Gythja would not leave her side. But how could he have known they would be trapped by it?

Each evening the Gothi returned to them in the hut, and the Gythja turned her back upon him. Arianna watched them, guilt twisting her stomach. Once she would have been happy not to hear their lovemaking, for it only reminded her of what she had lost, but now it only spoke of the trouble she had brought them. The Gythja would not speak to her husband as long as he presumed to control the fate of Bolthorn’s child and wife, and the Gothi, once committed to deliberation with the elders could not change his mind.

The fourth day, he returned in the murky twilight of midday, rather than the blackness of full dark, the Vala at his side. His shoulders were bowed and he did not meet their eyes.

“Vanadis has claimed the right to stand as mother to Arianna,” he said, exhaustion and regret in his face. “The council agrees.”

The Gythja’s eyes narrowed. “You would dare?”

“It seemed a fair compromise, Menja. The only compromise. She is not orc, nor Vidthursar.”

A long hiss escaped between her teeth. Her hand clenched into a fist, and then she spun. The slap of her palm against her husband’s cheek made Arianna flinch.

“You betray us all in this, Thiassi.” Her voice was low and cold as ice. “May the Ancestors forgive you.” The words she did not say hung heavy in the air, like breaths of frost. Arianna did not have to wonder at the shape of them, she had seen it blossoming like a fog between them. The Gothi would not have his wife’s forgiveness. Not in this.

“Come, Arianna,” Vanadis said, offering her hand. “We have lost time enough.”

She hesitated, hating that she had caused the Gythja so much pain. Hating that she had been the reason for so much heartbreak. She had not come this far to hurt so many, but neither could she allow her child’s fate to be stolen this way.

“If I go with you willingly now, will you give me something in return?” Arianna asked.

Vana’s eyes flashed. “If it is within my power to give, and does not thwart the will of the Ancestors.”

“Promise me, if I am not able to return before then, that the Vala will come for my child when it is time. That they will deliver the baby to Bolvarr, or the Gythja, to be raised and cared for among the orcs.” She met Menja’s gaze, held it until she nodded. “Bolthorn’s child must be orc.”

“If that is your desire, we will do all within our power to make it so,” Vanadis assured her, smiling. But there was no warmth in it, no sympathy, and she turned away to the door, as if the matter had been settled.

Arianna did not trust it. “I would have your vow, sworn in blood.”

The Vala froze, her back stiff.

“It is not unreasonable,” the Gythja said. “And even if the Vala refuses you, the Gothi and I will give our oaths. It is the least we might do for Bolthorn, and if it were my child’s fate, I would want the same.”

Vanadis let out a breath, more hiss than sigh, but when she turned, her smile was blinding, though her jaw seemed far too tight. “Of course, Princess. If that is your wish. Gothi, give me your knife.”

They each cut their palms cleanly, though Arianna was not quite so practiced in the art, and Vanadis took her hand.

“The Vala will see Bolthorn’s child delivered to the orcs, by my blood, I swear it.” Arianna’s palm flamed hot along the cut, and Vana released her, turning away. “When you have finished collecting your oaths, Princess, I will be just outside.”

“You next, Thiassi,” the Gythja said, ignoring the Vala. The Gothi made his vow, and then the Gythja made hers, but she did not release her so quickly as the others, instead covering her hand with both of hers and smiling warmly. “Bolthorn smiles upon you, I know. But I will pray that the Ancestors protect you, Arianna, for I fear you have not made a friend of Vanadis, this day.”

Menja hugged her fiercely in farewell.

“Tell Bolvarr I will do as he suggested,” Arianna murmured. “And tell him, too, what we have done.”

It would have to be enough.

“Vanadis.”

A lean shadow stepped out from the shape of a tree. They had arrived with nightfall, and Vana’s promise of the sun still lingered out of reach. Moonlight fell across high cheekbones and milky skin, as fair as the Vala’s behind her, but unmarked. His hair was silver, tied back at the nape of his neck, and even in the darkness, she could see the pale, brilliant blue of his eyes. His beauty, like Vana’s, was almost painful. Arianna did not know how she would ever look upon them in full sunlight. They seemed as though they would only reflect it, blinding, and appear as nothing but shining lights.

“Hjalli.” Vanadis smiled, but the elf did not. “I would see her settled before I go.”

He nodded, a smooth sweep of his arm inviting them on. Vanadis guided Arianna forward, one hand upon her shoulder. She heard no footsteps, but a glance told her Hjalli followed. She understood Bolvarr’s easy grace and lithe build now, so different from his brother’s. The Elvish blood ran thick, even so far from its source. No wonder the orcs honored half-blood children, but what might they have looked like at the start if the elf blood had tamed them so powerfully?