Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (9 page)

“Blood magic requires a delicacy you lack, Gunnar,” he said lowly, keeping himself in darkness.

Gunnar grinned. “I hardly need delicacy when I have elf blood at my fingertips, now. Though, I admit, I’d rather not waste it on you.”

“Father, please—”

“You little liar.” The king sneered, twisting her arm behind her back until her back arched and she pressed her own throat against his blade with a whimper. “And where is Alviss, hm? Or did you lie about him, too? To think, for a moment I believed you.”

“Alviss is dead, as you will be, soon enough.” Bolthorn bared his tusks. “Release the girl, Gunnar.”

“Oh no,” Gunnar said. “I won’t be giving up my cuckoo, now. When I think of all that blood I might have taken off her mother—all that power. But I couldn’t let her live to steal my kingdom out from beneath my nose, could I? And now I have Arianna, she’s failed twice over, hm?”

“I don’t understand,” Arianna breathed. “I don’t understand.”

Gunnar’s grin was feral. “Of course you wouldn’t, my dear. But Bolthorn does. After all your determined suffering, and my spies gave me everything you wouldn’t. Not all the elves slunk away behind those mountains of yours, it seems. They forgot to take all their half-blood bastards with them. That’s where Signy’s family made their fortune, you see. Trading in the magic still flowing in their veins, creating things like this mirror to sell and claiming they were only found relics, and of course it did not take long for them to find a crown, a kingdom. They married into it, of course, with all that dazzling beauty of theirs, and then cuckolded the king. Just as Signy tried to do to me.”

The king was mad. Bolthorn had known it for some time, but he had not realized how deluded he had become, how paranoid. “You would kill your own daughter.”

“Father, it makes no sense,” Arianna gasped, her one free hand pulling at his arm. “Gautar is ruled by its sons, not its daughters. What good am I, if I am not yours?”

“You are blood and power,” Gunnar snapped, pressing the knife harder against her throat. “And all to the good, for it’s more than clear you’ll be useless as a bride after this foolishness with Alviss.”

“You need not cut her for her blood,” Bolthorn said, not liking the way the blade glistened. “Not when her gown is soaked in it already.”

He slipped sideways, following the shadows along the walls. Gunnar faced the mirror and the curve of the wall with the two embrasures, but Bolthorn was not there. He had not wished to stand so near the mirror, or risk being knocked back inside and caught by the chains. If he could only get far enough to the outside...

“Face me, orc. Show yourself, and let us have this done with or I will slit her throat and bind you just as surely.”

Bolthorn ground his teeth, but he stood nearer the door now, nearer to the king’s knife hand. He lunged for it.

The king spun at the movement, but too late, and Bolthorn caught his wrist, digging his thumb into the tendons there. The knife fell, but Arianna screamed, falling to her knees upon the stone and cradling her arm. He could not spare her more than the glance, for the king held his whip, and Bolthorn knew too well how effectively he used it.

“Go, Arianna,” Bolthorn said, lurching back from the king’s reach. He balanced on the balls of his feet, half-crouched. As long as he remained nearer the door, they might yet defeat Gunnar. “Quickly.”

She scrambled up, but she did not leave as he had hoped. Somehow, she had the king’s knife in her hand, though she still held her other arm awkwardly and her face had gone white with pain. She shut the door to the tower room, leaning heavily against the oaken panel. “Together, Bolthorn. As we agreed.”

“And I suppose you were coming here, all this time?” the king said, his lip curling. But his eyes darted between them now, his weight shifting as if he was not certain where he wished to strike. “Consorting with this monster? A true daughter of your mother in more ways than one.”

“Yes,” Arianna agreed, her voice cool, even distant. Too distant. “My mother’s daughter in all the ways that matter. And if she died to keep her magic secret, to keep her power from your hands, then I will do what I must to honor her sacrifice. Even if it means my blood is cursed.”

“You’d murder your own father?” Gunnar bared his teeth. “A true snake in my nest.”

Arianna shook her head. “You’ve made it more than clear you never considered me to be anything of yours. And if that is so, you cannot be surprised I would wish to see my mother’s murderer made pay, life for life.”

Gunnar laughed, lifting his empty hand to show the blood staining his fingers. “You truly believe you have any power over me?”

And then he spoke in Elvish, the accent all wrong, the words strangely wrought, but the meaning clear enough to make the blood upon his hand steam in response.
Let her burn.

Arianna’s back arched, and she cried out, twisting away from the door, away from the flaming heat upon her own skin.

“No!” Bolthorn threw himself at the king.

And what had he been doing before now, letting Gunnar talk? Arianna had wished to know the truth, and that might have been harmless enough. But he had not realized—how could he have known? He’d given the king no Elvish himself, no matter how many times he was beaten, and who else might teach him? Where else could he have learned?

The whip snapped but Bolthorn caught the worst of it on his arm, shielding his face. He was too close for it to do much beyond sting and he let it coil around his wrist, tearing it from the king’s grasp. Gunnar himself danced out of reach again, diving for the door.

Bolthorn did not let him reach it, catching the velvet of his finely stitched jacket and dragging him to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat in the next motion.

“You will never harm your daughter again.”

“Bolthorn!” Arianna’s warning came a moment too late. The king’s knife stuck deep between his ribs. Bolthorn howled, reaching for the hilt, only just stopping himself from drawing it free. Too much blood. He could not leave his blood, even with Gunnar dead, it was not safe. Not when someone else must have known enough to teach the king how to use it.

Gunnar dropped from his grasp, scuttling backwards.

Too slow and weaponless now. Bolthorn grabbed him by his calf, hauling him back, and let himself fall to his knees upon the king’s chest. Gunnar’s ribs gave beneath the weight, all the air leaving his lungs in a wordless cry.

“And this will be the last time I bend my knee to you,” Bolthorn growled.

Gunnar’s hands pulled at his, wrapped tight around the man’s throat once more, clawing desperately. His lips formed words, but without breath, no sound came with them. His windpipe collapsed, so delicate, and his eyes popped wider still.

The scent of fear grew rank, filling the room, and Bolthorn tightened his grip, his stomach churning with bile. He twisted until he felt the crack of Gunnar’s spine, and at last, the man lay still.

Dead.

Bolthorn clutched at the knife in his side and slumped against the stone wall.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Bolthorn!” She crawled across the floor to his side, even her stomach trembling at the sight of the hilt between his ribs. It was enough to shake her out of her own discomfort, the fire that had danced across the welts on her back. Gunnar’s death had stopped the pain, but not the shock of it. “Bolthorn, please, you have to be all right.”

He grunted, his head tipping back against the stone. Her fingers brushed against the knife, but he pushed her hand away. “Leave it.”

“You can’t walk around with a knife inside you!”

He opened his eyes and met hers. His breathing was far too shallow beneath her hand. “Mustn’t leave them my blood.”

Blood, always blood! By the Ancestors, she wanted to scream. But at least she understood it now. After what the king had done. And if Bolthorn died now—she couldn’t think of it. He couldn’t die!

She let out a shuddering breath. “If you don’t want to leave your blood, we must go.”

“Princess.” He stroked her cheek. “Open the mirror.”

“No!”

He chuckled, then groaned, forcing himself to sit up. “Not for me.”

“Oh.” She swallowed, unable to look at the other—the king. “You mean to leave him with Alviss.”

“That is best.” He struggled to rise and she slipped her good shoulder under his arm, helping him up.

“You need a bed,” she said softly, watching the green tones of his skin pale to grey. He leaned heavily against the wall, even with her help.

Mother, grant me strength. Her shoulder burned.
The king had twisted it completely out of its joint. And thank the Ancestors it had only been her arm and not a broken leg.

“Bolthorn, you can’t travel like this.”

He nodded to the body. “I fear I cannot lift him alone.”

“Bolthorn—”

“The body first, Arianna.”

She chewed her lip for a moment, then slid out from beneath his weight. As long as she did not look into his face, perhaps she could keep herself from shaking.

But Bolthorn stopped her, catching her hand and sending a jolt of fire into her shoulder. “Your arm.”

“It is nothing.”

He bared his tusks, but he did not let her go. “We make a strange, proud pair, Princess. But you will need both arms for this work. It will take me but a moment and you will have relief enough.”

She swallowed, giving him a nod. His hand slipped up her arm, fingers gentle upon the swollen joint. She clenched her teeth against the pain. Bolthorn braced her shoulder with one hand, and after a muttered prayer, gave her arm a quick jerk. She pressed her lips together on a cry and the joint popped, bringing a relief so strong the room spun.

“Better?” His hand was still on her shoulder, an anchor in the storm.

“Thank you.”

He let her go with a grunt, leaning heavily against the wall as his attention turned to the room. She rolled her shoulder, testing her discomfort and eyeing his side. She could hardly see more than the flash of the hilt, but it was clear it pained him. And even clearer that he must not jostle it any further. Not if he did not wish to leave a trail of green blood through the halls.

“Rest,” she told him, pushing him back when he drew himself up as if to move. “I will manage this.”

“By the feet,” Bolthorn suggested, and that he did not argue was proof enough of the graveness of his wound. “Or the arms.”

“Perhaps I can find a wagon,” she said, gripping the booted ankles and heaving him—it—in the direction of the mirror. At least the room was not wide, but how was such a thin person so heavy? Maybe it was his height.

Her vision blurred, but she blinked against the threatening tears. The things he had said. About her mother. About herself. She could not cry. Could not think of any of it. Not yet. Not until they escaped. A wagon. A wagon and the journey ahead. “You can ride in the bed.”

“Outside the city,” he said. “This late, you would be remembered asking for one.”

The next village was how far? A day’s journey. She glanced at Bolthorn. His eyes were closed again, his face grooved with pain. He looked so ill. “Can you make it that far?”

“I must.”

She got the body to the mirror with another tug. The boots were slipping. Or maybe it was her hands, damp with sweat. Her stomach seemed to writhe, knotting and twisting.

“As far inside as you can manage,” Bolthorn said.

He had made it look so easy with Alviss. Adjusting her grip, she backed through the mirror, dragging the body feet first. Her right foot slipped on something that wasn’t stone and she tripped, landing hard with a cry of pain and shock, her sore shoulder striking against the wall.

“Princess?”

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, but what came out was a sob. Alviss. She had tripped over Alviss. And the king. She had brought the king to his death. Helped to kill him as surely as if it had been her own hands wrapped around his throat. Her father, perhaps. Bolthorn had thought so. It had never occurred to him that the king could be anyone else but her father. She had condemned not only herself, but her children, too, were she to have any. The Ancestors would haunt them, torment her dreams. She had betrayed them, betrayed everything.

“Princess!” Bolthorn’s fist thudded against the glass.

So much death. And blood. Always blood. How much more? She was shaking too hard to stand, too hard to breathe. The king, her father. There was no escaping such a stain. Not even by Bolthorn’s vow. Her hands were washed in this blood, this guilt.

“Arianna, open the mirror.”

Bolthorn. His blood, too, with the knife in his side. Oh, Bolthorn! Hadn’t he spilled enough already?

And then he was with her, holding her, braced against the wall. His warmth eased the shudders that ran through her, but she could not stop the tears.

“There will be time for grief,” he murmured against her ear. “There will be time for all of this, I promise you, but not now. We must go on or it will be for nothing.”

“Your side,” she managed between sobs. “You won’t make it.”

“With you, I can. For you.” He lurched from the wall, his grip on her hand weak as he drew her toward the glass. “Come, Arianna. We must find our way past your father’s guards yet.”

But she was wearing the wrong gown. Ivory satin would draw every eye in the dark. And they had no food, no wine or even an empty skin for water, nothing. She stumbled out of the mirror, helping Bolthorn to the wall. He was so heavy. If he fell, she would never get him back up again. She strangled another sob at the sight of him so weak, then breathed again more deeply. Steady and strong. One of them had to be strong.

“Wait here,” she told him. “The bundle of cloaks and clothes is in my room.”

“Do not run,” he said, easing slowly down to the floor. “They’ll notice if you do.”

“Are you hurt?” Isabel asked, catching her by the arms when she slipped into her room. Her shoulder ached dully, now, beginning to throb.

All she could think of was Bolthorn, waiting, bleeding on the floor. At that, she almost had run, would have, if she had not worried it would be the last thing he ever asked of her.

“Did Father have you whipped again?”

“No.” She squeezed her sister’s hands. “No, he only bid me go to Lord Alviss. He fears betrayal. Would you help me change my gown? The navy velvet, for his colors.”

Isabel moved at once to help her, even bandaging her back. Arianna tucked another change in the bundle with the two cloaks, for Bolthorn’s side, and kissed her sister’s cheek.

“I do not know if I will be free to return tonight,” she said, the beginning of a plan taking shape in her mind. A way to get food as well as the clothing they needed. But she had to be quick. If Alviss only knew how he served her, now. “Father said I was to stay with him as long as possible. Even if he leaves the castle.”

“Promise me you will not provoke him, Arianna. These last days—you’ve been so wild. Even Rodric worries.”

“I promise.” The words were hollow and bitter in her mouth, but she forced herself to smile for her sister. Her beautiful sister.

Looking at Isabel, she could see so clearly why the king would believe their mother had been part elf. And how much she wished she could tell her sister everything, now. But she had no time, and Bolthorn waited. If she did not get him out of the castle, the king’s death would serve nothing. The next man who found him, who recognized what his existence meant, would only search for the same answers, desire the same power, all over again. No. The queen’s secrets must be kept. Even from her daughter.

“Good night, Isabel.” Goodbye, Isabel.

She walked as quickly as she could without drawing attention to herself, regretting already the way the bodice rubbed her back. At least the dark fabric would hide the blood. And it would keep her warmer than the satin. The way Bolthorn always went on about the cold, she thought she’d need it. Down the stairs from the family chambers to the kitchen.

“Your Highness,” the headwoman came to greet her at once, her gaze filled with concern. “I saved your supper for you, my lady, hoping the king might relent.”

“He’s ordered me to see to Lord Alviss’s meal, if not my own. Would you make me a basket to bring to his rooms? I know I asked for one for the morning, but the king has forbidden me to leave my lord’s room tomorrow.”

The headwoman sniffed. “He can’t want you to starve, serving his lordship. I’ll send you with enough for two and then some.”

“And wine, if you could,” she added. “For his temper and my back.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Two skins of wine and one of water, and more food than she ever could have begged for herself were packed in a basket without delay. “Ancestors bless you, my lady,” the headwoman said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Would you like a boy to carry it for you?”

“No.” She hefted it and winced. Between the basket, her shoulder, and Bolthorn, they would be lucky if they made it to the next village in one night. If the Ancestors meant to see them safe from the castle at all, anyway. “Better if it is done by my hands. But thank you. With the wine, perhaps this night will not go so badly as the last.”

The headwoman pursed her lips, then shooed her out. Arianna tucked the bundle with her cloak among the food, and slipped as silently as she could through the corridors. Once she was able to wrap Bolthorn’s wound, perhaps he would regain some of his strength. And the wine would help.

It had to.

“Drink.” A skin was pressed into his hands, lifted to his lips. He grunted, swallowing the cool liquid. Wine. She’d brought him wine. He lowered the skin, opening his eyes.

“How?” he rasped.

Arianna knelt beside him, the pale satin of her gown replaced with something darker in shade and laced tight against her waist. He did not like to think what it did to her back, rubbing against her wounds.

“I told the headwoman that the king had bid me to bring Lord Alviss his supper, and my sister believes I am meant to spy upon him for as long as he’ll abide my presence.” She tucked the skin of wine away. “No one will miss me for some time.”

“Then we must go.” He grasped the stone, finding purchase for his fingers within the crumbling mortar. His side burned, but he ignored it, struggling to rise. Every moment they delayed was time for her people to find them on the road. “We must go.”