Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (34 page)

“Is that what you think? That only Elvish blood is good for magic?” Vanadis laughed, the sound like silver on the wind. “I suppose you learned that from Bolthorn as well. The two of you make such a simple pair.”

Arianna hid her fists in her cloak, grateful for the rabbit skin gloves which kept her nails from biting into her palms. She had no doubt that Vanadis would have smelled the blood, and she would not give the Vala any more of that. She regretted every drop already spilled as they traveled through the mountains. She should have remembered how desperate Bolthorn had been to keep his blood from her people, but how could she have known? It had never occurred to her that the Vala would betray her, after everything Bolthorn had told her.

“What is it that you want of us, Vanadis?”

“You do not belong here, sewing trouble among the orcs. All I wish is to see you returned safely home and the passage sealed, with this nonsense of peace between orcs and men buried. We are better off without the cruelty your people would bring—surely you do not deny it?”

“Then you understand why I would raise Bolthorn’s child among the orcs,” she said.

“It would be a simple matter to be rid of it altogether, Princess. No child to bind you, no reason for you to stay.”

“And what of Bolthorn?” she demanded. “You would have me abandon him? To turn away from this gift we have been given?”

“Do you think I cannot rid you of Bolthorn, too?”

A chill slid down her spine with the words, cutting through the cloak she wore in spite of its magic. “He has done nothing but serve the Ancestors and his people.”

“Bringing you here as his wife was not a service to anyone but himself, Princess. It was a selfish choice! Unfair to you, unfair to the Hrimthursar. He knew what it would mean, the trouble it would cause, and still he hunted you.”

She shook her head. “There was no choice. Bolvarr told me it was impossible once we met. Bolthorn could not leave me, even if he wanted to. The Ancestors bound our fates from the first moment.”

“Bolvarr only wanted to give you peace, Princess. You must have realized that by now, surely? Did the Nykur not tell you how he forsook his love? She was orc and so pathetically in love with him, so devoted, but in the end he chose his own kind. As Bolthorn will, too, once he sees how little you offer him. Once your child dies during the first winter of its life, and he cannot stand the sight of you.”

“You don’t know that it will.” But her throat was tight, for the vision Vanadis painted was clear in her mind. She could see the curve of his shoulders, bowed with grief and pain, the yellow glare of his eyes when he looked at her without kindness, without warmth or love. Only blame.

“Don’t I?” Vanadis’s voice was thick with sympathy. “You forget, I am Vala. I have seen even full-blooded orcs lose children to the brutal cold. What hope does yours have? And then he will wish Hyndla had stayed. He will wish he had chosen her instead, and you will be nothing but a weight of regret, holding him back.”

Bolthorn, touching her, bringing only pain. If he did not love her, everything between them would be violence and sorrow. Powerful as he was, he could break her bones before he realized what he had done. And then what?

“No,” she said, whether to the vision or the Vala, she did not know. “Bolthorn would never hurt me. He will never regret his choice, and we are bound by blood. Blood oaths cannot be broken except by death.”

“I think you do not realize how easily death comes upon the mountain, Princess,” Vanadis said softly.

“Vanadis!” Bolthorn bellowed from behind them.

Arianna dared not turn. He was so near. Too near for the elders’ liking. She hugged herself and inhaled deeply, struggling to calm. The sun was only a golden smear, everything blurred with tears.

“Forgive me, Gothi,” Vanadis said at once. “It is only that your wife looked so forlorn I could not bear to let her stand alone.”

If he knew she wept, he would not leave. How much of her turmoil had he felt already? To draw him this close. She blinked back her tears. He would feel her heartbeat, still, and know something was wrong, but if he spoke to her—

“Better left alone than plagued by you,” Bolthorn growled. “We have both heard enough of your lies.”

Vanadis sighed, the sound filled with pity. “Yes, Gothi.”

Arianna listened to her footsteps, listened for Bolthorn’s to follow. But the crunch of snow and ice and stone sounded only beneath one set of feet. She held her breath, fearing his hesitation, yet needing it all the same. How much she would give to turn into his arms, to cry upon his shoulder and take strength in his steady heartbeat beneath her ear. She focused on its pulse beside her own, but it was not the same. None of it was the same, no matter how hard she pretended. No matter how many times she told herself it was enough. It must be enough.

Go, Bolthorn. Please, go!

Before she could not hide her tears any longer. Before she broke and turned to look at him, to meet his eyes, to feel his warmth.

“Bolthorn,” Eistla called.

He grunted and stepped back. Away. Once, twice, three times. She counted each step, measuring it against the mountain’s slope in her mind. Until she could not hear anything but her own heart, and the blood that roared in her ears.

Not long, now
, Vanadis had said. Arianna feared she was right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Bolthorn watched her disappear inside his mother’s hut, catching only the barest glimpse of her face, and the pink curve of her cheek. It was almost as though she fled, and all he wanted was to follow.

“What were you thinking, Bolthorn?” Eistla murmured after the others had left. There would be a feast of winter game and late berries, preserved in mead and buried deep in the snow to keep for this occasion. Arianna would not be permitted to attend, though he had argued for the allowance. Vanadis had argued too, insisting it was too great a risk, that Arianna would use the opportunity only to bespell the village. He had not been able to insist any further then, or risk appearing bewitched himself, though they had spent the last three days apart.

Bolthorn pressed his lips together, gazing sidelong at his mother. There was much he had not told her of his bond with Arianna, fearing that it would be heard by the wrong ears. As long as Vanadis walked freely among them, whispering her lies, he still did not dare to admit how closely their thoughts laughed.

“Arianna is defenseless against Vanadis’s power,” he said instead, though it had been the fear in her heart that had drawn him. Fear and grief. What had the Vala said to her? “And I did not speak to my wife, nor see anything of her but Fossegrim’s cloak.”

“You risk everything,” Eistla said. “Would you have her sacrifice be for nothing? Had you but called to me, I would have gone to her in your place!”

He clenched his teeth. These last days, his patience had worn thin, even for his mother. Anger lit his eyes more often than not, but for the time he stole with Arianna, their thoughts laughing together even if he could have her no other way. The softest brush of her presence in his mind seemed to calm him, to clear his head from the fog of resentment that cloaked his days.

“I miss my wife, Mother. Is that so great a sin?”

She sighed, her eyes softening. “No, Bolthorn. Of course it isn’t. But everything you do is watched. Every word you speak is weighed and measured. You must both be cautious, and she has done so well, keeping to herself, leaving no room for the elders or any Hrimthursar to fault her. I would not see her efforts wasted.”

“Nor I.” He grimaced, his gaze falling back upon his mother’s hut, and Arianna alone inside. Eistla had promised to bring her food from the feast, but it would be late before he could leave it for his bed. He feared she would be sleeping before he could reach for her again. They would not be able to speak until morning, and all the while she would dwell on Vanadis’s poisonous words. Whatever they had been, Bolthorn did not think they would bring any comfort.

“Will you speak to her?” He asked. “Learn what Vanadis has said. I would not have her alone with such venom in her thoughts.”

“Even if you had not asked it of me,” Eistla said. She smiled, though it held sorrow still, and kissed his cheek. “I will speak with you again at the feast.”

He did not enter his hut until he had seen Eistla close the door to her own. But he had barely had time to add more blackrock to his fire before he heard a shout for the Gothi. He stepped back outside to see a boy racing up the path. Hyndla’s younger brother.

“Grimnir returns!” he panted. “From the passage.”

At last! He’d sent the runner the morning after he’d arrived, but it was two days with sunlight to the mouth from the village, and he had not been certain if Grimnir had crossed the mountain with Bolvarr, or stayed behind to guard the passage while it remained open.

“Go warm yourself by the fire, Narvi.” He gripped the boy’s shoulder, smiling approval. “Help yourself to some porridge, if you’re hungry. But remember the feast tonight.”

“Yes, Gothi.” He ducked inside, and Bolthorn waited only long enough to see he had found a bowl and spoon before leaving him. Likely he would eat his fill and still be starving. Bolthorn remembered those days easily enough.

He turned his gaze to the mountain and the track that led to the passage, well marked since his return. Grimnir was upon it, his skin frosted with rime and blinding in the sunlight. And Vanadis watched him too, he saw, for she stood outside the shrine, dressed in heavy white robes against the cold. Was that irritation in her face?

Bolthorn did not wait, but went out to meet him, all the better to keep the ears of the village and the Vala from hearing.

When he reached him, Grimnir bared his tusks in a smile, clasping him by the arm in greeting.

“Gothi, when the runner came, we did not believe his words, but you live!”

“I live,” Bolthorn agreed. “Though how much longer I remain Gothi is difficult to say. Vanadis claims I am bewitched by my wife and unfit for the service.”

Grimnir’s smile faded even as his grip tightened. “She came to us at the passage, furious that Bolvarr would cross. Then she came again, to tell us he was dead and command the passage sealed again. My brother was with him, Gothi, yet the Vala did not speak of his fate, and then we heard that you had lived. She let us believe it was otherwise, when we asked.”

Bolthorn grunted. “And Hrimnir has not returned?”

Grimnir shook his head. “The Vala would not leave until we began the work of closing the passage, but the elves know little of our stonework, too used to Persuasion. Knowing Bolvarr’s fears, I sent Fenja through after Vanadis had gone, to scout. She saw no sign of men or orcs. If your brother died, it was not as the Vala claims.”

“Then we wait for Hrimnir,” Bolthorn said and Grimnir released his arm, relief smoothing the lines from his face. “I will not abandon our people in such a way. Fenja guards the passage still?”

“Her bow is ready and three others watch with her, prepared for any threat that might spill from it.” Grimnir’s gaze shifted to the village and his eyes narrowed. “Vanadis dogs your steps. What would you have me say?”

“I would not have you speak to her at all,” Bolthorn said, waving him on to the village. “Save your words for the council. She can wait to hear them until then and you have been too long in the cold. Come, I have porridge and mulled mead.”

“As you wish, Gothi.” Grimnir bared his tusks again. “I admit I am most interested to meet the new Gythja.”

“Eistla is Gythja still.”

Grimnir’s brow furrowed. “But surely she trains your wife to the duty?”

“No.” It was all he could do to keep his voice even, though in truth, he did not blame the elders for that hesitation. Arianna knew nothing of the Gythja’s role. She would need time to learn, if the council would only let her. But Eistla had been forbidden to teach her. Vanadis had wanted them to forbid Arianna even from speaking with his mother, but Eistla had refused to be bound by such a rule, though Arianna had been willing.

Bolthorn had not been invited to that meeting, at Vanadis’s insistence, and it was as well he had not, for hearing about it after had been enough to infuriate him. But the fact that the council had gone behind his back to determine the fate of his wife did not escape him. Vanadis guided them along a treacherous course.

They had entered the village now, and though Bolthorn had learned to ignore the way his people stared, searching for some sign of his bewitchment, Grimnir scowled. “What has happened, Bolthorn? They stare at you as if you are a stranger.”

“I am certain you will learn of it soon enough.” Bolthorn guided him to his hut. Narvi was gone, but he had not expected the boy to linger beyond his meal.

Grimnir ducked inside the doorway, searching the room, and when Bolthorn shut the door he turned, his expression odd. “But where is your wife?”

Bolthorn told him everything, watching his cousin’s face grow more and more bleak. He took no joy in it, though it was a relief to share the burden of all he faced. Unlike Hyndla, Grimnir did not defend the Vala or the council, only listened gravely. When he had finished, Grimnir shook his head.

“I will speak with the council, and the sooner it is done the better. Vanadis has led them astray, for what reasons, I cannot guess. But they must be made to see it. And as for Hyndla—” Grimnir’s eyes darkened with grief, for she was his cousin, on his father’s side. “I will speak with her as well, but I cannot believe she has fallen for Vanadis’s sly words. After she learned you were married, she took it poorly, that is true, but I had thought she had found another focus for her affections—perhaps I was wrong, but even so. Vanadis has lied to all of us.”

“I only pray you will have better luck than I have,” Bolthorn said. “If only Bolvarr or even Hrimnir would return, the council would have proof, but I will not send more orcs through the mountain, even if they would follow me. I would not have permitted Bolvarr to go, had I known what he planned. Arianna was safe enough without such foolishness.”

“Had he known you lived, I do not think he would have gone. And you should have died, Bolthorn. If not in the storm, by the quartz. Only elves have the power for that kind of travel, and even they do not do so lightly. How can the elders hear your tale and doubt that you have been guided by the Ancestors?”

“They think it was Arianna who guided me, though how she might have done so while believing I was dead is beyond my ken. And if she held so much power, why would she remain in Vanadis’s clutches or allow herself to freeze on the mountain at all? There is no sense to any of it, Grimnir! They imprison her for nothing but their own fears, fed by Vanadis and her talk of another Sinmarra walking among us.”

“Sinmarra was an elf,” Grimnir said, his voice low. “For all Vanadis has done for our race, we would be wise not to forget she is one as well.”

For the most part, Arianna spent the day alone. Eistla was too busy directing preparations for the feast to do more than share a hasty meal with her at midday. They had spoken after sunrise, briefly, and Arianna had felt Bolthorn’s concern in his mother’s words, but when she tried to tell Eistla what Vanadis had said, the words jumbled in her mouth and passed through her lips stripped of all threat. Eistla had left unconcerned, and Arianna, her head aching with the effort it had taken to share even as much as she had, returned to her bed, feeling an even greater sense of unease.

Vanadis had done something, she was certain, but if she could not even repeat the Vala’s words, she could warn no one. Was this what it felt like to be Persuaded by an elf? Betrayed by your own tongue? Surely Vanadis would not risk using magic against the orcs. They would never forgive it. Not even the Vidthursar would trust her once it was known. And the other elves—she did not know what the other elves would think, but Fossegrim would be furious. Would she even be able to tell Isolfur when spring came?

It would be over before then. Bolthorn had promised they would leave when her stomach began to swell, it would be less than two months until then. Perhaps closer to one month alone. And she might yet warn Bolthorn as long as her thoughts remained her own. But how could he act upon it, when they were not permitted to speak to one another? The elders would distrust him, believe it was some lie she had told, and worse, it would prove to them he had been bewitched.

But at least he would know. At least he could guard himself against the Vala. Eistla would believe him, too, if no one else. And as long as Vanadis did not control Bolthorn, there was hope.