[Queen of Orcs 02] - Clan Daughter (30 page)

“No matter,” replied Davot as he removed the stopper from the glass vial. “Cooking doesn’t harm the magic.”

Dar grabbed a spoon from the boiling stew and brushed it against Davot’s bare arm as he reached out to pour the potion. When the spoon burned him, Davot dropped the vial. It shattered on the stone hearth. “Oh, Master! I’m sorry! Please forgive my clumsiness!” Dar winced and steeled herself for a beating, but Davot didn’t strike her. Instead, he stared at the spilled potion, his face white with terror.

“Karm save me!” he said. “That was the last of it! I’ll have to…” He stopped and his face grew calmer. “No,
ye’ll
have to get more potion.”

Dar suddenly understood Davot’s terror. She asked where she had to go, dreading the answer. “You must visit the mage,” replied Davot. “He’ll be in his tower.”

“What should I tell him? Or will he know? It’s said he reads minds.”

“I’ve heard that, too. Say the vial was dropped, but do not say by whom.”

Dar realized that if the sorcerer could see her thoughts he would not only know that Davot had dropped the vial, but that Dar had caused him to do so. The mage would also know why.
How stupid of me!
she thought.
I could have let the queen go hungry. Now I’ve ruined everything!
Yet she saw no choice but to obey Davot and take her chances, poor as they might be.

Davot was anxious for Dar to leave and watched fretfully while she finished making the stew. After Dar added the last ingredients, he gave directions to the mage’s tower and sent her off. As she left, Dar sneaked a charred stick from a fireplace. Once she was out of sight, she used it to obscure her tattoo with soot and smudged her face as well. Then Dar climbed the stairs of the servant passageway and exited on the seventh floor into a hallway with bricked-up windows. A single torch dimly illuminated the iron door at its end. Dar approached the door with trepidation. There were no guards. Fear protected the sorcerer’s tower.

Dar used the door’s knocker. Its sharp sound echoed loudly. Davot had told Dar to expect no reply. When the echoes died into silence, she pulled open the door and began to climb the stone stairs. The darkness seemed thicker inside the tower, more like smoke than the absence of light. As she ascended, the air grew colder until her breath showed. Dar was breathing rapidly by the time she reached a second iron door. “Enter,” said a voice.

Dar opened the door and stepped into a room. Though filled with lit candles, it was little brighter than the stairwell. The pale light glinted off polished wood and golden-threaded tapestries, but the rich furnishings only emphasized the gloom. The mage sat in a chair as elaborate as a throne, reading a dusty scroll. He looked up. “Well?”

Dar bowed her head. She tried to fake terror and found it came naturally. “Sire, I was sent from the kitchen to get healing magic for the queen.”

“Look me in the eye!” barked the sorcerer.

Dar obeyed. The mage’s face was young, yet withered as if twisted by a blast of malice. His dark eyes peered at Dar, seemingly lifeless but not sightless. Dar feared they were holes through which her spirit might tumble and be lost forever. “There was a vial ready for this night,” said the mage in an icy voice. “Tell me, girl, what happened to it?”

“It was dropped.”

When the mage spoke again, his voice was quieter and more menacing. “By whom?”

Dar tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “A maid. I don’t know her name. They beat her senseless and sent me in her stead.” Dar waited for the mage to read the truth and inflict some terrible punishment. Nevertheless, she continued to meet his gaze.

A thin smile came to Othar’s lips. “Whoever beat that maid did her a favor. Come with me. You can help me make new magic.”

“I help the likes of Your Lordship?”

Othar grinned maliciously. “Aye. Like the stick helps the fire. Come.” The mage rose, seized a candelabra, and opened a door to another room. “Follow me. Touch nothing.”

Dar entered the windowless room. It smelled of blood and was even colder and darker than the outer one. There, the numerous candles in the candelabra cast only a pale, watery light, devoid of warmth. Dar peered about the chamber. The walls were lined with shelves, which held numerous vessels and boxes. There was a stone table with a fire bowl carved in its surface. As Dar’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she noticed a rusty circle painted on the floor and saw a black stone pedestal standing in the darkest part of the room. A black cloth bag lay upon it. Dar sensed that whatever the bag contained was the source of the room’s oppressive atmosphere.
The bones?
She stepped toward the bag for a closer look.

The mage seized her arm. “What’s in that bag can burn your dirty face worse than hot iron. Would you like to look like me?” The mage studied her, not loosening his hold. “We’ve met before.”

Dar lowered her eyes. “I bring food to the banquet hall.”

“And what’s a branded girl doing in the palace?”

“I…I have a lover, sire. He got me a place.”

Othar pulled Dar to the stone table and stretched her arm over an iron bowl. He took a bone knife and pierced one of Dar’s veins. Dar looked away as her blood flowed into the bowl. “A slut’s blood will do for this magic,” said Othar. “You’re lucky I only need a little.” To Dar, it seemed forever before the mage released her arm. “Sit down,” he said. “Wait while I finish this.”

Dar shivered on the stone floor as the mage added ingredients to her blood. He lit a fire and cooked the mixture awhile, poured it through a cloth into an iron beaker, and used the beaker to fill a series of vials, one of which he handed to Dar. It was already cold to the touch. “Take this to the kitchen,” said the mage. “And tell Davot that if anyone breaks another vial, he’s to roast their heart and serve it to me personally.”

Dar bowed very low. “Yes, sire.” Then she hurried away. She relaxed only when she left the tower. Then she felt elated, for she was certain of two important things: The bones were in the black cloth sack, and the mage couldn’t read minds.

When Davot emptied the vial into the queen’s supper that evening, he had no idea that it contained water tinted with a bit of Dar’s blood. He was too relieved to notice any difference. “Cook their heart he said? Oh dear! I daresay he’d make me cook my own.” He gazed at the large purple mark around Dar’s punctured vein. “Ye’re a brave lass, ye are indeed. Not everyone returns from the tower.”

Thirty-six

Muth Mauk detected the trace of Dar’s blood in her stew and had Dar recount her encounter with the mage. Afterward, the queen told how the mage had ensnared her while she was visiting old King Kregant. “I fell ill, along with everyone in my party. Black Washavoki was great healer. No evil marred his face then. He gave magic to all, but only I lived. Any mother who visited me sickened and died. To spare others, I came to this room. Then old king died and mist filled my head. I could not tell dreams from waking life. Black Washavoki gave me words, and I spoke them.” Muth Mauk looked distressed. “Thus I brought evil upon sons and mothers.”

“Evildoers may twist goodness to their purposes. Auntie, don’t blame yourself.”

“I must oppose that evil I caused. Dargu, when can we leave?”

“I don’t know. I have yet to find way.”

“You must hurry.”

Muth Mauk’s urgency was a weight on Dar’s chest.
How can I overcome iron gates, stone walls, and deep magic? I’ve raised false hopes.
Yet she didn’t voice her doubts to the queen, or lie. “I’ll try,” Dar said.

As Othar sat in the dark, a thought came.
You should have killed the girl.
The mage spoke to the darkness. “I would have, but I needed her to deliver the vial.”
Was that wise?
Othar thought perhaps he should ask the bones. Yet, that would require another sacrifice, and he doubted it would be worthwhile. The bones had grown vague again. When thrown, they had always moved as if blown by unworldly winds, but lately the winds had become swirling eddies that left confusion in their wake. The mage felt he was in the center of a storm or—more likely—a struggle. Though much that the bones said was unintelligible, one message was clear: A threat was close. Very close.

“Yes, I should have killed the girl,” said the mage. “Tomorrow, I will. I’ll send for her and finish the job.” Othar smiled. He hadn’t killed a woman for a while. It would be pleasant.

It was very late when Dar returned to the kitchen, and the lamp had burned out. The only light in the cavernous room came from embers in the fireplaces and pale moonlight outside the windows. Dar set the hamper down, too tired to clean up, and groped her way toward Bea’s mattress. A faint noise stopped her.

“Sevren?”

Silence.

It must be Toaty
, Dar thought. She reached the mattress, sat down carefully so as not to wake Bea, and took off her shoes. She was about to lie down when she touched something wet and sticky on the mattress. Dar examined her hand by the dim light cast from a nearby fireplace.
Blood!
Dar shook the motionless scrubmaid. “Bea? Bea!” Her body was already cold.

Dar heard footsteps. A man’s form was briefly silhouetted against the windows. He was near. “Your friend wasn’t very clever, but she was talkative.”

“Kol?”

“Still recognize my voice? I’m touched.” Dar started to rise when a lash whistled through the air and cracked above her head. “Sit down!” Dar slumped on the mattress. “I missed on purpose, so don’t do anything foolish.”

Dar wished that she had her buried dagger or even a kitchen knife, but the knives were stored on the other side of the room. Playing for time, she asked. “How did you find me?”

Kol chuckled. “Never trust a woman.”

“Neena?”

“She set me on your trail. The guardsmen were tight-lipped, but the watchman gave you away. The rest was easy.”

“What do you want?”

“To do my duty.” The whip whistled in the gloom, invisible. Another loud crack. Dar flinched and Kol laughed. “You’re a deserter. The scabheads need an example.”

“Then why flog me here?”

Another crack made Dar cower. Kol’s voice seemed to purr. “I’ll only start here. Wound you. Blind you. I’ll finish you in camp in a way that will leave an impression.”

Dar glanced about for some kind of weapon. A meat spit lay upon two brackets in the closest fireplace. A few hours earlier, it had skewered an entire boar. Its sharp point could easily pierce a man. As Dar prepared to lunge for it, she thought of something to distract her foe. “Hurt me, and the orcs will tear you to pieces.”

Murdant Kol was silent, and in the stillness Dar bounded for the fireplace. She made three long strides before the whip’s thongs wrapped around her ankle, biting her flesh and tripping her. Dar fell short of the spit. Hot ash and embers scorched her outstretched hands. Kol tugged at the whip to free it for another blow, but its thongs still gripped Dar’s ankle. He bent forward to grab the coils and Dar saw his face for the first time. His eyes had a maniacal gleam. She threw ashes in them.

Kol bellowed with rage and pain as dust and sparks obscured his face. He dropped his whip and it released Dar. She scurried under the tables. For the first time, she had the advantage. Darkness hid her, and she knew where to go. Kol blundered about while Dar quietly crawled to the door closest to Sevren’s lodgings. When she reached it, she bolted outside. Dar heard Kol cursing from across the room.

Dar ran to the building next door. Knowing only that Sevren lived on the second floor, she bounded up the stairs into a dark hallway lined with doors. “Sevren!” she shouted. “Sevren!” Several doors opened and men peered out. One rushed toward her. “Dar!”

“Kol’s after me!”

Sevren pulled Dar toward his doorway. “Lads,” he shouted, “let no stranger pass. Better yet, chase him off.” When Dar was in his room, Sevren shut the door. “Quiet,” he whispered as he grabbed his sword. Then Sevren blew out the candle and stood motionless, poised to attack. Outside the door, booted feet clumped on wooden floorboards. The sound gradually died away.

A long while passed before a voice called through the closed door. “Sevren, he got away.”

Sevren lowered his sword, walked over to the bed where Dar sat, and leaned his weapon against the wall.

“Hold me,” said Dar, voicing the words like a gentle command. Sevren sat on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. Dar was trembling slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Sons protect mothers,” said Sevren.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“I’ve been talking to a sand ice merchant who visits orcs often. He speaks their tongue and prefers their company.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I have this problem. You see, I love an orc woman. I must learn how to behave.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“That I should bathe often. In truth, it’s caused no harm.”

Dar sniffed.

“Do you smell my atur?” asked Sevren.

“No. I can’t smell love.”

“Then why did you ask me to hold you?”

Dar changed the subject. “Why do you love me?”

“I do na know. It must be Muth la’s doing.”

“Don’t joke about Muth la!”