[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny

by Morgan Howell

  Kol laughed in his face. “And I’ll die if I prove otherwise? Save your threats for cravens. A soldier makes that bargain before every battle. Do you think that death by magic is worse than an arrow in the throat?”

  “I’m glad you know the stakes.”

  “I’ve always known them,” replied Kol. “So let’s speak plainly and save innuendo for the court. First, I must regain my health. I can’t be seen as weak. While I do that, gather intelligence. I want to launch my campaign knowing my adversaries.”

  Gorm smiled, seeming to approve of Kol’s boldness. “I’m joining the court myself as a manservant to a count. As such, I’ll be nearly invisible.”

  Kol grinned. “But not blind. Every woman has a weakness. I need to know Queen Girta’s.”

  Dar’s new kefs arrived on schedule, but she didn’t host a feast that night. The onset of the memories from past queens had disoriented her. Their frequency increased until they flooded Dar’s consciousness. Some were little more than passing recollections—a name accompanied by a face, a long-ago event, or a glimpse of a place she had never visited. Others were more like hallucinations and had all their reality. Those left Dar reeling and confused. Although most were pleasant, a few were frightening or sad. Nir-yat stayed by Dar’s side throughout, pulling her back to the present whenever necessary. Over time, the episodes grew less intrusive, and Dar learned to manage them as easily as her own recollections.

  Even while the memories buffeted her, Dar realized their value. They proved to be a special kind of knowledge. They weren’t instructions on how to do things or a chronology of events. The memories were random impressions that connected her to her subjects, and provided an understanding of their history that went beyond mere facts. She felt as though she had lived through those times, experiencing things that otherwise had passed beyond recall. Once, she saw her sister through the late Nir-yat’s eyes—a toddler scampering naked through a field of yellow brak flowers. When the recollection faded, Dar affectionately grasped Nir-yat’s hand. “Your grandmother loved you very much.”

  Four days after Dar received her new kefs, she felt settled enough to have her first feast. Traditionally, it was the most lavish, although it would be served to the humblest family within the hall. Each successive night, Dar would entertain another hanmuthi until the clan matriarch’s family was feasted with a simple, everyday meal. After Dar reviewed the elaborate menu with Gar-yat, the head of the communal kitchen, she went over the guest list with Nir-yat. Already, Dar was able to read it, and she took care to memorize all the names. When that was accomplished, Nir-yat told her what she knew about each guest.

  Dar learned that Tauma-yat’s family occupied the smallest hanmuthi within the hall. Located in the oldest section, it housed forty-three individuals, for Tauma-yat lived with her three sisters and an unblessed brother. Tauma-yat had four daughters, three of whom were already blessed and had children of their own. She also had two grown sons, both unblessed. Tauma-yat’s sisters were older, but they had only one daughter apiece. That was why the youngest sibling headed the hanmuthi. The complex rules of status had been incomprehensible to Dar until the memories began to arrive. Then, like reading and writing, they suddenly made sense to her.

  As the feast approached, Dar bathed, colored her nails and nipples, blackened her teeth, and dressed in her new clothes. Her russet hair had grown long enough for Nir-yat to weave it into a single five-strand braid, which she tied with a talmauki ribbon. Dar placed the crown, a simple gold band, upon her head and nervously waited for her guests.

  As soon as they arrived, Dar’s nervousness transformed into affection. These are my children, Dar thought as she blessed each one by name. When they were seated on cushions in the royal hanmuthi, Dar sat upon the royal stool and a procession of sons brought in the food. The room instantly filled with rich aromas. The featured dish was tahweriti, small fowls that had been stuffed with dried fruits and brak, then slowly roasted over aromatic wood. There were skewers of spiced goat and mutton, five different stews, dried fruits, hard milk, vegetables fried in spiced oil, roasted pashi, sweets, and ewers of herbed water, both hot and cold. One of the stews was muthtufa, the same dish Velasa-pah had prepared in his lonely hut. Its aroma made Dar recall her first encounter with him.

  When all the food was laid about the hearth, Dar rose from her stool. “Food is Muth la’s gift,” she said.

  “Shashav, Muth la,” said everyone in unison.

  Then, like a muthuri, Dar personally served each diner the first dish. After Dar had given everyone a fowl, Tauma-yat and her sisters helped Dar serve the next round of dishes. Then, as in a family meal, their daughters joined the servers. When everyone’s platter was heaped with food and every cup was filled, the feasting began. For a while, the room was quiet as the diners savored the elegant meal. It was custom to fast before a feast, and everyone was hungry.

  Conversation began later. It was easy talk that lacked the pomp and formality Dar had observed in King Kregant’s court. Instead, Dar felt she was at a family gathering, though her human family had never been so festive. It was the memories of the former queens—recollections that had become her own—that made Dar feel she was attending a joyful reunion, the latest in a series that spanned generations. At times, she glanced at Tauma-yat and recalled her guest’s muthuri. Other times, she remembered Tauma-yat’s grandmother. Dar was full of questions, wanting to know what everyone was doing and how they’d fared. Her interest was heartfelt, and the whole family sensed it.

  Falfhissi arrived in a large silver urn. Custom called for Dar to take the first drink, and it was supposed to be a deep one. She grabbed the urn by both its handles and held it to her mouth a long while, though she took care to sip sparingly. She had experience with the spicy liquor, and didn’t wish to overindulge again. Nevertheless, she soon began to feel its effects. As the company grew boisterous, Dar joined in, regaling them with tales of her ineptitude in the kitchen. Dar’s comic imitation of Gar-yat tasting one of her efforts left everyone hissing with laughter.

  When the feast was over, Dar blessed each guest as they departed, full and happy. Only Nir-yat remained. She seemed tipsy as she beamed at Dar. “I’m so pleased you’re my sister,” she said. “You were everyone’s muthuri tonight. You reminded me of Grandmother.”

  The mention of that queen made Dar recall how she had died alone. Thinking of her fate brought Dar to the verge of tears. Don’t spoil a lovely evening, she told herself. I’m weepy because I drank too much. Yet Dar’s melancholy didn’t feel like a drunk’s maudlinness. Instead, it felt like a warning.

  On the evening Dar threw her second feast, a dinner was held at Balten’s house in Taiben. The purpose was to introduce General Voltar to his new aide. The general and Lokung, the royal steward, arrived at dusk and were greeted by Balten. Immediately afterward, a servant brought goblets of hot, spiced wine.

  Voltar took a deep draught. “So where’s this Kol fellow?” he asked.

  “He’s coming with Gorm,” replied Balten.

  “Gorm!” said the general, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “Will he be dining with us?”

  “Yes. And his master.”

  At that news, the color drained from Lokung’s face and even the general grew subdued. He took another gulp of wine, then muttered, “That should make for a festive evening.”

  “General,” whispered Balten, “it’s not…”

  Gorm’s arrival cut him short. He accompanied Kol, who was dressed appropriately for his new rank. He wore a finely made black leather jerkin, dark blue trousers in the military style, and high black boots. The sword and dagger that hung from his belt were new and adorned with touches of gold. Voltar gazed at him with disdain. “I know you! You were a murdant!”

  “You’d best forget that, General,” said Gorm. Then he smiled. “Tolum Kol’s success will preserve your good fortune. Life’s pleasant with a new, young wife, but it won’t do to become complacent.”

  Voltar looked aw
ay.

  “Come now, General,” said Gorm. “We’re all comrades here, and comrades help one another.”

  “I swore I’d do it,” muttered Voltar, “and I will.”

  “Then no half measures,” replied Gorm. “Those won’t satisfy my master.”

  General Voltar forced a smile. “Tolum Kol, welcome to my staff. Rest assured you’ll have my fullest backing.”

  Kol bowed, his lips bearing a hint of a smile.

  “Supper is ready,” announced Balten as though he dreaded it. Two servants opened the doors to the dining chamber.

  Kol entered the room with the others. It was chilly despite a roaring fire in a large fireplace. At the head of the banquet table sat someone who wore a silver mask and had hands wrought from the same metal. Kol assumed it was Othar and bowed to him.

  The mask declined slightly, but no voice issued from its half-smiling lips. The silence appeared to unnerve all of Kol’s companions except Gorm. He seemed perfectly at ease. Kol tried to emulate his example, although he couldn’t achieve Gorm’s air of amusement.

  Servants entered the room bearing food and wine. All appeared subdued and frightened, except one—a young woman. Her pretty face was vacant, and her wrists were wrapped in bloody bandages. She remained by Othar’s side when the other servants departed.

  A voice from behind the mask broke the room’s silence. “All here have benefited due to me.” The gleaming face turned to briefly gaze at everyone but Gorm. “Tonight you’ll learn the repayment I require. What secrets I reveal will remain behind these doors. Yet before I speak of them, let us enjoy our repast.”

  Although the guests’ plates were heaped with delicacies, only a covered tureen sat before the mage. Kol wondered how Othar would eat, for his hands looked strictly ornamental and the mouth in the mask appeared too small to admit food. His question was answered when the blank-faced woman removed pins in the sides of the mask. A hinge was hidden in its top, and with the pins gone, the front and the back of the head split apart. The woman removed it to reveal the face beneath.

  It was as hideous as that of any corpse Kol had encountered, and he would have been far more comfortable if it weren’t living. However, what surprised him more was Voltar and Lokung’s reaction. They were surprised. “Othar?” said the general. “By Karm, is that you?”

  Lokung blanched as he stared wide-eyed. “You…you’re dead. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I did, too,” said the general. “How is this possible?”

  “My life was preserved so I might accomplish greatness. One day, they’ll speak of Othar Orc-bane, the man who rid the world of piss eyes.”

  The woman lifted the cover from the tureen, exposing what looked like a dark red stew. Othar smiled, his teeth gleaming against his cinder-black flesh. “Eat…eat. We’ll talk later.” The woman lifted a spoon and began to feed him.

  Kol forced himself to eat some of his meal, which was rapidly growing cold. Among the other guests, only Gorm possessed an appetite. The general pecked at his food, while Lokung and Balten merely stared at theirs. While Kol ate, he made a point of glancing at Othar, not wanting to appear too cowed to meet his gaze. The “stew” the mage devoured was chunks of meat in a red broth. The meat looked raw and the broth resembled blood. When Kol had this thought, Othar flashed him a knowing smile.

  On closer examination, Kol concluded that no ordinary fire had burned the mage’s flesh. Although the mage’s nose and ears were gone and his skin resembled scorched crusts on a skillet, his flesh remained supple and capable of expression. He’s been transformed, not consumed, Kol thought. Othar nodded as if he understood what Kol was thinking. Can he read my thoughts? Othar nodded again.

  Did you enslave that woman through magic? Kol thought.

  Othar grinned his reply.

  The meal was over as soon as Othar finished eating. Balten rang a bell and servants returned to clear the table and refill the wine goblets. Kol wondered what price they’d pay for seeing Othar unmasked. Then Othar spoke, interrupting Kol’s speculations. “Before dinner, I spoke of a war against the orcs. That enterprise is why you’re here. To gaze upon me is to know why I hate their queen. My condition is her doing. Only war can repay my grievance.” Othar gazed about the room. “You’re here to aid in accomplishing that. Tolum Kol has the hardest task. He must make a woman see sense.”

  General Voltar forced a laugh at the remark.

  Othar smiled before continuing. “You know of the treaty between our queen and the piss eyes. They’re to be her guardians, and in exchange, they’ll no longer fight our enemies. That pact alters everything. Without piss eye troops, war will be costly and its outcome unsure. Have no doubt—peace means disbanded regiments and an impoverished court. If the piss eyes won’t plunder for us, then we should plunder them. Only a treaty stops us. Tolum Kol’s job is to turn Girta against it.”

  “How can he do that?” asked Voltar. “Girta lacks a spine.”

  “I aim to give her one,” said Kol.

  “You can’t change a ewe into a she-wolf,” said the general.

  “Then I’ll try some other tactic,” replied Kol. “I’ll do anything as long as it results in war.”

  “And your obligations are to help him by whatever means necessary,” said Othar. “Make sure you understand that. Otherwise, you’ll share this girl’s fate.” He spoke to the blank-faced woman by his side and she fell screaming to the floor. There, she continued to shriek while she writhed and clawed her face bloody. As her self-mutilation drew out, Lokung and Balten became sick and even Voltar grew pale. The woman died when she tore out her throat, making Kol think that an arrow in the neck would have been a gentler death.

  Othar looked pleased. “Gorm will advise you on your roles. Fulfill them and we need not meet again. Balten, ring the bell.”

  Balten obeyed and two vacant-faced men entered the room to lift Othar’s chair and carry him out. Afterward, one returned to drag the woman’s corpse away. After she was gone, Gorm smiled and glanced about the room. “My master likes a dramatic touch. As Tolum Kol says, an example heightens discipline.”

  Fifteen

  From her aborted conversation with Meera-yat, Dar knew a new queen had other duties besides throwing feasts. Most important among these was calling for unblessed sons to become mintaris. Not only would the sons she chose serve throughout her reign, the call for candidates would summon the clan matriarchs for a council. Dar worried it would be a difficult meeting. If Muth-yat challenged her fitness, she would do it then. Postponing a call for sons would postpone the council, but Dar saw no advantage in that. Instead, she decided to face the matriarchs and be done with it.

  Dar brought up the subject of mintaris with Nir-yat during dawnmeal. She related what Meera-yat had told her, then asked, “Can you add anything to what she said?”

  “Not much,” replied Nir-yat. “Except take your time in choosing. Meera-yat was wise to say don’t bite son’s neck unless you’re certain you want him. Great mothers often take years to decide. Bear in mind that your mintaris will become like your children, except they’ll live in your hanmuthi even after they’re blessed.”

  Dar suddenly understood why the royal hanmuthi was so large. “Meera-yat said I should ask each matriarch for two candidates.”

  “Hai, but you need not accept them. Still, it’s best to have at least one mintari from each clan. Keep asking for candidates until you get one who suits you.”

  “Meera said I could ask for sons by name.”

  “Hai, if you wish.”

  “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “I’m only familiar with sons from Mah and Tok clans,” said Nir-yat. “Consider Kazan-mah and Togu-mah. Kak-tok might be good choice also. You know our clan’s sons, and you’ve already bitten brother’s neck.”

  “What do you think of Nagtha-yat?”

  Nir-yat looked surprised. “He’s Grandmother’s youngest son, he must be fifty winters old. Why would you consider him?”

 
“I met him when I lived among washavoki soldiers. He was Wise Son who called me mother and allowed me to sleep within Muth la’s Embrace.”

  “I heard he went to fight,” said Nir-yat, “but I don’t know if he survived.”

  “Doesn’t he live in this hall?”

  “He lives in his daughter’s hanmuthi. She’s Jan clan.”

  “I thought he was unblessed, because only unblessed sons were sent to fight.”

  “His muthvashi died, but he remained with her clan.”

  “If he lives, I’d like to see him,” said Dar. “Which Mah clan son is better, Kazan-mah or Togu-mah?”

  “Why not ask to see both?”

  “Because I’ll ask for Kovok-mah.”

  “Kovok-mah!”

  “Hai. I want him.”

  “He can’t see you! His muthuri has forbidden it.”

  “She can’t forbid him to become mintari.”

  “That’s true, but he must withhold his love. That won’t change. Why torment yourself?”

  “I’m only being practical. He speaks washavoki tongue. That’s rare skill among urkzimmuthi.”

  “Sister, others speak washavoki tongue. They’d be wiser choice.”

  “Do you think me unwise?”

  “In this matter, I do. Please don’t choose him.”

  “I was told to follow my chest.”

  “By who?”

  Dar recalled that it was Velasa-pah who first had given her that advice. As soon as she had that thought, she knew she shouldn’t voice it. “It’s common wisdom.”

  “There are times when your head must overrule your chest. This is one of them.”

  “I’m queen, free to choose my mintari.”

  “You’re not free from Muth la’s laws. You’re making dangerous choice.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “You understand my meaning. We’re sisters. I know your chest.”

  “Kovok-mah will be one of my mintaris,” said Dar in a tone she hoped conveyed finality. “I’ll send message to Muth-mah today.”