Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (2 page)

He all but purred. “The honor is mine, Your Highness, I assure you.”

And then his lips found hers, and she stifled a sob against his mouth. She still had to make it through supper, after, and the king would not tolerate a weeping princess at the table. She kept her lips firmly closed against his probing tongue and her body stiff against his, though he pressed her hard against the stone wall.

The ring of the supper bell saved her from worse.

But for how long?

Arianna kept to the room she shared with Isabel after that, plucking at her needlework with the usual disinterest and watching her brothers out the window, training in the practice field below. They were easy to spot, their golden heads shining among the darker-haired knights. Isabel was just as fair and even more stunning. The image of the queen and just as graceful—so much so that every nobleman bowed when she passed, as if they feared she might call the queen’s spirit to curse them if they did not show the proper respect. But Arianna had no such protection, and she was not certain Alviss feared the Ancestors at all. Certainly he did not fear her father, had no reason at all to do so, when he was so well-favored that he should be granted the companionship of the king’s daughter. And now he could follow her all he liked.

If she did not leave her room, she could not be followed, Arianna reminded herself. And if she were not followed, she would have no need to hide. If she had no need to hide, she would not be tempted by the room with the queen’s mirror and the man behind it, where not even Alviss would dare to look.

The voice from the mirror haunted her still, whispering in her dreams. If he had known her name, would she hear him calling it? It was her heartbeat that had interested him, drawing him forward. And her heart still raced, thinking of him. The king’s captive—no, he had said he was held hostage. But why was he not kept with the other hostages?

There were half a dozen in the castle, princes and higher nobles of foreign lands. Having pledged their good behavior and obedience to the king, they were free to do as they pleased, and in return they were treated as guests until and unless their countries rose up against Gautar. Even those who did not swear obedience were granted rooms on the family floor of the castle where the king might keep watch on their movements. Guards stood outside their door and escorted them to meals, but they were given all the comforts of any other visitor, not locked in a cold, dark room, trapped inside a mirror in chains.

Her mother’s mirror, unearthed and made magic. Or had it always been? Certainly it explained why she had kept it hidden for so long, but what use could she have had for a prison set inside glass? It was all so strange, and she could not stop it from spinning through her thoughts.

The needle pricked her finger and she cursed.

“Arianna!” Isabel said, her voice soft even in censure. “You know you’re not allowed to say such filthy words.”

She sucked on her finger to stop the bleeding. “What the king doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

“Please,” Isabel murmured. “You’ve been doing so well. Don’t you remember what he said last time? If you disobey him again, he’ll make Rodric whip you instead. If you cannot take care for yourself, at least do not do this to him!”

Arianna pressed her lips together. She hadn’t forgotten the threat, but it had been so long ago, and she had been so careful to treat Rodric coolly ever since. Never mind that dozens of similar curses had been floating up from the practice grounds all morning. Their brothers were expected to curse, encouraged even, but the king required his daughters to be demure. Perfectly polite and completely pure, that he might marry her off without fear she would embarrass the kingdom. And of course, obedient. Even in marriage, she must be obedient to her father, above all.

Arianna swore again, this time silently. Perhaps she ought to let Alviss catch her alone, after all. The king wouldn’t be able to barter her off if the man violated her. She stared at the golden dragon she was embroidering. King Gunnar’s sigil. Marriage was the only way she would escape him. Better to be bartered and freed than caged all her life, and who knew what punishment the king would devise if she allowed such liberties with her person. Something worse than Rodric’s involvement. He would see it as disobedience, almost certainly, whether or not she welcomed the man’s advances.

Remembering the scarred palm pressed against the glass, she bit her lip. Had he earned his punishment or had the king taken exception to some imagined slight? Perhaps, if she stayed in the shadows, and didn’t reveal her name—the king need never know, just as he need never learn she had cursed over her needlework. Just as he need never know she had seen him force his wife over the wall.

She risked a glance at her sister, golden head bent over her embroidery once more. Arianna had not understood at first what the king had meant that day, but she was not so foolish that she had not realized what he believed when time and again, she earned his ire with some imagined failure. When she was punished more severely, even if Isabel had engaged in the same disobedience.
One of your daughters is not mine…

Arianna set down her work and rose from the bench. Just because she pretended ignorance did not mean she did not yearn for the truth.

“My eyes are blurring,” she told Isabel.

Her sister sighed, lifting her gaze from the fabric in her hands to study her with concern. “Don’t let Father catch you sneaking into the kitchen.”

“I won’t.” Arianna smiled as she slipped out of their room. At least in that much, she could be honest. No one would see her anywhere near the kitchen. The herb garden wasn’t safe anymore, but the tower—the tower held promise.

A woman. Bolthorn narrowed his eyes, studying the ivory sash wrapped around a slim waist, glowing in the dim light. The rest of her gown was dark enough he could not distinguish it from the shadows on the other side of the glass, but the sash told him plenty. High born, and by the frantic beat of her heart, the same woman who had come two days before.

Bolthorn said nothing, nor did he move. She was terrified enough without startling her further with the clink of the fetters that bound him. The door shut behind her and she crept along the wall, moving deeper into the darkness. He could just make out the pale oval of her face and a pair of dark, wide eyes.

The silence stretched as he watched her wring her hands in her skirt, every glimpse of her body filled with strain. He stirred, letting the iron chains jingle ever so slightly with the movement. Not enough to frighten her, he hoped, but to remind her she was not alone.

“Oh,” she gasped. “I wasn’t certain—” her voice faded to nothing and she cleared her throat. “You mustn’t tell him I was here.”

He snorted. “If I meant to tell him anything, I would hardly be chained to a wall.”

“Oh,” she repeated, even more softly than before. What could she possibly know to fill her voice with so much sympathy, dressed in fine silks, her skin smooth and unmarked. He closed his hands into fists at the thought. Among his own people, she would have been scarred and tattooed with the name of her clan at the least, by now. But if she were one of his own people, her skin would not be the color of cream, either. She would be the shade of spring grasses or the pale blue of ice.

He grunted, forcing the images away. She was human, weak and soft and foolish, and he was orc, hard and strong and cunning. But more than that, he was Gothi—leader of the Hrimthursar clan. His people would not suffer for his curiosity. Not again.

“You will learn nothing,” he growled. “I am not so slow-witted as to betray my people for a kind voice and a pretty face.”

“I didn’t—I’m not—” she fell silent again, the fluster of her words echoed by the wringing of her hands and the tempo of her heartbeat, too fast, too hard. She stilled her fingers and straightened her spine. “That isn’t why I’ve come.”

“Oh?” his tone mocked hers, and he rose to his feet from the corner in which he crouched, hidden by shadow. “Why then?”

“I thought perhaps…” She turned her face away from the mirror, shadow cascading over her cheek. Her hair, perhaps, dark as her gown. “Are you a hostage?”

He clenched his jaw. “You expect me to believe you know nothing of this?”

“Only that the room was forbidden,” she said. “No one ever explained. If the king knew I was here, he would have me whipped, but I kept hearing your voice, and your palm…” she trailed off again. “It is a cruel weapon.”

“The king’s whip does not bite deeply enough to spill my secrets,” he said. “Though he might have tried innocence first and found better results. It is too late for this kindness to serve him.”

“I don’t want to serve him,” she said, and her heartbeat lurched all the faster. “Oh!”

Before he could respond, she had spun back to the door, fleeing the way she had come. But he did not think it was for fear of him, this time.

Bolthorn settled back into his crouch, leaning against the cold stone wall of this strange chamber, and closed his eyes. There was nothing else to do but wait.

It was practically treason just to think it, never mind letting the words slip from her lips. To utter it in the presence of the king’s enemy was unspeakable, unthinkable, unforgiveable. But worst of all, now that she had said it, she could not escape the truth.

Arianna did not wish to serve him. She did not wish to serve her king. She did not want to be part of his kingdom or his grand plans to expand his influence throughout the known world. She did not wish to be a pawn in his games for power, or to be the reason Rodric suffered or Isabel wept, and she did not want to marry knowing that when the time came, if her husband did not obey, they might well both die.
Treason would be a fitting end…

What she wanted, Arianna thought fiercely, was her freedom.

But to say as much? To whisper her disloyalty? Her trespass into the tower room would be nothing compared to such a betrayal. Had that not been made plain to her on the castle wall? The king had killed his own wife because he thought Arianna was not his daughter. Because the queen had defied him.

When she returned to her room, she took up her embroidery, but her hands trembled too violently to continue the delicate stitches required. She put it back down and stared out the window. It was the captive’s fault. The king’s hostage. Before she had found him, she’d known her duty and resigned herself to her fate, for Isabel’s sake if not her own. He must have some magic, to twist her loyalties so completely. Perhaps that was why he was held alone behind the mirrored glass in a forbidden room. What damage might he do to the king’s cause if he were allowed to roam freely?

But then, why did the king beat him? Or visit him at all? Did he not take the same risk, that his thoughts might be corrupted? And what use had her mother had for such a mirror? If she’d had that much magic, what else had she known and kept secret, even from her children? Arianna watched her brothers on the practice field, listened to them laugh and shout and the clang of metal upon metal when their swords met. They were happy at least, and Isabel was happy, too, as long as Rodric was kept from the king’s rage.