“Why?”
“I won’t be queen much longer. A few days at most.”
“You’re abdicating?” asked Sevren, feeling hopeful but confused.
“Not exactly. The Council of Matriarchs will meet soon, and I’m certain they’ll make me drink Muth la’s Draught. It’s a test of fitness. The queen drinks poison, and if she lives, she’s meant to rule. But no queen has ever lived.”
“They plan to murder you?”
“I don’t think they see it that way. They believe that Muth la will save me if they’ve made a mistake. Of course, they don’t think they have.”
“If Muth la would save anyone, it’d be you.” “She doesn’t work that way. Did she save Twea? Or the orcs in the ambush? Muth la doesn’t change the world for our sake; she expects us to change it for hers.”
“Then leave with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? You’re na docile. I can na see you just waiting to die.”
“I belong here.”
“The orcs do na seem to think so.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“Well, if their matriarchs will na have you, there’s na point in staying.”
“Fathma holds me here. The urkzimmuthi are my children, and their queens’ memories have become mine.”
“That makes na sense.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“So you’re just going to sacrifice yourself for the sake of a few memories?”
“They’re my memories, too, and the next queen shall have them.”
“For Karm’s sake, Dar. Come away with me.”
“For Muth la’s sake, I won’t. Fathma was her gift, and I must pass it on. The last queen died so I might receive it. Can I do anything less?”
“You’re right; I do na understand. ’Tis daft to throw your life away. Zna-yat said it would be hard to see you, but this is worse than anything I imagined.”
“I’m sorry for you, Sevren. But it’s Muth la’s will.”
“I’ve learned about Muth la. I thought she was compassionate.”
“We can’t always see her ends. I don’t want to die, Sevren. But I won’t run away.”
Sevren shook his head sadly. “Nay, ’tis na your nature.” He sighed. “I can na stay.”
“You just arrived. You need food and rest.”
“I’d be glad for some food for the journey. There is na rest to be had. Na here. Na in Taiben. Na place.”
“Besides food, is there nothing I can give you?”
“Since you’ve inquired, I’ll make bold and ask for a kiss. I’ve treasured every one, for they’re great rarities.”
Dar was about to refuse, but smiled sadly and relented. She grasped Sevren’s shoulders and brought her lips to his. They lingered there longer than she intended.
When Dar pulled away, Sevren gazed at her with shining eyes. He was silent, and Dar found his silence unbearable. “I must go,” she said, backing away. “I’ll send Zna-yat with food.” Then she fled the room.
Twenty-six
Soon after receiving food from Zna-yat, Sevren headed back to Taiben alone. He felt angry, sorrowful, and completely helpless. As he saw it, Dar was set on sacrificing her life needlessly and there was nothing that he could do to prevent her. Sevren was glad that the road was a hard one. He attacked the snowdrifts, hoping to gain a small measure of peace through exhaustion.
As Sevren struggled, Dar finished writing down her story on clay-whitened wood. Yev-yat promised to produce a permanent copy of Dar’s account by burning the words into a board and waxing it. Dar was glad it would be preserved. She not only recorded her history, but her insights and visions as well.
Dar thought her insights were important because no orc truly understood washavokis. Her experience in the regiment showed how easily orcs fell victim to human guile. She hoped her deetpahi would serve as a warning. Yet when she recalled her predecessor’s fate, she despaired. Othar kept her ensnared for years, and Kol’s just as crafty.
After recording her warning, Dar set down her visions. Most were easy to interpret, having come to pass. The mysterious “woman” by the hedge was a glimpse of the former queen waiting for her successor. The lights winking out in the valley were the orcs dying in the ambush at the Vale of Pines. The hole within Dar’s chest was the poisoned wound and the precious thing inside her had been Fathma. Only one vision remained mysterious and unfulfilled—Velasa-pah’s appearance in the burning hall. Dar hesitated to record it, knowing that Yev-yat would read her account. She pondered the consequences, then decided to go ahead. Convinced that she was doomed, she saw no benefit in concealing what Muth la had shown her.
Dar finished writing in ample time to prepare for her feast. It was a modest affair, for as the families she hosted rose in status, the food became more ordinary. The evening’s feast would be Dar’s thirtieth. The meal she would serve Jvar-yat and her family would differ from an everyday one principally because falfhissi would be served at its end.
As a lamp wick burns brightest when the oil is almost gone, Dar was incandescent that evening. She bestowed her fullest measure of warmth and grace upon her guests. Yet Dar’s charm only increased their unease, for they knew her fate. Jvar-yat had spent two days searching the snow beneath yew trees for their poisonous seeds. Tomorrow she would steep them in burningwater to prepare Muth la’s Draught. When Jvar-yat witnessed Dar’s composure, she felt her chest would burst from sorrow. Being an orc, she was unable to disguise her feelings. Neither were her family members, who were aware of what Jvar-yat had been asked to do.
When the falfhissi urn made its rounds, Dar drank sparingly. Jvar-yat did not. After her fourth time with the urn, she rose shakily and bowed deeply to Dar. “Muth Mauk,” she said in a slightly slurred voice, “you honor me and mine.”
“It’s you who honor me,” replied Dar.
“Your chest is so, so big,” said Jvar-yat. “Yet there’s no cowardice within it. Not any. I.I don’t understand.” The latath slumped down and began to make the keening sound that Dar so rarely heard—the mournful cry of orcish weeping.
Jvar-yat’s display of emotion silenced the room. Everyone knew its cause, but no one seemed capable of addressing it. Then Dar spoke. “Muth la’s greatest gift is love, not life. Her creation lasts forever, and against eternity even long lives seem brief. Yet brief lives are full, if they encounter love. Shashav, Jvar-yat, for my full life.”
Sevren did not reach Taiben until dusk the following day, and he barely made it inside the city before its gates were closed for the night. He went to the barracks of the municipal guard to discover if he still had a place with them. Companions from the royal guard had covered his absence, so he still had a cot for himself and a stall for Skymere. Sevren’s dark mood kept everyone at a distance, except Valamar. He approached his friend with a flask of spirits. “This will warm you, Sevren, though that’s its only virtue.”
Sevren took a long gulp and winced. “A brew befitting our new station.”
“Did you see Dar?” asked Valamar.
“Aye.”
“And?”
“She’ll die soon.”
“I’m sorry. So the mage succeeded with his poison.”
“Nay, and that’s what I can na abide. It’s some orcish business I can na fathom.” Sevren stared at his friend, his face screwed up in anguish. “They’re going to kill her, Valamar, and she’s just going to let them.”
“Piss eyes! They’re worse than brutes!”
“Dar does na think so. Even now.”
“Well, she was daft to stick with them. And you were daft to stick with her. I warned you on the day you met. You’ve always been drawn to reckless women. This is Cynda all over again.”
Sevren sighed. “Only this time it’s poison, na the noose.” He took another long swig from Valamar’s flask.