“Whoever did that to her,” said Thamus, “is guilty of an abomination.”
“I thought the spell might pass,” said Sevren. “It seems that hope was empty.” He moved to set the chair upright.
“Don’t bother,” said Thamus. “She’ll only topple it again and perhaps hurt herself further.”
“I’ve an errand to do,” said Sevren. “Afterward, I’ll come back and take her from your hands.”
“Leave her with me. The guards will not be kind. She’s vexing, yet I grieve for her.”
“Karm’s blessing on you,” said Sevren. “You’re a goodhearted man.”
Sevren left Thamus’ house and went to the guards’ stables. There, he obtained a coil of thick rope, saddled up Skymere, and rode to the corpse pit that lay outside the city. As he neared the place, he noted the lack of tracks in the snow. The frigid air bore only a faint hint of putrefaction. Thankful that it was not summer, when the dead ripen quickly, Sevren dismounted and walked to the pit’s edge. He had hopes of spotting Othar’s blackened body, but none of the frozen faces that peered from the snow were his. Mayhap he’s covered by snow or corpses.
Though loath to enter the pit, Sevren had no choice if he was to ascertain whether the mage was dead. He tied the rope to Skymere’s saddle and lowered himself among the frozen bodies. A gruesome search uncovered no black robes or charred flesh. The sorcerer was gone, though Sevren felt certain that no one would take his corpse or even willingly touch it. He used the rope to climb from the open grave. Even when Sevren was free of the pit, its odor still clung to him. He shuddered, not from the stench, but from knowledge far more loathsome. Othar lives!
The conclusion seemed to defy logic, but magic always defied logic. Othar was missing from the pit, and someone was practicing sorcery—someone who moved about in a litter. Valamar had told Sevren that Othar’s body had no feet, so at least the litter made sense. Little else did. Sevren’s conclusion gave him no clue as to what the mage was about. He also had no idea who to tell. Dar’s dead, and Queen Girta’s dismissed m^. Dar’s fate had left Sevren resentful toward the orcs, and disinclined to warn them. He supposed he could tell the municipal guard, but decided they would only ridicule him.
In the end, Sevren told no one beyond Valamar. His friend listened dubiously and counseled silence. It seemed like good advice.
Thirty-one
After her meeting with the matriarchs, Dar returned to her hanmuthi to speak to Nir-yat. “Sister, will you go with me to Taiben?”
Nir-yat bowed. “I’ll do whatever you command.”
“I won’t command it,” said Dar. “I want you with me only if you’re willing.”
“I’ve never been to Taiben, or seen any washavokis before you.” Nir-yat stopped herself
Dar grinned. “Before I came?”
“You’re reborn. I shouldn’t call you washavoki.”
“I still look like one.”
“I’ve also seen Sev-ron. Are all washavoki sons so small?”
“Most are,” replied Dar. “Small but dangerous. This journey will be perilous. You should know that before you answer.”
“Sister, I wish to be by your side.”
Dar smiled. “Your words warm my chest. Fetch Thorma-yat, for we’ll need new clothes for our visit.”
When the seamstress arrived, Dar explained what she wanted. “There is washavoki garment they call ‘shirt.’ It covers torso and arms. Nir-yat and I will need several.”
Thorma-yat looked puzzled. “Why would you wear this thing?”
“To cover breasts,” said Dar.
“Don’t washavoki mothers adjust their kefs when they’re cold?” asked Nir-yat.
“They don’t wear kefs,” replied Dar, “and they don’t cover breasts for warmth. They wish to hide them.”
“Why?” asked Nir-yat.
Dar blushed as she explained. “Among washavokis, sons rule mothers. They feel free to take pleasure from their bodies, even if mothers are unwilling. When sons see breasts they aren’t reminded of mother’s dignity and authority. Instead, they feel encouraged to...to...”
“Give love?” asked Nir-yat a shocked tone. “Give love without permission?”
“I wouldn’t call it giving love. And some sons do even more than that. They thrimuk without blessing. Washavokis call it ‘rape.’”
Nir-yat’s face expressed her outrage and horror. “I never imagined such things were possible!” “Not all washavoki sons are like that,” said Dar, “but some are. I’ve witnessed it. That’s why we’ll wear ‘shirts’ in Taiben.” She turned to her shaken sister. “Do you still wish to accompany me?”
“Knowing this, how could I leave your side?”
Thorma-yat seemed as stunned as Nir-yat by Dar’s revelations, but she also had a job to do. “I’ve never made garment so outlandish. How does one get into it?”
Dar took a thin, clay-whitened board and drew a picture of a collarless, long-sleeved shirt that fastened in the rear. The seamstress left and returned with some cloth and sewing gear, then attempted to fashion a shirt to Dar’s liking. It took several tries before she came up with a satisfactory pattern.
Between fittings, Dar discussed another project with one of her mintaris, Tatfa-jan, and his clan’s matriarch. The Jan clan was known as the Iron Clan, but its members did all kinds of metalwork. Dar spoke to the two about what she wanted. “Washavokis expect rulers to display their power in their apparel,” she said. “Powerful sons and mothers dress like gaudy birds. I won’t do that, but I’ll need some sign of my authority and might. I can do that with something washavokis call ‘jewelry.’ It’s object of yellow iron that’s worn on clothing.”
“What kind of object?” asked Muth-jan.
Dar pointed to the shallow reliefs carved into the stone walls of her hanmuthi. “Something like that. Flat and small enough to hang about neck. Washavokis call such jewelry ‘necklace.’ Since they prize yellow iron, it should be large.”
Muth-jan examined the reliefs. “What should this ‘naklas’ portray?”
“Tree is Muth la,” said Dar, “so tree would be appropriate.”
“That choice seems wise to me,” said Muth-jan. “Tatfa-jan is skilled in casting.”
“Hai, Matriarch,” said Tatfa-jan, “but another makes my molds.”
“Muth-tok is stone carver,” said Muth-jan. “She creates designs such as those on Muth Mauk’s walls. Perhaps you two could work together.”
Muth-tok was brought in and the four discussed the necklace. Dar wanted its pendant to be the size of a hand with its fingers outstretched, an impressive chunk of gold. Orcs did not especially value the metal, and procuring enough to fashion the pendant posed a problem. However, it was one that Muth-jan felt confident of solving. After the discussion was over, Muth-tok left with Tatfa-jan to work on tree designs while Muth-jan sought to obtain the gold for it.
When Thorma-yat returned with fabric samples for Dar’s and Nir-yat’s shirts, Dar gave her one more task. “I want band of talmauki cloth to wear about my forehead so it covers this mark.” Dar pointed to the scar made by the king’s brand. “I don’t wish washavokis to see it.”
“Will this band go beneath your crown?” asked Thorma-yat.
“Hai,” replied Dar. “And it only need be thick about forehead.”
The seamstress bowed. “I’ll make one, so you may see if it suits.”
Dar returned the bow. “You have pleased me, Thorma-yat.”
When Dar served dinner in her hanmuthi, she felt satisfied with what she had accomplished. It was dark when the dishes were cleared, and Dar was surprised when a son appeared with a message from Muth-pah. “She requests to see you in Great Chamber.”