Sevren bowed politely and replied in Orcish, “Hai, Mother.” He walked over to where Girta was sitting. Noticing that she had changed into the clothes he had brought her, he bowed and asked, “Your Majesty, do your boots and garments fit?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“If you feel up to it, my horse is yours to ride tomorrow.”
“I’d be pleased to ride. You are gracious, sir.”
Then Sevren summoned his nerve and spoke his message. “The orcs are short of shelters, Your Majesty. They’ve asked us to share one.”
Girta looked askance. “You mean sleep with you?”
“Orcs treat mothers with utmost respect. They expect me to also, and I will.”
“But the appearance of it!”
“Last night, you slept with an orc. Perhaps you’d prefer to do so again.”
“No,” said Girta quickly. “I’m confident in your propriety, and there are no courtiers’ tongues to set wagging.” She smiled slightly. “Besides, I’m deceased.”
“I know. I attended your funeral.”
“Was it tasteful?”
“Haste spoiled its solemnity. Kol was anxious to be off fighting.”
“Did you see my son?”
“Only from a distance. He looked heartbroken.”
Girta let out a sob, then stifled another. “The cruelty of that man! To think I trusted him.”
Sevren, recalling how Girta had distrusted his advice, chose not to reply. He rose instead. “I assume Your Majesty will retire soon, so I’ll cut some fir boughs for our shelter’s floor. Because orcs sleep sitting up, they never think of bedding.”
“That sounds better than a cloak spread on the snow,” said Girta. A smile crept onto her face. “I haven’t camped outdoors since I was a girl.”
Sevren and his monarch slept huddled close together. In the cold night, warmth was more important than decorum. Nir-yat woke them at first light. After a hurried meal, the march resumed at dawn. Its quick pace was set by Dar’s sense of urgency. She and Zna-yat led the way, and the rest followed. Girta rode, handling Skymere skillfully despite her injury.
Their route continued to follow the river, which flowed between two mountains. The way was steep and rugged. The snow-covered slopes flanking either side were also steep, causing the orcs to speak quietly for fear of starting a “kokuum.” Sevren assumed that “kokuum” was the Orcish word for “avalanche,” for he saw evidence of several. Three times, they clambered over swatches of splintered and flattened trees. Once, a huge pile of snow partly dammed the river, forcing them to scale a mountain slope in a precarious detour.
Throughout the day, Dar walked silently and steady. She seemed absorbed by her thoughts. Sevren suspected that they were troubled, judging from her expression. He couldn’t help worrying about the future she had glimpsed. Not a happy one, I warrant. Yet Dar’s hurried pace seemed proof that she had some hope. No one rushes to certain death. Then Sevren recalled that Dar had expected to die once before and refused to flee. That caused him to worry anew.
Dar had no idea what she would encounter at their journey’s end. The Yat clan hall might be in flames and the valley below it swarming with troops. Yet there still might be a chance to do something. Dar knew circumstances would determine what that something could be. Her current ignorance was maddening, and it goaded her to go faster. Unlike the orcs, she wore no armor nor carried any burden. Yet she knew that they could easily outpace her, even encumbered. That’s why I must push myself. I’m slowing everyone down.
Dar led the march until late in the night, when fatigue forced her to halt. As before, Nir-yat took over. After she served the food, she joined Dar. “We traveled far, Muth Mauk. You must be weary.”
“The farther I walk, the easier I rest,” replied Dar.
“Will we see our hall soon?”
“Not tomorrow, but next day. According to those deetpahis I studied, we’ll soon leave this valley and start traveling east. Then way will be easier.”
“It’s hard not knowing what we’ll find,” said Nir-yat. “You have poor sense of smell, so I’ll tell you—I’m afraid.”
“You already smell my fear,” said Dar. “Are sons fearful also?”
“Every one.”
“They should be hopeful, too. Muth la doesn’t send visions without reason.”
Dar finished her porridge in silence, brooding upon the future. When she finished eating, she rose wearily. Kovok-mah rose also and headed for his shelter. He was already sitting cross-legged on his fur sleeping mat when Dar joined him. The shelter’s interior was cramped, but that also made it cozy. Kovok-mah’s body heat had already reduced its chill. Dar climbed onto his lap, which he had cushioned with an extra cloak, to remove her boots. Afterward, she didn’t sit with her back against his chest. Instead, she knelt facing him. Then she grasped his hand and brushed it against the front of her kef.
The breast touching gesture was the decorous one that mothers used to initiate love-giving. But Kovok-mah was forbidden to love Dar, so she understood the gravity of what she wanted. For a moment, he remained absolutely still. Dar sensed his inner struggle. Then—as she had hoped—he defied his muthuri’s injunction. “Dargu,” he whispered with such love and longing that it raised goose bumps on her flesh.
They found one another’s lips in the dark. Kovok-mah first kissed Dar in the way she had taught him. Then he began kissing her neck in the orcish fashion, his active tongue teasing and tasting. Dar removed her kefs and washavoki shirt. As Kovok-mah’s lips sought her breasts, even she could smell the fragrance of atur.
For a while, pent-up passion obliterated the future. There seemed only one chance for bliss, and Dar seized it, desperate and hungry. She took off her remaining clothes, pulling her cloak over her naked body. Kovok-mah’s hands and lips moved under the garment in the tender, reverent way she remembered. He grasped her hips and slowly lifted them, so that as Dar rose up, his lips traveled downward. When she stood on his thighs, Kovok-mah’s tongue reached her center. Dar felt a jolt of pleasure that heightened, then slowly spread throughout her body. The cloak slipped off, but Dar was oblivious of the cold. Only the ecstasy of the moment mattered. When Kovok-mah brought her to release, it took all her self-control not to cry out.
Spent and contented, Dar sank into Kovok-mah’s lap. He covered her with the cloak and embraced her. She stayed like that until a draught found her warm skin. Then Dar dressed, and like the cold, the future began to seep into her thoughts. Her bliss faded. It had been a joyous moment, but it was over.
On the fourth morning of the flight from Taiben, Nir-yat roused everyone at first light. As usual, she studied her sister when she emerged from Kovok-mah’s shelter. On that morning, Nir-yat made two discoveries. Dar smelled of atur—the fragrance was thick and heady—and her features were tranquil but melancholy. Nir-yat’s chest burst to see that look, for it reminded her of when Dar expected to drink Muth la’s Draught. Then, with the wisdom that sisters often have, Nir-yat said nothing. But when she served Dar warmed-up porridge, she embraced her.
The sky was clear when the march began. Dar instructed Zna-yat to set a brisk pace, then walked with Nir-yat at the end of the column. Sevren trailed behind Zna-yat, for he had come to enjoy his companionship, though Zna-yat rarely spoke. They marched wordlessly most of the morning. Toward noon, the trail became easier. They were higher into the mountains and the valley they traveled widened and inclined more gently. Snow had fallen less heavily there, and the road was more evident.
With the walking less taxing, Zna-yat struck up a conversation. “Sev-ron. What do you do when not killing for great washavoki?”