Chapter 11
The scent of dried herbs mixed with smoke was heavy in Uruha’s hut, but it wasn't suffocating. The old orc sat on a low stool, grinding herbs in a stone mortar, the rhythmic sound filling the silence. She didn't look up when I entered.
"The Ruk’hai sent me here," I said, trying to be polite.
"Sit."
I hesitated. There were no chairs or benches, only the wooden plank where they had restrained me the first time.
“Take off your clothes,” she ordered, returning to her grinding.
I gritted my teeth, but with a sigh of frustration, I obeyed. I lay face down on the table and closed my eyes, bracing for the pain. Uruha’s thick hand touched the wound. The abrupt contact tore a yelp of pain and surprise from me.
"The nuk’hir didn't go easy on you," the old orc commented.
"I know," I shot back, impatient. "What are you going to do?"
"Keep still."
She took some of the herbs and mixed them with a thick, oily liquid that smelled of mint.
It was much more pleasant than the slime she had used before.
When she began to apply the mixture to my back, the relief was almost immediate.
The cool paste soothed the burning sensation, drawing a sigh from me that I tried my best to suppress.
"What’s this?" I wondered.
"Kor’ok," she replied, not caring to explain. It was probably some herb. "It’ll heal faster."
She spread the paste over the cuts, massaging around the wounds. Against my will, my tense muscles relaxed under her rough palms.
"Thank you," I said softly.
"Not 'thank you.' Maka’ri," she corrected me. "Thank the Ruk’hai. He said you couldn’t die."
“Why?” I asked, turning to face her. Uruha watched me with a smile brimming with scorn.
"Why do you think?" she retorted. "You’re a weak orc from Oguk. If Malek lets you die, he fails as Ruk’hai."
"I’m not wea—," I answered through gritted teeth.
"Of course you are. You’re an orc who ran from a nuk’hir instead of fighting."
I opened my mouth to fire back with an equally sharp retort, but she slapped my arm and said, “You may go,” dismissing me with an impatient wave of her hand.
? ? ?
Kalisha waited for me at the hut with an expression that was anything but friendly. No surprise there.
"You took your time," she said, as blunt as ever.
"Uruha’s quite the talker," I lied, following her out.
We returned to the fire where we had breakfast, or kuruno. The meal consisted of a thick paste, almost like porridge, made from roots and dried fruits. It was sweet, surprisingly tasty, and enough to give me energy for the day.
"What’s my job today?" I asked.
Kalisha handed me a basket. "Kitchen. Gather roots in the forest. Follow the path and try not to get lost."
"Why would I get lost?"
“It’s Marukoksha,” she replied, as though it were the most obvious explanation in the world. "The forest swallows those who aren’t strong."
I stared at Kalisha for a moment before nodding. Marukoksha was the name they gave to Eldaerenth, the great forest known for its diversity of flora and fauna. It was a shared space between Oksha and Ceilte, though the part that lay within Ceilte had never been a threat to me before.
"Fine," I replied. "I'll go."
I stepped out of the hut and followed the path Kalisha had indicated. The basket was large but light, and soon I left the village behind, moving to the denser part of the forest.
The sun had risen enough for the rays to pierce through the tree canopy, scattering patches of light across the ground.
I walked for a few minutes, paying attention to my surroundings.
Thick, twisted roots snaked across the soil, while flowers and leaves of strange shapes sprouted everywhere.
The forest’s magic pulsed around me, familiar and alive, responding subtly to my presence.
My maternal grandmother, Roselin, had taught me to feel the magic of Ceilte, the magic of the earth, An Talamh, when I was a child.
The magic gene had skipped my mother and came to me, but I had never been able to use it very well.
Now, however, it answered me with an ease I had never experienced before, fiercer and more alive.
I felt the energy flow into me, racing through my veins like a river until it reached my fingertips.
I stopped and concentrated, reaching out to touch the rough bark of a centuries-old tree. Closing my eyes, I let the force of the earth surge through my body, waiting for it to recognize me. The leaves shivered at the contact, and at my feet, a small wildflower bloomed.
"Wow," I whispered in awe. I had never been able to do that as easily before.
I smiled and plucked the flower, tucking it behind my ear.
As much as I loathed this new orc body, it seemed to amplify the raw strength of my magic.
I returned to my task, gathering the roots Kalisha had requested while following the trail that cut through the woods.
As I worked, I sang an ancient Ceilte song dedicated to the Goddess Danu, the goddess of the earth and fertility.
The melody soothed me, pulling memories of home to the surface.
My mother used to sing this during festivals while everyone danced, clapping to the rhythm of the drums. It was a song about hope, that for everything that dies, something new is born.
"Give us your strength, your magic, your life…"
I stopped singing when a low whistle sounded behind me.
When I turned, the Ruk’hai of the Oksha was there, his massive axe resting across his shoulders, watching me once again.
My eyes involuntarily traced the expanse of green skin stretched over his taut muscles and defined abs, and the trail of dark hair descending from his navel to the waistband of the leather loincloth covering his lower body.
"You sing," he said, drawing my gaze back to his face.
My face burned as I realized I’d been caught staring at him. "Are you following me?" I asked, ignoring his comment.
"The forest is dangerous."
"I can take care of myself," I shot back.
He eyed me from head to toe, not in a malicious way, as many males in Ceilte would do, but with a steady focus that was difficult to decipher.
"It doesn't look like it," he said, stepping closer. I took a step back by instinct.
"I’m not a child, Ruk’hai."
"I didn't say you were," he replied, his voice low. "I said the forest is dangerous."
He stopped a few inches from me, far too close for comfort. His scent took over, strong, drowning out even the damp scent of the surrounding forest.
"What do you want?" I asked, keeping my chin tilted up despite the tension tightening in my chest.
He shrugged, then his gaze shifted to my right ear, where the pink-petaled flower rested among my hair. His breath hitched, his eyes widening.
“Ashe,” he murmured. The word carried a note of reverence, as if he were standing before something sacred rather than a simple flower. “Where did it come from?”
I shrugged, feigning indifference.
"From there," I pointed toward the patch of the clearing where several other flowers were blooming.
Malek’s breath caught as he approached, kneeling before the flowers. He reached out cautiously, touching them with a gentleness I would never have associated with an orc.
"How..." he whispered to himself, before casting a glance over his shoulder at me. The admiration on his face was almost disconcerting; his lips parted. "You?"
I tried to keep my expression neutral, giving no sign that my magic, something I shouldn't have possessed as an orc, had any part in it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied.
He rose in a single leap, his entire focus locked on me. "No ashe has bloomed here for years," he said, his tone laden with something bordering on accusation. "And you were here."
"So what?" I retorted, my patience fraying as I took another step back. "They're flowers. What do you expect me to say? That I'm the one who made them grow? That's impossible. I'm not High Fae."
He watched me in silence for a long time, the tension between us stretching to its limits. All I wanted was to get away from him, to go back to the village and hide from that overly perceptive gaze.
"Ashe are rare," he said, ignoring my denial. "If you can make them grow, that means..."
"What?" I challenged.
Malek didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the tree and touched the bark with his fingertips. His gaze slowly followed to the flower I had picked.
"If the ashe begin to bloom again..." he murmured, more to himself than to me, "it’s a sign of life in the midst of the darkness."
"Great," I replied, my voice clipped.
He didn't pay me any mind. His focus remained on the earth, on the roots, as if he were listening to something I couldn't hear.
"You are an akra’yn," he stated. It wasn't a question. "A gift from the Great Mother."
My blood ran cold. "The what..."
He made a brief gesture, indicating the flower behind my ear and the others spreading all around, as if the answer had been there all along. "The Great Mother has blessed us."
With his eyes closed, he whispered something in Okshakai and touched his own forehead, just as the orcs did with him—a gesture of respect.
Akra’yn. A gift from the Great Mother.
If he only knew how far he was from the truth. The last thing I would ever be was a gift to the Okshai. And if Malek understood what it meant to make the ashe bloom, he would realize I was no ordinary orc.
Damned be the moment I used my powers.
The worst part was that I hadn’t done it on purpose. I felt tied to the earth in a way I had never experienced. The magic of An Talamh, which had always been weak in me as a High Fae, now pulsed in my orc blood. The ashe he worshipped was merely a side effect of that.
"I’m not an akra’yn," I managed to say, my voice faltering. "I’m just an orc from Oguk."
Malek approached, solemn, leaning in until the weight of his presence enveloped me. He tilted my chin up with the same gentleness he had used to touch the flowers; his touch was rough, calloused, so different from the soft hands of the males of Ceilte, who rarely knew hard labor.
"I feel the life of the forest in you," he said. "The scent of the earth. You’re the gift we prayed for; the Great Mother has remembered Oksha."
He pulled away, and when he spoke again, there was something new in his tone. "We’re going to Kroshak. He’ll know what to do."
? ? ?
Kroshak was the shaman of the Oksha. Nearly as old as Uruha, he had braided hair that fell all the way to the back of his bony knees, sharp green eyes, and wrinkled skin marked by countless scars.
As we entered his hut, he didn't lift his head to greet Malek. Still, the Ruk’hai gave a respectful bow before pulling me forward.
"Na’rk Kroshak—" he began to speak in their language, but I could only recognize a few scattered words: my name, akra’yn, and Marukoksha.
The shaman sighed and finally raised his head. His green eyes, clouded by a milky film, fixed on me with a disconcerting intensity. He didn't blink; he simply appraised me, stretching the silence far beyond the point of comfort.
I cast a sidelong glance at Malek, but he remained motionless and patient, like he had expected this.
My discomfort grew. Kroshak didn't possess Malek’s brute strength, yet he radiated an ancient power that was difficult to define.
He raised his hand, his fingers thin and gnarled, and gestured for me to come closer.
I tried to recoil by reflex, but Malek guided me forward with a light touch.
Kroshak touched my arm, then my face, and finally the top of my head, where the ashe flower rested. I shuddered at the contact. A cold, almost freezing energy seeped into me, leaving a restless trail beneath my skin.
The shaman closed his eyes and murmured something that sounded like a chant in Okshakai.
His touch lingered, tracing my skin, searching for the truth beneath it.
My mind raced, on the verge of panic. If he were a true shaman, he would feel the magic of Ceilte running through my veins.
He would know that I was not an orc from Oguk, but Fionnuala, the High Fae princess, daughter of their greatest enemy.
Kroshak broke the contact and let out a slow sigh before opening his eyes. His thin, ashen lips curved into an enigmatic smile, far too indecipherable to bring me any relief.
"The earth speaks through you." His voice was a dry whisper, yet it resonated throughout the small hut. "The ancient magic of Marukoksha."
Malek, who had remained rigid, finally relaxed his shoulders and let out a breath, his relief evident. "I knew it."
The shaman turned his gaze back to me, and something brightened in his weathered face. Then he turned to Malek and added, "Teach her our ways. She will need them."