Chapter 5 #2
She nodded, worried her voice would crack under the sheer weight of her nerves.
Bile clawed at her throat as she stood there as understanding dawned; she would not be going home anytime soon.
She would be forced to be around not just the court and their idolization of her but she would be surrounded by Edamish lords who thought her a murderer.
She would be wearing this armor, these blades, this…
mask for Gods knew how long, constantly being reminded of Fontina, of the death and destruction she caused.
And most of all, of Rhyan and how he died in her arms, a mark of her failure.
Looking from the king to Owain, she saw his eyes narrow.
The slight furrowed brow and downturn of his lips told her he was looking forward to this pairing as little as she was.
Before the king dismissed them all, he informed them that to celebrate the renewed relationship with Edam, there would be a ball during the next turn of the moon.
Between now and the ball, the king expected Orla to act as guard and escort for Lord Owain and his personal advisors, starting with a tour of the palace and the grounds.
The king expected Orla to show him around Imsil before venturing at some point to the port where Owain and his fellow lords would meet with merchants about trade.
Orla gritted her teeth at the orders. She wanted nothing more than to rip off her armor and march back to the stables, get on her horse, and ride as far away from this city as possible.
Not live in it for Gods knew how long and pretend to be the thing everyone in this kingdom so desperately wished she was.
Hero… Fontina… Killer… Murderer… Fontina… Warrior… Hero… Failure… Rhyan.
The words clanged in Orla’s head in a cacophony.
She breathed deeply again, inhaling for a count of four and exhaling for a count of five as she tried to clear the noise.
When she got back into her chambers, she could drink more lavender tea and mix it with the dried tulsi she brought from Benin.
Hopefully, the combination of the herbs would calm her nerves enough to help her get through the evening.
She took in a breath again, but noticed Owain watching her intently, his head cocked to one side.
Pulling herself up to her full, though inconsiderable, height, she walked over to the male on the other side of the throne room.
“I will escort you to your rooms, then meet you for a tour of palace grounds at three. That should get you back to your rooms for supper,” she said, using the same clipped tone she had used upon first meeting him.
“Ah, I see you are no more polite even after learning you are speaking to a lord.” He cocked a brow as if in question.
Clearly, he was expecting her to apologize. He probably felt entitled to it, as Elves felt entitled to most things. But Orla didn’t care who he was or what he thought she owed him. He was still a jackass, and she didn’t apologize when she didn’t think she was wrong.
“I see nothing to apologize for. Now, kindly follow me to your rooms.”
She turned and strode out of the room, assuming he was following her.
Lord Kennedum had informed her where Owain and the other advisors in his retinue would be staying.
Unfortunately for her, they were down the same walkway as her room.
Better for her to guard them, but worse for her to actually get a bit of peace in this damnable nightmare.
Owain’s rooms were two doors down from Orla’s on the same side of the palace, facing the palace gardens. She reminded him that she would be meeting him outside of the room in a few hours and bade him a good day.
Trying not to rush, she walked into her own room and slumped against the closed door.
The tears that had been threatening to fall since her run in with Yanez now fell freely down her cheeks.
She placed a hand over her mouth to stop her heaving sobs.
She knew if she could get to the washroom to splash cold water on her face, she may be able to calm down, but she couldn’t get herself to move.
This was the last thing she wanted. She wasn’t a warrior, not anymore.
And she damn sure wasn’t a guard. She just wanted to be left alone and to forget everything that happened in Fontina. Too bad that wasn’t going to happen.
* * *
Sitting on the floor alone in her chambers, Orla thought of the first time she had been attacked by her nerves.
It was two moons after Fontina, and she had been at an old tavern, The Boars Head, with Cessly.
Back then, Orla was still trying to pretend things were normal.
Each morning, she would go and train with the king’s army, though she avoided any sparring or sword work, focusing instead of running herself to exhaustion.
She would spend her evenings drinking until she passed out, and at night, she would pretend to sleep because actually sleeping meant being plagued by visions of Rhyan dying in her arms night after night.
Though she went through the motions of living, in those days she felt more like a ghost than a person.
Sitting in The Boars Head, Orla barely registered what Cessly was saying to her.
It was a tavern they often frequented before Rhyan died.
The three of them would come after training to unwind, and they had gotten close with the old barback, a cyclops named Hosh, with deep wrinkles around his one eye and tufts of white hair on his round head.
The three of them had loved this part of town with its vibrant community.
While Elves made up the majority of the nobles in Emmental, many types of citizens called the realm their home.
Imsil was a diverse city with all kinds of magical creatures in residence.
At court or within the army, Cessly and Orla always stood out; the witch and half nymph were some of the few warriors who were not Elves.
But in this part of Imsil, they blended in perfectly.
That day at the tavern, one of Rhyan’s old lovers, Ameratat, an orc with deep green skin, was also sitting at the bar.
Orla was hoping he wouldn’t notice her. She had avoided talking about Rhyan as much as she could, even with Cessly.
But when she looked up from her glass of ale, she saw Ameratat approaching the pair with a sorrowful look in his eyes.
“It’s strange seeing you two without him. I bet you both miss him something fierce,” Ameratat said, looking from Orla to Cessly.
“Yeah, it’s been… strange,” Cessly said, her high, lilting voice faltering as she spoke. She cast a cautious glance at Orla. Cessly knew Orla hadn’t been doing well, but she also knew she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Still, I am glad to see you both made it. I was worried about you, Cess. Hosh told me you had lost your leg at Sirene.” Ameratat smiled softly around his large tusks.
Cessly hadn’t been at Fontina. Moons earlier, she had been wounded at Sirene by a Prince Gwayne. She lost her leg, and while her magic had allowed her to create a prosthetic, she could no longer fight in the army with it.
“And I heard of your bravery, Orla,” Ameratat continued. “Ending the war in that way. I’m sure you did everything you could to protect him. He was so lucky to have you fight at his side. I hope you know that,” Tears welled in his large black eyes.
The praise, his words of support, were too much for her.
She had been so numb for those first weeks, and it was like a damn burst in that moment.
Every emotion she had been numbing or suppressing came rushing to the surface.
Grief, fear, anguish, and guilt all warred inside of her.
It felt as though a wave was taking her out to sea and she was helpless to stop it.
Her heart thundered in her ears, her palms went clammy, and her vision tunneled.
He was wrong; Rhyan wasn’t lucky to have her.
She was the reason he was dead, that they were all dead.
If she had his back like she promised, if she had protected him, he would still be here.
If she had control of her magic, she wouldn’t have killed so many innocent warriors.
Images of their dead bodies riddled with her thorns tore into her mind.
“I, uh, I’m sorry, I have to go.” Orla raced past him, leaving her half-finished glass of ale on the bar as she headed for the door of the tavern.
Outside, the lights all felt too bright.
She could see the city street, the shops and store fronts on the first level with apartments above, but she couldn’t focus on any of it.
The worn cobblestone streets were wet after a recent winter storm.
It was sensory overload; it all felt like too much as her vision blurred.
It was like looking through glass that had become warped.
Cessly limped out of the tavern after her.
“Orla, are you okay? You look ill.” Concern etched in her soft hazel eyes.
“I’m fine. Really, Cess, it’s nothing. I just need to go,” Orla said before she raced down the streets, ignoring the curious stares as she passed. Just like now, when she reached her door, all she could do was slump down and sob.
She was a murderer. She was a failure. Why couldn’t they all just leave her alone?