Chapter 44 #2
Inside the stables, sturdy wooden stalls with iron gates contain livestock, their hooves clacking on the stone as they swish their tails.
The sweet fragrance of fresh hay wafts from massive bales stacked in the loft, while strips of sunlight slant through gaps in the roof, illuminating stray pieces of straw that swirl through the air.
The orcs have set up a camp in the central workspace area, complete with bedrolls and a fire pit just outside the back door.
I step over shields, axes, and all manner of weapons to talk to the gangly orc who is building a fire from chopped wood and kindling.
He leans in the back doorway, snapping some twigs to add to the small embers.
His eyes light up as I approach—I falter momentarily, taken by surprise.
“You that lil’ missy Rett had us ridin’ up and down the countryside to rescue?” He chuckles and gives a knowing glance.
My cheeks burn. “It’s not like that.”
“Like what?”
My skin burns hotter, but I don’t need to explain it. “Never mind,” I sigh, giving up.
“Aw,” he says, flashing a wide grin. “I’m just teasin’ you.” Between the round face and the small tusks protruding from his lower lip, I’d say he’s barely older than a boy, perhaps fifteen at the most.
“What’s your name?” I ask, curious.
“Thrak—”
But it’s Rett’s voice that answers as a handful of other burly soldiers file in behind him through the main entrance. He clasps the young orc’s shoulder. “I see you’ve met our Tabitha.” When he says the word our, my head snaps toward him.
Thrak grins, his tusks glinting. “Aye, quite the charmer, this one.”
I arch an eyebrow as Rett chuckles. He gestures to the older orc on his right, who is bald and has ancient orc-language tattoos peeking out from beneath his many layers of armor. “This is Gorrash, my second-in-command.” Gorrash’s yellow eyes follow me.
A new warrior steps forward. He’s almost as wide as he is tall, with a wild mane of dark hair. “Name’s Drakka,” he rumbles.
I’m not sure how I’ll remember all these names, but I nod anyway. As we talk, they go about their tasks. One sharpens his massive axe with smooth strokes; another unfurls a bedroll; Thrak sorts his pots and pans.
While we are discussing potential camp meals, I watch Rett depart with a group to scout a hunting area. Relief floods me, so I bid them goodbye and leave too.
I cross the courtyard with no intention of doing anything but being alone for a minute. The chilly air skims over my skin as I sink onto the stone bench, seeking solitude and rest.
So many things have happened in such a short time.
It’s just too much.
Closing my eyes, I attempt to calm my thoughts, but visions of the Witch-King invade my mind, no matter how hard I try to push them away.
I see him.
I see him on his jagged throne, a slave to the darkness he keeps close. I see him in that rickety fishing boat, not able to feed his people. I see him blaming me and keeping me isolated.
I run my hands over the rough granite surface, focusing on the sensation of quieting my memories. Then without a sound, Rett appears out of thin air, sitting beside me on the bench.
My body flinches, and I let out a curse.
He chuckles. “You think you’re the only one with powers?”
“Only royals with a fae bloodline and a few extremely rare priestesses and witches have magic. Everyone is taught that,” I answer.
“A lie sold to the masses of your kingdom to keep them in awe and reverence. You’d be surprised to learn that there’s more magic in the world than you would think, even at its diminished state.
” He twiddles the earring on his earlobe, below his row of hoops, studs, and chains.
“It’s made from Alexra.” The earring is so small and thin that it could easily be misidentified as a different type of metal.
“So… you’re telling me that anyone can possess magical powers?” I ask, not sure if my mind can handle another revelation so soon.
“Perhaps,” he explains, “if the person is lucky enough to be fae-blessed. Alexra helps to harness the magic into something more powerful, but that’s not strictly necessary either.”
I think of all the times my magic erupted when I wasn’t wearing the circlet. Things begin to click into place as I make sense of it all.
“So you can vanish and reappear?” I eye him, my shoulder grazing his, as we sit before a horizon of dancing trees that are shedding their leaves with each gust of wind. “Do you have other powers?”
“Besides my vanishing, no. Unless, of course, you count my charm and strength.” He laughs, showing off and flexing his arm muscles. “A rather accomplished skill set, if I do say so myself.”
I push his arm away, wanting to learn more. “What’s it like being able to vanish?”
“Boring. My power is pretty limited. I have difficulty controlling it in battle and… I can only travel to places I’ve been before. Mother was quite disappointed when she found out.” He gives me a sheepish grin.
But I’m not in the mood to smile back. I look at the stables across the yard. “Will your soldiers have the horses ready by sunrise?”
The muscles in his face become taut, and his brow furrows as if he’s looking for the right words. “Once orcs enter mourning, we require three moons to complete our ritual, and unfortunately, there is no moon tonight.”
“But I already informed Beatrix that we were leaving tomorrow morning.”
“I know—I know, but… I couldn’t stop them, and orcs have to finish the process once it’s initiated. There’s no other choice for the grief they carry. They must set their grief down, or it’ll become too heavy to go on.” Pain crests in his orange eyes, and I wonder how many friends he lost today.
“I’ll talk with Beatrix.” I give a slight nod, even as doubt sets in. “But remember, we need to be extremely careful while we’re here.”