“This afternoon,” said the queen.
Twenty-five
As latath for the Yat clan, Jvar-yat tattooed the chins of its members with the clan mark. She also prepared the black coloring used to create that mark, and her skills didn’t end there. She distilled fermented pashi, steeping washuthahi seeds and honey in the burning water to make falfhissi. She prepared ink for the lorekeeper and talmauki for the great mother. She also mixed dyes and made healing extracts. She did all this in a special chamber, which was where Muth-yat found her.
Jvar-yat set aside the mineral that she was pulverizing into powder and rose when Muth-yat entered. “Greetings, Matriarch.”
Muth-yat bowed, for the chamber was the latath’s domain. “You must make something for Council of Matriarchs.”
“What is it?”
“Muth la’s Draught.”
Jvar-yat’s expression reflected her shock, but she replied calmly. “When do you require it?”
“In five days.”
“Five days! This draught is brewed from yew seeds. It’s winter, and most have fallen.”
“Have you none stored?”
“I’ve never made Muth la’s Draught. Neither did latath before me. Yew seeds have no use except to make this brew.”
“Yet we need it and need it soon,” said Muth-yat. “Go into forest and find what you require. I’ll also need small stones. Seven green. Seven black.”
Jvar bowed. “Hai, Matriarch. I’ll leave this morning.”
“Good,” said Muth-yat as she departed.
The latath regarded the flat stone on her worktable. Its surface was covered with a grayish green powder from the mineral she had been pulverizing. Using a feather, she carefully brushed the powder onto another flat stone with a finer surface. Jvar-yat added a little mutton fat to the powder and used a flat-faced pestle to grind the two into a green paste.
Jvar-yat regarded the result of her effort. The tiny batch of talmauki would only last eight days. She recalled needling the clan mark on Dargu-yat’s chin just that summer and sighed. It had been a joyous occasion. Giving tattoos is always happy work. How unlike making poison. As she carefully scraped the talmauki into a stone vessel, Jvar-yat sighed again. Eight days worth will be more than enough.
Sevren rode out of Taiben, wearing clothes he had borrowed from Thamus. A scarf shielded his lower face from the winter winds and the eyes of the black-garbed men who manned the gates. Sevren kept Skymere at a trot until they reached the orc road. Then he spurred him to a gallop, assuming that Zna-yat was already traveling toward the pass. The empty road was mostly clear of snow and the former royal guardsman had little difficulty catching up with the walking orc. When Sevren spied him, he called out, “Geenat! Geenat!” Wat! Wait!
Zna-yat halted. When Sevren pulled up beside him, Zna-yat said, “Ga da-sutat.” You came.
As usual, Zna-yat used the genderless pronoun that referred to animals, rather than the masculine one. The habit had always bothered Sevren, and he decided it was time to speak up. “Kam pahak ‘ga’?” Why say “it”? “Ma nav thwa ‘ga.’” I am not “it.”
Zna-yat regarded Sevren. “Ga nat washavoki.” You are washavoki.
Sevren replied in Orcish, the only language Zna-yat spoke. “Your queen is also washavoki.”
“Muth Mauk is not! She only appears washavoki to those who know not her spirit.”
“And you know it?”
“Hai. Muth Mauk is possessed by Muth la. Even when she was Dargu, she followed Muth la’s path.” “I know her spirit also.”
“I think not,” said Zna-yat. “Tell me, Sev-ron, is she pretty?”
“Hai.”
“That is why she fills your chest. You desire her washavoki body.”
“Does not Kovok-mah?”
“He finds her ugly. As do I.”
“Yet he wants her,” said Sevren. “Why?”
“I cannot speak for him. I am drawn by her goodness.”
“You love her, too?”
“You will sniff no atur about me. Mine is not that kind of love.” Zna-yat paused and reflected. “Dargu has been touched by divinity. That is why she repaid my wickedness with sacrifice. Her deeds inspire reverence, and I have given her my life.”
Sevren was unable to follow everything that Zna-yat said, but the orc’s face bespoke his devotion. “I see more in Dargu than her pretty,” said Sevren. “I have not words to say it. Big spirit, maybe.”
“Sev-ron, she is above you.”
“I know. Still, I want to see her. Can you understand?”
Zna-yat gazed at Sevren as if he were some unexpected curiosity. “Hai,” he said finally.
Zna-yat walked silently awhile, lost in reflection, before he spoke again. “Sev-ron, I once hated Dargu. I called Kovok-mah foolish for naming her ‘she’ and not ‘it.’ I will not call you ‘it’ again.”
“Shashav, Zna-yat.”
Queen Girta stood by a large window that overlooked the palace courtyard to watch the orcs depart for their new quarters. Wrapped in rusty iron, they marched in an orderly rectangle of massive bodies. To Girta, it seemed as if a patch of earth had upped and was walking away. She felt relieved by their departure, but vaguely disquieted also. Girta tried to dismiss her ambivalence as foolish, yet it remained.
The Queen’s Man moved to her side. “That room they occupied will need a thorough scrubbing,” he said. “It’s black from soot. And the floor’s beyond saving, hacked with that circle and scored by foot claws.”
“Are the women who serve the orcs moving out also?”
“Yes,” said Kol. “It’ll be more convenient for them to live in the garrison.”
“I want them housed comfortably. Dar may have lied about most things, but not how the regiments treated women.”
“They’ll fare nicely. I’ve seen to it.”
“The orcs won’t.” Girta blushed. “.you know.take liberties with them, now that they’re out of sight?”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Kol. “The women will bolt their door at night and I’ve stationed Queen’s Men in the old garrison, too. The orcs will cause no mischief.”
“I’m pleased you’ve been so thorough,” said the queen. She was just about to leave the window when she saw a formation of black-garbed men enter the courtyard. There were two dozen of them, marching two abreast in a column. It wasn’t the men who caught her eye, but the small figure dressed in black and gold marching beside them. He seemed to be directing their movements. “Is that my son?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. The prince is drilling your guard.”
“When did he start doing that?”
“He’ll be king someday. He should grow accustomed to commanding men.”
Girta watched the pale winter sunlight glint off the abundant gold on the prince’s uniform. “I don’t want him playing soldier.”
“The Queen’s Men aren’t troops. They’re your protectors. It’s natural for your son to want you safe.
After all, his father was murdered.”
“Don’t explain the prince to me. I’m his mother.”
Kol’s face reddened, but his expression remained calm and humble. He bowed. “I’m sorry if I indulged the lad. He was so keen to learn. It won’t happen again.”
Girta glanced out the window. The column changed direction, bending like an angular snake. She faintly heard her son shout, and the column changed direction again. “No, no, he needn’t stop,” she said. “If it gives him pleasure, what’s the harm?”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
General Kol’s always compliant, thought Girta, ^ why don’t I feel in control? She watched as the last of the orcs passed through the gates. She had wished them to dwell outside the palace, and henceforth they would. She thought she should feel safer, but she didn’t.
The snow upon the road grew deeper as Zna-yat and Sevren ascended toward the pass. Their goal was visible but distant, a narrow cut in a nearly vertical ridge. “Urkzimmuthi made that?” asked Sevren in an attempt to engage Zna-yat in conversation.