He didn’t know how much truth there was to that. Elves and orcs had been at war over the land for centuries. The alliance was still so new, so tenuous, that he didn’t think anyone could say with any certainty who might benefit the most from it. Instead, he focused on what he needed Zesh to believe, putting as much conviction in his voice as he could muster before speaking.
“Orcs belong in the wildlands,” Alwyn finally said. “And Aefraya is for elves. I can agree with that, if nothing else.”
Zesh snorted at that, the chuckle completely mirthless. Everything about his tone had either been fervent, like his speech just now, or devoid of almost all emotion entirely, least of all joy or laughter.
“Listen to that. I think his heart might just be swayed,” Zesh said, smirking at Krujha.
“If they had hearts,” Krujha muttered, and he shot Alwyn a look so utterly disdainful that he may as well have been looking at a cockroach. Alwyn’s breath caught with genuine offense, a scowl crossing his face involuntarily. Krujha was an actor, he had to remind himself; and if his acting was believable to him, then surely Zesh would be doubly convinced.
“It sounds like we’re all on the same page, then,” Zesh finally said, turning away. Though his tired expression remained, Alwyn had the sense that he was pleased with their answers—or, at least, they were what he had expected. “Krujha, stay with me a moment longer. Elf, I’ll deal with you later.”
Alwyn hesitated. He was obviously being dismissed, but there was no one to accompany him back to the camp. At least, there hadn’t been, until he turned and realized that another horse had come up the path behind them.
“Yarug,” Zesh called to the druid. “He’s all yours.”
Yarug’s dull eyes landed on Alwyn, and the old man raised a hand to beckon him back. Alwyn hesitated, glancing first at Zesh, who was already turning away, then at Krujha. The orc’s expression was neutral, but he held Alwyn’s gaze for a brief moment—longer than he needed to—before he, too, turned away and stepped closer to the warlord.
“Come, sorcerer,” the druid barked out, his voice rasping.
Alwyn’s eyes lingered on Krujha, who had come up beside Zesh on his horse and now stood beside him, looking out at the valley below in silence. Then he nudged his horse back toward the path, following the druid back down into the camp.
Luckily, the druid did not speak with him as they made their way back down, which allowed Alwyn to reflect on the strange conversation. Zesh had taken them away from the rest of the camp. He hadn’t noticed the druid following them, but he must have been nearby. Had he been intentionally testing them? If they had failed this test, what would have happened to them? Alwyn suspected they might have been thrown into the prison tent, or even killed outright. Zesh might have been paranoid, but it wasn’t without cause.
He needed to be cautious, Alwyn reminded himself. The evidence of Zesh’s multi-faceted belief had taken him by surprise; but he should have expected there would be more to this rebellion than a spurned would-be warlord trying to take back what he thought belonged to him. It was proof he couldn’t underestimate any of this rebel force: if the orcs Zesh had gathered to him truly believed in the same things, then justkilling their leader might not be enough to disband his rebellion entirely.
But he had more than enough on his plate already, and the aftermath of his success was a distant concern. Once he killed Zesh, the next priority would be the druid—kill him, and he would surpass even the expectations Tessarion had put before him. After that, he could worry about staying alive… then Krujha. If Alwyn survived, he could make sure Krujha would too.
It was all easier said than done, but he had no other choice.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alwyn
This time, Alwyn was brought to the same tent where he had first met Zesh. It was empty, save for a guard pacing the narrow, canvas hallway; the druid followed him, gesturing for him to go further in. They entered the room on the right side of the tent, which had several chairs along a table with a surprisingly robust spread of food, considering they were on the verge of winter in the remote wilderness. A brazier in the center of the space kept the room warm.
“Sit,” Yarug said, gesturing broadly at the different chairs. “Eat if you’d like.”
Alwyn looked at him with obvious suspicion, but the old man only settled himself down in the most plush chair and sipped from a mug of mulled wine.
Alwyn’s stomach growled. All he’d had in the past few days was porridge, dried meat, hard bread, and the occasional slice of dry cheese. There were actual fruits and vegetables on this table—meat and cheese and bread, too, but all much fresher-looking than what he’d been given. His wrists were still bound, but Alwyn managed to peel an orange and eat the segments slowly,keeping a cautious eye on the druid. But the orc seemed to pay him no mind, only staring pensively down at his wine.
“Why did you bring me here?” Alwyn finally asked, and the druid’s cloudy yellow eyes darted back up to look at him.
“To wait for the warlord,” he answered simply.
Alwyn stifled a sigh as he leaned back in his chair. He could be here for hours, then, so he might as well get as comfortable as he could. He picked at a cluster of grapes, popping them into his mouth one by one, and drank his fill of cool water from a clay pitcher, which was lightly flavored with orange peel. The warm spices of the mulled wine smelled tempting, especially considering the chill in the air, but he needed to keep his wits about him.
Eventually, he heard some commotion coming from the other side of the hall; and a moment later, Zesh emerged, followed by two silent guards. He barely glanced at Alwyn as he stepped through the room and poured himself a cup of wine.
“Colder every morning,” he sighed, sitting opposite Alwyn, though he was glancing over at Yarug as he spoke. “When do you think we’ll see snowfall?”
“Less than a week now,” the old man intoned.
“Feels like it,” Zesh muttered, then his golden eyes swung back over to Alwyn. “Filled your belly, then?”
“Yes, thank you,” Alwyn replied stiffly, sitting up straighter. His stomach was in too many knots to eat much, but the fresh fruit had been too tempting to ignore.
“I have some questions for you,” Zesh continued, his voice eerily casual as he sipped his wine. “Don’t try to lie to me. Yarug will know.”
