There was a hoarse, unfamiliar noise from Simon, and then, surprisingly, the sounds of his breaths. Thick, heavy, unnaturally loud in the choked silence.
“Arnthorr,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Should you wish.”
Arnthorr. After his childhood friend, the one carved on his shelf. And the name seemed to settle in the too-taut air, curling itself close, and Maria’s hand spread wider against her waist, testing it, tasting its truth. Arnthorr. Their son.
“Arnthorr, then,” she said, with a pathetic attempt at a smile. “Of Clan Skai.”
But there was no reply this time, no words, only the weight of Simon’s breaths. And the weight of Maria’s misery, plunging violently into her gut, because this was goodbye, then. She was finally leaving this mountain, she would finally see the sky again, and all she wanted was to curl up on the floor and weep.
“Ready, Maria?” called a voice from up the corridor — Lady Norr — and Maria grimaced, and squared her shoulders. She was doing this. She had to do this.
“Thank you for everything, Simon,” she whispered, and before she could stop herself, she’d lurched up, and pressed a quick, furtive kiss to where she knew his cheek to be. “I’ll miss you.”
There was an odd tinge of salt on Maria’s lips, but still no reply, not even his breath. It was goodbye. It was over.
And before Maria could start pleading, or sobbing, she jerked away, and whirled into the darkness.
34
The journey back to Preia should have been a delight.
Baldr and Joarr led Maria on a curious, curving route, sometimes above ground, and sometimes below. And the sun and fresh air were everything she had remembered them to be, all bright crisp wonder, while the orcs’ hidden underground tunnels were a rough-hewn but fully functional marvel, even boasting occasional places to bathe, or to rest in warm, dry comfort.
Their route above ground proved to include a few tricky bits as well — fording a rushing river, climbing a sheer wall, walking a narrow bridge over a chasm — but with Baldr’s help, Maria managed it all without incident. And while the journey was unquestionably tiring, it still felt far easier than her initial trip to the mountain, without the constant weariness, or the bone-deep exhaustion that had left every limb aching.
They even made astonishing time, thanks to Joarr’s insistence on following the most direct possible route to Preia, rather than the usual meandering human roads. Joarr had proved to be an extremely accomplished navigator, tracking their position only via instinct and the sun, while Baldr seemed able to smell almost anything, and at inconceivable distances. Ranging from other humans a league away, to a campfire even further, to a tiny, hidden patch of delicious berries that had been buried beneath the earth.
It should have been a delight. A true joy, after all those days trapped in the bowels of Orc Mountain. But the misery in Maria’s belly wouldn’t seem to fade, and felt heavier and heavier with each step she took. She’d betrayed Simon. She’d broken her pledge. She was leaving him alone to face his fight to the death.
By the time they stopped that first night, in a cozy little underground room, Maria could scarcely speak for the dread, the constantly curdling regret. She should have told Simon the truth from the start. She should never have signed a contract she wasn’t sure she could keep. She should have worked out a plan with him, found a way to hand over his son but somehow still stay in touch, providing any of them survived this at all…
“Are you well, Maria?” Baldr asked, as he rolled out what looked like an actual sleeping-mat onto the stone floor, and then waved her toward it. “Is there aught we can do to help?”
His voice was quiet, his eyes dark in the light of the lamp he’d lit, and as Maria went to sit on the mat, it belatedly occurred to her that Baldr had been unusually subdued today too, despite his consistent kindness toward her. That his smile hadn’t come nearly so easy, and that his shoulders looked hunched, his mouth tight and grim.
“No, I’m fine,” Maria said reflexively, but then winced, and drew in a thick breath. “I mean, thank you for asking. I just — there’s nothing you can do, really. Unless you can make Simon magically appear here, and make him forgive me, and guarantee that he doesn’t hate me anymore.”
She tried for a smile toward Baldr, but it felt wan and pathetic, and across the room Joarr huffed a loud snort. He was sitting casually against the far wall, his long legs sprawled wide, and he’d begun scraping a knife against a stone, a sight that was twisting Maria’s insides even worse than before.
“My brother no hate you, silly woman,” he said unexpectedly. “I can no summon him here, but mayhap” — he smirked at Maria, and reached for Baldr’s overstuffed pack — “this help you?”
This. A long, solid-looking item that he lightly tossed over into Maria’s waiting hands. And as she caught it, blinking down toward it, the weight in her belly wildly shuddered, her face instantly flooding with heat.
It was one of Simon’s —implements?
But it wasn’t one she’d seen before, and it was even larger than all the rest. Large enough, perhaps — she swallowed hard, her fingers compulsively circling its heft — to be on a scale with Simon himself.
“Where,” she croaked, “did you get this?”
There was another snort from Joarr, amidst that familiar sound of steel scraping against stone. “Simon send it,” he replied, in a tone that suggested this was obvious. “You no kenIcarve you his prick?”
Wait. Was Joarr suggesting — surely he wasn’t suggesting — thatSimonhad made this? That he’d made —allof them? Or that — Maria stared down toward the stone in her hand, truly searching this time — this was supposed to be a representation of…him?
But her oddly skittering fingers had already traced up the stone again, feeling its familiar length and girth, the blunt power of its rounded head, the width of its flared base. While her memories darted back to the tools in the chest, to the way they’d grown steadily larger, to Simon’s constant carving on the bench.I shall find your fresh scent upon these each day…
“But —why?” she asked, her voice plaintive, her gaze darting to Joarr’s watching, glinting eyes. “Why would Simon do that?”
Joarr’s spiky-haired head tilted, black brows furrowing. “You are Simon mate,” he said, again as though this were obvious. “He wish mate comfort whilst he is apart, ach? Also” — he smirked at her — “he no wish mate womb to shrivel, without his strong ploughing each day.”
