Oh, goodgods. Gwyn barely suppressed a growl, yanking her hands through her hair, and glaring at his enraging face. “I didn’t mean at the expense of these women’swell-being,you prick,” she snapped at him. “How could you possibly think I would prioritize my own entertainment over their health? Haven’t you been spying on me for months? Surely enough to know something like that?!”
Joarr didn’t reply, but the look in his eyes clearly betrayed him. Suggesting that no, he didn’t think Gwyn would place others’survivalbefore her own damned amusement, being the spoiled lord’s daughter that she was, with a gods-damnedmurdererfor a father.
And suddenly there was only a chilly, flat determination, filling her chest, swirling to her feet. She would do her job. She would help. She would do whatever the hell she could to thwart her accursed father and his horrible looming law, — even if it was one woman, one meeting, at a time. And damn this slippery orc and his unwarranted judgement, she would start here, now, today.
“Then forget the fun,” she said, cold, calm, utterly certain. “And take me where I’m most needed. Now.”
18
After the wild, cheery brightness of the garden, it felt even more difficult to enter the mountain this time. More daunting, somehow, knowing that all those dark corridors awaited, close and cloying and crammed full of dangerous, unfamiliar orcs.
But Gwyn certainly wasn’t turning back, either, and she strode through the corridor as smoothly as she could. Putting one foot in front of the other, fighting down her racing heartbeat, glancing regularly at the burning lamp grasped in Joarr’s hand. Trying to ignore the sound of his heavy sigh, and the infuriatingly reassuring feel of his warm fingers, again settling wide to her back.
Because even if Gwyn had slept in his arms in a hammock, and had had furtherrelationswith him, and had even found genuine fun in his chaotic, glorious garden — she was still vividly, irrationally angry with him. With how — yes — he’d kept the truth from her, again. He hadn’t explained, again. And he’d even had the gall to be snappy withher, as if he’d expected her to read his gods-damned mind, or know that people had needed her while she’d slept.
“For future reference,” she said into the taut darkness, “if there’severan emergency while I’m sleeping, you wake me up.Always.”
And gods, why was she even saying this, surely she wasn’t possibly staying here long enough for this to happenagain— and beside her there was an instant’s silence, then the sound of another sigh. “It was noemergency,” he said, voice flat. “And this is the first night you sleep through since we meet. You are human. You need this.”
And wait, was he implying that he’d been spying on her in Varrahan while she’dslept? And even more enraging, the asshole wasn’t wrong about Gwyn’s chronic inability to sleep, or the fact that she currently felt more well-rested than she had in weeks, or perhaps months.
“Where are we going again?” she demanded, her voice unmistakably testy, as Joarr guided her around another corner, past a huge, block-like orc who blatantly gaped at her. “I would appreciate some kind of mountain-navigating instructions, in case I ever need to find my way in this confounded maze without you?!”
And curse her, because again, surely she didn’t intend to stay, or do any solo navigating of this dark unnerving mountain whatsoever — and she certainly didn’t feelrelievedwhen Joarr drew in breath beside her, and finally began to speak.
“Our mountain is split into five parts, for each of our five clans,” he said. “This part — where my garden is, and where you met the Bautul — is all for the Bautul, on the south and east of the mountain. I take you again to their common-room — their hearth — which lies at the heart of this.”
Theirhearth. Still as if it didn’t belong to him, even as the garden somehow did. “So your garden is actually part of the Bautul wing, too, then?” Gwyn asked, still with an edge on her voice. “How did it end up being yours? Was it a gift from them, or something, when you learned the truth about your clan?”
A glance up at Joarr showed his brow furrowing, his mouth tight. “No,” he said, voice thin. “The Bautul of old followed the ways of the earth, but there are none among them now with the learning to lead this. Thus, I alone tended this garden, most of all after the war with the men ended, and this became safe again. This was my ownfun, when I was no away with my work. And now…”
And now, oddly enough, he reallywasBautul, after all. And despite Gwyn’s still-present frustration toward him, her curiosity was even stronger, her eyes glancing at his tense face. “And where did you first learn about plants and gardens?” she asked. “Your father?”
Joarr briefly nodded, before jerking his head toward a wide corridor to the left. “This way,” he said, louder than before, “leads to the Ash-Kai, high up in the mountain. And the Skai” — he gave a dismissive wave toward the stone wall on the right — “are beyond, thus. Next to Bautul.”
There was an audible shift in his voice as he spoke, and for an instant, Gwyn might have felt a stab of sympathy — when from up ahead, she heard a rising swell of noise. Noise that she now surely recognized, along with that flickering firelight — and she braced herself as Joarr guided her back into the room. Into the Bautulhearth.
And despite the earliness of the hour, it was once again filled with a swarm of shocking sights. With multiple orcs grinding and groaning together, taking their pleasure with blatant, unrepentant openness. There were orcs against the walls, orcs on the benches, even orcs rocking on the altar where she and Joarr had — well.
But at least Gwyn was prepared this time, and she somehow found herself taking better stock of the rest of the room, as well. There was a table set up to the side, where several orcs seemed to be playing a game of chance together, entirely ignoring the heated goings-on around them. Off to another side, an orc was beating a large hidebound drum, while before him two orcs stomped out a complex-looking dance. And carved into the walls, there was an equally amount of detailed artwork Gwyn hadn’t noticed before — battle-scenes, hunting-scenes, and yet more scenes of brazen intimacy, featuring orcs, and women, and even what appeared to be humanmen.
“Welcome back, woman,” interrupted a voice, and when Gwyn blinked to look, it was one of the orcs she vaguely recognized from yesterday, tall and charcoal-skinned, and fixing her with a cautious, careful smile. “It is joy to have you among us. I am Kalfr, one of Bautul’s chief hunters. I seek to learn the ways of our gardens, also.”
Gwyn attempted a smile in return, though a glance up at Joarr showed his mask had slipped back into place, hiding away his eyes. Suggesting some sort of discomfort with this, then, so Gwyn quickly and politely introduced herself, and then made to move toward where she’d caught a glimpse of Stella, on the other side of the room. But before she’d taken a single step, another familiar-looking orc had lumbered over, this one huge and craggy-faced, flashing her a broad, sharp-toothed grin.
“Greetings, woman,” he said firmly. “Welcome to our clan. I am Olarr, one of our battle-captains. We are honoured to count you as Joarr’s mate.”
Wait. As Joarr’smate?! Gwyn tried to reply, but already here was another younger-looking orc, jostling his way in front of Olarr. “I am Eyolf,” he said brightly. “I have just reached nineteen summers, but I am already a fierce and strong Bautul warrior. Ach, Olarr?”
To Gwyn’s vague surprise, the Olarr orc shot a tolerant smile toward Eyolf, and even rustled his black hair with a big clawed hand. “Ach,” he said, reaching to pull over another nearby orc, who had been skulking behind Eyolf. “And this is his bond-brother Iyolf, who is also a strong warrior, but shall not boast so proudly of it, ach?”
The new orc’s squarish, sharp-jawed face visibly flushed with pink, and Gwyn smiled again, more genuine this time. And once she’d again introduced herself, she found herself being half-guided, half-crowded, toward the next orc in the line, a hunter named Egil. And then toward more warriors, called Thorvald and Arne and Matuk and Grum, and then the drummer and the dancers, Magni and Thrand and Leif. And more, and more, far too many names for her to remember, until her brain was desperately floundering, and Joarr had finally yanked her away, his hand tense on her arm, his smile markedly tight.
“Meet more later, ach?” he said, his eyes distant, his voice carrying. Suggesting, again, some level of discomfort with this, even though he was the one who supposedly needed to mend relations with his new clan. But Gwyn didn’t protest, and even attempted a conciliatory wave back toward all her new acquaintances as Joarr pulled her across the room.
“Are you all right?” she muttered at him, but he ignored the question, and drew her toward where Stella was indeed, again, sitting on the bench. She was dressed in a heavy shawl, her dark head bent over what appeared to be more sewing, and thankfully there was no hint of Silfast to be seen. However, Stella still looked unmistakably exhausted, her bleary eyes blinking down at her work — and it wasn’t until Joarr loudly cleared his throat that she glanced up, and then visibly startled at the sight of them.
“Gwyn!” she exclaimed, setting down her sewing with eager-seeming relief. “You’ve returned. How are you faring so far? I heard you spent the night in the Bautul garden?”
