Something else nudged her as he spoke — that tooth around his neck, dangling down toward her. And suddenly seeming important too, somehow, and Gwyn felt her still-tingly hand move to catch it, stroking it in her fingers.
“Does this,” she said, quieter, “have something to do with the Bautul, too?”
She could feel his exhale, heavy against her wet skin, and his head had ducked low, as though it was heavy, too. “Ach,” he said, short. “It is a Bautultktem.”
Atktem.“And what’s that?” Gwyn asked, careful now. “And why doyouwear one, when none of the other Bautul do?”
He exhaled again, long and slow. “It is a Bautul pledge,” he said. “Each young Bautul makes one of these, before his first battle. He bears this until he has come of age, and fulfilled its pledge. And once this has been done, it is burnt before all the clan. Only after this, is he claimed as a true Bautul.”
Gwyn’s head tilted, her eyes blinking, while a surprising indignation marched through her chest. Because despite being a fully grown orc, Joarrstillhad to fulfill some kind of absurd rite of manhood — or orc-hood — to actually belong in his new clan? Even after he’d supposedly gained this nebulous goddess’ favour with that altar ritual?
“So the Bautul are truly treating you as though you’re achild?!” she demanded at him. “How old are you again?”
Joarr shrugged, and stretched with deceptive casualness against the mossy stone. “Thirty summers, mayhap,” he said. “But Bautul no break ancient rite for me, ach? Most of all with Silfast as their captain.”
There was audible bitterness on his voice now, particularly on Silfast’s name, and Gwyn considered that, felt her hand slip down to stroke at Joarr’s slippery wet chest. “And what do you need to do to finish it? What’s thepledge?”
He shrugged again, his exhale once more tickling across her bare skin. “Its aim is always the same,” he said slowly. “The Bautul must do his brother — or his clan — a great honour.”
A great honour. Spoken with such heavy, brittle finality, echoing in Gwyn’s ears, vibrating deep into her belly. A great honour.
And wait.Wait. Wasthiswhy Joarr had been spying on her? Why he’d come to her in Varrahan? He’d been trying to find a way to strike down that law… for hisclan?!
Gwyn stared at him, her heart pummelling against her ribs, and surely that was a wince, tightening his mouth,betrayinghim. “The Bautul have suffered much of late from these men, and their laws,” he said, even slower. “Their thirst for blood rises, and they begin to call for vengeance — but this risks all we have gained with this treaty, ach? This risks yet more war. Moredeath. So after I find you, Iseeyou, I see… way through this. For me, and Bautul, and all my kin.”
Oh. So Joarr coming to Gwyn, seeking to seduce her — it hadn’t only been about the law. It had been about slaking his clan’s thirst for vengeance. About the war. About —peace.
Joarr had wanted to destroy her, to help save his kind. Hishome.
Gwyn’s eyes felt trapped on his face, and her heartbeat was drowning out the distant thunder, resounding between her ears. Because what did that mean, what did he want from her now, was he still going to —
“Ach, woman,” he snapped, jerking up to lean over her again, his eyes narrow and flinty on hers. “You hear me speak to Captain, ach? And to Silfast? I now seek new way, in this. I run with what the gods hurl upon me. And you —”
Gwyn blinked up at him, waiting, her heart still roaring, and Joarr’s harsh expression seemed to falter, his mouth twitching into a grim little smile. “You are… witch, ach?” he said, his voice oddly tenuous. “You already alter much, in this. You learn my plan. You seek my help. You offer care to women. So mayhap” — his smile twisted — “mayhap you are yet part of this.Withme. Ach?”
Oh. Gwyn felt her breath catch, her head reflexively shaking — because Joarr was most certainly imagining this, there was no way she was part of some hazy future involving gods and spells and witchcraft, it was utterly ludicrous, wasn’t it? Not to mention what he’d said — or hadn’t said — about not wanting her as a Bautul. Or a true mate.
And maybe, oh gods, this was about him still manipulating her. Still using her, to help him gain his own ends. His pledge, his clan, his future…
But Joarr was frowning back down at her again, his brows pulled low, his forehead creased. “No,” he hissed, his voice nearly a growl. “You no now thinkthisis only what I wish from you.No, woman.”
Gwyn kept blinking up at him, her breath still frozen in her chest, and he growled again, this time baring his teeth. “No,” he said again. “Even if you havenaughtto bear upon all this, I still bring you here. Still” — his voice dropped — “wish to know more of you. Find morefunwith you. Ach?”
Oh. The ice hardening in Gwyn’s chest seemed to crack, just slightly, but her eyes were still fixed to his face, her thoughts swirling back to that still-dangling question of his mate. Of her not being a true Bautul…
“I only — I no yet see where this next lead,” Joarr added, even quieter. “We only evenmeetthese few nights past, ach? And after this, I only see —”
He stopped there, as if biting off the words, his head whipping back and forth. As if not wanting to tell her, again, that he didn’t trust her. That maybe he even still expected she’d go back to Dunburg. To Roy.
And as much as Gwyn knew, with every breath of her being, that she wouldneverreturn to Roy, she could still admit that Joarr wasn’t wrong, either. They’d only actually known each other for a few days. And of course it was completely unreasonable for her to expect some kind of commitment, some kind of ridiculous declaration, especially when she wasn’t even sure she wanted such a thing. If she’d accept such a thing. Most of all from anorc, who, she knew very well, she still couldn’t trust, either. Whostillmight be trying to use her, to gain his own ends.
“Right,” she said thickly. “Of course. I understand perfectly, thank you.”
It was too dark to see Joarr’s eyes now, but that was surely the sound of a slow sigh. And then the warm, unmistakable brush of lips to her cheek, soft, careful, gentle.
“You bear thisbeautyalso, you ken?” he whispered, so quiet she barely heard it. “Now sleep, my comely witch. And stay.”
Stay. Here, under the drizzling sky, on this altar, in his arms? Or here, at his mountain, in his life, hishome?
