As in, not only around Roy, but aroundJoarr. Suggesting that he, too, was charismatic. Very good in bed.Gorgeous.
And Joarr could have laughed. He could have mocked her. Even raised a cool eyebrow, let that superior smirk curl across his mouth. But when Gwyn risked another glance at his face, he was still only looking back toward her, his eyes very still, his breath unmoving in his chest.
“But I’m not going back to Roy this time,” Gwyn choked out, and gods, why was she telling him this, why did it even matter? “I’m not. I’mdone.”
There was another instant’s stillness, a strange, distant flicker in Joarr’s eyes. As if for a moment, he’d gone somewhere else, somewhere far away, lost so deep behind his mask…
“I ken,” he said, quiet, abrupt. “I see. You find — own way. Away from all these cruel men, who no deserve you. Ach?”
The words came out with an odd, fervent certainty, enough that Gwyn’s breath spasmed, her eyes frozen on his face. He was — agreeing with her? Supporting her?Again?
And clearly he’d caught that too, because he shook his head, harsh and quick, as if needing to clear it — and then he snatched for the lamp, and leapt to his feet. “Come, woman,” he said, voice curt, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “Have one I wish you to meet.”
Gwyn twitched, but accordingly obeyed, and Joarr’s hand slid around her shoulders, guiding her toward the kitchen door. Back out into the cool cramped darkness, ushering her up and down and sideways again, until she saw a distant, flickering light.
The light grew steadily brighter, stronger, and Gwyn realized it was from a door, cut into the corridor up ahead. And when Joarr steered her through the door, she found herself faced with a large open room, illuminated by a sparking, roaring fire, burning bright in the opposite wall.
And clustered around the fire, there were orcs. Yes, more orcs, but… their bodies seemed smaller, their backs bent, their hair grey or white. And Joarr’s steps still hadn’t faltered, his hand on Gwyn’s back driving her straight toward a lean, wizened-looking orc at the very end of the row.
And somehow, Gwyn… knew. Knew, even before this orc caught sight of them. Knew, as she watched him shuffle up to his feet, his knobbly hand clutched to a wooden cane, his eyes bright and eager on hers.
“Gwynevere of Dunburg,” he said with a bow, his voice warm and deep. “I am Ivar of Clan Bautul, your great-uncle. And I am ever at your service.”
21
Ivar, of Clan Bautul. Her…great-uncle.
Gwyn’s mouth had fallen open, her eyes flaring up and down this Ivar’s wizened form. He was still tall, despite his bent back, and he still had all his hair, though it was wiry and pure white, hanging beyond his shoulders. But most powerful of all were those eyes, alarmingly aware in his wrinkled grey face.
Ivar. Her great-uncle. As in, her Great-Aunt Agnes’mate.
“Oh,” Gwyn somehow said, her breaths choked, her hand clutched to her chest. “I — I’m honoured. To meet you, I mean. I — I —”
She couldn’t even find words, her voice trapped in the orc’s bright black eyes, and he flashed her a quick, half-toothless grin. “I am honoured also,” he said. “Our wise Agnes wished oft for this day, ach?”
Our wise Agnes. Something seemed to yank on Gwyn’s chest, drawing her closer, dragging another gasp from her throat. “Could you please,” she whispered, “tell me everything?”
Ivar’s eyes sparkled with warmth, perhaps even withrelief, and he carefully lowered his body back into his chair. “Ach,” he said, “I shall.”
And then, to Gwyn’s ever-rising astonishment, he did. Telling her of how he and Great-Aunt Agnes had met each other later in life, well after her childbearing years. How Agnes had been a suspicious but fair-minded woman, and how he’d spent months working to gain her trust, and then her heart. How she’d kept him secret, kept him safe, and how in the end they’d brought each other much peace and joy.
Gwyn had knelt at his feet as he’d spoken, her attention rapt on every word. And once he’d finally finished, his voice gone thready and thin, she found herself swallowing over the lump in her throat, and wiping at her wet eyes.
“I’m so glad Great-Aunt Agnes was happy,” she said, the words audibly wavering. “I have so many regrets about her. I wish I’d written more, and made more of an effort to come see her. Even just to say goodbye.”
But Ivar waved this away with a dismissive hand, and a casual shrug that was oddly reminiscent of Joarr’s. “You no fret yourself over this, girl,” he said firmly. “Agnes knew you had much to bear. She hoped in granting you her house, she might help you find your own way.”
Find your own way. Again. Those words so familiar, so powerful, that for an instant Gwyn couldn’t breathe, her eyes darting toward where Joarr had been waiting through all this, leaning against the nearest wall. “I —,” she began, and gulped for air, tried again. “I hope so too.”
Ivar’s smile was far too knowing, his gaze following hers toward Joarr. “I ken you have,” he said. “To find your way to Bautul, and our long-lost Seer — ach, this reeks of the goddess’ blessing.”
The goddess again. Gwyn felt her face heating, well beyond the radiating warmth of the nearby fire, and Ivar gave her a conspiratorial wink. “The goddess works in her own ways, ach?” he said. “But she always finds her own. And mayhap soon” — his bent body seemed to straighten slightly — “she shall find new Bautul son, also?”
The heat was truly smarting in Gwyn’s cheeks now, and thankfully Joarr pushed off the wall and strode over, clapping a heavy hand to Ivar’s shoulder. “You stop there,gamli,” he said, “before you send woman running, ach?”
Ivar chortled with laughter, his eyes alight on Joarr’s face. “She no run ifyousee her way, and treat her right,” he said. “Keep her full of good Bautul seed, ach?”
Joarr rolled his eyes and reached to pull Gwyn up, his arm slipping easy around her back. “Youkeep loud mouth shut,” he said over his shoulder, though there was no real anger in his voice. “And mayhap I bring her to you again, ach?”
