The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2) Page 36

  “Probably would have been an ugly necklace,” he muttered, staring at his feet.

  Delysia removed a small gold pendant from around her neck, one shaped in the outline of a mountain.

  “I’m sure Ashhur knows you mean no disrespect,” Tarlak said as she tossed it upon the fire.

  “He’d better.”

  Tarlak’s laughter was forced, and did not last long. Into his pocket went his hand, coming out with a single scroll. He read its words, the scroll in one hand, his staff in the other. At the end, the scroll shriveled, and a great shimmer went across the staff. This done, he let it fall into the fire.

  “Had to make sure it would actually burn,” he chuckled.

  It was Harruq’s turn. He sighed, unfolding the bundle in his hands. It was the cape Delysia had made him for his wedding.

  “Always thought I looked good in it,” he said. He felt his wife wrap an arm around him, and it gave him the strength he needed. He folded it into the fire, careful not to let it drop flat and snuff the flame. The fine material caught and burned. Aurelia looked around to the others, and then removed a thin silk cloth wrapped around her gift. It was a bouquet of flowers.

  “Harruq gave me these a long time ago,” she said, looking at them lovingly. “I’ve kept them alive. I don’t know why I did, even then. But I don’t need to know anymore.”

  She threw them into the fire. They were consumed. In silence, the group stood. They watched the flickering of the flame, enjoying the warmth and loathing the meaning.

  “I don’t think I should be giving a eulogy,” Tarlak said. He glanced around, tucked his arms, untucked them, and then continued. “But someone should say something, and it always seems to be me that does. So I’ll do it again.”

  He turned to the parents, their arms wrapped about each other’s waists for support.

  “I’ve never been around a baby,” he said. “Never. The crying, the feeding, the constant yelling at you to take care of her, Ashhur spare me such a fate. But we loved her here. I was hoping one day she might grow up and, well, learn a little from me. I wanted to show her a thing or two, and be there when she cast her first spell. I’ve never had a student, but I’m sure she would have been a great one. I know you two loved her, more than us. My hurt, I’m sure it pales, but it’s there, and Ashhur help me should such a day as this come to my heart. But to Ashhur she has gone. He has always said the lives of children belong to him, and to each one he will open his arms and embrace. If Ashhur grants me the same welcome, the first person I’ll ask to see is that little brown-haired girl, to see how she’s grown. To see…”

  He stopped to swallow, and then stared into the fire.

  “Thank you,” Harruq said. “For everything.”

  “We owe you two for all of it,” Delysia said. “For the time we had with her, on behalf of us all, thank you.”

  Two tears, running twin paths down each cheek, lined Aurelia’s smile.

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  “It’s dark enough,” the wizard said. “It’s time.”

  Harruq demanded the task be his. He dipped a branch halfway into the fire, letting it heat and burn for several minutes until it was solidly lit. His heart in his throat, he turned to the pyre. The rest of the Eschaton surrounded it, their faces somber. He wiped his sniffling nose on his other sleeve and then, slowly, reluctantly, lit the fence of twigs lining the outer rim of the pyre. As it caught, he stared at the face of his daughter. The feeling was surreal, but he knew whatever it was that had made his daughter able to love, to feel, to cling to his leg and look up with an emotion purer than anything in the world, was gone from that body. For the first time, he saw her truly dead.

  He dropped the branch into the fire, put his arm around Aurelia’s waist, and stood straight. He watched the pyre burn. He felt his wife’s head rest against his shoulder, and the wetness there he knew was tears. All about, the others watched in silence. Brighter and brighter the fire grew. Smoke poured up, first light, and then a heavy billowing shield, protecting him from the sight of that little angel, chubbier than most elven girls, taller, her skin soft and her smile innocent and wonderful, being consumed by the fire. No animals sounded in the newly come night, and it seemed even the stars watched in sorrow at that small flicker of flame.

  Harruq swore upon the pyre to avenge the loss of his daughter. He hated the bitter feeling welling within, but he could not deny it, only succumb and feed the entity. Under red visions of rage, he imagined killing his brother, ramming his sword through his forehead, shoving every shred of pain he felt into a crimson blade drenched with blood. Vengeance. Gods help him, it was all that gave him comfort.

  But for the first time the images broke, unable to stand beneath their horrid weight. He was not a monster. He was not what Qurrah thought he was. He leaned his neck atop Aurelia’s head, their arms holding each other tight as they swayed in the heat of the pyre. In his heart, he cast aside his vengeance.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. Aurelia did not know to whom he spoke. “It’s all right. We’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”

  She turned away from the fire and buried her face into his neck.

  They stood before the flame for more than an hour. At last, Tarlak put a hand on their shoulders and led them back to the tower for the rest they so desperately needed. Delysia went as well, preparing their bed and doing her best to remove bits and things of Aullienna’s before they arrived.

  Brug and Haern, side by side in the orange light, held their solemn stand.

  “What kind of man can kill another’s daughter?” Haern whispered to the pyre. “What kind of monster?”

  “It doesn’t take a monster,” Brug whispered back. “It’s the act that makes you one.”

  From his pocket, Haern pulled out the green ribbon he had offered Aullienna on the day of her birth. On it was the vow of the Eschaton to protect her. Haern dropped it into the fire, wondering how he had so miserably failed such a vow. Brug saw and clapped the assassin on the back. They left without another word. Unwatched, the ribbon burned and blackened until nothing but ash remained of the love that had made it.

  Qurrah Tun stood below the star-filled sky, his body a motionless statue, his arms out at his sides and his legs stiff. His neck ached, and his clenched fists trembled with each ragged breath he took.

  He wept, the stars his only witness.

  31

  Qurrah slept outside, shivering as the chill sank into his bones. He was a cold, blue-lipped, and miserable. Even when shame overwhelmed his tears, he could not enter the cabin. He knew Tessanna awaited him, probably needing his arms… Or did she? He never knew with her. Never. So out in the dirt he huddled, his penance for hurting the girl she loved.

  He thought of his days as a child, huddled against his brother for warmth in the slums of Veldaren. Now he had no brother to comfort him. If anything, Harruq would greet him with drawn swords instead of open arms.

  “Go ahead,” Qurrah said to a phantom Harruq, clenching his jaw to stop the chattering. “Condemn me if you want.”

  He drifted in and out of sleep, slowly growing aware of a slight rain. His robes were pitiful protection against it. The cabin tempted his mind, flitting in and out of his self-pity. Guilt rooted him firm. He dreamt, just a little. A spider hung above his head, dangling by a silver-glinted thread. Eight eyes sparkled violet, and from its fanged mouth he heard words but did not understand.

  He awoke to the touch of feminine fingers against his arm. He kept his eyes closed as Tessanna knelt beside him, curling her arms about his waist. She pressed her body against his, her face nestling into the nape of his neck. She said nothing. Neither did he. Her warmth was not great, but it was enough. His great convulsions slowed to constant trembling. Together they rode out the cold suffering they shared.

  The damned persistent sun ripped open Qurrah’s eyelids with its light. Water rimmed his eyeballs, so he turned away and buried his face into his arm. A cold wind ble
w against his back, and he realized his lover was not with him. A burning stirred within his turmoil, one he must obey. He had to make sure nothing changed. Despite his broken promise, despite his grotesque error, he had to know something remained stable.

  He stood and shook the dirt from his hair. Inside the cabin, Tessanna sat beside the fire, shivering in wet clothing. She glanced up at him, her face ragged and tired.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  He pulled her to her feet. Off went her wet rags she called a dress. When she started to protest, he rammed his mouth against hers. His clothes went next. She was like a doll, weightless, obedient. He threw her against a wall, her hands pinned behind her back. His tongue and teeth nipped and flitted across her neck.

  “Am I still who I was?” he hissed into her ear.

  “You always will be,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “Always.”

  It should have been enough, but anger stirred where there had once been guilt. He took her on their bed, his motions seeming of vengeance rather than love, but she cried out just the same.

  Once he had dressed, Qurrah sought solitude in the forest. Tessanna gave him time before joining him. Despite the cold, she ventured naked from the cabin. Qurrah glanced back, his heart fluttering at the sight. Every curve, every tender touch of her skin, was beyond human. If not for the way her ribs showed when she walked, or how thin her arms sometimes looked, she would have been flawless.

  He knelt at the edge of the dead wildlife. When she approached, he kept his eyes low and his words quiet.

  “Do you blame me?” he asked her.

  “Part of me does,” she said. “But I think it’s more Aurelia’s fault, and your brother’s. I have to. Otherwise, I would kill you, and I don’t want to do that. What do you think they’ll do?”

  “Harruq will want blood,” he said, standing. “And the others will seek the same, even if he does not.”

  “Can they find us?”

  “In time. Even if they must search the entire forest.”

  She glanced over at him, a shy look on her face.

  “What are, what are we going to do when they show up?” The half-orc turned away, and in his silence, she found the answer. “We can go,” she said, the idea offered reluctantly, almost in embarrassment. “Let’s just go. We don’t have to stay.”

  “Yes, we do.” A bird dared sing a happy tone, and he struck it dead with a wave of his hand. Tessanna watched with idle curiosity as the rigid lump of feathers fell.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “Because I will not run,” he said, so softly that the girl had to strain to hear.

  “Why not?”

  “Because then Harruq will be right.”

  “Right about what?”

  He turned on her, a dark anger smoking underneath the brown of his eyes.

  “Everything.”

  Tessanna’s apathy rose to match his anger. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

  Qurrah walked to where the dead bird lay. A quick mutter of magic syllables and the hollow bones tore out from beneath the soft feathers. They swirled around the half-orc’s hand, so tiny.

  “I must face Harruq,” he said, watching their flight. One by one, he flung them against a tree. “The others are yours. Kill them.”

  He returned to the cabin for warmth but the fire had died. His frail body shook underneath the blankets of his bed, but still the pleasant feel of heat eluded him. He shivered and shivered. When Tessanna offered to join him, he turned her away. Spurned, she sat before the dead fire. A single slit across the end of her forefinger sent blood dripping down. Her soft breath blew against the drops. When they touched the wood, they flickered with flame, growing hotter and hotter with each successive drop. By the time a great fire roared, Qurrah had fallen into slumber.

  Tessanna did not mind. She sucked on her bleeding finger, a look of pure hatred blanketing her face as she watched her lover sleep. She did not move, nor did her look change, until she saw his body stir, and then apathy grabbed the anger and locked it away.

  Haern snuck into their room, just as he had so often to awaken Harruq for sparring. But this time he did not seek swordplay.

  “Wake up,” he said, nudging the half-orc.

  “What is it?” Harruq asked, rolling toward him. His eyes were wide-awake and bloodshot. The assassin felt a pang of guilt as he wondered how little the half-orc had slept that night.

  “I know where your brother hides,” he whispered.

  “Not now, Haern,” Aurelia pleaded from the other side of the bed.

  “How do you know?” Harruq said, propping himself up with an elbow.

  “That does not matter. We must not let them have time to slip away. You deserve vengeance, and I will help give it to you.”

  The half-orc flung off the blankets and put his feet on the cold floor. He shuffled about, grabbing armor and swords. Aurelia sat up, not caring that only the flimsiest of fabrics protected her skin from Haern’s eyes.

  “What are you going to do,” she asked. “Run off on your own?”

  “If I have to,” Harruq said, struggling against the buckles of his chestpiece.

  “Leave,” she said to Haern. The assassin bowed and did as he was told. When he was gone, the elf left the bed and took her husband’s hands in her own, halting his preparations.

  “I have to do this,” he said to her.

  “But you don’t have to do it alone,” she said. Harruq pulled against her hands, expecting her to release, but she held on, something in her stronger than he realized. “Not alone,” she said, a quick movement of her hands releasing his grip and unbuckling his armor so that it slid to the ground. “And not yet.”

  She pulled him back to the bed and held him close. His hands did not wander, and she did not desire it. Together, they huddled against the coming trials, enjoying the last moments of darkness before the illusionary dawn rose above the ivy walls, matching the rise of the sun outside.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Harruq said as morning came.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do I prove him wrong? How do I show him I am not the killer he claims, when the only right path I see is him dying by my hands?”

  She stroked his face.

  “Do what you think is right. Just don’t do it alone.” At last, she let him go. “All of us,” she said, sliding her green dress over her body. “That is how it should be.”

  “If you say so.”

  When they came down for breakfast, food was ready, and not surprisingly, all were dressed for battle. Brug grumbled from beneath his platemail, sharpening one of his punch daggers. Tarlak had no staff, but a spellbook lay on the table beside his plate. Haern wore his cloaks, his twin sabers hidden beneath their fabric. Even Delysia seemed regal and dangerous, her white dress so clean and bright it hurt the eyes. The golden mountain on her chest shimmered with angry power.

  Out of everyone, only Harruq lacked his armor and did not carry his weapons.

  “Well, didn’t expect that,” Tarlak said, tearing a strip of bacon in half and shoving it into his mouth. “Grab something to eat, ol’ buddy, and then get ready. We have a job to do.”

  “Of course,” he said, flustered by the sight of so many ready to risk their lives for him. His appetite was greater than he expected. He devoured the entire plate put before him, plus some of Aurelia’s. When finished, he dashed up the stairs and returned with his oiled black leather armor strapped tight across his body. Salvation and Condemnation swung from his hips. The others saw him ready and rose from the table.

  One by one, they filed out the door. Tarlak pulled the half-orc aside, away from the others, and talked in a quiet tone.

  “Are you sure you can do this?” he asked. The half-orc nodded, remembering that tortured moment when he had yanked Aullienna’s body from the cold water.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good.” The wizard patted his shoulder. “Then let’s get to it.”

  Qur
rah dragged himself out of bed, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a greater weight than his frail body could handle. He kissed Tessanna’s forehead, ignoring the way her eyes stared numbly past him. He flipped through his spellbook, glancing over lines he had read hundreds of times.

  “They are almost here,” Tessanna said, the words intoned as if she were informing him that the sky was cloudy.

  “I know,” the half-orc said. He took his whip and let it wrap around his arm. “Can you cast spells to protect me?”

  The girl nodded, her back still to him. “I can make you safe for awhile. His swords are strong. The medallion makes them stronger. Qurrah?”

  “Yes, Tessanna?”

  “Promise you won’t be mad?”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to kill them. But I will. I thought you should know that.”

  The words were spoken with a calm, dead voice. Ghosts carried more passion, more life. The half-orc gently rocked his head up and down, knowing that the fire lived underneath, ready to burst forth to wreck and burn.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “So you say,” she said. She finally glanced back to him. There was no smile on her face. No sarcasm. Her words bit deep. He opened his spellbook, closed it, opened it again, and then sighed.

  “How do we end this?” he suddenly asked. “How do we end this right?”

  Tessanna looked at him, her eyes aching with sorrow. “I don’t think we can,” she said.

  Qurrah nodded. He opened the cabin door.

  “We must prepare,” he said, stepping outside. Tessanna followed him out, proud and beautiful and sad.

  32

  The Eschaton arrived.

  There was no immediate burst of combat. Spells did not flare. Swords stayed sheathed. Haern remained back, told to wait until an opportune moment. Harruq walked ahead, wishing to speak alone with his brother one last time. He entered the clearing surrounding the cabin, his blood chilled at the feeling of death that hung palpable in the air. Nothing good has happened in this place, he thought.