I have to hold on to Neekar’s arm on the way through the pitch-black tunnel, and I make a mental note to have a talk with Steagor to prevent him from attacking Neekar again. The way twists and turns, and Neekar warns me twice to lower my head, which tells me we must be in some sort of auxiliary tunnel, not the main web of corridors.
But it’s the scent of horses that informs me where we’re going. We emerge into a low-ceilinged room, wide and long, with some natural light coming into it through windows in the far wall. And in the stalls set on either side of the room, horses stand, nickering and huffing quietly, munching on hay and oats.
Neekar has brought me to the stables.
“We’ll see if he’s here,” he says quietly, leading me past the stalls.
I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about, but my apprehension grows with each step.
It’s the sound of mucking that alerts me to Vark’s presence. We round a section of a stall, and there he is, shirtless, facing away from us and dumping horse manure into a wooden wheelbarrow.
He has heard us—his shoulders stiffen—but he continues with his work until the stall is clean. Then he straightens, turns to us, and leans the pitchfork on the wall.
“Vark,” Neekar greets him with a clap on the shoulder. “I’ve brought you Poppy.”
The massive orc lifts the eyebrow above his one good eye. “And what does Poppy want with me?”
“She’s interested in—” Neekar begins, but I interrupt him.
“Poppy would like to ask you a couple of questions,” I say, annoyed that they’re talking about me like I’m not here.
Neekar grins down at me. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
I roll my eyes because it’s impossible to stay cross at him. “Thank you for helping me. And for bringing me down here. I don’t want to keep you.”
He opens his arms as if he wants to give me a hug, then seems to think better of it and lets them drop. “I’ll see you soon. Join us for breakfast whenever you can. My sister thinks you’re cute.”
With that, he’s gone, returning the same way we arrived. And I’m left in the stall with a shirtless orc who looks like he eats nails for breakfast.
“Um, hello,” I say, not knowing how to begin my questioning.
Vark stares down at me, then snorts. “Come on. You can help me while we talk.”
He stalks away with long strides, and I scurry after him, not wanting to be left behind. “Of course, I’ll help. Do you have another pitchfork?”
He throws an amused glance over his shoulder. “I won’t make you shovel shit in that pretty dress of yours. Here.” He picks up two baskets and hands one to me. “We’re collecting eggs.”
I follow him to a chicken coop built into the side of the Hill. This must be the outermost wall, because it’s studded with windows, and looking through one of the circular openings, I see an orc guard patrolling past, his gaze turned toward the vast forest beyond.
“We keep the animals here,” Vark explains. “They need daylight.”
“And orcs don’t?” I ask.
He shakes his head and opens the first nesting box, revealing four beautiful brown eggs. With his big hands, he gently picks them up and deposits them in the straw-lined basket, then motions for me to do the same. I uncover another box and surprise a hen. She squawks, and I laugh, closing the box again.
“Sorry, madam,” I joke. “I’ll be back later for yours.”
Vark and I go from box to box, picking up today’s batch. There are so many, with more coops in the rooms following this one, and it makes sense. From what I’ve seen, several hundred orcs live in the Hill, and these chickens must produce enough eggs for everyone.
“You said you had questions,” Vark says when we’re walking back with yet another pair of filled baskets.
We each grab a new basket and return to the coops. It’s slow, repetitive work, but it relaxes me enough that I feel comfortable talking to him.
“I was wondering about Steagor’s family,” I say. “He’s been so helpful to me, and he knew my father, but I know next to nothing about him.”
“You could try asking him,” Vark suggests in his gruff tone.
I grimace. “Somehow, every conversation we have ends with us arguing or—”
Vark grins at me. “Or what?”
I shake my head, embarrassed. I’d wanted to say “or trying to tear each other’s clothes off,” but he doesn’t need to know that. Not now I know how doomed my romantic relationship with Steagor is.
“It’s just—Neekar mentioned that Steagor doesn’t have any family here. And I wanted to know whether he has people somewhere else that he doesn’t talk to, maybe?”
I’m fishing for information, and Vark seems to know it. He studies me for a long time, his dark gaze serious.
“Are you nosy?” he asks. “Or are you asking because you care for him?”
That’s not a hard one to answer. “I care for him. I’m—”
The words get stuck in my throat, the truth that’s too painful and humiliating to say out loud. I’ve managed to get too involved, and now I’ll have to extricate my heart somehow or see it get smashed to pieces.
“He’s given me so much,” I say instead. “He’s kind, and I’d like to return that kindness if I can. But that’s impossible to do if I’m stumbling over things that happened in the past. Things that are clearly still affecting him now.”
He blows out a deep sigh. “We all carried over trouble from our old clan. Some more than others. The way things were at the end there…” He shakes his head. “The old king, Gorvor’s father, is a bastard, and he did things to us that we can’t forget.”
“I know some of that,” I say quietly. “Steagor explained a bit of what happened.”
Vark hands me another empty basket. “Yeah. Some orcs who came here were young enough to escape the worst of it, like Neekar. But others, like Steagor, took the brunt of the old king’s wrath.”
I swallow thickly, not liking where this is going. “He didn’t mention anything related to him in particular.”
A corner of Vark’s mouth pulls up. “He wouldn’t. He’s not much of a talker.”
“No.” I laugh softly. “No, he’s not.”
“King Trak murdered Steagor’s parents and his older brother,” Vark says bluntly. “While Steagor watched.”
I clutch the handle of my basket, afraid I’ll drop it and smash all the eggs. The words are clear, and yet the meaning takes a while to sink in.
“What?” I breathe. “Why?”
Vark raises one thick shoulder in a shrug. “Because Steagor sided with Gorvor. He wanted to teach everyone a lesson.”
I blink hard. “And Gorvor?”
I don’t want to judge anyone because I have no idea what the situation must be like, but surely the king’s son had some sway? Surely he could have kept his father from murdering his friend’s family?
“Gorvor was beaten unconscious by his father’s guards,” Vark says roughly. “As was I. They only left Steagor awake to—”
He grimaces as he crushes a pair of eggs in his large fist. He shakes off the goop and the shells and stalks off to one of the ever-present troughs with running water and washes his hands.
When he returns, he doesn’t continue his story, but I don’t need him to. The old king left Steagor awake to witness the truest horror. The death of all his loved ones. My throat closes up, and I focus on my task for long minutes, working in silence alongside Vark.
“You’re good for him,” Vark says quietly after a while.
I glance up at him, surprised. “You think so?”
He dips his chin in a nod. “He was shut in his shell for a long time. It’s good to see him break out of it.”
“Even if I make him a little crazy?” I ask.
“Especially then,” Vark says.
We collect the last of the eggs, and I help Vark load them all onto a small cart, which he pulls behind him. We exit the stables and head back to the great hall.
“Thank you for explaining things to me,” I tell him as we near the kitchens.
He places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I hope it will help.”
I say goodbye to him and head back to Steagor’s room to think. I sit at his desk and run my palm over the cloth I unwrapped that morning. I’d bought it out of spite, to make a trousseau of night shifts so beautiful, Steagor would fall madly in love—or, barring that, madly in lust—with me and decide to keep me after all.
But that won’t be necessary now. I can’t keep him, and the sooner I break the bond between us, the better.
I’ll still sew myself a trousseau, though, because the easiest way to get out of Steagor’s hair will be to find myself a husband. Either an orc who will realize I’m his mate—or a human from one of the villages, maybe, who would be happy with a wife like me.
And Steagor will be free to find his own mate.
