Page 18

Chapter

Seventeen

ANYA

D espite the cold air’s best attempt to steal my breath and freeze me, I gasp in delight as the world opens up below me in ways I could never have imagined as the orc palace drops far away in the distance. The Fang Peaks are far more glorious from this vantage point as we soar between them with the sun shining down on their stark white fanglike peaks piercing the sky. In truth, they are aptly named, and it gives me a little shiver as I stare at them. It feels like we are flying into the jaws of some sort of primordial monster. I’m not afraid, however. Daghel’s arm is a steel band encircling me, keeping me pinned tightly to him, and Drisk’s flight is as smooth as can be expected of a species known as kings of the skies.

“Not afraid, are you?” Daghel observes, and his deep chuckle warms my ear when I give a quick shake of my head.

“It is marvelous!” I shout, and Drisk responds with a staccato series of chirps that echo all around us.

“Ready yourself then,” he rasps as he tightens his grip a little more.

I angle my head in an attempt to glance back at him in confusion, but then I feel it—a hot tendril sliding against my inner thigh beneath my skirts. The muscles in my legs tighten in reaction, and the tendril coils for a second before working its way higher.

“Wha… what is that?” I demand, but heat drops deep into my belly as it climbs higher in a sinuous glide.

“Be calm,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soothing rumble. “Drisk is just seeking to connect.”

“Drisk?”

The word barely parts from my lips when the tendril slips upward with a shocking speed and into my underthings. I make a choking sound of shock when I feel it slide over my folds to probe my clit, but then it drops and dives into my cunt so quickly that I suddenly can’t breathe at the sensation of it swelling rapidly inside my channel. The entire world fragments and explodes before my eyes. It happens so fast that I don’t have time to be afraid before all the tiny pieces fall back into place and re-knit themselves, but this time with a vividness far beyond my normal vision.

Drisk. I can feel him there with me in my head—a mind so unlike anything human that he feels cold and dangerous, with a terrible and vicious hunger that demands to be satisfied. I blink slowly as I mentally scramble to make sense of my impressions without leaping to conclusions. He is hungry? I nearly laugh at the thought. Of course he is! I am famished myself, as it has been several hours since our morning meal. Drisk’s awareness suddenly turns toward me as if one of his amber eyes is rolling back to peer at me, and his coldness rapidly melts away to be replaced with a warmth of affection that brings a smile to my lips.

“Did I frighten you?” His voice fills my mind, curling against my thoughts like a cat lovingly rubbing against one’s legs.

My first impulse is to deny it so that I don’t appear weak, but I quash that impulse and reconsider. Who am I trying to impress? This is Drisk. Not only does he think the same way as humans, but he is already in my mind now. In this moment he’s intimately a part of me, touching my thoughts and feelings.

“A little,” I admit. “I wasn’t expecting it.” But Daghel had. He knew. My brows rise as the implication hits me. “Are you… connected… with Daghel this way, too?”

Drisk’s cackling clicks of amusement echo, bouncing off the mountains. “Of course. The strands that rise from certain parts of my body are an ancient gift to wyverns to allow us to communicate with those we allow to mount us. They only work one way, however. They must penetrate the soft interior tissue of our rider to connect to the nervous system.”

“That’s…” mildly horrifying “…efficient,” I reply mildly, drawing another laugh from him.

“You are amusing, wyva. Amusing, bold, and delicious,” he observes with a hum of pleasure. “So very delicious.”

I bite back a smile of pleasure. Of course, he would be obsessed with his appetites. It seems quite appropriate for a creature such as a wyvern, especially when I can feel his hunger simmering still beneath his affection. I don’t bother replying—he is so firmly within my mind that I know he can feel my reaction just as I can feel his pleased hum echoing quietly as an undercurrent running through my mind.

“You could have warned me,” I say, and Daghel’s quiet chuckle fills my ears over Drisk’s cackle.

I feel the gentle circling motion of his thumb rubbing against my belly, and I lean back against his warmth, enjoying the more physical connection between us. He may not be capable of delving into my mind in how Drisk is, but he is a solid, strong presence with all the potential of brutality harnessed and controlled by his will—a powerful being who bows to no one except me. Even Drisk, for all his ferocity, submits to Daghel’s will, elevating me in a way that I am only starting to understand.

“You will see,” Drisk rasps, affirming the fact that he is indeed a shadow, watching my thoughts as we fly together. There is a certain smugness in his thoughts that I find curious, though.

“What do you mean?” I ask him, but he does not respond, other than to cackle in obvious satisfaction.

He is obviously intent on keeping his secrets, so I just direct a mental eye roll at him and focus on enjoying my surroundings. It is certainly picturesque. There are heavy shadows that rest amid the jagged peaks, but the ice and snow sparkle like a frost of cut gems. Cozy villages rise up from various plateaus and within the mountain valleys. Smoke rises invitingly from the numerous lit hearths, but we pass by them as we continue to make our way lower through the fang peaks until a village of prominent size tucked within a large valley comes into view. Drisk chirps as he descends in a slow circle, and I immediately know that this is our destination and I lean forward in my seat with excitement, my eyes taking in the bright seasonal décor that is rapidly becoming visible.

As expected, Drisk doesn’t land within the village but drops into the snow just a short distance from its outer edge. I gasp a little at the sensation of his tendril tugging free from my channel, and behind me Daghel quivers in response to Drisk’s separation. Does he feel the same emptiness as Drisk disappears completely from my mind? Does Drisk feel it? There are no answers to my silent question, just Drisk’s sonorous bellow announcing our presence as we drop to the ground from the large saddle pad attached to his harness, drowning out the crunch of snow beneath our feet. Daghel leads me away until we are clear of the wyvern’s wings before turning to Drisk with a cautious look.

“Hunt, but do not go far,” he says quietly.

Drisk drops his head briefly in agreement before arching up to the sky and rising with a blast of his large wings. My eyes follow him for a long moment, and I glance uncertainly toward the big male at my side. He wraps an arm around me, squeezing me reassuringly.

“Do not worry. There are many ledges that overlook the village on which Drisk can rest while he waits. He will be fine, and he does not feel the cold like we do. Now come, let us get this over with,” he murmurs as his arm drops back to his side in easy reach of his weapon.

I immediately miss his warmth, but I say nothing as I follow him into the village, my eyes continuously moving to take in everything from the fat icicles hanging from the eves and signs to the thick garlands of evergreens and bright red berries bound with red ribbons. The pungently warm scent of spice is also heavy on the air, along with the scents of spiced baked goods. My stomach rumbles as I peer curiously at the shops to identify which one is the bakery.

“Everything is so festive. I didn’t expect that. It’s so different from the village around the palace,” I observe.

Daghel grunts in agreement. “Vorn abolished the traditions in the high village when he came into power to rule on his mother’s behalf. It is an ancient tradition from the time of Durethikal when people celebrated their bounties with the hope that the merriment would please the god-king so that he would pass peacefully over the villages, perhaps even join them in merriment before leaving them to their comforts. It is a time of feasting.”

“I see,” I murmur. “It is not unlike our Yulen.”

“It is exactly the same. Yulen is elvish tongue for the holiday that orcs called Gehl, the winter feast. Durethikal brought winter storms throughout Helfallow, though most races like to forget he ever existed even if they bribed the Cold Mountain orc clans into turning away from him. Why would they admit it when the plot was all an attempt to wrest control over the season?”

I shake my head in disbelief, but somehow that most certainly tracks. It leaves one glaring question, however. “Why would Vorn abolish a feast day that is obviously very central to your culture?”

His lips twist grimly, and he glances down at me. “To forget.”

“I don’t understand.”

He chuckles softly. “This is because the origins of your Yulen have long been forgotten by your people. All the merriment and feasting do have a purpose beyond pleasing Durethikal, but it is also an invitation of a bride to join him and soften his darkness so that prosperity continues among the peoples and the clans.” He nods to a building around which many females, both orc and human, are gathered. “In every village, the tradition always has an unmated male as the feast king to represent Durethikal, and a female is selected to be the bride of the feast. To be chosen for either role is considered a high honor, but the most important is the feast bride, the queen of winter.”

“And Vorn cannot stand anything that takes away from the illusion of his power and is a reminder of where true authority lies—with the queens,” I conclude dryly.

He chuckles in agreement and steps around me to snake his free arm around my waist. I cuddle against his side, a smile curling my lips, but straighten when I see a number of women filing down the street, uniformly clad in yellowish gowns trimmed with crimson. Several among them studiously stare at the ground as they walk, obscuring their appearance beneath their long hair and shawls, but one familiar face among the women catches my eye. Chelsea? She’s here?

From the corner of my eye, I catch the movement of Daghel’s head as his gaze follows the direction of my attention.

“Ah,” he murmurs.

“Ah? What does that mean? Why are all those women together like that?”

“It is… complicated,” he replies in a cool voice and begins to stride forward again. I stubbornly grab his upper arm, bringing his attention directly back to me. He studies my face for a moment and sighs. “They are comfort maidens, females who refuse to take a mate or, for whatever reason, are rejected for mating. The village chief is responsible for their care and sees to it that the entire village provides food, clothing, and anything that they may need with the understanding that they are there to provide comfort to the unmated who turn to them. All human captives who are not immediately claimed are taken to them where they might be chosen. That female there,” he says, nodding toward Chelsea, “I have heard of from rumor among some males in the palace. Three different males tried to claim her, and each time she fought to where they returned her to the company of the maidens once more. It seems now she wears the official regalia of the comfort maidens.”

“What? You are saying that women are forcibly turned into prostitutes?” I demand. I was a courtesan, but I chose my life and chose the exchange of coin for my service to provide for my comforts. But this… This seems so wrong. “What happened to just eating them?”

“I may have exaggerated,” he shamelessly admits. “We prefer not to eat the females as we revere those of our own clans so highly and would rather keep them for our mates. And they are not forced to be comfort maidens. They are all initially offered training in many different pursuits where they might claim a place in the village if they do not wish to mate yet. They either choose to remain among the maidens because it demands little of them or refuse to become a part of the clan in any meaningful way. However, a comfort maiden can surrender her position for training or to mate. It is not a permanent service.”

“I…see.” I’m not sure how comfortable I feel about it, but that does change the complexion on the matter a little. “Can’t you just return them home?”

“To what?” A shadow passes through his eyes and he stares down at me imperiously. “Most have little to begin with and nothing following the raids. Many are found wandering the mountains, close to death when they lose their homes. Others would face complete ruin and rejection from their families as we have been told. Is it kindlier to return them to their death or suffering?”

“But you don’t give them the choice,” I argue.

“No, we do not,” he agrees, his arm falling away as he continues to stride down the street, his gaze fastened on a spot farther down the road as he leaves me to follow him.

My conscience is not entirely settled with the matter, but I give them one last look before hurrying after him. At least they all look warm and well fed. That is more than many were guaranteed should they have fallen into the service within the cities. It is better than starving and freezing. I am certain that they are aware of the fact, however, and that feeling settles within me as one of the women toward the middle suddenly lifts her head to smile and shyly wave at me. I return the gesture. I may not be at peace with this, but there is much in life that I’m not at peace with. That doesn’t stop me from recognizing that it’s necessary to give them the option of returning to one of the human kingdoms if they prefer to take their chances there. I just need to convince Daghel to support my cause in this.

There always needs to be a choice.