Page 64

Gaelfr halted in the midst of the street, and stared at the paper in his hand.

He had not known the human who had passed him the letter, and he had not even thought to mark the scent. For he had expected naught of the plain brown envelope, with no name or inscription upon it. An advertisement, mayhap. A scheme to gain coin or labour, or some such.

But then, within the envelope, he had found… this. A drawing. A portrait.

It was sketched in pencil, in lines and tones of grey. And though it was not detailed, with no earth nor sky to be seen, it was yet enough to show the skill of the artist, and the distinct faces of the portrait’s two subjects. Two people. A human woman, and…

An orc. Kalfr .

Even now, after so many summers, the sight of Kalfr’s face was yet enough to steal Gaelfr’s breath, and stop him in the street. His ástvinur — his bond-brother — had always been one of the fairest orcs amongst the Bautul , with his tall, hale form and his deep speaking eyes. And best of all, his clever hot mouth, a mouth that would laugh as easy as it moaned, that had always felt like heaven itself upon Gaelfr’s neck and his prick.

But in this portrait, Kalfr was not smiling. In truth, he looked as though he had not smiled in some time. The upward quirk of his lips was gone, and there were faint lines etched around his mouth and his eyes, and furrowed deep in his brow. And even his form was slimmer, his stance weaker and smaller, and where was his axe, or his sword?

Someone bumped into Gaelfr from behind, but he only pulled his hood a little higher, and kept studying his long-lost ástvinur in the portrait. Why did Kalfr look thus? What was amiss? And where — Gaelfr’s eyes narrowed — where was their son?

His heart had begun loudly thumping, and finally he dragged his gaze to the second person in the portrait. The woman. Standing close beside Kalfr , clinging to his arm, digging her long human fingernails possessively into his skin.

And until this instant, Gaelfr had not deigned to even look upon the woman, for she yet mocked and haunted him in his dreams, even with all these years and an entire ocean between them. She was the woman who had stolen away his ástvinur . The woman who had borne a son of Kalfr’s loins, and driven Gaelfr deep into exile, away from his kin and his home.

Gaelfr’s lip was already curling as he looked at her, the fury boiling in his belly — but then he startled, and near dropped the portrait in the street. For the woman was — wrong . She was not the plump, lush woman he remembered, with the thick dark curls, the full lips, the ample succulent breasts. The woman whose sweet scent upon Kalfr had not only swarmed Gaelfr with rage, but a deep resentful understanding, also. For she had been just the kind of woman he and Kalfr had both liked most, the kind of woman he had always expected they would seek and woo together, and share with joy between them. A goddess, just like the one they both faithfully worshipped.

But this — this was not that woman. This was not the mother of their son. No , this woman was tall and slim, with hard angular features, and arrow-straight hair. And her smile was cold and cruel, stark with possession and pride, in strange striking accord with those sharp fingernails yet digging into Kalfr’s too-thin arm.

Gaelfr’s eyes snapped back to Kalfr’s face, to all those whispers of pain and grief upon it, and his own heartbeat thudded louder, and sweat began beading on his brow. Whilst before him, the portrait had begun to quiver, in time with the uncontrollable trembling of his hand.

This was wrong . It was dangerous. It was obscene . For this strange woman to be smiling thus, and touching his ástvinur thus. For her to see that grief on Kalfr’s face, that weakness all over his form, and to claim it. To welcome it. And mayhap to urge it on even further…

But how had this come about? Where was Kalfr’s mate? Where was their son ? Their son ought to be seven summers old now, not near old enough to be without either of his fathers, and why was he not here? Where was he?!

The fury and fear punched higher through Gaelfr’s chest, pitched hard and bitter in his belly. For this was why he had left, was it not? He had left to help Kalfr . To help their son. To help Kalfr’s mate, even as he had hated and envied her. For he had sworn thus to Kalfr with his vows as his ástvinur , before their goddess’ watching eye. And he had faithfully kept his vow for all these summers, keeping himself away from Kalfr and his mate. Fighting away the grief and the longing, and clinging to the surety that this was best for their son, and their son was what yet mattered most.

But now — this? Kalfr with no mate, and no son? And with this — this cruel repellent harpy , clinging to him thus, sucking out his lifeblood for her own?

No. No . Gaelfr would not stand for it. He would not .

He had already spun around in the street, striding north with long, certain steps, when he finally flipped the hideous drawing over, and saw the single line of text, written upon the back.

You need to come , it said, in graceful Aelakesh script. Now .

A harsh, ugly sound escaped Gaelfr’s mouth, and he crumpled up the portrait as he stalked up the street, his cloak billowing out behind him.

He was going home, on the first ship north. And no matter the cost, he would save his ástvinur , and their son.

And mayhap — his hand now clenched on his sword-hilt — he would even save their woman.

If he did not kill her first.

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