The hurt was burrowing into Geva’s belly, into her frantically blinking eyes, because he should know her by now, he should — and he sighed again, heavy and hot against her hair. “When I was small,” he said, “I longed to be just like my father, with his fearless strength and great riches. So one day, in secret, I began to build my own tiny hoard. Full of pretty rocks, and broken jewels, and shavings from the forges. My father even let me choose a few trinkets from his own hoard for this. And I did not think my mother would like this, but I was so proud of what I had done, that she soon saw my glee, and asked what I had been keeping secret from her. So I brought her to see my little hoard, and…”
The silence was sprawling again, twisting in Geva’s stomach, and Rathgarr laughed, not a laugh at all. “She took it from me,” he said, his voice hard. “She told me I had become agreedy, secretive hoarder, just like my father. And if I ever did this again, she would forbid me from seeing Kesst, for she would not have him swayed into becoming apiggish, plundering orc pillager.”
His voice had kept tipping into that distinctive northern accent, suggesting that these were his mother’s exact words, and Geva’s wincing hiss was drowned by his brittle, angry laugh. “I was mayhap Bjorn’s age,” he said flatly. “And Kesst like one of those eager little Ka-esh today. He spent half his days riding around the mountain on my shoulders, chattering to me of all he saw. And” — his voice cracked — “my mother would havestolenthis from us? Just as she stole my little hoard?”
Oh, how vile. Geva’s fury was lurching up hot and bitter, even as her stomach twisted with more stark, sinking misery. Rathgarr truly couldn’t think she would ever hurt him like that? Threaten him? Betray him?
“I ken you are not her, poppet,” he said now, with another heavy sigh. “I ken. I only mean to say… I learnt very well to keep my secrets close, after this. Most of all when a pretty woman smiles at me and asks for them, ach?”
Right. There didn’t seem to be a way to answer that, suddenly, or even a way to even attempt an argument, because what could she possibly say? What words would possibly sway him, without sounding like just the kind of manipulation he expected? The kind of betrayal he feared?
The misery was twisting even tighter now, shifting into something much like despair, and Geva fervently fought for her focus, for her plan. Looking forward. The next step. He’d told her this, he’d at least been honest about this part of it, and it was still something, something new…
“I understand,” she said, through the catch in her throat. “And before I forget, I was wondering if you might — come with me tomorrow, again. It was really — really helpful, having you there today.”
But perhaps that was even worse, the way Rathgarr laughed again, the sound hard, heavy, mirthless. “Ach, was it,” he said, but when Geva didn’t reply — couldn’t, through her blocked throat — he sighed again, and drew her a little closer. “I shall think further upon this, my sweet. Ifyoushall tell us a tale, and then settle yourself, and sleep.”
But it was perhaps the worst challenge yet, because even as Geva’s voice launched into the most entertaining tale she could think of — the goat and the dancing potato — the misery kept rising, churning, sticking in her throat. Nineteen days. And then the sea.
And even once Rathgarr was softly snoring behind her, she stared blankly into the darkness, twisting her wedding-ring on her finger, blinking back the wetness behind her eyes.
36
If Rathgarr noticed Geva’s red eyes and puffy face the next morning, he didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, he silently handed over a plate full of hot, steaming breakfast, along with — Geva’s eyes widened — a silver goblet, full of distinctive scented whiteness.
Her glance up toward him was perhaps both accusing and amused, earning a small, smug smile in return. “I told you, my kin shall be expecting me to fatten you for me,” he said lightly. “There is naught for it, I ken.”
Geva rolled her eyes at him, but her smile felt warmer than before, and she willingly sipped at it as she ate, as Rathgarr watched with glinting, satisfied eyes. And once she’d finished, he drew her up out of bed, and dressed her in one of the new “frocks” he’d bought the day before — another simple, full-coverage black shift, admittedly ideal for teaching in — and then he insisted she wear her glittering new cuff, as well.
“I have some matters to attend to, this afternoon,” he said, a little offhandedly, as he slid the cuff up her arm, and then tilted it side to side, as if admiring his handiwork. “But I shall again come with you to the schoolroom this morn, ach?”
Oh. Geva’s delight at that was almost enough to drown out the twinge of lingering bitterness about his secret plans, especially once Rathgarr had again escorted her to the schoolroom. Where he helped her welcome back their new students, greeting them all by name, and surreptitiously slipping the small Grisks’ new swords into their eager little hands. And then he even signed a hello to Sune, while also balefully glaring up toward Ulfarr behind him.
Today, Geva’s goal was to introduce some writing instruction with the soft-spoken Tristan, and it turned out that Rathgarr was a great help with that, too. Not only emphatically calling the rambunctious class to order for Tristan, but then helping Geva manage the students throughout the lesson, as well. Keeping them in their chairs, showing them how to sharpen their charcoal with their claws, and even assisting some of them in drawing their letters.
As a reward, the day’s clan-focused activity was sparring, led by Sigarr in the nearby Ash-Kai sparring-room. And as Geva had expected, Sigarr proved to be a patient, flexible, and indulgent instructor, with a consistent eye toward awareness and safety. Though it turned out — much to Geva’s reluctant amusement — that he fully expected both her and Rathgarr to participate in any demonstrations, along with an effusively eager Abjorn, who’d somehow been enlisted to help as well, despite still sporting an alarmingly cut-up face and a magnificent black eye.
But it ended up being great fun, and Sigarr led them in a highly interactive show, with a variety of comparatively safe exercises and drills for the orclings. And the orclings clearly loved every moment of it, even the three small Ka-esh, who despite their own reluctance to fight, intently followed Abjorn about with wide, mystified eyes.
“He cannot be Ka-esh,” little Isak firmly pronounced, once he’d watched Abjorn flip entirely sideways, catching Sigarr in the head with a spectacular kick. “This is not what Ka-esh do.”
“But hesmellsKa-esh,” interjected Bram, after a series of careful sniffs. “Timo, do you smell this?”
Timo was already nodding, from where he’d paused his nearby sparring with Sune to watch. “He iswonderful,” he said to Bram, with palpable reverence. “The most wonderful Ka-esh I have ever seen in all mylife, ach, Sune?”
At this, Sune huffed and rolled his eyes, and gave an admittedly impressive kick of his own into Timo’s side. And soon they were all fully invested in their own sparring again, even the little Ka-esh, who mostly focused on finding creative ways to avoid each other’s tentative jabs.
It turned out that the session went far longer than planned, to the point where the orclings’ caretakers began turning up in the sparring-room to collect them. And when Geva attempted a breathless apology toward Varinn about the confusion, while fanning at her sweaty face, he waved it away, and smiled as a grinning, equally sweaty-looking Timo tripped over toward them.
“We can always smell our kin, ach, Timo?” he said, rustling his hand in Timo’s hair. “Even Thrain should not fail, in this.”
He’d cast a rather disgruntled look toward Thrain, who had unsteadily followed him into the room, his usual goblet still in hand, his eyes suffused with red. “Me, fail?” he exclaimed, with a not-quite-convincing grin, a dramatic clasp of his hand to his heart. “Atscenting? You have wounded me, Varinn.Again.”
But Varinn’s mouth thinned, his gaze angling purposefully away, and he swiftly guided Timo out of the room. While Thrain stared after them, and gulped down the rest of his goblet with alarming speed. And once he noticed Geva watching, he flinched and lurched toward the door, nearly bumping into a huge, frowning Ulfarr on the way by.
Geva had learned a few more signs over the course of the day’s lessons, at least enough to say a proper thank-you and goodbye to Sune, and she didn’t miss the faint flicker of surprise in Ulfarr’s eyes before he silently guided Sune away again. Which Geva was taking as a compliment, damn it, and she was still smiling as she went back over to Sigarr, and thanked him for his help.
“Ach, I was honoured to,” he said, with a distracted-seeming wave of his clawed hand, as he sank down onto the bench, his eyes focused on where Rathgarr and Abjorn were still playfully sparring together in the ring. “Good, Abjorn!” he called. “Again!”
