Koruzan’s hair, so many people crammed into such a small space.

  Yechvan couldn’t remember ever seeing the castle so crowded as on the first night of the Inigan. Earlier in the day, when he and Zu had returned from Brogh, the corridors had been so cramped he’d had to bump past elbows and rumps to make his way to his room for a moment of peace. But now, in the midst of the revelry in the great hall, he was up to his neck in sweat and nerves. His arm was so slick it left a slippery trail in his wake.

  There was food, though no space to eat it, and music, though no room to dance. The masses, however, were undeterred. They swayed and jumped where they stood, reducing the available space and increasing the temperature further than Yechvan believed possible. He drowned in dizzying patterns as the traditional orcish garbs spun around him in spectral flashes of darkness and light. Trudging through the stifling, sticky aroma of mead and sweat and sour breath, he nearly lost his balance, but there was no space to fall. Instead, he managed to drench himself with the upturned horn of an angry orc.

  Zu stood a head above the throng of revelers in the most crowded corner, enchanting his companions with triumphant tales of the heroism of others. He danced with any free arm and shared easy smiles and easier banter with all who happened by. Yechvan’s mother would have said that Zu swayed in the breeze with all the other trees. Catching Zu’s eye for the briefest of moments and waving off his offered assistance, Yechvan concentrated on keeping down what little food was in his belly.

  While the grand celebration was to be held at the end of the Inigan in a quarter turn, Grask had insisted on beginning the festivities with commendations for those who had shown distinguished valor in the Perysh Slave War. It had taken some doing, but Yechvan had finally convinced the boy not to single him out. He and Zu were called to the stage along with the handful of other soldiers who’d survived the disaster at Gard Pass. He was glad for his tiny corner of the platform where he could hide behind his best friend’s immense size as Roog called up men and women from Gorse’s western flank and Grusk’s contingent.

  Yechvan reached a hand up to his soaked bandage. He felt lightheaded. With each cheer, a pang erupted in his skull. Nightmare waking. Shamefully, he plugged his ears. The stage soon became just as crowded as the floor, and his mind once more turned to escape. He desperately searched for some egress, a quiet place where he could remain hidden. The door that led to Grusk’s antechamber was blocked by the makeshift platform, but it swung inward. Quick as a viper, he snatched the handle and slipped through.

  Gods be damned but even through the door the noise was enough to make his head explode. There was no going upstairs to his bed without being noticed, so he climbed up and over the window and into the qish’s gardens. For a moment he could do naught but sit, crumpled against the wall, completely spent. The noise of the great hall was behind enough stone now that the piercing blade of pain shrank from the size of a sword to that of a knife. And then, after a bit longer, to a needle.

  The night air was muggy, but a faint breeze cooled his skin. His shirt was soaked through, and the bandage on his head had been reduced to a soggy mop. He discarded the linen into the bushes and regretted it the moment blood began to trickle down his brow, so he brushed the bandage off and repositioned it back over his hairline.

  The nonsense inside might last all night, but at least everyone in the castle would be occupied and he’d have free reign in Erodan’s Hedge. Yechvan berated himself for feeling most at peace alone amongst the flora and chirruping insects, but the thought of being trapped among the throng of revelers coaxed a fresh sheen on his forehead. He made his way to Zu’s mint plants, thinking perhaps a sprig might refresh him. He tore off a few leaves and tossed them into his mouth just as someone else pushed past a bush and bumped into him.

  Gru.

  Tall, dark and handsome. Those were his first thoughts of the entrancing woman who fumbled with an apology for nearly bowling him over.

  “Are you eating this plant?” she asked as he chewed his mint.

  “So I am,” he replied, tearing off a few leaves for her.

  She looked up at him, suspicious, playful. “Are you trying to poison me?”

  “So that I might kill us both?” he jested.

  Raising them to her nose, she sniffed and then tossed them into her mouth.

  “You trust your nose more than me?” he asked, wearing his best facsimile of Ulula’s crooked grin.

  “We’ve only just met,” she said, her breath cool and fresh. “I’ve known my nose my whole life.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “It’s good to know where I stand.”

  The woman wore her long black hair pulled tight against her scalp, half a hundred braids trailing down her back. She lifted the mass off her neck and tied it atop her head. Sweat clung to skin the color of the juniper tree.

  “Was it too crowded for you inside?” she asked.

  “I’ve lived here my whole life and never seen the great hall so full. I’ve never been great with crowds anyway. You?”

  “It was sweltering. I wanted some fresh air.”

  “Yes, I saw you dancing earlier,” he lied.

  “Hundreds of people were dancing and yet you saw me, specifically?” Her smile was bright enough to illuminate the dark gardens.

  “You are difficult to miss.”

  “I am calling your bluff.” She laughed. “You should never lie to a woman, good sir.”

  “Moga, Ga dro ska.” He hoped his use of the old tongue would impress her. Her expression said it did. And now he knew she was educated.

  “You needn’t call me a lady,” she said. “And everyone lies. To conceal what we cannot bear to have others learn. We lie about much different things to our mothers than our lovers.” She appraised him, the twinkle in her eyes inscrutable. “I imagine you would lie to me about something foolish you had done, for one such as you wouldn’t want to be thought foolish.”

  “Hm,” he said. “Pride and vanity do have a tendency to get in the way. What do you lie about?”

  “You strike me as an intelligent man. I trust you’ll learn sooner than I’d like.”

  “Very well, you are allowed your secrets. For now.”

  “How generous of you,” she chided.

  Truly, he wanted to drink in all her secrets right then. From the moment she’d stepped into the gardens, not two minutes ago, he’d thirsted to know everything about her. He had never felt so drawn to anyone. Not even Zu. She was intoxicating, and Yechvan was desperate to find the bottom of her cup again and again.

  She picked at the sweat-soaked fabric of her dress and fanned her neck, looking back toward the beam of light illuminating the open castle door.

  “Would you care to take a walk with me? The gardens are cooler away from the castle walls,” he said, hoping not to lose the chance to speak to her quite yet.

  Her smart eyes devoured him as she took his measure. This woman was no ordinary orc. “I suppose there’s no harm.”

  As Yechvan let his feet wander, he found himself, quite unexpectedly, standing in the midst of the hedge maze at the center of the garden.

  “Oh, this is lovely,” she said, as if seeing it for the first time.

  The maze boasted the most beautiful and exotic flowers in Banx, the qish’s tribute to the goddess of love. Their scent was heady; their reflection in the moonlight, sublime. The day’s rain clung to their petals as if the plants were saving the dewy droplets for dessert. But Yechvan saw only the enchanting woman before him.

  “You must not be from around here,” he said.

  The woman chuckled. “I imagine neither of us are from Erodan’s Hedge. Or perhaps in a different way, we both are?” she teased, playing on the lewd euphemism for a woman’s sex.

  “You are from Sidhan then? Or Jaska?” he asked, a bit surprised by her temerity.

  “The latter,” she said.

  She was all soft corners and rounded edges. Comfortable and familiar. But her eyes were sharp and her tongue sharper. A dangerous combination.

  “And how do you find Banton?” he asked. Anything to hear her musical voice again.

  “I love it here. I’ve not seen such beauty as the sun setting over the hills across the lake. The reds and pinks and oranges shine so bright on the fluffy clouds. It’s miraculous.” She bowed her head, cheeks flushing. “Gru, I’m no bard.”

  “There is no need to be ashamed. Solonia defies description. I also enjoy watching her set from the western walls. It is common to have a beautiful sunset, but rare indeed for me to share it with someone. Would you care to join me on the morrow?”

  “I’d be honored,” she said with a small curtsy.

  “How long will you be in the capital?”

  “I’m just here for the Inigan.”

  “Are you competing in any of the events?” Yechvan asked.

  “I may throw jinki but I haven’t yet decided. You?”

  “No, I’m not competing this year.”

  “Tired of losing?” she said with a smile.

  “Something like that.”

  “You are small, but you could play Thrice. Have you tried?”

  She could see him well enough in the moonlight, but she had no idea who he was. What a breath of fresh air, not to be recognized, not to be revered or hated—there were few who fell in the space between.

  Yechvan grinned, crooked and deceitful. “I’ve played a time or two, but it has been an active year for me with the war.”

  Her gaze flashed to his bandage. “Is that from the war?” she asked, a gentle hand caressing his brow.

  “Oh, this?” he said, his hand touching hers. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he. “It’s nothing.”

  She moved closer. He leaned into her.

  And then, as if remembering herself, she cleared her throat and moved to sit on a nearby bench. “If you will not compete in the tourneys, will you at least attend the sora at the end?”

  “My friends would hardly allow me to avoid it,” Yechvan said, discreetly adjusting his pants.

  “Do you not like sora?”

  “I find them mostly an excuse to dance. I am not much for dancing.”

  “Oh, but the music, the beat of the drums, the singing,” she said, body swaying to an imagined tune. “Can you not feel it in your bones?”

  “I do enjoy the music. In particular, the throat singing. Still, I have never been much for dancing.”

  “Oh, that won’t do.” She stood and moved in close, placed his hands on her hips, wrapped hers around his neck. “Here. Like this.” And then she hummed a pretty melody and swayed. “You see? You just need the right partner.”

  She smelled of lilac and soap, of sweat and honey. Of mint. Body shapely, skin supple, hips wide, breasts firm, legs long, breath sweet, heat alluring. It took all his resolve to keep from ravaging her right there in Erodan’s Hedge. He forced himself to pull away, to protect her dignity and what remained of his own, but she didn’t see it that way.

  “I’m sorry,” she said hastily. She ran from him and away from the darkness of the hedge maze before he could stop her. He made to call after her, but realized he hadn’t asked her name.