Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 58110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
"Alive," he snaps, scrubbing an enormous pot. "What do you want?"
I ignore his surly tone. Perhaps it's cultural. "I wished to discuss what would be made for the wedding feast tonight. I assume there's another feast?"
"Day three, innit?" he says, as if I have no clue about my own wedding.
"That is correct." I beam at him. "And since this is the last official wedding feast and you've done such a lovely job the last two days with preparing the dishes I've asked for, I wondered if we might make tonight's fare a nod to my husband's heritage?"
"Eh?"
"Perhaps traditional orc dishes?" I clasp my hands at the waist of my gown. "I confess I don't know what those are, but I'd love to honor Agakor's family with them."
He shakes his head, chuckling. "You don't wanna do that."
"Why not?"
Grundar picks up a wooden spoon and then reaches past me and swats. I jump in surprise, turning to see Turnip holding her hand, a stolen meat pie shoved into her mouth. "Them's for the feast later," he tells her with a growl. "You don't get to eat them."
"I'm the Lady Rolandee's maid," she sneers at him. "That means I outrank you."
"My name is Iolanthe," I correct gently.
Turnip shrugs. Grundar snorts.
I decide to ignore that—all of it—and focus on the task at hand. The feast. "Why would we not wish a traditional orc dish?" I ask again. "Please educate me."
"Pine needles," Grundar says.
"Pine needles?" I echo, confused.
"Orc dishes are made with lots of pine needles," he agrees, giving one last shake of the wooden spoon at Turnip's direction before focusing on me. "Not much grows up high in the mountains, save for pine trees and moss. And flowers. You want to taste an orc dish, it involves lots of meat and pine needles. They've got a strong, sharp flavor, which is good because orcs don't have very sensitive tongues." Grundar gives me a sly look. "Probably lucky that Agakor's a half-orc, eh?"
My face feels like it's on fire. "Perhaps let us do one or two dishes in the traditional orc manner and the rest as I outlined yesterday," I decide, ignoring the innuendo. "Do you have the supplies you need for the feast or is there anything you require?"
"Good here," he tells me, gesturing at the kitchen helpers racing about behind him. "Lots of meat, veg, and one of the boys is off to the village to get another bag of flour. Should be fine."
I linger, smiling at him. "Lovely. You're doing a wonderful job, Grundar. And speaking of Agakor…" My face feels even hotter as the old half-orc gives me a knowing smirk. "Have you seen him this morning?"
The cook picks up a canister of spices and turns his back to me, grabbing a handful and tossing them onto the carcass of a freshly killed deer. "Some trouble in town. He'll be back in time for the ceremony, don't you worry. I don't think anything could keep him out of your skirts tonight."
Turnip just snorts.
I'm really, really going to have to get used to the frank talk of these men if I'm going to live here. "Is there trouble in town often?"
Grundar gives me an odd look.
Is there some sort of issue I'm unaware of, I wonder? When he doesn't explain, I murmur something about checking on the progress in the main hall and exit the busy kitchens. We head out into the main part of the keep again, the only sound that of Turnip licking her fingers. "Do you know where Agakor's feast tunic is, Turnip? I think the collar was bothering him and I'd like to fix it before tonight."
She points to the laundry station at the far end of the courtyard, and I follow her over, trying not to think about “trouble in town.” What could it possibly be?
CHAPTER 13
AGAKOR
"He's raising an army," the blacksmith tells me when I ride into town, my men at my back.
"Lord Purnav?" I ask, surprised. I still hand over the coin to the blacksmith, who's paid to keep me abreast of everything that goes on in Cragshold's adjacent town, Darkshire. "You're joking."
The blacksmith shakes his head, big arms crossed over his chest. "He sends riders into town when you're not here, looking to hire every mercenary or anyone that can carry a shield. No word on what he's preparing his army for, but rumor has it that he's planning to attack someone that stole something from him." The blacksmith lifts his chin in my direction. "I think it's you."
"I've stolen nothing from him."
"We both know that. He's telling these fools what they want to hear. You and I both know it's just an excuse."
I grunt. I knew he'd try something. It was a gamble, of course. Lord Pissant is the cheapest lordling in all of Adassia. I knew if I showed him what sort of wealth I have, it'd be a risk that he'd turn right back around and rob me. Of course, I'd been hoping to be wrong about him—that he'd be pleased his daughter was marrying someone who could take care of her, no matter his heritage, and we'd settle in to married life. It's not to be, of course. Because I'm half-orc, he thinks I'm less than him, and so do most humans. It'll be no big deal for them to rob me and raid my keep, because they don't think I belong there anyhow. It doesn't matter that I purchased the keep fair and square. It won't matter if I'm a good lord or not. They see a half-orc and they assume I'm a wild monster from the mountains, like my father's tribe.