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Pellia responds to my harshness with a mischievous grin. “I know, I know. I am merely joking, Verrick. We will do nothing that will make you uncomfortable. Trust me.”
As if I will not be uncomfortable being in the same tent as a beautiful woman touching herself, becoming fragrant in her arousal. Not just any beautiful woman, but the flirtatious Pellia. I am becoming half-hard just thinking about it, to my ever-lasting chagrin.
Not noticing my dangerous thoughts, Pellia claps her hands together. “Alright, so that is what we’ll do. You’ll tell a small,very small, group about our plan, but the rest of everyone else we’ll fool as best we can. We have no way of knowing how many spies the Cabal has in the castle and secret listening spots. Or how many people they will plant in our touring party. We should tread carefully and you should tell those that you are informing in Orikesh. I doubt any in the Cabal have bothered to learn your tongue.”
“They could have a language stone,” I point out.
Pellia frowns, a strange expression to see on her normally sunny face. “That is true. Do you have a silence totem?”
The question opens old wounds, as I think of the reason my clan lost their silence totem.Lucy, thrice-damn you wherever youare. “No,” I say aloud. “My clan doesn’t have one.”
“Damn,” swears Pellia adorably, “I wish we had time to track one down, but time is against us. We’ll merely have to be careful and hope that they don't have a language stone.”
“I’ll be discreet, as will the orcs I tell.”
“I’m sure you will be,” she assures me. “Well, let us return. If we are to leave by this afternoon, we have much to do.”
Pellia smiles again, in that mischievous way. “Race back?”
Before I can groan, she’s already taken off, galloping across the open plain. I send my warbeast into a run, once again chasing her so that I might catch up. I am both annoyed by her recklessness and drawn to her free spirit. More inner turmoil.
The chase tries to stir my Mating Instinct, but I hold it tight like a ravening dog on a leash. I will control myself. No matter how tempting the prize.
???
Hours later we are traveling and I am awed by how quickly Pellia pulled together our caravan. Servants rushed to do her bidding, and even a healer and a mage were found to be added to our party. Two rare finds. The healer because only elves and half-elves have healing magic and they don’t often leave the confines of the elvish country Arisil. The mage joining was quite the boon since we killed most of the mages during the recent war and the rest were sent south this morning with scouts. It speaks to Pellia’s organizational skills that she was able to scrounge up both for our supposed relief mission. We were packed up and ready to go by noon and began our trek south soon after, just like she said. I have known generals who were not as effective at mobilizing people as Pellia is.
She somehow also found Bronwyn and her two lackeys, whose names I do not care to remember, and made them part of the processional. “They’re to be advisors,” she tells me with a smile, as they are most informed about the situation at hand.
More smoke and mirrors, of course. Everything Pellia isdoing is to appear as if she was following the orders of the Cabal and pulling the wool over my eyes. Hopefully, it works. The life expectancies of spies that play both sides are not long. The idea of the Cabal killing or punishing Pellia in any way sits sourly in my stomach, like rotten meat.
Our travel is uneventful, so in the late evening, we stop in the Umber Wood to camp for the night. My orcs set up my tent and then, brazen as she could be, Pellia orders, “Perfect. Now, Captain Yesri, put my things into Warchief Verrick’s tent.”
The human captain hesitates, and the bustle of the camp seems to freeze at her words. Pellia has decided against discretion, I see.
Captain Yesri says, “Ma’am? The tent?”
“Is there pixie pollen in your ears, captain? My things need to go into Warchief Verrick’s tent. Is that not correct, Warchief Verrick?”
Not trusting myself to speak aloud, I nod, knowing that my expression looks severe and is not helping Pellia’s ruse, but unable to do anything about it. I am not comfortable with games of deception.
“You’ve joined the War Brides, Regent Santir?” questions the human captain, the man obviously confused.
“I never said that,” snips Pellia, growing haughty. “What I said was my things need to go into the warchief’s tent. Unless that task somehow escapes you?”
“No ma’am. Excuse my impertinence.” With that, the captain barks an order and Pellia’s substantial trunks are loaded into my tent. It is a good thing I am a Warchief, I muse, or my tent would not be big enough.
Not that it actually matters if her things fit, as this is all for show. Of course.
The camp rises around us, tents going up and campfires being lit. Food is cooked and I stand in line with the rest of my orcs to get it. I try to show at all times that I am a soldier like them, no better or worse.
I expect Pellia to stay in the tent and wait for a servant tobring her repast, but I am surprised as I get to the head of the line that Pellia is laughing while serving food to my orcs. As I stand in front of her, she smiles, her eyes glittering in the setting sun.
“Stew?” she says, offering out the ladle.
I put out my bowl silently, and she fills it with the meat and vegetables from the cauldron over the fire. Pellia winks as she serves me and I feel my ears heat, even as I keep my face impassive. Since we decided to play at being lovers, her flirting has gotten even more bold and I don’t know how to react to it.
Friza comes up at my side, eyebrows raised. “Never thought I’d see the day a human highborn lady serves an orc dinner.”
