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Chapter 12

Melelea

Dinner is a cheerful affair, seated around the table at Wodred’s sister Sawa’s home. They have a long wooden table with benches running down its sides, almost as long as the King’s Table at Ilustan, just to accommodate everyone. Sawa’s twin, Hali, has come as well with her mate Drika, and the two orcresses help wrangle their nieces and nephews, who climb on them like trees. The orclings are everywhere, speaking, laughing, playing. Sawa sits and rests, heavily pregnant, while her elven mate, Kirigard, makes dinner and sets it before us. The elven man is quiet, like Wodred, but he periodically checks on his mate, giving her soft touches and murmuring low to her in her ear, making her smile at him. They are a love match, it is clear.

I can barely keep track of all the names that are thrown at me, but I am doing my best to keep everyone straight. There is Kiva, my little friend from the road, and her older sister just above her, Lyra. The oldest two of the children are brothers, Janag, the second oldest, and Shokir, the eldest orcling. Shokir is eleven summers, just about to reach his training age and all he can talk about is joining the Horde.

He tells me, quite seriously, “I hope to have my own cohort, someday, like Aunt Hali. Maybe even be a general one day, like my uncle. The honor of Clan Xonok will be in my hands.”

I nod gravely at his proclamation, said in a voice that hasn’t even cracked with age yet. I would never be one to mock dreams, though, especially when I know their power. Behind Shokir, I can see Sawa’s face grow tight as her son speaks, though she fights to keep the worry from her eyes. I can understand it. I still remember the fear I had of Rognar joining the Horde, of completing his training. My sweet son, going off to learn to kill people. My only solace was that he would no longer be in Guruk’s reach, no longer a target for his father’s abuse. I hoped that he would be safe under Wodred’s tutelage.

“Will you join the Northern Horde, then?” I ask Shokir. “When the time comes?”

“Yes,” Shokir says. “My mother has already made arrangements with Uncle Wodred. I will train with Aunt Hali’s cohort.”

“You better be ready, Shokir,” Wodred says from across the table. “Hali is the strictest captain in the Northern Horde and she will be harder on you because she knows your potential. She will not be your aunt there, but your captain.”

“I’m ready,” Shokir proclaims. “I don’t want her to be easy on me. Those of Clan Xonok are not afraid to be tested in the fire.”

“Well said,” I approve gently. “The Northern Horde is where my son, the king, trained. There is no better place to do so. But be sure to write to your mother often. We mothers have the right to worry when our orclings go off to train.”

“And the fathers too,” Kirigard interjects, placing a dessert of elven honey cakes on the table in front of us. “Don’t forget me, Son, when you go off to glory.”

“I won’t, Father,” Shokir promises. He sounds so mature and grown up in his seriousness, but the effect is ruined as his face brightens and he takes one of the cakes to eat, stuffing almost the whole thing into his mouth at once. It’s nice to see the childish action; orclings shouldn’t be in too big of a rush to grow up, after all. The world will harden each of us soon enough.

As Wodred’s family finishes their dessert, Sawa leans back in her chair and sighs, placing her hands on her large belly in contentment. “What shall we do now that dinner is done? Games? Songs?”

“What do you do in Ilustan after dinner, Uncle Wodred?” asks Lyra eagerly.

Wodred casts a glance at me. “Often, after the meal is done, we hear one of Lady Melelea’s stories and see some of her amazing illusions.”

“Illusions!” exclaims Lyra, looking excited and enchanted all at once at the idea. She turns pleading eyes to me. “Please, Lady Melelea, can we see them?”

“Lyra,” scolds Sawa, “Lady Melelea is our guest who has traveled all day. She must be tired.”

Lyra looks chastened, and the other orclings look disappointed as well. It is not in me to leave such sweet children with such unhappy faces.

I smile. “I am tired. But perhaps, just a short tale?”

Sawa looks at me. “If you are sure . . .”

I nod. “I am.” Turning to the orclings, however, I take on a more severe expression. “But, you must promise to help clean up the meal with your father and go to bed after without fussing at your parents, all right?”

“We promise!” the orclings exclaim, looking excited and scooting forward on their chairs.

I push up my sleeves slightly, and lift up my fingers, Tracing a pattern in the air, I call my magics to me sending a scatter of golden stars up into the air. Everyone in the room gasps, even Dame Zera, who has seen my illusions many times before.

“This is a tale of my people, the trolls,” I begin, weaving more light together until two golden figures stand in the air above the table where everyone can see, a trolless and a mighty dragon soaring over her head. “It is called The Princess and the Dragon.”

As I spin the fable of Princess Alaria and her fated mating with the Dragon King Wyrdon, accenting every story beat with an illusory image that brings the tale to life, I can’t help but sneak glances at Wodred. His eyes are warm and approving as I entertain his family and amuse his nieces and nephews. Usually, he’s so hard to read, but here, in his homeland, he seems more at ease than I have ever seen him. He catches my eye once when I look at him, however and his face shutters, like he is trying to hide his thoughts from me. What could he want to hide?

I bring the story to a rousing finish and shower the orclings with harmless multicolored sparks as I speak of Alaria and Wyrdon’s happy end. The children laugh with joy, even Shokir, who tries to appear so mature for his age.

“Another!” begs Kiva and Lyra.

I laugh at their exuberance, but their mother stands firm. “No, no. You promised Lady Melelea to help your father clean up and then go to bed without fussing if she told you her tale. Are you going to break your promise?”

“No . . .” Kiva says, though she sneaks a pleading look in my direction.