Page 101 of Halfling
“And apples,” he amended.
She grinned up at him, eyes glittering. Her gaze lingered on his, turning almost pensive for a moment as a blush crept across her cheeks, and he waited for her to say whatever seemed to hover on her tongue. When she didn’t, and her expression turned almost shy, Orek didn’t understand. But then it was gone and she was grabbing his hand to pull him toward town.
Briggán was the largest human town Orek had ever seen. White daub buildings stood three, even four stories tall, hemming people into streets of packed earth. Dozens of humans, horses, and donkeys crowded each of the streets, as tightly packed together as he’d seen on those market days Sorcha had insisted on going to. There didn’t seem to be a market day today, but Sorcha said a town this size was likely to have a marketplace.
Briggán was also the first name on the map that Sorcha recognized. Her father and other knights had made it this far south, she said, remembering tales told of how they’d rooted out a particularly large hive of slavers there years ago. She was curious to see the place, and she’d poked a hole in the last of her socks, so into town they went.
The crush of townsfolk pushed them along the street, and Orek’s gaze flitted over it all, unable to land for long. So many faces passed by them, and so many scents overlapped to clog his nose. He could barely scent his mate over the waves of humans, animals, the dung in the street, the tang of the brewery, the smoke from dozens if not hundreds of hearth fires.
Instinct scratched at his mind, warning him to be wary. He let Sorcha set their path, walking beside her silently with her hand clasped firmly in his. He would’ve liked both hands free in case he needed to draw a weapon, but if his mate wanted to hold his hand, his hand she would get.
It didn’t take her long to suss out the marketplace, and Orek tried to hold back his grimace. A myriad more scents wafted in the air here, with booths overflowing with goods and wares. People packed the narrow lanes, ambling along as they did their shopping.
When he felt her squeeze his hand, he looked down to find her face creased with sympathy. “Socks and apples, that’s all, I promise.”
He squeezed her hand back. “Anything you want. Take your time.”
She gave him a patient look, knowing he only said it for her benefit. With a determined nod, she plunged them into the busy marketplace.
Sorcha kept their pace even and determined, faster than many of the other shoppers, but they were hampered by people meandering through the booths and others haggling over goods. The booths lined a town square, several deep, creating concentric circles that led people deeper into the labyrinth of wares.
His bulk made it harder to move quickly, though few stayed in their way long after seeing his size. Sorcha kept her walk brisk to avoid too much gawking.
He let Sorcha lead, not caring where they headed. Instead, he kept his eyes up, observing the humans from the shadow of his deep hood. The dozens and dozens of faces began to blur across his vision—but one snagged his gaze like a fish on a line.
Orek stopped in the middle of the lane, eyes fixed on an older woman sweeping the front step of a home just outside the town square.
The world fell away—all the people behind them who grumped at the sudden stop, Sorcha at his side, asking if he was all right—they all drowned under the blood rushing in his ears.
Eyes the exact color and shape of his own stared at him from across the empty space, a face he would know anywhere gone slack in shock.
Mother.
Orek’s heart lurched painfully in his chest.I can’t take you. It’s for the best, Orek. You’ll understand one day.Her last words echoed in his mind, accompanied by the sound of her tears in the darkness. She’d never let them see her cry, but in the reprieve of night, tucked away with only Orek to witness, her wrenching sobs had torn through the darkness.
Those eyes stared at him, older now, fine wrinkles fanning along the edges and dark, slashing brows above peppered with gray. Her dark hair, pulled back behind a kerchief, was streaked with silver. The face he’d once known so well, always set in hard, dire lines, was tanned, with deep lines carved around her mouth and above her brow. Yet…she didn’t look so hard. Not, at least, until recognition set in.
Even as her mouth went thin and her eyes flinty, Orek couldn’t help the rope drawn taut in his chest, a morbid, desperate need that pulled him toward her.
He’d kept the coat she left behind, held it to his face in the night for years. Even as her scent faded. Even as the threads came apart and the fabric went to tatters. But even as scraps, it’d been dear, and he’d mourned the loss as sharply as he had hers when his tent was mysteriously set alight several years past.
That terrible, deep pain echoed inside him, the exact cadence of a child’s scream.
Don’t leave me.
He passed from the marketplace booths into the empty space between them and the houses ringing the square, but stopped several feet away when she raised her hand.
“What do you want here, orc?” she growled.
Everything inside Orek went still and cold, whatever hope or happiness that had foolishly sprouted withering away under that forbidding stare.
She doesn’t know me.
“Mother,” he rasped, voice raw. Barely enough sound to be heard, but he knew Orla did.
Her dark brows leapt up her forehead, something like panic passing over her eyes.
When he went to push up his hood, to show her his face, she shook her head sharply.
