Page 8 of Changelings
Balar trudged on in search of answers.
There was a burbling stream that led into the vast irrigation network of the apple orchards, and he stopped to scoop a handful of water to rinse his mouth. Catching a glimpse of his reflection, he winced. Mane flattened and askew, feathers crooked, shirt rumpled.
He was at least in his finest tunic and leather kilt, having worn them to meet with Liege Darrow yesterday, but by now they were creased and sweat-stained. Balar’s nose wrinkled when he lifted his arm to catch a whiff of himself.
Kud,maybe shehadbeen running from him.
Verging on grumpy now that the shock had worn off and the headache had settled in, Balar made his way into the hive of buildings.
His ears flattened to his head to muffle the noise. It seemed it was another busy day here, grooms walking horses, knights training cadets, and workers bringing in the autumn harvest. He spotted a few faces he knew, including the older Brádaigh son and younger daughters.
Heart kicking in his chest, Balar realized he’d lost sight of his mystery maiden.
Ibás, how could he lose a woman with a dozen goats? Even amongst the activity of the estate, she should stick out.
Balar tried not to pout. Now he really was starting to think she was avoiding him.
Coming to a stop in the middle of the busy central courtyard of the estate, Balar planted his fists on his hips and took his time looking about. Squinting past his pounding head, he gulped great pulls of air to try scenting her. It’d be too much to hope to pick her scent out of the myriad here, but goats were a pungent lot.
He was just starting to tease something promising out of the scents to the south when a hand clapped his shoulder.
“What brings you to our door with such a frown?”
Balar turned to behold Orek, the half-orc who’d first come to the Darrowlands, his fat raccoon perched on his shoulder. Orek also wore a mild grin, although it didn’t reach his eyes. Ever wary of possible threats to his soft human mate and her family, the man always made sure to greet otherly guests first, even years on.
Orek had said before that it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Balar and the others—it was his own inner protectiveness; a jealous beast, he called it. That instinctive need to covet and guard one’s mate.
More than once, Balar had teased Orek for it. Only the dragons and perhaps the fae coveted their mates more than orcs, and although Orek was a halfling, his orcish instincts were strong when it came to Sorcha.
Balar sometimes wondered if there’d been a time when manticores were as ferocious about their life mates. To be sure, they could get fearsome and jealous overkigara, and there was still a sort of mysticism about the falling of a feather. Butafter generations of hard living, with not enough partners to go around, mantii couldn’t become too possessive. Not if they were to survive.
His own pulsing need to catch sight ofheragain, though, had Balar wondering all these things again. Had necessity dulled the mate pull that so many others felt?
Balar turned his considering gaze on Orek. The unassuming halfling might pretend disinterest, but Balar knew him to be a font of information on those who lived on the estate and nearby. He might let his vivacious mate do most of the talking most of the time, but Orek was always paying attention.
“Have you seen a woman pass this way? About this tall—” Balar raised his hand to about the middle of his chest “—dark hair?”
Orek blinked, bemused, as the raccoon kneaded his hair. “That describes most of the women here, friend.”
Balar rumbled unhappily.Kud.
Grin falling away, Orek asked, “Are you all right?”
Scrubbing a paw over his face, Balar admitted, “No. It’s been…an eventful morning.” As quickly as he could, he described the previous night of merrymaking, only to fall asleep in the forest and wake up to a strange, beautiful face. He left out all the vomiting.
“Not a very good start,” Orek agreed.
Balar scowled. “I need to find her. I know she’shere. Somewhere. She and all her goats.”
“Oh, she’s the goatherd?”
His ears perked. “Yes, she was driving a herd of about a dozen goats—with a dog and a donkey.”
Orek regained his grin, nodding, and for some reason, Balar wanted to wipe it off again with his fist.
“That would be Imogen. She’s Sorcha’s friend—does work around here sometimes. I believe she and her goats are clearingthe south field before seeding.”
Imogen. His heart, his soul, his smile lit up at the sound of her name. Clapping Orek’s free shoulder so hard, Darrah the raccoon chittered in alarm, Balar squeezed the other man tight.
