While the orcs worried about their small, insignificant lives—they were dying, and quickly—Damor knew he would survive this infection. It would take much more than an insignificant virus to kill him. Still, he held a cloth over his mouth and nose, playing the part of a worried human. He couldn't run away to his homeland. He was stuck here at the mercy of Queen Ambrielle. But it was better than being with Maysant. She'd run off with the oaf Ghrol and hadn't returned.
The queen didn't seem too put out by her daughter's disappearance. In fact, she almost seemed to expect it. Damor knew as well as she did that Maysant wouldn't last long on her own. She would be back with her head hanging low, looking for her mother's approval. It was all she had talked about in the forest, despite her vehement assurances that she was happy to be on her own.
Damor laughed at the foolishness of the young. Maysant may have been over one hundred years old, but that was nothing to him. A blip in time. He was born before any of them, and he would die long after them. Few knew the truth of his origins. Few could handle that truth.
The healer elves had arrived faster than anyone had imagined. It had been only days since the queen promised help. This was thanks to Damor, who had commanded the winds to blow faster toward the east, letting the ships sail twice as fast as they normally would. It was a small thing for him to do, but it had meant much to Ambrielle. He still hadn't fully regained his strength yet; bigger magics would need to wait. The queen had no idea how strong he could be.
The elves had their own form of magic. They could cast glamours, forcing others to bend to their will. Kazrack had done just that to the city of Agitar, keeping them complacent during a time when they should have been readying for war with Damor's humans. But what Damor could do far eclipsed the elves. To him, these glamours were a mere trick, a sleight of hand.
He watched the line of elves disembarking from their golden ships. Their gossamer gowns and robes brushed over the prairie grass, making them appear to float above the ground. They all carried richly embroidered bags, each one more decorative than the next. Sunlight danced upon their hair, rich amber, ecru, and ginger sparkling in the morning sun. They wore heavy scarves over their noses and mouths, and gloves on their hands. They had come to tend to the ill.
The orcs were dying, and the elves claimed they could save them.
Maybe they could. Maybe they couldn't. Time would tell.
Damor lounged on his comfortable litter. As part of their agreement, Queen Ambrielle had given him everything he'd asked for. She would help him if he helped her. And if this was all she required, then Damor was all too happy to cooperate.
"Bring him over here!" Queen Ambrielle called to Damor's bearers.
They lifted his litter, careful not to jostle him in the slightest.
Damor couldn't help but smile. These servants were far better at their job than those two orc sisters had been. With them, Damor had often felt as if he would roll out of his palanquin. Yes, he much preferred life amongst the elves—at least until he could get what he needed to rule his homeland. Then he would truly bring his brand of darkness to the humans. He would finally teach them what it felt like to be treated terribly, just as he had been.
"Good morning, Benin," Ambrielle said, a gentle smile on her angelic face. She appeared so innocent, but Damor knew she was anything but. This elven queen was the epitome of underhandedness. "I want you to meet Ylantri. She is our chief healer, the one who will help the orcs to fight this miserable disease."
Damor bowed his head toward the elf. But when she lowered her hood, he couldn't stop himself from recoiling. He hadn't been expecting such a strange face. Green veins ran underneath her nearly transparent skin, creating a map of twisting, pulsating roads. A cropped mop of ebony hair riotously curled around her cheeks. She smiled with plump red lips. The only feature marking her as an elf was her pointed ears. Ylantri was truly the most horrid elf Damor had ever laid eyes on—and yet, she was also the most beautiful creature Damor had ever seen. Darkness oozed from her every pore.
"You're the elves' chief healer?" Damor asked, despite himself. It was hard to believe the elves would choose someone so obviously steeped in evil.
She took in Damor's crippled body. "Of course." Her melodic voice stood in stark contrast to her appearance. "Why would you think otherwise?"
Damor's vision went hazy. He blinked a few times, then looked at Ylantri again.
She was a completely different elf now. Long blond hair swung to her hips. Gentle, pink lips reminded him of the bud of a newly formed flower. Her skin was as clear as an undisturbed pond. The dark elf was gone, replaced by this elf of classical beauty.
Ylantri placed the back of her hand on his forehead. "Are you feeling well, Benin? I'd hate for you to fall ill as well. Have you been keeping away from the orcs?"
"Of course I have," he snapped. Ambrielle hadn't allowed his bearers to take him anywhere near the sick orc encampment across the prairie. Unlike Lissa, Ambrielle actually cared for his health.
Still, he'd seen something, or someone, that wasn't there. It was curious.
Ylantri pulled her hand back from his forehead, leaving a strange burning sensation behind. Damor kept his hands on his lap instead of touching his forehead to see if it was truly warm.
Ylantri turned to Ambrielle. "He is fine. As are you and your son, Kazrack. If it pleases you, my queen, I will take my healers and begin tending to the orcs. I do not know if I can reverse the disease, but I will do my best. I have brought my finest herbs and tonics."
Ambrielle dipped her head, which was the closest a queen of the elves would ever come to bowing to another. It was clear she held Ylantri in great regard. "Please, do your best. These poor orcs need our help."
Ylantri bowed and backed away. She motioned to her cortege of healers to follow her toward the orc encampment. As they moved away silently, appearing once again to float instead of walk, Ylantri glanced over her shoulder at Damor. She smiled… and winked.
Damor's blood boiled. What game was she playing? Had he seen her true form? Was her glamour strong enough to fool even the queen? He needed answers, and he would get them in any way necessary.
"I want to join them," he blurted out.
"Excuse me?" Ambrielle said, an eyebrow raised. "Why in the world would you want to go anywhere near those diseased orcs?" She lowered her voice. "Remember, we are here to help them only so they will be in our debt. I need the orcs to owe me, so I may take what I want without force or the loss of life. If you go, you may fall ill yourself. Then what? I will be left without an advisor, and you will not accomplish your goals."
"I won't get sick," Damor said with authority. "This disease cannot hurt me."
"But it can hurt my elves, and you cannot travel without them." Ambrielle pointed to the two litter carriers, who waited a short distance away. "You will remain here," she said firmly. And she swept away.
Damor looked down at his withered legs, cursing his lot. Long ago, he'd given up bodily strength for deeper access to dark magic. Even now, he fought to regain some corporeal strength in part only so he could eventually feed it to his well of magic. Yet it was his lack of strength that now prevented him from following Ylantri and discovering her secrets. Once again, he was waiting. Waiting for the day he'd be powerful enough to make everyone who'd ever crossed him pay for their actions.
That day had to come soon. Damor was growing impatient.