Lonen’s Reign
Sorcerous Moons – Book 6
by
Jeffe Kennedy
A Looming Threat
The sorceress Oria has finally come into her own—able to wield the power of her birthright and secure in the marriage she once believed would bring her only misery. But the past she escaped still chases her, and the certainty of war promises to destroy everything she’s fought to have.
An Impossible War
Once before Lonen led an army in a desperate attempt to stop the powerfully murderous sorcerers of Bára—and he nearly lost everything. Now he must return to the battlefield that took the lives of so many of his people. Only this time he has more to risk than ever.
The Final Conflict
With guile, determination—and unexpected allies—Oria and Lonen return to the place where it all began… and only hope that it won’t also be the end of them.
Dedication
For Rebecca Cremonese,
Who gave so much attention and care to every little detail.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Jim Sorenson and Sage Walker, for encouraging me to persevere and finish this series. And for Sunday brunches and wide-ranging conversations.
A special thank you to Carien, for fact-checking and asking the right questions. And for being there for all these years. Just amazing, isn’t it?
Huge thanks, too, to all of you who commented on the podcasts and blog posts, and in the private group, who cheered me on and have been waiting for this conclusion. I hope it’s the grand finale you wished for.
Love to Kelly Robson for daily chats, hearts and kisses. Also to Cathy Smith for the same. And to my mom for being a patron of the arts.
And always to David, who loves me just the way I am.
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer M. Kennedy
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.
Thank you for reading!
Credits
Line and Copy Editor: Rebecca Cremonese
Cover Design: Steam Power Studios, www.steampowerstudios.com.au
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Titles by Jeffe Kennedy
About Jeffe Kennedy
~ 1 ~
“Just a few more moments of your patience, Your Highness,” the healer Baeltya said, her tone abstracted as she concentrated.
Lonen stared up at the patterned, arched ceiling of Arill’s Temple, counting the interweaving strips of wood yet again. There were one thousand and fifty-two in the central spiral. He should be grateful for Arill’s magic—and Her dedicated priestesses who devoted themselves to healing—which made convalescence so much faster, if profoundly uncomfortable. Mostly, however, he chafed at the enforced inactivity. Much easier not to get injured in the first place.
At least his mother, who’d initially taken care of the gut wound he’d received from his brother Nolan during their duel, had left the follow-up care to Baeltya. The junior healer didn’t lecture him the way Vycayla, as both the dowager queen and his mother, seemed to feel entitled to do. Not only entitled, but compelled.
If he didn’t need her help to ensure he and Oria could officially marry with Arill’s blessing, according to Destrye law, he’d be tempted to tell his mother to go back to her hermitage already.
The wedding ceremony was a stupid formality, really. With the duel over and Lonen’s claim to the throne of Dru secured, he could declare Oria his wife and Queen of the Destrye once and for all. They’d fought hard enough for it. It still stuck in his craw that he’d had to fight his brother for it.
“Try not to twitch, Your Highess,” Baeltya said, sounding more emphatic and less vague. “This is a delicate piece.”
“I wouldn’t want you to meld my intestines to my bladder after all,” he commented wryly.
“You laugh, but given the previous state of your intestines, that’s not impossible,” she replied in a tart tone, her healing magic twisting in parts of his gut he wished he didn’t know about. “That final blow could’ve killed you—likely would’ve killed a man in less robust condition—so maybe spend this time contemplating your gratitude to Arill for Her healing gifts.”
“I’m grateful,” he grumbled. Though he’d much rather be with Oria and his mother as they sorted through Nolan’s psyche. He couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse that Nolan’s rebellion and treachery might have been fueled by a sorcerous taint from his time in Bára. And Arnon… Lonen didn’t know what to make of his younger brother’s changeable loyalty. First Arnon had backed Nolan’s challenge, then—apparently somehow swayed by their mother Vycayla’s return from self-imposed exile—he had refused to act as Nolan’s second.
So ironic that they accused Lonen of being enchanted and duped by his sorceress wife to the point they questioned his devotion to Dru, and now Oria was the only person he felt he could fully trust.
He sighed heavily.
“Your Highness…”
“That was a sigh, not a twitch.”
She laughed. “I don’t envy Oria in managing you if you’re always this difficult.”
“She has other ways of managing me than chiding complaints.” Which only reminded him that they could touch now. He could finally and truly bed his beautiful sorceress—and he’d instead been laid up for two days recovering. “Will I be well enough to be released after this?”
“In a hurry to leave us? We’ll see. Queen Vycayla will have the final word.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered.
As if evoked by her name, Vycayla swept into the room, asking Baeltya for a report and not bothering to greet her son at all. With determined resignation, Lonen resumed counting the ceiling pieces and waited for them to conclude their healer conversation. He’d learned better than to interrupt, as it only delayed them, extended his involuntary stay, and earned his mother’s scathing remarks about what he didn’t know. That’s what being king got you—no power in your own household.
His mother laid a hand on his brow, not a soothing maternal gesture but testing his vitality for herself. Her serious gray eyes looked through him, large in her severe face. She didn’t show her age much in wrinkles, but time had pared away any trace of youthful softness. With her long hair tightly braided back, her bones seemed to show through translucent skin. She raised a brow at his appraisal. “You’re much improved, my impetuous son.”
“Improved enough to have the wedding?” he asked. He would’ve preferred to sit up and have this conversation at least upright if they wouldn’t let him stand, but he’d have to fight them both and he’d lose.
“Yes.” They both murmured reprimands, gentle hands restraining him as he nearly lea
pt for freedom. “Not this exact moment,” his mother added with a hint of a smile. “But we can set a date and plan the ceremony.”
“The ceremony will be tonight,” he said, using a tone of authority.
His mother rolled her eyes. “You’re not some timber brat marrying a milkmaid. This is an event. The King of Dru is marrying a Princess of Bára, who will become Queen of the Destrye. You will be joining two realms that have been at war for centuries. It must be done with appropriate pomp and celebration.”
Lonen set his teeth. “No, I’m not marrying a milkmaid. I’m marrying a woman who is already my wife and has been for the better part of a year.”
“You didn’t marry her under Arill’s hand,” his mother corrected.
“I know that,” he replied as evenly as possible. “Which is why we’re getting married again.”
“Don’t use that tone with me, boy,” his mother snapped. “You’re not too big to be turned over my knee and paddled.”
Baeltya choked back a laugh. Since Lonen likely outweighed his mother by twice as much, and most of it brawn, that assertion was ridiculous. Never mind the fact that he outranked her. Still… “Yes, Mother,” he said with exaggerated deference.
“Better.” She patted his cheek smartly enough to sting. “I shall perform the prayers to Arill to determine the most auspicious date and time for—”
Lonen wrapped a hand around her slender wrist, the bones spider-light. “I’m not waiting until spring or some such,” he warned.
She relented, smiling with more warmth. “I agree. This is best handled speedily. I’ll seek the most auspicious time in the next several weeks.”
“Days.”
Her smile faded. “Don’t tell me my business, boy. I follow Arill’s will, not yours—and no crown changes that.”
He winced, and Vycayla echoed it, realizing the image she’d evoked. Nolan had been wearing the crown—a wreath of bronzed oak leaves—during the duel. When Lonen had brought the iron battle-axe down on his skull in a desperate move, with his brother’s sword already spearing his gut, the leaves had cut Nolan’s scalp.
Blood on the crown of Dru. Lonen couldn’t shake the sight of it—or the lingering dread that it might be a terrible omen.
“How is he?” he asked quietly.
“Physically he’s healed,” Vycayla replied with crisp authority. Then shook her head. “Mentally, well… whatever stain they put on him, the iron of your axe only temporarily dimmed it. He’s back to his vitriol and ranting. Oria is working on the problem.”
“I still think a tincture of iron solution would work,” Baeltya commented.
“If it doesn’t poison him beyond retrieval,” Vycayla replied dryly.
“There, Your Highness.” Baeltya dusted her hands together to disperse the healing magic and any remanence lingering from her connection with him. “You may sit up.”
At last. He sat up, vigor coursing through him. “Thank you. Both of you. I feel like a new man.” He stood, brimming with a feverish excitement, pumped his arms and stomped his legs. “Where is Oria?”
“With Nolan in the dungeon,” his mother said, then narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“I intend to see my wife,” he answered blandly. And he intended to take Oria to bed and at last fuck her properly, until they both couldn’t see straight. His balls grew heavy in anticipation. This long-delayed consummation would be sweet indeed. Maybe he’d keep her naked and in bed with him until the wedding and they could—
“You are not to be with Oria unchaperoned until the wedding night,” his mother informed him, as if reading his thoughts.
Lonen paused in the midst of pulling on his shirt. “Excuse me?”
Vycayla drew herself up to her imposing height, slight of build, eyes of steel. “You can sound as dangerous as you like, but you will heed me as high priestess of Arill’s Temple. This wedding will be done properly. Oria’s previous illness is well known, as is the fact that she’s a virgin.”
“Not so much,” he answered with a feral grin. “In fact, we’ve—”
Vycayla held up a hand. “Spare me the details. So far as the physical consummation of your marriage in a child-engendering act, she is a virgin. And she will retain that state until you are properly married under Arill’s hand.”
He nearly sputtered as he fumed. “That has never been a Destrye requirement, that a bride be a virgin.”
“Yes and no.” Vycayla’s eyes glittered. “The most sacred of Arill’s binding ceremonies are at their most powerful with a woman whose body remains entirely female, who has never taken male flesh inside her.”
“Oh, I’ve been inside her.” Fingers, sure, but those counted as male flesh.
“Skin to skin?” Vycayla inquired archly. “Oria says you used gloves and other implements.”
Abruptly, self-consciousness swamped him, to be having this conversation with his mother—while Baeltya stood by, dark eyes dancing in salacious amusement, though she kept a straight face. “I can’t believe you asked Oria about this.” Or that Oria had told her.
Vycayla raised her eyes to the heavens, lips moving in a silent prayer. “She will be my daughter. Women discuss these things. And I needed to know, for the ceremony. Arill has chosen wisely for you and we will honor Her hand in this by binding you in Her most sacred ceremony—one that will banish all the bad omens and taint from your kingship and marriage, and that will auger well for the Destrye in the battle to come. This is about more than you and your sexual urges. Do you understand now?” she asked, spacing out the words as if he were still a boy.
He scowled at her. “I greatly regret digging you out of your hermitage.”
She smiled serenely. “As does Nolan. You’re welcome. Will you abide by this, Your Highness?”
Oh, now she used the honorific. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. You must simply agree.”
“Don’t make me wait too long, Mother.”
She patted him on the cheek, gently, pleased with his capitulation. “You’ve waited all this time. What’s a few more weeks?”
“Days.”
“We’ll see.”
He’d been hearing that line since he was a boy, too—and it never boded well.
Finally fully dressed, battle-axe sheathed on his back, Lonen strode out of Arill’s healing center in the temple. Baeltya walked along with him, hands folded neatly into the billowing embroidered cuffs of her deep green robes. Everyone they passed bowed to him, crying out their good wishes and joy at his return, an elaborate demonstration of fervent loyalty.
“You’d think they hadn’t been bowing and scraping to my brother the usurper only days ago,” he muttered under his breath.
“It was an incredibly difficult week,” Baeltya replied quietly. “Nolan employed brutal methods to ensure the appearance of loyalty to his claim. Not that I’d expect you to thank him, but he has done you the favor of making the prospect of your reign look very good by comparison. These people are sincere in their delight—and relief.”
A group of approaching Destrye warriors spotted him and all went to one knee, bowing their heads and saluting. “All hail His Highness King Lonen!”
They did sound sincere, holding the knee until he’d completely passed. He and Baeltya continued through the dark halls of the palace. Not a beautiful place, but a secure one, it had started out as a fortress, built upon by generations of Destrye and their kings. And with a warren of tunnels hollowed out below. The stairs took them down, past the food storage cellars, and Lonen didn’t let his gaze linger on how meager those stores had become. A few more months before the first crops would be ripe, though perhaps Arill would bless them with an early spring.
Perhaps Oria could wield her sorcery to hasten the harvest.
Down another level and they passed the guards—also happy to greet him and congratulate his good health—and into the area used for prisoners. This deep, the earthen walls loomed dark, the great roots of the forest occasi
onally surfacing like the coil of a sea serpent before disappearing again. For a people accustomed to being outdoors, to climbing the trees of their home, the dungeons imposed their own punishment. Most Destrye chose death over imprisonment.
Nolan, however, would not be offered that option. Not yet.
He paced in a large cell at the end of the tunnel, fenced in by iron bars. Ranting and raving, indeed. His voice echoed down the narrow space, by turns cajoling and ordering. Oria sat very still on a wooden stool well out of reach, facing Nolan. She had her back to the hall, her exotic copper hair caught the torchlight, falling in a straight sheet like polished metal.
Knowing his sorceress, that she’d likely fallen into a deep meditative state as she used her magic, Lonen called out so as not to startle her. “Oria.”
She spun on the stool, hair fanning with the movement, her lovely face full of delighted surprise. Running to him, she flew into his arms, a cloud of silk, spicy qinn, and luscious woman. He kissed her thoroughly, feeling he could never get enough of the feel and taste of her mouth, the way she fit against him.
“They let you out,” Oria exclaimed when he let her come up for air. “It’s so good to see you up.” She’d been to visit him regularly while he was laid up healing, but she sounded as if she hadn’t seen him in ages. Though they had been separated before their all-too-brief reunion and had no time at all to savor their ability to truly touch.
He ran his hands over her body, ignoring Nolan’s crazed shouting and Baeltya’s more discreet presence. “I should’ve taken you into that farmhouse,” he growled in Oria’s ear, taking the lobe of her ear into his mouth, biting lightly and then sucking on her deliciously sweet skin. She moaned softly, melting against him.
“But look how well everything turned out because you didn’t,” she answered, pulling back to give him a smile, her copper eyes wide and sparkling, the same color as her hair. “You’re the undisputed King of the Destrye and—”
“I dispute it!” Nolan shouted.
“—we’ll be married soon,” Oria talked over his mad brother.
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