The Forests of Dru
Sorcerous Moons – Book 4
by
Jeffe Kennedy
An Enemy Land
Once Princess Oria spun wicked daydreams from the legends of sorceresses kidnapped by the barbarian Destrye. Now, though she’s come willingly, she finds herself in a mirror of the old tales: the king’s foreign trophy of war, starved of magic, surrounded by snowy forest and hostile strangers. But this place has secrets, too—and Oria must learn them quickly if she is to survive.
A Treacherous Court
Instead of the refuge he sought, King Lonen finds his homeland desperate and angry, simmering with distrust of his wife. With open challenge to his rule, he knows he and Oria—the warrior wounded and weak, the sorceress wrung dry of power—must somehow make a display of might. And despite the desire that threatens to undo them both, he still cannot so much as brush her skin.
A Fight for the Future
With war looming and nowhere left to run, Lonen and Oria must use every intrigue and instinct they can devise: to plumb Dru’s mysteries, to protect their people—and to hold fast to each other. Because they know better than any what terrifying trial awaits…
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Susan Conley, longtime family friend and knower of All Things Art, for coming out of Facebook lurkage to suggest that “retablo” was the word I was looking for. Yes, exactly – and it added so much to the story.
Hi there, dear, lovely reader!
So… You may have picked up THE FORESTS OF DRU thinking that it would be the last in the series.
(Hey—maybe it’s the first book in the series that you’re reading, in which case, it should work fine as a jump-in point. But, this explanation is for you, too.)
Long-time readers of mine know that I’m not very good at pre-plotting my books and series. Read “not very good” as “really can’t do it at all.” Stories tend to unwind organically for me. And often go on much longer than I think they will.
When I first conceived of the Sorcerous Moons books, I thought it would be a trilogy. I really did! Then the story deepened and became more complex than I expected. (You’d think I’d learn to expect this, as it seems to happen with all of my series.)
When everyone read book three, THE TIDES OF BÀRA, they quickly and cleverly discerned that Lonen and Oria’s story didn’t end there. I saw a fair amount of conversation online about how book four would end the series.
Not so much, it turns out!
But a lot of really interesting stuff happened in this book, so it should be totally worth it.
At this point, I’m thinking there will be six total. I’m pretty sure I can wind up the tale in two more books.
Thank you all for sticking with this series and spreading the word about it. This has been so much fun to do!
Copyright © 2017 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
Content Editor: Deborah Nemeth
Line and Copy Editor: Rebecca Cremonese
Back Cover Copy: Erin Nelson Parekh
Cover Design: Steam Power Studios, www.steampowerstudios.com.au
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader
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
About Jeffe Kennedy
Titles by Jeffe Kennedy
~ 1 ~
“We won the war and this is still the best the king’s table can command?”
Nolan poked at the meat with a sour scowl, and Arnon clapped him on the shoulder. “Not much of a homecoming, huh? You could have brought us game from the far forests and done better.”
“I brought the King of the Destrye instead.” Nolan shrugged him off. “That seemed more useful at the time.”
Lonen, that selfsame King of the Destrye, didn’t adjust his position to ease his aching side, lest his brother misinterpret that as a sign of discomfort with the topic of conversation. Nor did he miss the sidelong glance from Nolan that suggested he might be reconsidering Lonen’s inherent usefulness. Not that Lonen could argue much otherwise. Being laid up in bed recuperating for more than a week didn’t lend itself to high-profile—or even marginally effective—rule. Nevertheless, some remnant of his youthful self cringed, wishing he could do something to earn his older brother’s approval rather than his scorn.
Mostly, though, he longed to be back in that bed, under the furs with Oria, sharing her warmth, basking in the surety that she slept beside him. To be there when the strange dreams woke her.
Oria hadn’t wanted him to be up and about yet, but Nolan—believed lost in battle, now miraculously returned and restless with unsatisfied expectations—had decided he’d waited long enough for explanations. Rather than risk having Nolan barge into his bedchamber and interrogate Oria, Lonen had conceded to the lesser of the evils and gotten himself to this private dinner with his two remaining brothers. The last three of Archimago’s line, sadly diminished in robustness of every kind.
But three was one more than they’d thought they had.
That had to be a good thing. A blessing from Arill herself. Somehow, though, under the sharp scrutiny of Nolan’s piercing blue stare, Lonen nursed a few doubts.
He gave in and shifted, easing the pinch in his gut. The infection no longer poisoned him, but the massive tissue damage had yet to replace itself—however much ever would—despite Oria’s foolhardy attempt to give her life to heal him. That side of his body sagged inward, as if part of him had been carved out.
Which, come to think of it, it pretty much had.
With a grimace for that, he forced himself to finish the slice of stringy roast on his plate, then picked up his warmed wine and drank, hoping to mute some of the ache.
“It’s not good for you to be upright in a chair like this,” Arnon said, frowning at him. “I can see it pains you.”
“Father would say a warrior can suffer far more than a bit of pain, especially in the service of Dru,” Nolan replied, gaze never wavering from Lonen. “He would have expected his successor to be sitting the throne and handling the pressing issues of the Destrye, not lying abed with a foreign mistress.”
“You mean Her Highness, Oria, Queen of the Destrye?” Lonen didn’t raise his voice, but his tone carried all the iron resolve of his battle-axe. Enough that Nolan sat back slightly, a hint of surprise flickering through his eyes before they sharpened again. That’s right. I am not the same little brother you knew before the war. He might not be ruling impressively, but neither was he a pushover. Not anymore.
“She is Báran,” Nolan said flatly, tempting Lonen to remark on his brother’s powers of observation. But this was no time for levity. This conversation had been a long time coming and N
olan clearly intended to have it out now. So be it—and Arill hold him in her hand for this battle.
“I’m fully aware of that, Nolan, as I met her in Bára, where she is in fact, a princess and should be queen of her people by her own right.”
“What exactly happened there?” Arnon put in, full of curiosity. “What?” He gave Nolan’s frown a scowl of his own. “You’re not the only one who’s been sitting on questions while Lonen concentrated on not dying,” he added pointedly. “You’ve dragged him out of bed for this, so we might as well get the whole story.”
“I’m not interested in this Báran princess’s story,” Nolan snapped. “What I want is to break this foul spell she’s employed to ensorcell our brother and king. We needed to get him away from her devious influence if we’re to have a hope of that. Stories can wait.”
“I am not ensorcelled.”
“She’s a witch, Lonen—you know this.”
“A sorceress, actually.” Surreptitiously, Lonen scanned the shadows near the ceiling. Sure enough, the emerald gleam of Chuffta’s eyes shone back from a high perch, his iridescent white body stretched into a low profile along the upper curve of a ceiling beam. Oria had sent her Familiar to spy on the conversation, even though Lonen had asked her to keep her friend and guardian close. He didn’t like her to be alone. Not after what had happened to her without his protection when they’d arrived in Dru.
“You call it a pine, I call it an evergreen,” Nolan replied. “It’s the same Arill-cursed tree.”
Lonen regarded his brother calmly. One benefit of battling hordes of golems, running out of water in the desert, and countless other ways he’d nearly died horrifically—it had become abundantly clear to him that arguments over minor details like semantics paled significantly as anything to get excited about. He’d have thought Nolan would have learned that lesson, too, during his trials and journeys.
“Trees are sacred to Arill,” Arnon put in, ever the pedant, “so it’s not technically correct to call it an ‘Arill-cursed’ tree.”
Nolan turned on Arnon with a snarl, proving that temperance had not been one of the lessons he’d learned. Ironic, as Nolan had been the dreamer and thinker before the Golem Wars. Whereas Lonen, solidly third in line for a throne he’d thought he’d never have to sit, had been the irresponsible, playful one their father had despaired of teaching discipline to. Perhaps tragedy and the horrors of war worked to change people. Fire tempered some weapons to greater strength and destroyed others.
“Queen Oria is a sorceress, yes,” Lonen said before his brothers could come to blows. “She wields powerful magic, but she does so with heart and conscience.” He eyed Chuffta in the shadows, certain her spy would be faithfully relaying the conversation, and chose his words carefully for both audiences. “Instead of staying in Bára as their queen, Her Highness married me and journeyed here at great risk to herself, sacrificing her own throne out of a sense of responsibility to the Destrye, in order to help us.” And to keep a personal vow to him, but that should remain exactly that—personal. He held her promises to him close to his heart, treasuring them alongside her confession that she loved him. Precious gifts from a prickly and dangerous woman. They did not need to be scrutinized by others.
Particularly those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand what lay between him and the foreign bride who’d brought a bright face to the terrible magics wreaked in the wars, and light into his own darkened heart. She might have made the difference in him becoming the tempered weapon, rather than the warped one.
Nolan sighed heavily. Pushing his plate aside and leaning elbows on the table, he laced his fingers together except for the index fingers, which he pointed at Lonen. “Your obvious sentiment aside, let’s discuss the legality of this marriage.”
“It’s a legal marriage, Nolan.”
He waved that off. “Only according to Báran law, which is not ours. We do not recognize it.”
“I recognize it, and I was there.” The onerous ritual had nearly knocked him unconscious and had left Oria in a dead faint. The magic connection hummed between them, Oria a warm flame inside him. The only time since their marriage that he hadn’t felt it was when they’d been separated, both near death. Something he never intended to endure again—and something else he wouldn’t attempt to explain. Before he’d experienced it for himself, he wouldn’t have understood it either. Nolan opened his mouth and Lonen held up a hand. “A moot point anyway, as I intend to rectify any lingering legal qualms by marrying Oria in Arill’s Temple, just as soon as we can both stand upright for the entire ceremony.” And dance afterwards, he promised himself. Oria would see how a wedding—and wedding night—should be properly celebrated.
He flicked a glance at Chuffta, hoping Oria had gotten that particular message. She could be stubborn, but he’d have his way in this.
“Well, let’s discuss that,” Nolan said.
“No.”
Nolan made an impatient sound. “I want you to hear me out on this.”
“No.”
“There is no need for you to marry her, Lonen! Keep her as a trophy of war, if you must. Our warriors have a history of that. It’s somewhat outdated, but the tradition is an old and stirring one that celebrates Destrye victory. We can play it to the people that way and they’ll see you as all the stronger and more vital for it. Don’t ask them to accept a foreigner—the enemy!—as their queen. There’s no reason to do so and it makes you look weak. Your people deserve a Destrye woman as their queen.”
Lonen shrugged. “They won’t get one.”
“Can she even quicken with your seed? We have no way of knowing if Destrye can breed with her kind. She could leave you without heirs.”
“There are Ion’s sons, if so.”
“It’s one thing for that to be a last resort, another for you to go in knowing she won’t give you heirs.”
“What man knows such things for certain when he marries?”
“What about Natly?”
Lonen tightened his jaw. “She’s irrelevant to this conversation.”
“Hardly. She waited for you to return, believing the two of you to be engaged. She could still be your queen.”
At Nolan’s suggestion, Arnon dropped his face into his hands. He and Lonen had spoken about Natly before, with Arnon arguing strongly against Natly as an appropriate queen.
“It seems to me,” Lonen said slowly, measuring Nolan, “that you, yourself, rejected Natly as a suitable queen.”
His elder brother had the grace to wince. “Yes, well. It need not be Natly, but—”
“It’s a moot point. I’ve made vows and I intend to keep them. Would our people want a king who breaks his vows?”
“You mean like your betrothal to Natly?” Nolan shot back.
Lonen clenched his teeth against returning the bite. “I never promised. She assumed.”
“Perhaps you are becoming the politician, parsing terms and dividing rope fibers.”
“Perhaps so,” Lonen returned, ignoring the sneer in Nolan’s voice. The accusation was a fair one. “But I am king. I realize I shouldn’t be. Arill knows our father died too young and this crown should be his.” Lonen waved a hand at the wreath of hammered metal leaves he’d worn to the dinner. He didn’t much care for it, and he’d worn it mainly as a reminder of his authority to his elder brother. At least it was light, even if he felt vaguely like an imposter wearing the thing. “Ion should have lived to succeed him, as we all believed he would. And yes, Nolan—you should have been king in his stead. Would have been, had we but known you lived.”
Nolan’s jaw flexed and he sat back, crossing his arms. “It wasn’t as if I had a way to send a message. It took us weeks to find our way out of those caverns. If not for the underground lake that cushioned our fall, we would have died of thirst.” He shook his head, a ghost of his old smile crossing his mouth behind the neat beard. “I tell you, it pissed me off mightily that I might die of drowning of all things.”
“What did yo
u do for food?” Lonen asked.
“You haven’t gotten to hear this tale.” Arnon poured them all more wine, clearly cheered by the turn in conversation. “It deserves to be set down as an epic ballad of its own.”
“You tell it.” Nolan took his cup, staring into it. “I’m weary of it, myself.”
Arnon, who never met a topic that wearied him, grinned with enthusiasm. “So, there they were, Nolan and his regiment, on the north flank of the city. Fireballs hurtling through the air, golems everywhere, whirlwinds whipping through the center of the battlefield, while lightning forked overhead.”
Lonen adjusted his position, sitting back to enjoy his brother’s tale—and not bothering to point out that he’d been there, too. No sense interrupting the story’s rhythm. He kept an eye on Nolan, however, darkly brooding over his wine.
“Then crack!” Arnon slapped his hands together, making both of his brothers jump and grinning at it, Arill take him. “The ground shook and opened up. Nolan and his men raced away from the edges, but no man can outrun the earth itself. The ground disappeared beneath their feet, and they fell, plummeting to certain death.”
Nolan wiped a hand over his forehead and Lonen nearly called a halt to the story, but Nolan caught him looking and pierced him with a stare so challenging he knew it would only give insult. Instead he silently toasted his brother’s bravery. After a slight hesitation, Nolan dipped his chin.
Oblivious to the exchange, Arnon continued. “Our hero, Prince Nolan, managed to grab a handhold and cling to it, as did a few other men. But the ground continued to shake, crumbling beneath their hands, while horses, supplies, even golems rained around them. They fell, too, sending a prayer to Arill to guide their steps to the Hall of Warriors.”
“My prayer was nothing so coherent,” Nolan interrupted.
“Shut up, this is my tale now,” Arnon replied easily. He was doing this on purpose then. Telling the elaborate story to defuse tensions. Good on him. “But instead of waking in the Hall of Warriors, our hero plunged into icy water, cold and black as the sea. He drove for the surface, hampered by the rocks, men, horses, and supplies also teeming in the water.”
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