“On the contrary, there is concern that being upright and attending the dinner took a toll on you, Your Highness,” the healer returned, calm and remorseless. “I’m tasked to give you a full examination or treatment, and that’s going to happen now. Concern for the king’s health trumps his commands. It’s me or Talya—take your pick.”
“Yes, come back,” she told Chuffta, to help things along. Lonen would not stomach Talya being around either of them, not after the way the head healer had treated Oria. He might have many sterling qualities, but Lonen also held certain … ‘grudges’ wasn’t exactly the right word. Convictions, perhaps. Okay, he was the most obstinate man she’d ever met.
“I’m upright now,” Lonen pointed out, digging in, so Oria turned back. The healer met her gaze with some exasperation. She wore a lighter green veil than Talya had, and her dark hair spilled out in curls that tumbled down her back and escaped around her face in a way that reminded Oria poignantly of Juli, her waiting woman back in Bára. Though Juli’s curls were red-gold, and the Destrye woman’s strong frame and capable, square hands were nothing like the Báran priestess’s. Her dark eyes held determination, and a clear call for action from Oria.
“Lonen,” she said, moving to him and laying a hand on his shoulder so he’d look up at her. “Part of being king is making sure your people are confident and unworried. You know this. Let the healer do her job. She can only help you heal faster and grow stronger. And it will reassure your concerned brothers,” she added, her tone more wry than she’d intended.
“I’m glad to hear of your confidence,” he replied. “Then you’ll be happy to have her do the same for the Destrye queen, too.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he’d neatly trapped her with that one.
“I keep warning you that he’s a clever man,” Chuffta said, dropping from some vent he’d discovered and landing on her shoulder. Lonen had had the robe reinforced with padding for just that purpose, so the derkesthai’s formidable talons wouldn’t pierce through to her skin. Chuffta wound his long tail around her arm in affection, the iridescent white scales gleaming against the mahogany and chestnut shades of the fur. “Probably cleverer than you are, so keep that in mind.”
“I shall, along with your questionable loyalty to me.”
“I love you best, of course,” her Familiar replied with equanimity, “but it’s my job to avail you of my considerable wisdom.”
She snorted with laughter and had to cover it with a cough. Though it was unlikely that the Destrye healer could do anything for her peculiar condition, this young woman possessed a compassion that Talya lacked. Maybe she’d abide by the strictures not to touch Oria, anyway. At the moment, the healer studied Chuffta, rapt with fascination. “The healer might not agree,” she cautioned, speaking to the woman. “She’s here for you.”
The healer’s dark gaze shifted to hers. “I’m willing. Please call me Baeltya.”
“Agreed then. You’ll treat the king first, of course.”
Lonen gave her a narrow look of disbelief and she smiled back in all innocence. She’d outmaneuvered him for once.
“If you’ll undress, Your Highness?” Baeltya suggested, not delaying in seizing the opportunity. She reached to help him, acting like a humble servant to the king, then narrowing her eyes, sharply noting the pained look on Lonen’s face as he shrugged out of the furred vest, then lifted his arms to pull the shirt over his head. Bracing himself on the arms of the chair, he levered up, strode to the bed with a vigor made almost entirely of bravado, shucked his boots and leather pants, and stretched out naked.
Baeltya covered Lonen’s groin with a towel, probably more for Oria’s sake than Lonen’s. Bárans weren’t exactly prudes—they used communal baths, after all—but neither were they as casual of nudity as the Destrye. Or, more precisely, as Lonen was. Like all Destrye, he lived in a natural harmony with his body, and his natural confidence, an outgrowth of his exuberant presence, made him completely unselfconscious.
Oria drew up behind Baeltya in order to see better, but keeping a careful distance back. The healer kept her thoughts and emotions quite self-contained. Her native calm and reticence made her unusually restful for Oria to be around. Still, long habit and prudence had her observing a more formal space than others might. Chuffta snaked his long neck to peer at Lonen, too.
At least he’d gained back some of the weight that he’d lost during their harrowing journey. Lonen had complained that he grew soft and fat, lolling about and not yet able to resume the strengthening exercises she’d spied upon in Bára, but there was nothing flabby about him. His chest, arm, and shoulder muscles shone with clear definition in the warm light, the sprinkling of dark hair that covered him not disguising the hardened ridges. He was every inch the massively muscled warrior she’d first encountered storming the gates of Bára.
Except for the one side of his abdomen, where the golem bite had festered. There the skin collapsed over the missing parts of him like wet silk, wrinkled and folded. If only she’d done a better job of cleaning the wound initially, when she’d had all of those fallen golems with their packets of sgath to draw from. Or if only she’d realized he hid the infection from her and acted before the corruption destroyed so much of his flesh.
She tore her eyes away from the evidence of her failure to protect the man she loved, to find his gaze waiting—granite gray and flinty with it. He watched her with steady attention and she very nearly opened her portals just a sliver to read the thoughts and feelings behind his opaque expression.
With her eyes closed, Baeltya ran her hands over Lonen’s body, probing the bad side, but also pausing over his lungs and heart. Oria couldn’t sense what magic—if it was magic—she used on him. Mostly it annoyed her to be both superfluous and unable to touch her husband as the healer did so casually.
As Baeltya worked, Lonen’s gaze softened, going from granite to fog, the lush black lashes lowering until they draped over his broad cheekbones. His breathing deepened and mouth slackened into sleep. A soft snore dragged out of him and Baeltya stood, turning with a smile.
“There. That will help,” she said.
“How is he?”
Baeltya stretched her back. “His Highness is healing, albeit slowly. Rebuilding the organs and muscle he lost to the infection simply takes time. I’ll return in the morning to give him another treatment. But he needs to be resting, not meeting with his brothers, or he’ll begin to backslide despite my best efforts. I’ll tell Prince Nolan as much.”
“No—don’t,” Oria said before she thought better. Nolan might push things that direction, to better his chances of winning this duel he considered.
“Or he might treat the news that Lonen is improving as a reason not to try to depose him.”
“I think either way it’s better for Nolan to hear Lonen is healthier than he thinks.”
“And that he’s not ensorcelled by you.”
“Can anyone even do that?” she snapped back mentally. If so, it would be handy to ensorcell Lonen’s brothers out of their doubts.
“Once you have your magic back, perhaps you can try.” Chuffta’s mind-voice was dry.
Baeltya had her brows raised, both for Oria’s preemptory command and the silence after. Her canny dark eyes flicked to Oria’s Familiar and back to her face. “I must report back my observations. That was one of my three directives.”
Three? “What were the others?”
The healer gestured to Lonen. “To assess the king’s health and give him a healing treatment.”
“What exactly did you do?”
Baeltya spread her hands. “I am pledged to Arill, the goddess of the earth and all growing things, so I channel Her nurturing power into the patient so they can heal.”
Hmm. It sounded like nonsense to Oria. If a goddess truly existed, why would such a being care to give her power away? But if that was the Destrye analogy for magic, why hadn’t she felt it?
“I didn’t feel anything, either, but
Lonen looks better.”
Indeed, his color had returned, a healthier glow replacing the pastiness of exhaustion. He slept deeply, his body relaxed, not twitching with pain or nightmares.
“And the third part of your instructions?” Oria asked, though she suspected she knew.
Baeltya’s wide mouth twitched, not quite smiling. “To assess the Báran sorceress, look for signs of enchantment, and ascertain her hold on our king.”
Oria sighed mentally. Being right should be more fun. “And?”
“I haven’t decided.” The healer studied her. “I’ll know more after I examine and treat you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t stiffen up. Part of my vows are to do no harm. Besides, you promised His Highness.”
She had. Lonen must trust this woman. He’d likely thought he’d be awake for this, however. She could lie to Lonen and claim she had accepted a treatment.
Baeltya watched her, amusement sharpening her gaze. “I’ll tell,” she warned.
“So will I.”
“You can’t talk mind-to-mind with Lonen outside of the oasis.
“I have my ways.”
“Traitor.”
“I love you, too.”
“All right then.” Oria moved to the bed and drew up the fur blankets, covering Lonen to the chest, but leaving his arms outside it, as he preferred. She smoothed them over him, touching him the only way she could. Well, not quite the only. She brushed back a few of the curls rioting around his face, since she’d freed them of his hair tie. He looked so much younger in sleep, with none of the anger or bitterness war had carved into his face.
“You love him,” Baeltya said, some surprise in her voice, and Oria whirled, tucking her hands behind her back as if caught by a senior priestess while looking at some illicit illustrations in the temple archives at Bára. She wasn’t sure what to say—or if the healer saw something more than her gestures. Did she have something like a goddess-given version of sgath sight?
“Let’s go into the other room, so we won’t disturb His Highness,” Oria suggested. Baeltya studied her with that discerning gaze, then nodded.
“Will you stay here with Lonen?” she asked Chuffta. “Let me know if he stirs or needs anything.”
“Of course. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
The derkesthai uncoiled his tail and half-flew, half-hopped to the bed, snuggling into the furs and curling carefully against Lonen’s side. Baeltya watched that, too, with the same bright interest, then led the way into the outer chamber when Oria gestured for her to. Oria pulled the door tightly closed. If Baeltya planned to make things difficult, Oria didn’t want Lonen to overhear and be concerned.
“The dragonlet,” Baeltya said, “he’s quite intelligent.”
Mentally, Oria rolled her eyes. Not as intelligent as Chuffta liked to think himself, she wanted to say.
“I heard that.”
“Mind your own thoughts. And Lonen.”
“I can do both of those things and mind your thoughts, as I’m so intelligent.”
She contained the laugh. “He’s a good companion,” she temporized.
“You communicate with him somehow, don’t you?” Baeltya said. “Sit here, please.”
Oria sat in a chair before the smaller fire in the sitting area, keeping her expression remote. She might never have achieved true hwil, the perfect state of emotionlessness the priests and priestesses of Bára claimed to attain, but she had faked it well enough to fool all of them. She could easily hide her surprise—and an uneasy sense of exposure—from the Destrye healer. “Naturally. It would hardly be appropriate to keep an animal indoors if it could not follow simple rules and instructions.”
Baeltya smiled, closed mouthed. “I suspect he’s more of a companion to you than that.”
“Is this part of your interrogation?”
The healer put her hands on her hips and sighed. “That was curiosity, and an attempt at friendly bedside manner so you’ll relax. I’ve never met a Báran sorceress before, nor have I seen a winged lizard that seems as intelligent as our hunting hounds. Or more so. Believe it or not, my purpose—and calling—is to help.”
“And to ascertain the magical hold I may or may not have on your king.”
“I thought it would be better to be honest about that. Frankly I don’t know how to assess such a thing if you have an agenda beyond your obvious love for him, and that he’s never behaved with any woman that I know of as he does with you.”
“Have you known Lon—His Highness for a long time?” She’d seen so little of this place and its people. Difficult to imagine what it had been like for Lonen, growing up here.
Baeltya smiled with some nostalgia. “We’re of an age, so I first met him when I was a young apprentice and he had to be treated for a broken arm because he fell out of a tree. His sword arm, too, so his father, King Archimago, stood over him, berating him throughout the healing treatment.”
“And you mended the bone?” How extraordinary.
“Not me and not entirely, but the head healer then was able to knit the bone within a week, with repeated treatments.” She gave Oria an expectant look.
Fine then. “All right. Point made. What is your plan?”
“What I promised His Highness I’d do—evaluate and treat whatever problems I find as I did him.” She moved toward Oria, who held up her hands to fend off the healer.
“You have to do it without touching me.”
Baeltya stopped, studying her. “My art works through physical contact. I can’t help you without touching you, and now the king has given me the go ahead. You don’t command me. He does.”
“He’s asleep,” Oria returned. “Or he’d back me on this. He understands.”
“Understands what?”
“That you can’t touch me,” she said, with what she hoped sounded like patience.
“Is this some kind of Báran custom? I understand your nobility keeps far more formal practices and manners than we do.” Though her voice remained neutral, Baeltya clearly found the idea off-putting. She wasn’t incorrect, though those manners were driven by practical reality, not snobbery.
“It is customary—and absolute. You can’t touch me.”
Baeltya frowned. “I can promise that I’m objective. I don’t derive sexual pleasure from it or anything like that.”
The throbbing spot between her eyebrows begged to be rubbed, but Oria sat straighter to resist showing any weakness. “It’s not that. There are real impacts.”
“Explain this to me.” The healer was as relentless as Lonen with her questions. Perhaps it was a Destrye trait.
“You wouldn’t be able to understand.” Oria sounded stiff and imperious to herself. Better than desperately cornered however.
“Do you need me?”
“No, I just need to find a way to make this healer go away.”
“I can burn her. That always scares them.”
She suppressed the smile. “Not this time, but thank you.”
“I’m a smart woman,” Baeltya was saying, her eyes snapping with offense. “I assure you I can understand a great many things, if you’ll deign to explain them to this uneducated Destrye healer.”
Giving in, Oria pressed her middle finger between her brows, discovering she’d broken into a fine sweat. So much for faking hwil. Any priestess of Bára would have spotted the cracks already. “I apologize if I gave offense.” Apologizing to someone else shouldn’t break Lonen’s rule of one per day for each of them. And he wasn’t awake to hear anyway.
Baeltya knelt beside Oria’s chair, her dark eyes softer, full of sympathy. “Look. Oria. Am I saying it correctly?”
“Because you won’t call me ‘Your Highness’?”
The healer closed her mouth on something. “I can’t. Not yet. Not without an oath of fealty. Work with me here.”
“With a long ‘i,’” Oria said, relenting. Talya had been vicious, but Baeltya seemed reasonably sincere. She couldn’t treat t
hem all like her enemies, not and live among them, be their queen, even, as Lonen so optimistically believed would happen. “Ohrr-eye-ahh.”
“Oria,” Baeltya repeated, mimicking the non-Destrye vowel twist perfectly. “I want to help you.”
“You can’t help me,” Oria said as gently as she could. “I simply need to eat more and regain my strength from the journey, and from being unconscious for so long.”
“You’ve been eating, so the servants report, since you awoke and His Highness brought you from the ward for Arill’s Blessings. I don’t know the norm for your people, but your weight appears to be quite low, you seem to be chilled, and your skin and eyes lack luster.”
“Gee, thanks,” Oria bit out. “This is a cold place. And I’m sweating now.”
Baeltya surveyed her. “Nerves. And something more. That’s a greasy sweat from imbalance. Your system is off; I can see that much without knowing you. Why not explain to me about Bárans and touch, and see if I can do something to put you on a path toward healing?”
Her perception surprised Oria. Perhaps there was something more to her goddess-given practice than superstition.
“If I explain, will you promise not to reveal my secrets to anyone?” Oria asked.
Baeltya nodded somberly. “You didn’t need to ask. My vows to Arill and my calling prevent me from revealing anyone’s medical condition.”
Oria raised dubious brows. “Other than your report to Prince Nolan.”
“I know how to give superficial information while redacting the personal,” the healer replied easily. “Now, have I passed your test?”
It had been one, Oria realized, and she smiled ruefully. “I apologize again. I feel…somewhat embattled here.”
Baeltya smiled, full of charm. “I can only imagine. It can’t be easy to have come among us under any circumstances, let alone as one of the hated enemy, near death and suspected of seducing and ensorcelling our king. Some say that you’re a shapeshifter who can become one of the Trom and your pet can grow to a full-sized dragon.”
Oria blinked, assimilating that. “That’s quite the story.”
The Forests of Dru Page 4
