“It’s true,” Salaya breathed. “You are not yet queen. And not yet with child, I think.” Her gaze fell to Oria’s midsection, and she made herself stay upright and unflinching, resisting the urge to wrap an arm protectively around her empty womb. She also declined to confirm or deny Salaya’s supposition. Soon enough they’d have to confront that she could not bear Lonen any heirs. But that fell beyond much larger and more daunting obstacles. “Then you—” Salaya broke off at someone’s approach.
Baeltya entered the room, bearing a basket of supplies, and she paused, raising her brows at Salaya. “Lady Salaya. How encouraging to see you out and about. Young Mago and Kavon will be delighted to see their mother.”
If Oria had not been long practiced at keeping an impassive expression, she would have winced at the sweetly couched accusation. As it was, Salaya flushed and ran a trembling hand over her hair. “Have they… my sons have asked for me?”
Baeltya softened. “Yes. Go to them, Salaya. There’s no need for you to be here.”
Salaya cast Oria a speaking glance. “I am not the worst of your problems. Look to your husband, Báran sorceress. There are others who weave their spells today.” Seeming pleased to have scored a point, Salaya stalked out of the room.
~ 6 ~
“Nolan is not joining us, I take it?”
Arnon shook his head, shrugging cheerfully. “He said he had a stop to make and would meet us at the storage silos. He’s happy, though, that you’re taking stock of the situation here in Arill City. We’re both glad to see you out and about.”
Lonen had to admit, getting outside and into the bracing air of the forest was doing him good. Buttercup, too, pranced with high spirits, the great warhorse also pleased to be released from the confines of the stable. Even Alby, riding behind, ever loyal and attentive, seemed more relaxed. Much as he didn’t care to leave Oria alone, Lonen had yielded to Baeltya’s well-couched arguments that his hovering made Oria seem weak and in need of protection. If he wanted her to be accepted as Queen of the Destrye, then he’d have to treat her as he would any Destrye woman. Which had always meant leaving them to their own devices and Arill only knew how women spent their time. He’d certainly paid little attention to what Natly was up to when they were not together.
Mostly he’d been happy enough at her absences, as her presence had been distracting at best and infuriating at worst. He’d never missed her as he’d begun to miss Oria the moment he left his chambers. As if he’d forgotten something critically important, like his iron battle-axe, some part of him kept triggering a minor alarm. Enough so that he kept setting a hand to the worn wooden handle before he remembered that, yes, he did have his favored weapon and that, against all reason, he’d deliberately left his heart behind.
You have to get out of bed sometime. Nolan’s voice snickered in his head, echoed by Ion’s long-ago taunt, Don’t let a bit of foreign pussy make you think with the little head instead of the big one.
Oria had been an addicting fantasy from the moment he first saw her, and his obsession with her had only increased over time. He’d even entertained for a while the idea that she had cast a spell on him, to occupy his thoughts so, waking and dreaming. But his connection to her had only deepened since she’d depleted herself of magic. For whatever reason, he loved her with everything in him. More than he loved his own people. A truth he’d never speak aloud, though Arill undoubtedly knew his heart.
Arnon glanced over with an assessing expression. “You look better. Baeltya says that, with continued treatments, you should be back to your robust self soon.”
Lonen grunted at that. He did feel better. It had been foolish, in retrospect, not to have called in a junior healer to tend him and Oria sooner. But then, he hadn’t been quite right in the head. More like a frenzied wolf, pacing the den to protect its mate and allowing none close enough to aid either of them. Some of it he could put down to fever. The rest…
Back to Oria and his crazed feelings for her. At some point he’d stop questioning them and simply accept that he wasn’t at all rational where she was concerned. He’d have to factor that in, like a warrior subject to the red rage might. Every man had his weakness and—no, not that. Oria was not his weakness. His unreasoning passion. Before her, his life had become a bleak landscape of death, grief, destruction, and toil. Oria brought magic with her.
That could only be good. For him and the Destrye.
“Baeltya says the sorceress is also stronger,” Arnon continued in a such a bland tone that Lonen bristled internally.
“Her Highness, Queen Oria?” he asked. “Your sister by marriage, you mean? You could inquire after her health. That would be the civil approach.”
“Don’t pick a fight with me,” Arnon replied mildly. “It’s not me who has an issue with your marriage to the Báran princess.”
“Then you’ve decided I’m under no spell?” A flock of ravens took off from the bare branches above, croaking out their scolds and warnings, sifting ice crystals down upon them. Oria would like seeing them, perhaps enjoy the taste of melting snow. He could envision her, pale skin pink with the chill, her copper eyes bright with delight as she tipped her fine-boned face to the sky to catch snowflakes on her tongue.
“Oh, you’re under a spell all right, just not one born of Báran magic, I’m thinking.” Arnon gave him a rueful smile. “Nolan doesn’t recognize a man in love when he sees him.”
“And you do?” Lonen retorted, a bit stung and exposed by that.
“I do now,” Arnon agreed with good cheer, not at all daunted. “Remember, I watched you with Natly, and there’s no comparison. For whatever reasons you’ve given yourself that you married the—that you married Oria, the primary one is clearly how you feel. For good or ill, it seems we must accept that reality.”
“And you think it bodes ill.”
“Not for you, no—though Nolan does.” Arnon closed one eye, peering at the dark lace of branches above. “But you and I both know it could mean trouble for Dru. If you’re blind to that, then I might have to change to Nolan’s view.”
“I thought you were the one who warned me against making Natly queen. Would any woman please you, or are you so jealous?” The wounded wolf in him leapt, quick to anger. And the reproving look Arnon shot his way made Lonen immediately sorry for it.
“Natly would make a terrible queen,” Arnon agreed without rancor. “I stand by that opinion. But this foreign sorceress? She’s turned your head in a way Natly never did, no matter the wiles she worked.” He held up a hand to forestall his brother’s reply. “I’m not saying it’s magic. I’m only asking you to listen to yourself. To think. Setting all else aside, answer this: will Oria make a good queen for the Destrye?”
“She is a sorceress of great power. We need her to protect us from the Trom. They will return. Surely you do not doubt that. Her brother Yar is king of Bára, worse than his forebears. Oria knows him, knows how to fight him. He wants Dru’s resources and won’t hesitate to strip us of them—and to strip us to the bone in the process.”
Arnon nodded, looking thoughtful. “I don’t disagree. In fact, I’m sure you’re correct on that. Today will show you where we stand on making it through the rest of winter as long as there are no further incursions. But, Lonen—I say this as your brother and your friend—the sorceress need not be queen to accomplish any of this.”
Lonen clamped down on his immediate jerk of protest. Arnon was right. And Oria herself had made the same argument, that she didn’t need to be queen in Dru. But she did need to be Queen of the Destrye to shelter the people within her magic—yet another thing that would be difficult to explain. Still, she didn’t have to be his only wife to accomplish that. Being brutally honest with himself, Lonen could see how part of his desire to make Oria queen lay in his boyish wish to give her the best, to prove to her that he could. He might not be able to return her to the elegant life she’d lived before, but he could build her towers to live in, make her a garden that would at least thri
ve in summer. He might be nothing more than a mind-dead barbarian, the furthest thing from the ideal sorcerer-mate who would have lifted her to magical heights, the husband she’d dreamed of, but he could dress her in the finest furs and give into her hands the might and power of ruling the Destrye.
Not honorable thoughts, none of them to his credit. All born of pride and vanity.
But there were honorable reasons, too, not the least of which that Arill Herself had guided his footsteps in this. The goddess had bound him to Oria both in blessing and as retribution for the terrible acts he’d committed in war. Arill meant for Oria to be Queen of the Destrye. He’d vowed as much in the goddess’s name and he would not be forsworn.
“As long as I am king,” he said, letting his trust in Arill suffuse the renewed vow, “then Oria is my wife and queen. I will not set her aside for any reason.”
Arnon sighed. “You always were the stubborn one among us. I told Nolan as much.”
“He put you up to this?”
“He wanted me to suggest setting the sorceress aside as queen, yes.”
Lonen swore at that, but Arnon reined up and put a steadying hand on Lonen’s forearm. “I want you to think about this, and this is only me talking. Forego making Oria queen. Marry Natly instead if you must. Or marry Salaya and make Ion’s sons your heirs as would please the people and perhaps Arill Herself. Keep the sorceress as a mistress. None would question that she is your trophy, least of all Salaya, who would likely not want to share your bed regardless.”
Lonen gripped his brother’s shoulder, looking hard into the younger man’s intelligent brown eyes. “Is this what the Destrye have come to? For decades we’ve worked to shed our past. We are no longer barbarians to abduct women and keep them as trophies. I vowed to Oria to be her husband. Would you have me go back on that, dishonor all we’ve done to become better men?”
Arnon returned his gaze. “Would you embrace that honor and be dead? Because that’s what it will come to. If you do not set aside the sorceress, Nolan will challenge you and you know he is the superior fighter. He’ll kill you. Not because he wants to, but because he believes it’s best for Dru. Isn’t that also honorable?”
When Lonen dropped his hand, shaking his head, Arnon persisted. “He’s not wrong and you know it, Lonen. You say this is about honor, but isn’t it more about your affection for this woman?”
“It can be both.”
“And you can be both right and on the side of honor—and it might still come down to one more of my brothers dead. Dru needs us all. We can’t afford to be killing each other. Think about that when you weigh your decision.”
“I’ve already made up my mind.”
“Of course you have.” Unexpectedly, Arnon grinned, though weariness mixed with the affection in it. “When have you ever not been set on your path? I’m asking you to think long and hard about whether this is the right time to be stubborn, the right thing to be stubborn about. Your certainty is a strength. Don’t let it be your curse.”
“I’ll think on it,” Lonen conceded, mostly to end the conversation.
“Thank you.” They rode on for a bit, the dense trees giving way to brighter light that signaled a clearing ahead. “One more thing for you to weigh,” Arnon lowered his voice, glancing at him, back at Alby and his squire, and away again. Lonen braced himself, for the set of his brother’s jaw signaled his unhappiness. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you, but I am the one who should serve as my brother’s second in any duel. And I can’t be second to both of you at once.”
“Are you saying that you’d choose Nolan’s side?” Lonen asked the question evenly and without emotion. Oria would be proud.
“I’m asking you not to make me choose.” The weariness crowded out all affection in his voice, and Arnon didn’t look at him as he said it.
By the time Lonen returned to the palace, he too was weary in mind and heart, as well as body. Although he felt better than he had the day before, and it seemed possible that soon a short outing wouldn’t exhaust him.
Holding on to hope that everything else would improve proved more daunting.
Despite the depredations of war on the numbers of warriors and the trials of the Trail of New Hope on the rest of the Destrye population, he still had far more mouths to feed than food to put in them. The decimation of the crops in late fall by the Trom and their dragons had done them in. At the current rate of consumption—already strictly rationed—they’d run out of food easily two months before the earliest crops could yield fruit, and that was hoping for a gentle spring. Even if they sent hunting parties further afield, to forests where they hadn’t thinned the game beyond the herds’ abilities to recover, and grimmer math predicting losses to hunger, disease, and cold, that only bought them maybe another month.
Ironically enough, the reservoirs Arnon and his engineers had constructed held plenty of water to see them through, even keeping in reserve several to irrigate crops through the summer. Heavy snows had fallen early and Arnon had wisely tasked teams of otherwise idle warriors to gather the snow from the fragile rooftops of the hastily built wooden city sprawling around the temple and palace—both relieving the structures of strain and supplementing the water reserves.
But if they were to make it through the winter, they’d have to slaughter the egg-laying poultry and brood livestock. The short-term solution would only leave them worse off the next winter.
Die now or die later, Nolan had commented with a malicious smile. We’d have done better to perish on the battlefield and have at least taken those cursed Bárans with us.
Lonen had left his brothers bickering over the math, citing very real fatigue. He hated how Nolan’s inquiry after his health sounded like another calculation, this one counting down the days until the duel. The lightweight wreath of hammered golden leaves weighed heavily, and he nearly handed it to Alby along with his outdoor fur cloak on entering the heated palace, remembering even as he lifted his hand to it that his responsibilities could not be shed so easily.
Or perhaps they could. He could abdicate—in Nolan’s favor or in Mago’s. Surely kings had done so before him. It might not necessarily be a failure. Wasn’t there wisdom in knowing when to retreat? If he dueled with Nolan, he’d almost certainly be defeated, which meant death. Either way he’d lose. And so would Oria and the Destrye.
The only path he could see through the dense forest of decisions was to take advantage of his powerful sorceress wife. They needed her back at full health and magical strength.
Dismissing Alby, he turned his steps, taking the branching passage to the bridge to Arill’s Temple rather than hastening back to Oria. There was some kingly discipline. It could be enough to know she would be there, waiting for him when he returned. He’d make it be enough.
And it was time to take his questions to the goddess.
He made his way to the royal family’s chapel, the sacred chamber where all their private prayers and rituals were conducted. He’d walked it so many times, his feet knew the way of their own accord—though they’d often dragged when he’d been a boy, his small and sullen rebellion against the boredom of the enforced visits. Back then the corridor had seemed excruciatingly long, the chapel dark and even somewhat scary. The carving of Arill over the altar had always reminded him of his mother, who had wielded her disappointment and disdain with devastating accuracy.
By the time he reached the age of five, he’d far preferred facing his father’s anger or even his brother Ion—older by seven years—gleefully dealing bruises with the flat of his sword than one of his mother’s heart-to-heart discussions. She’d had a knack for laying open his failings, gently but ruthlessly exploring his character and suggesting improvements. How a reckless boy might think ahead to the consequences of his actions. How a careless boy might slow down and pay attention to his lessons. That, while the illustrated tales of past deeds might be exciting, the son of a king had better ways to spend his time.
In the quiet of the chapel, Arill�
�s painted visage stared down at him with gray eyes exactly like Queen Vycayla’s. Her slight smile seemed both knowing and—while forgiving—also pained that he’d needed forgiveness in the first place.
Arill knew his blackest heart, had borne witness to all the dark deeds he’d done in the name of war and in the name of lust. After the siege at Bára, when he’d returned home an unwilling king and starving victor, he’d repented to Arill, purging himself in Her harshest ceremonies. Something in Her smile, however, always left him feeling some taint remained, the certainty that not only had he never measured up, he likely never would.
Her eyes forever mirrored his mother’s disappointed love. Perhaps that was the answer he sought—that he should abdicate in favor of Nolan or Mago. No one had meant for Archimago and Vycayla’s carefree third child to govern the Destrye.
Is that Your message, Arill? Should I step down and let my betters rule?
Arill’s sad smile spoke of Her grudging approval. Her open palm offering a heavy-headed stalk of grain gave him surcease. And yet… Her other hand held the scythe. The goddess both grew the crops and harvested them. The gleam of the fine-edged blade drew him, always had. He was a warrior, not a farmer.
His had been a battlefield promotion and, now that the battle had ended, he could demote himself again. But the hair prickling on the back of his neck told him the war was not yet over.
The Forests of Dru Page 8
