Up to him to explain this last gift then. She’d done it to stop the brewing fight—for which he was grateful, so far as observing protocols, even as he burned with frustrated ire to battle it out with them already. Nolan and Natly had baited him, yes, but he was Arill-cursed done with their poking him at every turn. You don’t need to think about if you’re good enough to be king, because you are king. Why couldn’t Nolan just accept that reality?
And Natly. Of course she wouldn’t give up without a struggle. The Destrye women might not be the sort of warriors who rode into battle, but they fought as fiercely as any man—and as tenaciously. He supposed he couldn’t fault Natly for showing the same determination that won Bára for Dru, despite all odds.
But he’d see to it that she conceded defeat now. Oria had temporarily disarmed her. Salaya also, which made him wonder what encounter they’d had. Oria would be explaining a great deal. Once they extracted themselves from this fraught dinner. For all he knew, golems would spring from the earth next.
As soon as he thought it, he sent a swift prayer to Arill to guard against such an event. Knowing about the tunnels…if Oria could root a tree in the floor of the great hall, what would stop a burrowing golem from getting inside. They’d have no place of retreat then.
“And this tree, my queen?” he asked in a raised voice that commanded attention. “A gift to all the Destrye, Arill’s own Haligne tree, carrying her sacred bloom. A promise of spring and bounty to come.”
Her lashes lowered slightly in acknowledgement and perhaps relief. “Yes, Your Highness.” She opened her mouth to say more, closing it again as Chuffta landed on her shoulder. Probably wise.
Nolan struggled to his feet, gripping the back of his chair and staring at the tree, looking both ill and awed. Arnon stroked his beard, arms otherwise folded, deep in thought.
“She can do this?” Nolan forced between his teeth, face darkening with anger. Here it came. “Your pet sorceress has the ability to grow fruit trees from nothing at all.”
“Not nothing,” Oria corrected, “I used—”
But Lonen, realizing he already held her arm in a fierce grip, released it and stopped her words by putting his arm around her shoulders. “One of Oria’s magical gifts, yes, but—”
“All this time,” Nolan grated out, his voice rising, “you’ve led us to believe that she’d wield battle magics to drive off mythical dragons, and you knew she could have been growing food right here in this very hall.”
“Except for the minor issue of her being unconscious and weak from her journeys,” Lonen shot back.
“She doesn’t look weak now. And she’s hardly been an unconscious prize in your bed, fucking your brains out while you let your people starve.”
“That’s not exactly how—”
“Then how is it, little brother? Explain this to me because as I see it, I’m looking at a selfish man fatally distracted by a bit of foreign pussy when he should be serving his Arill-cursed people!” Nolan thrust a clenched fist at the stunned silent room. Arnon started forward, stopped himself.
Lonen, also, fought himself, wanting nothing more than to strike a blow across his brother’s mouth that spoke so foully of Oria. Nolan and Ion, both, so certain that could be his only attraction to Oria. Unless his mind was controlled by her magic. Or whatever trumped-up reason they devised for what they simply didn’t understand.
Couldn’t understand because he still didn’t dare expose Oria’s weakness. How she’d summoned this much magic, he didn’t know, but it had obviously tapped her out. Just in case, he asked, only for her ears, “Can you access more magic right now?”
She shook her head slightly, lips pressed together, tinged violet with fatigue.
“We’re waiting for this answer, Lonen, and—”
“Your Highness,” he corrected, overly loud but there it was. “I am your king, brother, whether you like it or not and you will address me and my wife with the appropriate respect.”
“I do not like it!” Nolan roared. “This foul sorceress who toys with us and taunts us with Arill’s sacred objects, profaning them with her Báran magic, she is no wife to you and you are no king of mine.”
Silence, thick and jagged, fell hard across the room like a tree dropped by ice.
Very softly, Arnon groaned low in his throat. Oria held still as death against Lonen’s side.
“Do you challenge me then, brother?” Lonen kept the words low enough to be between them, but the sound carried in the avidly listening hall.
“You have forced me to it,” Nolan replied, stiff, head high, looking past Lonen to some vision only he could see. “I have no choice.”
Now Arnon did move forward, taking Nolan by the arm. “You do have a choice,” he hissed in his brother’s ear. “Don’t do this to us, to the Destrye, to Dru.”
Nolan shook him off. “I’m doing this for the Destyre and Dru.”
“The enemy is out there, man, not in here,” Arnon urged in a harsh whisper.
“She is also here in this hall, along with any who aid her,” Nolan replied, his gaze on Oria.
“The sorceress can help us; don’t you see?”
“I see. Oh yes, I see all too clearly. And she will help us. Make no mistake of that. She will grow the crops we need to feed our people, but as penance for her people’s crimes against us, not from the luxury of our king’s bed. She clearly must be properly governed and controlled. Not coddled by a weak and besotted fool.” He spat the last at Lonen.
“I would never be ruled by you,” Oria hurled at him. “You make a grave mistake by thinking so.” Lonen squeezed her, not to silence her this time, but in reassurance. He wouldn’t let it happen, but her ferocity in the face of such a grim fate made him proud. His Báran sorceress was a warrior, too, in her own way.
“Do I, sorceress? We shall see. And the goddess will decide.” Nolan’s eyes glittered as he tightened his jaw. “I think you will do a great deal to protect your love from the death he’s earned. It’s clear from tonight’s demonstration that you do care for him, regardless of your other plans. So, I challenge you, Lonen, son of Archimago and Vycayla according to the ancient laws. May Arill bestow her blessing on her chosen king.”
“I accept your challenge, Nolan, son of Archimago and Vycayla according to the ancient laws,” Lonen answered in tones loud enough to ring confidently through the hall, though the prospect made him ill inside. By the expression on Arnon’s face, he felt the same.
Then Lonen’s gut dropped, remembering his younger brother’s warning, as Nolan clapped a hand over Arnon’s where he gripped his arm. “Brother, will you stand second for me?”
Arnon looked away from Nolan, to Lonen, quiet anguish in his shadowed eyes. Of course his younger brother had no choice. He had to stand second for one or the other—and Lonen could forgive him the betrayal where Nolan never would. They both knew it.
“Yes,” Arnon said quietly. “Yes, I will.”
Lonen hustled them down the hall, apparently back to their chambers, fast enough that Oria grew breathless keeping up, though she’d never complain. He gave orders as they went, summoning various people, by the names she caught. Uncharacteristically for him when she was present, he spoke in rapid-fire Destrye rather than in Common Tongue. Expediency or old habit, it didn’t matter.
Events had turned as grim as they could be.
“Well, they could be worse,” Chuffta noted. “The Trom could attack.”
“Shut up, Chuffta, really.”
“It would be an excellent time, is all I’m saying. With the Destrye divided by internal strife, Yar would have the perfect opening. It’s almost as if you did do what they suspected.”
“Not. Helping.”
He seemed to realize the depth of her displeasure belatedly. “Of course we all know you didn’t.”
Did they? By the grim set of Lonen’s jaw, he might not see things that way. “Just…don’t talk to me right now.”
She’d messed it all up entirely. They en
tered his chambers and she turned to him, “Lonen, I—”
“Go sit by the fire,” he interrupted. “Have some warmed wine or your cursed fruit juice. You’re cold as ice and pale as death.”
Okay, then. She did as he ordered, trying to be meek and unobtrusive—and also because sitting by the fire would feel good. The warm clothes had helped, but the great hall had been chilly, even before she unwisely spent the magic that left her empty. She sent Chuffta to his rug on the floor and tucked a fur blanket around herself. Some thoughtful soul had left spiced wine warming over a small candle, so she poured a mug and cupped the metal in her hands. It quickly became nearly hot enough to burn her palms, but she welcomed the sting. In the outer room, Lonen’s voice rose and fell as he spoke with someone. Then the door closed and silence crept in from the corners.
Punishment for her crimes.
At last he came in, no longer wearing his formal clothes, nor the wreath that named him king. He always took it off as soon as he could, it seemed, complaining of its weight. She’d picked it up once, when he was otherwise occupied, and it had felt light as a jewelbird in her hands. There could be all kinds of heaviness, though, she supposed.
Lonen sat heavily, bracing his forearms on his knees and lacing his fingers together, staring into the fire. He’d stripped down to a sleeveless shirt and breeches, his muscled arms and shoulders bare, along with his lower legs and feet. Old scars showed white against his tanned skin, the newer, still healing ones shades of pink and red, a map of his brutal history.
And now he’d fight for his life again, because of her.
Chuffta, curled in his blanket nest, but head up and alert, cocked his head, green eyes glowing bright with some thought he didn’t send.
“Where did you get the magic?” Lonen asked finally.
She swallowed hard against the surprise. Not what she’d expected him to ask. “I… absorbed it earlier today. On the way to the aswae, we crossed a bridge and then in Arill’s Temple I held a leaf and… it’s difficult to explain.”
He tilted a sideways look at her, gray eyes calm, expression so opaque she nearly opened a portal to read his thoughts. “Try,” he suggested drily.
Fine. “I held this beautiful leaf—”
“That beautiful leaf?” He pointed to where the leaf she’d picked up sat on a lovely golden metal stand on the fireplace mantel.
“Yes.” In all the flurry of preparation for dinner, she’d forgotten to look for it.
“It’s a dead leaf, Oria.”
“Remember five seconds ago when I told you it was hard to explain?” she bristled.
He chuckled, surprising her yet again, shaking his head. “Oh, good, you’re still you. I was concerned someone had replaced my fiery sorceress wife with a milkmaid.”
“I imagine milkmaids have challenges, too, what with cranky bulls.”
“Milk comes from cows, not bulls,” he corrected.
What did she know about livestock? “Cranky cows then.”
“I’ll allow as there are cows easily as mean as bulls out there.” Now his eyes sparked with humor and she huffed at him.
“I don’t know how you can jest at a time like this!”
He shrugged his shoulders, a slight roll, muscles flexing. “My father always said if you couldn’t afford to despair, then your other choice was to laugh.”
“Aha. This is where you get the eternal optimism from.”
Lonen frowned slightly. “You know, I’d never have said so, but you could be right. He was the one who risked everything to take every able warrior to Bára on the word of a few scouts and with no hope of victory. It’s amazing, really, that he convinced us all to go.”
“Was there arguing—like tonight?”
“No. No one dared argue with my father. No one would have dared challenge him. He was a great warrior and king.”
Her heart ached for the bleakness in his tone. “I’m so very sorry about tonight.”
He glanced at her, raising his brows in surprise. “Why? It wasn’t your fault.”
It wasn’t? “Sure it was—if I hadn’t worked that magic…”
“It would have been helpful if you’d warned me.”
“I didn’t know myself! I only wanted to stop the brawl and it felt like I had enough magic—which, yes, I somehow absorbed from communing with the leaf and feeling this sense of—don’t laugh—the forest breathing sgath into me.”
He didn’t laugh—instead he grinned. “Aha! Just as I’d hoped.”
“What? Hoped how?”
“I told you before I thought you could absorb sgath from the trees. They’re very old and powerful. And I kind of know what you mean. I’ve had that feeling when I’ve been in the forest—the usual sounds fall away and there’s this deep vibration, like an enormous heart beating at a pace so even and slow that we aren’t really aware of it most of the time.”
She regarded him thoughtfully, taking a long sip of the warmed wine. “You’re an odd man, Destrye,” she finally said, and he tipped his head in acknowledgment.
“You wouldn’t be the first to think so.”
“And I thought you wanted me to absorb sgath from the lakes.”
“We’ll try them, too.”
“We—when? What are you talking about?”
He finally sat back, scrubbing his hands on his thighs. “We leave in the morning.”
“We—I—you—” She was sputtering.
“Yes,” he nodded helpfully. “You and me makes we, and Chuffta, too. And Buttercup. The old team together again.” He sounded wry about that.
“But the challenge—are you forfeiting or… running away?”
His gaze went flinty. “Have you ever known me to run away from any challenge, Sorceress—including the formidable ones you set me?”
“No.” Unaccountably a laugh welled up in her chest, but she held it down, savoring the bright sense of well-being it brought. It did her heart good to see him back to his arrogant self, though she couldn’t account for the change in him. “Then what—”
“The sgath you got from that dead leaf, is it enough?”
“It wasn’t just the leaf.”
“Is it enough, Oria?”
“It depends. Enough for what?” But she knew.
“How about growing food in the hall—can you do that?”
“Well, not yet, but—”
“So we’re going to find a better source.”
“But, I was going to say, I’m working on it. I just need time to refine the technique, to meditate on it.”
Lonen was shaking his head, his expression full of regret. “We’re out of time, unfortunately. Not just for growing food. I need you to—”
“Your Highness?” An older man’s voice called from the outer chamber and Lonen sprang to his feet.
“In here, Priest Robson,” Lonen called out, waving to Oria to remain seated.
An older Destrye entered the room. Not a warrior, but tall as any of them, his wild mane of hair gone purest white with age. His brows, too, bristled with long white hairs that curled with untamed glee, as did his drooping beard and mustache. He wore deep green robes like Talya’s and fixed interested pale blue eyes on her.
“Rhiten, may I present my wife, Oria, Sorceress of Bára,” Lonen said in the most respectful tone she’d ever heard him use.
“Not your wife, boy. Not until Arill seals the union with her gentling hand.” Despite his attenuated appearance, Priest Robson had a voice full of vigor. He never took his eyes off Oria.
“I made the vow,” Lonen said, and the priest raised his brows, making the strands rearrange themselves into starbursts. “Arill’s vow, warrior to wife.”
“I know which vow you meant, boy,” the priest replied irritably. “You had no business doing that without a priest or priestess there to witness.”
“I didn’t have one handy,” Lonen replied in that dry tone of his. “And we’d already married under Báran law and magic, so it seemed … redundant.”
&n
bsp; Which vow was this? Oria cast back her mind. When she’d hesitated to confide the secrets that would get her killed, he’d knelt, kissed the hem of her robes and made a promise. I swear by the magic that binds us, by the seed of me in you and the blossom of you in me, that I shall never betray you, my wife, whether by action or inaction.
“‘Redundant,’ he says.” The priest snorted and cast his eyes skyward. “Arill save us from impetuous boys who think they can decide which rituals to keep and which to discard. Báran, are you, girl?”
“Yes, Priest Robson,” she ventured, though that answer seemed obvious enough. She felt wrong, sitting curled up under her blanket, but Lonen had told her to stay put, so she stayed.
“Hmm. Saw your display in the great hall. Quite the show.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she held her tongue and he transferred that pale gaze to Chuffta. “And this creature—it does your bidding? I’ve heard tell of witches who keep animal assistants to work magic for them, serve as repositories of power, that sort of thing.”
A tingle ran down her spine. “I am no witch; I’m a sorceress.”
He made a noise that might have been simply clearing a stopped nostril, though she doubted it. “What’s the difference?”
“There’s no such thing as witches,” she replied evenly, “except perhaps in children’s tales.”
Priest Robson scowled and harrumphed, but let the topic drop there. He turned back to Lonen, opened a book he carried and began reading in the Destrye dialect.
Oria took advantage of the opportunity to confer with Chuffta. “Have you heard of Familiars acting as repositories of magic before?”
“Oh, am I allowed to speak to you again?” Chuffta’s mind-voice reeked of disdain.
“Don’t be a suck-sand. I needed a moment of peace is all.”
“I’m sorry I said the wrong thing.”
“Don’t be. I was wrong to tell you to shut up.”
“Then I have heard some derkesthai tales along those lines, but they always sounded like legends. Like the stories of derkesthai drinking from magic springs and growing to ten times their normal size.”
The Forests of Dru Page 13
