Oria's Gambit

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Time, however, was of the essence. If Yar returned from one of their sister cities with an ideal mate, he’d make a temple-blessed marriage and his claim to the crown would trump hers. If she could get Lonen to marry her that very evening, she might beat Yar to the crown. Under false pretenses. But for the right reasons. It was all a mire deeper than the muddy Bay of Bára when the tides receded.

  To give herself time to mull the ramifications, she moved over to Chuffta, stroking his arched neck.

  “Here—come meet Chuffta officially. He’s a derkesthai and does not much like you calling him a dragonlet or a lizardling. You can touch him.”

  “Did I say I wanted to?”

  “You said you wanted to know more about me. Here’s something to know.”

  Trepidation colored Lonen’s energy, until he shook it off. He drew near, then extended a fingertip and traced the luminously white scales. The anger evaporated entirely for the moment, leaving behind a shimmering wonder. “He’s soft,” he said reverently. “And intelligent?”

  “Very. He has a tendency to lecture.”

  “My job,” Chuffta reminded her unnecessarily.

  “He scolds you?”

  “Yes, as he’s reminding me now that it’s his job as my Familiar.”

  “I’ve never heard the word used that way—what does it mean?”

  “It means that he’s family to me, that he … helps me.” So difficult to explain to this hard man all the ways she was fragile, how Chuffta buffered the worst of the impacts of incoming energy. “It’s a special relationship.”

  “Do you remember the first time I saw you?” Lonen asked, voice rapt as he stroked Chuffta’s curved neck.

  Though an apparent non-sequitur, his question made perfect sense to Oria. It had been the first time she saw him, too. “Through the window.” She’d been transfixed by the sight of him, blood-drenched axe in one hand, knife in the other, as he slaughtered the priestesses on the walls, helpless in their trances as they fed sgath to the battle mages. They’d died easily because none of those women had active grien as the men did. As Oria did, against all nature and common sense—a secret no one but her mother and Chuffta could know.

  Unless Yar had guessed, which could spell disaster.

  “I’d never seen anything like you in my life.” Lonen wasn’t looking at her, his emotional energy turning warm, a youthful, wondering feel to him, his voice almost dreamy. “You and your derkesthai, like something out of an illustration in an old storybook. Fantastical and ethereal. Magical.”

  She stroked Chuffta’s wing, holding her breath against confessing that Lonen had looked to her like something that stepped out of a book, too. Ironic that his vision had an innocent, even romantic purity to it while hers had carried darkly sexual overtones—particularly given their current opposition where she’d play the eternal virgin and he could cat about as much as he pleased.

  “Why can you touch Chuffta and not me?”

  His question caught her by surprise and she realized he’d transferred his gaze to her face, focus intent on her, as if he tried to see through the mask.

  “It’s an … energy thing,” she replied, far too breathlessly. Not a useful trick, long term, to hold her breath as a way of holding her tongue. She’d have to find something else.

  “An energy thing.” His hand strayed much too close to hers on Chuffta’s hide.

  She snatched hers away and tucked both hands behind her back. “Well, energy and magic and … emotion.”

  “That goes through the skin.” His voice had hardened, a step short of calling her a liar.

  “I tried to explain that you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I touched you once before, at the city gates when you surrendered to me.”

  Something about the way he said that made heat wash over her. “I surrendered Bára to you, not myself.”

  “You’re one and the same, just I am myself, and also the Destrye and also Dru.”

  “Whatever you’re driving at, even after we’re married—should you decide to go forward with that plan—you will never be able to touch me without hurting me, so decide carefully.”

  His attention sharpened, a hint of dismay to it. “Did I hurt you before?”

  Better to be candid. “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you fainted—and were ill for a week.”

  Tempting to tell him yes and put a forever end to this line of inquiry, but she didn’t like lying to him. Not outright. Not more than she had to. “That was part of it, but not all.”

  “Because I made you go outside the walls.”

  “Yes, that was another part. I can’t leave Bára.”

  He stilled, outraged astonishment buffeting her. “Then how do you propose to be Queen of the Destrye?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d had some idea of taking her with him to Dru. “I—I don’t know,” she replied, far too faintly.

  “I’m to tell my people their queen will never set foot in their forests?” His voice rose in volume on the question, his incredulous frustration hammering at her.

  Oria threw up her hands, giving in to the urge to pace, to release the restless feelings he stirred up, a mirror to his. A break in hwil, but he wouldn’t have any way to know that. “Don’t tell them you married me at all! I don’t care. Marry your Natly and have her play your queen.”

  “You said it matters to the magic, that you are bound to the Destrye king.”

  “It does. But what occurs on the magical plane doesn’t have to be exactly replicated on the human one. What matters is that you marry me in our temple, that we’re bound by oath and magic. I don’t care if you marry Natly, too…in whatever kind of temple you have.”

  He stared at her for one more long, incredulous moment, then appeared to snap. With an abrupt turn, he stalked over to the pile of clothes, tossed aside the drying cloth, and yanked on the pants with furious gestures.

  Though Oria averted her gaze automatically, her sgath worked largely on a subconscious level, constantly feeding her information about her surroundings—including a far too detailed vision of how Lonen looked naked.

  “Arill take you, Oria,” he snarled. “You sure know how to piss me off.”

  How she longed for a swig of that wine.

  ~ 3 ~

  He’d never figured himself for a romantic. Even when he was merely a prince and third in line for the throne, he’d known that although he didn’t have to marry for duty—the Destrye did not engage in complicated politics, as the Bárans did—any bride he chose would have been subject to his father’s blessing. Sure, he and Natly had talked about marriage, but looking back, he could see that he’d felt safe coaxing her about it, indulging in the flirtation of it, knowing she’d never say yes. Her ambitions had looked higher than that. She’d sulked for weeks when his oldest brother, Ion, married Salaya.

  After that she’d worked her wiles on the second-oldest, Nolan, until he firmly rebuffed her flirtations—not only because King Archimago had decidedly not approved of her. Only then had she returned to Lonen. He hadn’t minded her fickle games. Natly was beautiful, with an arsenal of sensual tricks that turned a man’s mind, and he enjoyed her playful company. But chasing her had been a good deal more fun than having her. Those weeks in Dru after he returned home from the war, reluctantly taking up the crown that should never have been his in the natural order of things, Natly had affixed herself to his side, talking of nothing but the midwinter wedding ceremony he’d never quite agreed to. He hadn’t really meant to lie to Oria by calling Natly his fiancée. After all, Natly figured them to be engaged and he’d never directly disabused her of the notion. He’d simply never found the energy to make a decision one way or the other.

  He’d put it down to exhaustion—mental and physical—from tackling the Destrye’s many problems. More than enough decisions to make there, few of them optimistic. That soul-deep weariness from all he’d done had made Natly’s lighthearted ways, the ones he’d once prized, seem somehow t
awdry and frivolous.

  He’d already been battling the realization that it would be irresponsible of him as king to make Natly queen when Arnon put it into words. You can’t marry her. She would have made a decent princess, but she won’t make a good queen. Part of him had even felt relief at finding a way out. Arnon didn’t outrank him, but his brother had a good brain and knew how to use it. It would take substantial conviction to ignore his one remaining brother’s advice. Perhaps he also channeled their father’s stern ghost.

  He’d agreed to Oria’s extraordinary proposal in part because he knew she would make a good queen, even if she was a Báran sorceress who’d bewitched him. She’d demonstrated the resolve, courage, and selflessness to sacrifice herself for any people she took as her own. It had seemed fitting to him, a restoring of balance, that she’d step in to take responsibility for the Destrye when King Archimago had died taking responsibility to protect vulnerable Bárans.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that she didn’t intend to act as queen for anyone but the Bárans.

  And now she glibly announced that she didn’t care if he took another wife, if another woman pretended to be the Destrye queen in her place. That was the final snowflake to bring down the tree limb.

  He pulled the shirt over his head, settling the wide collar, and found she’d stopped her pacing and regained her regal poise, handing him a full glass of wine.

  “Perhaps you’ll explain your anger to me,” she said, all polite elegance. “A calm and rational conversation should not be too much to ask.”

  Taking the glass, he swallowed a healthy portion. Finding himself unable to match her reserve just yet, he stalled. “Just why are we standing in the baths having a long conversation, Oria?”

  She gestured to the many benches. “You are welcome to sit. I came here to discuss next steps with you in private, as I had other tasks nearby, and I thought to save you the trouble of climbing to my tower again.”

  He grimaced at that. It had taken a good quarter-hour to ascend those endless curving stairs to her terrace atop the tallest tower in Bára. “What next steps?”

  Spreading her palms wide, she huffed her exasperation. He supposed she made that sound when it wasn’t a half-laugh, too. Before, when she hadn’t had a metal mask hiding her face, she’d kind of puffed out her lips when she did it, blowing out her breath as if she released some tension. “The next steps are moot, Lonen, if we’re not going to marry.”

  “Oh, we’re getting married all right.” His turn to pace. “We agreed already. But mark me on this: I will not be in violation of my vows by marrying or bedding anyone besides you. I can’t imagine what you think of my honor as a man and a king, but I don’t make promises, then turn around and break them.”

  “I don’t either,” she said quietly.

  “Don’t you? You promised to be Queen of the Destrye then informed me you’ll never go to Dru and you’re fine with a false queen on the throne, regardless of how well she’d serve the people.”

  Oria’s golden mask seemed to ripple with flame as she swung her head to face him. He imagined her pretty mouth hanging open in an O of surprise. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” To her credit, she sounded chagrined, which helped mollify him.

  “Clearly.” He polished off the wine, then grabbed a hunk of bread to help soak up the alcohol in his blood. The Bárans made excellent bread, he had to give them that.

  “Though I did assume, when you said you were engaged, that you’d chosen a fiancée who’d make a good queen,” she pointed out, with cool logic that stung a little. He couldn’t explain that he hadn’t given it much thought without sounding like the idiot he was, so he made a show of chewing the bread.

  “I thought you’d be pleased enough to keep Natly as your lover—or wife according to your customs—and go on your way,” Oria continued, in a tone of infinite patience that didn’t fool him for a moment. “Some barbarian cultures allow a man to have multiple wives and concubines, I understand. A marriage of state that benefits you politically while not tying you down personally should be welcome to you.”

  He decided not to touch the condescending “barbarian cultures” remark. Particularly since the Destrye had maintained such practices in the past.

  “For someone whose name you heard once, you’ve certainly mentioned Natly numerous times.” He couldn’t help taunting her with that. Oria might not want him to touch her, but she didn’t like the idea of Natly having him either, much as she protested otherwise.

  “Because she’s constantly in the forefront of your thoughts,” Oria retorted.

  He shook his head at her, pleased to have caught her out. “Oh, Oria. Now that’s a lie.”

  She didn’t reply immediately. “That doesn’t matter. I concede the point—if we decide to go ahead with this marriage and you want me to truly be Queen of the Destrye, I’ll do what I can. I’ve learned a great deal, maybe I can eventually find a way to travel there. You’re correct—I owe that much to you and Dru. But have you thought of how your people will feel about having a Báran sorceress among them, affecting their laws, passing judgment on them?”

  “If you manage to drive off the Trom and put food in their mouths, they’ll be happy enough.” He repressed a shudder at the thought of those skeletal monsters who could at that moment be riding their fire-breathing dragons to burn the Destrye crops and buildings before they stole more of Dru’s precious water. His people would put up with more than a foreign queen to be rid of that curse. “If the price is marrying their king to you so you can work your magic to protect them, then even Arill cannot deny your fitness to wear the wreath of royalty.”

  She sighed and held out a hand. For a moment his heart tripped in ridiculous pleasure; he thought she invited him closer. But no, the dragonl—Chuffta—flew to her. The left forearm and shoulder of her crimson robe were padded, allowing the creature to land with his back talons gripping and wide white wings spread until he balanced. She scratched his breast, her body taking that intimate posture she probably wasn’t consciously aware of, which betrayed that she conversed with her Familiar. To salve his disappointment and irrational jealousy that she lavished affection on her pet and not him, Lonen savagely chewed more bread. At least he wouldn’t be so blazingly hungry. Not for food, anyway.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” she said.

  “Does that mean you’re relenting on withholding information? Or confessing to a previous lie?” He tensed for the answer, having placed a great deal of trust in Oria’s basic honesty, if nothing else. How much more a fool would he be proved to be before this was done?

  “I admit haven’t told you everything. I never will tell you everything, which might be misleading if not an outright lie, so if that’s your line in the sand, we might as well call off the agreement now.”

  “You’re awfully insistent on not getting married now,” he noted. “This was your idea to begin with.”

  “I know. But I was not completely forthcoming with you and I should have been.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I could marry your brother instead. Connecting to any part of the ruling family should be the same. That would leave you free to marry Natly”—she held up a hand when he opened his mouth—“or another. Someone who would be a real queen for your people. It was unfair and wrong of me not to offer that.”

  She cast a glance at Chuffta while Lonen mulled over her words, making him wonder what her Familiar counseled.

  “Then why did you insist earlier that it had to be me?’

  Oria sighed, mask turned away, though with her uncanny perceptions she’d know exactly where he was, what he was doing. How he felt. Though maybe not entirely. She didn’t seem to sense how much of his willingness to marry her had nothing to do with duty at all. Something that might be best to conceal from her, lest she use it as yet another weapon against him.

  “Several reasons,” she said, her words followed by a heartfelt sigh. “All of them self-serving. I am not Queen of Bára
because I can’t be crowned until I’m married. Fortunately, neither can the only other viable contender, my brother Yar, whom you no doubt remember.”

  He did. Yar was younger than Oria and still a boy in most respects, with a voice that cracked and the brash impetuousness of too much arrogance and too little experience. Still, Yar had helped Lonen’s warriors after the Trom attack, using his truly spectacular magical skills to mold stone into bridges and shelters. An ability like that, no matter how unsettling, would come in handy for building, say, aqueducts that didn’t burn.

  Oria began pacing again. Chuffta hopped to a nearby bench, watching her. “Right now, Yar is away looking for a bride from one of our sister cities. If he returns with an ideal—a suitable match, he’ll be married before I can be and the throne will be his.”

  Lonen scratched his beard thoughtfully, its trimmed and oiled softness an unfamiliar sensation. “Not to be callous about your ambitions, but would that be such a terrible thing?”

  She laughed, this one bitter with a metallic echo. “You think I’m power hungry and crave the throne. I suppose that’s a fair assumption on your part.”

  Actually he didn’t think that at all. It didn’t mesh with what little he did know about her, and he felt obscurely ashamed of hurting her by the implication. He opened his mouth to say… something, but she forged on in a rush, wringing her pale fingers together.

  “I did not send the Trom to Dru, but someone in Bára did. The ways of the Trom are mysterious even to us, but they can be directed by their summoner. It doesn’t make sense, but I think it had to be Yar who sent them. He’s the one who summoned them originally and he must control them still. He has powerful allies on our council and in the temple, those who believe it’s far easier to continue to steal water from the Destrye than to cast about for other options. We also face problems with our sister cities, because we’ve been supplying them with water—your water—and trading goods and political favors for it. That leverage is part of how Yar will be able to convince them to give him one of their priestesses for a bride. I don’t have a particular yen to be Queen of Bára, but I desperately don’t want Yar to be king. For the good of the Destrye, you don’t either. With the power of the throne of Bára and the sister cities and the Trom under his command…” she shook her head. “I don’t care to picture that future. I thought you might understand.”