Oria's Gambit

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “It’s not a question of changing my mind about sex,” she gritted out. “That is not under my control.”

  Lonen held up hands in mock surrender. “All right then. Why are we even fighting about this?”

  She didn’t even know—she’d lost track of the entire argument. The man did things to her. Mixed her up. Made her want things she couldn’t have and certainly didn’t have the luxury of wanting, with so many more pressing matters. That potent sexuality of his made it difficult to think clearly. And he called her rational and intelligent. Ha! She took a step back, giving herself relief from his stimulating presence, but lifted her chin, lest he think he’d cowed her. “Probably because you’re wrong; I am frequently stubborn for the wrong reasons.”

  A grin broke across his face, his great good humor also—thankfully—cutting that sexual tension that had swamped her. It seemed that, as he triggered the response in her, she did likewise to him. They were fools to be doing this to themselves.

  “So, what was your other reason?” He asked.

  “For being stubborn?”

  “No.” He waved that off, going back to the food platter and taking the last item on it—a bowl of greens he grimaced at but efficiently spooned into his mouth and chewed. “You said you had several self-serving reasons for insisting it be me you married, but you only listed two.”

  “With many parts.”

  “None of them really self-serving, however.”

  “You should tell him,” Chuffta counseled. “It will cost you nothing and will ease things between you.”

  “Nothing but my pride,” she retorted, but her Familiar only laughed at her. “Should I send for more food? I tasked the hunters to get meat for you, but it will take some time.”

  “I know—Bero gave me your message.” Amusement sparkled from him and he set aside the empty bowl, wiping his hands on the drying cloth and sauntering towards her. “And now I know there’s definitely another reason because you’re ducking the question.”

  “You don’t know any such thing.”

  “Oh yes, I do. You change the subject when any of my questions come too close to what you’d prefer to keep hidden.”

  “That seems impossible for you to keep track of as you ask a great many questions.”

  “Yes, I do.” He nodded, his attention intent on her. “And I’ll continue to do so. You might keep your face and body hidden from me, but I’ll find other ways to get inside you. Whether you are my enemy or my lover, I’m better off knowing everything about you.”

  The words, part promise, part threat, made her catch her breath. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions. Especially if I’m your enemy.”

  “Oria.” He lifted a hand, as if he might touch her, but hovered it near her cheek, his gaze wandering over her mask, before he lowered it again. “You asked me to be your husband so I can help you with your problems and you can help with mine. The whole point of this effort is to combine forces, to be partners, allies, maybe even friends, if not lovers. There’s no reason to treat me like an enemy to be shut out.”

  “Then why did you say that?”

  “To put it out there. We both know we dance a fine line. Let’s be clear about it, if only between us.”

  She closed her eyes, though it didn’t help her not see him, feel him in and around her. It was too late to avoid that intimate invasion. Her sgath seemed to flow toward him of its own accord. If only her mother could advise her on this. “The truly self-serving reason is that, if I can’t be married to—to have a temple-blessed marriage, then at least I’d be married to someone I…”

  “That you what?” he prompted, when she paused too long. He had that avid feel to him, like Chuffta when he hunted.

  Pursing her lips and blowing out a breath, she stepped back. “Someone I don’t abhor.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “That’s not what you started to say.”

  “Well, it’s what I decided to say.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you know that I dreamed about you?”

  He had a knack of doing that—disrupting the flow of her thoughts, taking her by surprise, and destabilizing her hwil. “No,” she replied, face hot under the mask. It was really too steamy in the baths to be wearing it. That and her priestess robes. “Why would I know that?”

  “You’re a sorceress. I figured one of your magic tricks might be to send me dreams.” A bit of tension filled his voice. Enough uncertainty that she decided not to ask what the dreams involved. She’d had plenty of her own about him, and if his were anything like hers…

  “No. It most assuredly is not.” She folded her hands, then felt too prim, and dropped them. “Now, if we can discuss—”

  “If you didn’t send them, then I had them because I couldn’t get you out of my mind,” he interrupted, though his voice was quiet. “I think you were about to say at least you’d be married to someone you’re attracted to—and I’m saying I’m attracted to you, too, Oria.”

  “I know that,” she snapped, so thoroughly unsettled that she missed denying that’s what she’d been thinking. “I can feel it.”

  “What does it feel like?” He didn’t come closer, but his energy intensified so much that it expanded to flow over her, almost overwhelming. Also addicting, like being warmed by a sun that never burned.

  “I just—Lonen—can we please drop this topic and discuss next steps? I’ve arranged to meet with my mother, to discuss this plan with her. If we’re going to go ahead with this, I must go now.”

  “You have to schedule time with her?”

  “She’s … not well. My father’s death was very hard on her. Her health is tenuous and my window of opportunity narrow because of it.”

  His warmth chilled. “We all lost a lot of people we loved.”

  “I know. Believe me—” She couldn’t think about it. Her father dead. Ben and his sweet smile gone forever. Nat. Her lady-in-waiting. Her faithful guard. She couldn’t count all the deaths and the misery they’d left in their wakes. “This is another thing that’s difficult to explain to an outsider, but my father and mother shared a special bond. Her grief is no greater than anyone’s, but losing him caused her … damage.”

  Lonen looked thoughtful. “Did they have one of these temple-blessed marriages—ideal mates?”

  A warrior of such skill shouldn’t be so clever, too. It simply wasn’t fair. “Yes,” she admitted. “And that’s all I’m saying about it.”

  “That doesn’t mean I won’t keep asking.” He grinned and she realized she’d made a huff of frustration. “Okay, you’ll explain your plan to her and then what?”

  “If she approves, she’ll approach the temple and we can be married as soon as tonight, and begin proceedings with the council to make me queen, in case Yar returns sooner than I expect.” And so she could begin her research into the Trom and be ready to wrest control from him.

  “I cannot stress enough how much you should not hasten that step, at the peril of not only your sanity, but the wellbeing of us all.” Chuffta’s mind-voice held unusual sternness, but she ignored him, focusing on convincing Lonen to stop his games and think about the tasks immediately before them.

  “And if she doesn’t approve?” he was asking.

  “Then we’ll have to go with the plan of you throwing your weight around. But it would be smoother with her help.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Tomorrow the council meets. I’ll petition them to ratify us as king and queen. Once we have the marriage in place, you and I can plan our strategy with the council, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Sounds good.” He picked up his axe, the dense iron double-bladed head like a hole in her sgath vision. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re … coming with me?”

  He grinned at her. “Of course. We’re doing this together. Partners. We have a fight on our hands—not just you.”

  “We’re not married yet.”

  “But that’s the plan. Which means tonight is our wedding night.”
That wave of fierce sexuality rolled over her.

  “Not in the way you mean.”

  “We’ll figure out something to consummate the momentous occasion. Lead the way, my lovely fiancée.”

  Setting her teeth against several replies, she did.

  Lonen couldn’t quite define to himself why he enjoyed teasing Oria so much. Maybe because it came close—a distant second, but still—to actually touching her. If he couldn’t seize her and kiss her breathless, rattling that infernal poise, he could at least make her sound all faint with words.

  Besides, it was fun.

  For the first time since he’d accepted the king’s wreath and the burden of leading the Destrye over his father’s corpse, here with Oria he’d gone long minutes without giving any thought to his crushing responsibilities and the looming threat of disaster from so many directions. He couldn’t do any more for his people than he was at that moment—which included giving up a normal marriage and very likely the hope of having heirs of his own. He couldn’t regret that aspect too deeply. Not as far as his responsibilities to the Destrye were concerned. It would be fitting for Ion’s boys to inherit the throne that their father should have had.

  That he minded the loss for himself came as something of a surprise. Somewhere deep in his heart he’d nursed the idea that he’d have a loving wife and children to be his family one day. That he wouldn’t always feel so alone.

  Amazing that any such tender idealism had survived all he’d seen and done.

  Dueling with Oria provided a most welcome distraction from such useless thoughts. Also, with every indignant retort and flummoxed response, she became less enigmatic fantasy creature and more flesh and blood woman to him. A welcome transformation. Along with the most pleasant news that he at least hadn’t been alone in his strange obsession with her. There might be hope for their marriage yet. It might never be the loving union he’d dreamt of, the wife who’d listen to his foolish thoughts and deepest fears, who he’d be able to confide in when the throne demanded he keep a brave face for all others. But maybe they could make something of a friendship.

  If nothing else, conspiring with her to navigate Báran politics was far better than making decisions on his own. He’d never wanted to be king of Destrye. He wouldn’t refuse the path Arill set for him, but maybe along with the punishment Oria would be, the goddess also offered him someone to share the trials of that path.

  Oria led him out of the baths to a back stairway, walking just ahead of him with spine straight and chin high. Chuffta rode on her shoulder, head swiveling to watch him with those discerning green eyes. Hard to believe such a small skull could contain much intelligence, though he had to admit the Familiar demonstrated more of it than a typical animal, clearly much smarter than his own hunting hounds. The Trom had ridden much larger dragonish creatures that looked much the same as the derkesthai, only in darker colors. Perhaps the adult version of her Familiar. Not a reassuring possibility.

  “Is Chuffta a juvenile?” He asked.

  “No, he just acts juvenile—hey!” She slapped a hand at Chuffta, freeing the braid he’d yanked with sharp teeth, her giggle like water in the desert. A fascinating woman, so remote, even stern at times, cloaked with magic that shone almost as brightly to his eyes as her copper hair, and then almost girlish in her innocence. She hadn’t stepped outside Bára until he forced her to, and she evinced an almost childlike naiveté about the world even a short distance beyond the walls. More than that, she’d told him she mostly stayed in her tower, living alone but for her Familiar and visits from her mother. Why?

  “Why?” Oria asked, an uncanny echo of his thoughts. It took him moment to think back.

  “I thought maybe Chuffta would grow into one of those dragon creatures the Trom flew in on.” Chuffta’s mouth parted, showing sharply fanged teeth, long forked tongue lolling out, for all the world looking like a ferocious smile.

  Apparently Oria didn’t perceive that because she continued walking, smoothly replying, “He says not, though I wondered the same thing. He told me that would be like comparing a house cat to one of the golden desert jaguars.” She breathed a laugh. “Also he wants me to tell you that he’s far smarter than the Trom dragons, who he calls vile and witless beasts.” At the top of the stairwell, she turned and followed a narrow interior hall, stuffy from the lack of windows that normally graced most Báran passageways.

  “Is this a servants’ corridor?”

  “Yes.” She glanced back at him, an odd habit as she clearly didn’t need to. Perhaps because she hadn’t had her mask long. “I hope you’re not offended. I mean no insult, only to hide your presence in Bára as long as possible.”

  His hands twitched with the impulse to slide around her waist and pull her back against him, to kiss that delectably exposed nape and tease her about offending him. Could he really never touch her at all? If skin-to-skin contact was the problem, perhaps he could wear gloves… He had some for cold weather—unfortunately back in Dru. “No, I’m not at all offended. The Destrye are not like your Báran men, so obsessed with status. I ask out of simple curiosity.”

  “You seem to have plenty of that and none of it simple,” she muttered, then stopped before a door, rapping on it briskly, then opening it. “Would you make sure she’s alone?”

  Lonen took a step to oblige, but Chuffta spread his wide white wings and took off from her shoulder, doing his mistress’s bidding—much as Lonen himself had been so eager to do. Ion would be laughing his ass off. Don’t let a bit of foreign pussy make you think with the little head instead of the big one. For once the memory of his eldest brother didn’t come with a wave of fresh grief. If he watched from the Hall of Warriors, Ion would be hugely amused that Lonen had not only failed to follow what was likely very good advice, but wouldn’t even enjoy the promised reward for his loss of good sense.

  “All right, let’s go in,” Oria said suddenly, her voice and body tense. She’d probably overheard his salacious thought. Maybe she could teach him how to keep his more obnoxious fantasies hidden. It didn’t seem like she heard everything that crossed his mind—maybe mainly the ones he was more enthusiastic about.

  “Ready?” she prompted, looking back at him, something in her voice. Maybe it wasn’t that he provoked her, but her own nerves over presenting her plan to this former queen Lonen had never glimpsed.

  “Do I look all right?” he asked her, partly to tease, but also to give her a moment to recover her poise. “I wouldn’t want to bias your mother against her future son-in-law by looking like I fell out of a tree.”

  Oria tilted her head slightly, facing him. She’d be wrinkling the bridge of her nose for his frivolity. “You have”—she waved fingers at his temple—“some hair that’s come loose.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed. “Right there.”

  Deliberately he stroked a hand over the wrong spot. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Chuffta flew back, landing on her shoulder, and she huffed her impatience. “Really it’s not important and she’s waiting for us.”

  “Can’t you fix it for me?”

  “No,” she drew out the word as if he might be stupid after all. “Because I can’t touch you.”

  “You said skin to skin—this is skin to hair. They’re different.”

  “Lonen.” She put her hands on her hips, bristling with exasperation.

  “Just try,” he coaxed. “You said your mother’s good opinion and support are important.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said in a sharp tone.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not you.” She waved a hand to erase the words. “I’m sorry. I was replying to Chuffta. It’s not always easy with both of you talking at me at once.”

  He and the derkesthai exchanged rueful looks, an odd brotherhood. “He thinks you can try?”

  “Yes.” She sighed her exasperation. “Fine. But don’t move.”

  He could swear her Familiar gave him a knowing nod of complicity before le
aning his cheek against the smooth skin under Oria’s ear. She relaxed at the contact—deriving some kind of stability or comfort from it—and stepped closer to him. With slowly tentative fingers, she reached up, caught the escaped curls, and tucked them back in with deft skill.

  That close, her heady scent of lilies wafted over him and he imagined her face intent as she took care not to touch him. “Are you all right?” he asked her quietly and she stilled, her copper eyes perhaps flying to his.

  “So far,” she breathed, the outline of her exquisite breasts rising and falling under the silk. Though he’d called the robe shapeless and ugly, in truth it clung in exactly the right places, even if it did cover up too much. She stepped back abruptly, erecting that chill barrier between them again. “No more delays. And let me do the talking.”

  Happy enough with the results of that test, he bowed and gestured for her to precede him, though he reserved the right to speak up if necessary. She pivoted, her tiny behind twitching as she stalked away into a set of rooms that exceeded even his imaginings for the former queen of Bára. Sculptures made of more glass twined in shades of ice-white, gold, and rose, scattered about the room. The floor of mosaicked tiles reflected light like the treacherous ice cliffs in the sea off Dru. All of it had a cooling effect—soothing in the desert climate, perhaps—but he found he preferred Oria’s sunny and lush rooftop terrace, with the vivid sails of silk catching the breezes and her fire table of violet flames.

  Elegant even by Báran standards, the lavishly furnished and decorated chambers looked out through grand arched windows to the city wall just below—though across the deep chasm that divided the palace grounds from the city proper—and then to the wide, desolate plain and distant hills beyond. When he wasn’t baking in the landscape, Lonen could appreciate its austere appeal, the clean, simple lines and radiant colors reminding him of Oria.

  All thoughts led back to Oria. His particular goddess and doom.

  This, then, was the window he’d glimpsed her in that night, as he’d run along that very wall. Now, as then, her Familiar took a perch upon the sill, green eyes knowing.