“I’m really sorry she said those things.”
“Another apology, and for something you can’t control. I don’t mind, Oria.” He pushed off the wall and it seemed he might reach for her, but he stopped himself. “I’d much rather know the unvarnished truth of how it will be between us. No secrets to fester. If you’re making a grave sacrifice by marrying me—one I approve of as it will save both our peoples—then I want to know exactly what you’re giving up, so I can do what I can to compensate for it. I’d like to think I can offer you some happiness, if not exactly what you were expecting.”
“Oh.” The corridor was too hot. That was why she felt a little faint.
“Your mother is wrong.” Lonen sounded gravely determined, that warrior’s resolve enfolding her, an image in his mind of him taking her in a gentle embrace that very nearly felt real. “I will treasure you, Oria, and I’ll do my best to know you, but you have to let me in.”
“I don’t need that. That’s not why we’re doing this.”
“I need it.” His emotions, complex and shifting with layers, intensified.
“But why?”
He shrugged, impatient with the question, but continued to refine the image of holding her in his mind. “Maybe I’ve had plenty of misery, too much blood and loss and death. We might be marrying for political reasons, but that doesn’t mean we can’t bring something bright to each other’s lives. That we can’t take care of each other.” The sense of his arms around her made it almost believable.
“How are you doing that?”
“If you sense how I feel, what’s in my head, then I can give you this much. If I can’t hold you and comfort you, then there’s this, yes?”
“The Destrye is wiser than he seems at first.”
Oria didn’t know what to do with Chuffta’s seemingly sudden and enthusiastic approval of Lonen, so she ignored him.
“I know it hurt you to see your mother that way,” Lonen continued in a gentle tone. “It would be painful for anyone. My father, King Archimago, when my brother Nolan fell into a crevasse on the battlefield… in some ways he never recovered from that.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Stop,” he replied, but with a kind of tenderness. “As you said in there, we’ve all done things. I’ve done things I’ll carry the stain of to my grave. But what I’m trying to tell you is that if your mother is in this state because her ideal mate died, then perhaps it will be a strength for you, that you won’t be exposed to that danger with me.”
She lifted her head in surprise, amazed at the way his masculine vitality had filled the narrow space, embracing her, weaving in with her sgath. “I’d never thought of it that way.”
“See?” He was all smug male then. “You can learn things from me, too.”
She huffed at him, not even caring that it made him grin. “I’m not convinced of that, Destrye.”
“That’s all right. I’ll be convinced for both of us.” He lifted a hand, moving close enough to trace the fall of one of her braids, though he kept a whisper distance from it. His granite-colored eyes seemed silver bright viewed with her sgath, like the white-hot heart of a glass forge. “Maybe I should be sorry that I won’t be the husband you deserve, but I’m not. I’d hate to see you like that, with your fire dimmed and your sharp mind dulled.”
“She used to be so much more.”
“I saw glimpses of it. She must have been a formidable woman and queen. I regret I didn’t meet her before.”
“We all carry regrets,” Oria echoed his earlier words. “And I, for one, am tired of wallowing in them. You’re right—you and I are about moving forward. No more apologies, yes?”
“Works for me.”
The moment felt oddly intimate. So much so that she moved away, putting safer distance between them. “I suppose that moving forward means going to the temple and convincing High Priestess Febe to marry us.”
“Time for the strategy that Bára and everything in it, including you, belongs to me?” Lonen’s energy took on a feral, sharp edge—one that strangely put her in mind of the iron axe he carried on his back.
“As a gambit only,” she told him, bringing her own mettle to it. “Don’t go getting the wrong idea about me.”
He only nodded and gestured for her to lead the way. “This time, you’ll leave the talking to me.”
~ 6 ~
Oria remained subdued, but seemed less crushed than when they’d left her mother’s chambers. Lonen congratulated himself for both distracting her from her troubles and also making inroads on earning her trust. Her secrets would not become like the fanged and clawed Báran golems, tearing at their entrails until they resented each other rather than rightfully hating the pain instead. As he had with the golems, he’d hunt those secrets down, one by one, and destroy them. His iron axe cut through the magical creatures; he could cleave her magical secrets into dust as well.
Once he’d ferreted them out. Including the one her mother had alluded to: And if you break? Something about Oria’s plan worried him—and had upset her mother, too. He’d thought no price would be too high to pay to save the Destrye, but… No. What was he thinking? His first loyalty belonged to his people. No matter his other interests in Oria, his softer regard toward her—all of that fell into the same set of considerations as his own happiness. They’d both do whatever it took for the greater good.
But he would find out what she faced, and what the stakes would be.
He listened as Oria explained in hushed tones how the temple hierarchy worked and the path they’d take to where the High Priestess would receive them. As soon as they emerged from the servants’ corridor, word of his presence in Bára would fly ahead of them, faster than jewelbirds.
“What are jewelbirds?”
He got the impression she rolled her eyes at him, considering the question irrelevant. “I’ll show you one, in my garden. They’re small, fast and beautiful—they come to the flowers.”
The flowers that died inch by inch without water under the scorching sun. Another thing Oria loved that would be lost to her. Nothing compared to what the Destrye had lost, but it bothered him still.
They arrived at a small waiting chamber and she sent a guard to bring her a substantial escort. There would be no surprising the High Priestess, she’d explained, so they might as well take the public halls. At that point, the more people who knew what was going on, the better. She seemed to believe the people would support her. From what he’d seen when she’d offered the city’s surrender, he agreed.
Though privately he thought they’d love her better without the mask and crimson robes of the very temple they all so clearly feared.
“And your role in this battle?” he asked. “Will you be the frightened virgin terrorized into marrying her conqueror?”
She actually laughed, a lighthearted musical sound, however brief. “While I’m largely regarded as fragile, none of the priestesses would believe I could be terrorized, even by a man as intimidating as you. I shall play the nobly resigned daughter of the house of Tavlor and Rhianna. With luck, Febe will be so pleased to see me brought low and consigned to a mind-dead marriage, she’ll agree to your demands for that reason alone.”
“You find me intimidating?” The concept both startled him and made him absurdly proud. And here he’d thought Oria the one with all the power in her slim, magical hands.
“I can’t believe that’s what you focused on from everything I said.”
He went to an unglassed window that overlooked one of the yawning chasms that cracked through Bára, making her towers seem that much taller by comparison. It probably didn’t speak well of him that it salved his pride to know she found him intimidating, especially as it wouldn’t necessarily contribute to happy relations between them. “What about me intimidates you?”
“You’re big.” She said it with a shrug in her voice. “And you carry a great big battle-axe that could chop me into little wriggly bits.”
Wriggly bits.
The more he came to know her, the more he glimpsed what might be a playful, even whimsical personality. And perhaps much of her bravery came from a rash disregard for her own wellbeing. Which brought him right back to whatever foolhardy plan she entertained.
“What did your mother mean about you ‘breaking’ if you try to summon the Trom? What magic is involved there?” He watched her carefully, so he caught how she stiffened defensively, lacing her fingers together as if that might hide from him what she planned.
“That’s nothing I can explain to you.” Destrye. She didn’t say it aloud, but the haughty tone conveyed the slamming of temple doors against the outsider.
“Can’t or won’t?” he growled back. If she put him in mind of a housecat, all fluff and hiss, then he’d meet her posture for posture.
She inclined her head regally. “They are functionally the same. And regardless, this place is not private enough to discuss the situation, even if I could. It’s best for you not to mention the Trom or my magic at all. I can hardly trust you with my secrets if you insist on discussing them indiscreetly. Don’t worry about the magical aspects of this plan, King Lonen, I’ll see to my end of the bargain.”
He set his teeth against his irritation. “At what cost to you?”
“What’s it to you?” she fired back. “Enough with this protective and solicitous charade you’ve adopted. Expiate your guilt some other way. Yes, you killed our priestesses and no, you didn’t want to. But you can’t bring them back by saving me any more than you can resurrect that poor doe whose throat you cut because your arrow missed her heart.”
The sally struck his own heart, thudding into the old wound with painful accuracy. “I shouldn’t be surprised you saw that in my head, but it’s harsh and cold of you to use that against me. If my size and axe intimidate you, then just imagine what it’s like for me to have you prowling about in my secret soul, unearthing pains no one would know about otherwise.”
She lifted a hand to Chuffta, stroking him for her own comfort, he surmised, a tremor in the gesture. “I know you told me not to apologize anymore, but I’m offering one anyway. My abilities are … new to me and somewhat ungovernable. I’ve also spent little time around people and you—well, I don’t mean to see these things. But you’re right that it was wrong to try to hurt you with that information.”
“Is that what you were doing?” He studied her, the tense lines of her shoulders making the silk robe look as if it hung on hooks, not soft flesh. “I think that whatever you’re planning is dangerous, and you don’t like anyone pointing that out to you.”
Chuffta fixed him with a gimlet green stare and Lonen could swear the Familiar practically nodded at him.
For her part, Oria had curled her fingers into tiny fists. “My goal is to help your people. That’s why you came to me and that’s the reason we’re doing all of this. You have your part; I have mine. Don’t you dare question how I intend to go about it.”
“You mean, how you go about expiating your own guilt?” His taunt, throwing her words back at her, hit home he was sure, but she barely showed it.
“Don’t pretend to know me, Destrye,” she said softly, with surprising menace. Her magic curled around him, a palpable thing. The sensation might once have revolted him, but it had become part of being in Oria’s presence, along with her scent and beguiling figure. Perversely, he even liked that she threatened him. She had that much correct—no one would believe her as the terrified virgin.
But he did come to know her. In time, he would know her even more. Once he’d bound her to him in marriage, she’d have no escape. Threaten as she might, she would never actually harm him, no more than he’d take his axe to her. He snorted out a laugh, making her turn from her restless pacing.
“You laugh?” she hissed.
“Wriggly bits, indeed,” he replied, shaking his head.
It made her pause, and then her escort of armed City Guard arrived to escort them to the temple, ending further argument between them.
They walked side by side, the guard flanking and following, deeper into the palace than he’d been before. As with all of Bára, the halls were open and spacious, with regular windows open to the breezes that relieved the intense heat of afternoon. As Oria had predicted, people noted his presence with variations of shock and alarm, any number of young servants and the occasional crimson-robe figure dashing off to spread the news. He imagined them like Oria’s jewelbirds, zooming about from flower to flower.
They emerged from the far side of the public areas of the palace and onto a bridge that spanned a smaller chasm to yet another set of towers, built entirely of rose-colored stone carved in circles, tiled with blue-white moons in various phases. A tribute to the moons Sgatha and Grienon.
At the far end of the short span, the high priestess stood flanked by two priests. Though they all wore the smooth golden masks of their office, the high priestess had become familiar to him with her extravagantly braided white hair, and the priests recognizable as male by their bulk. Such as it was—the Báran men stood taller than Oria, but generally slight in stature compared to Destrye warriors. Even starved and overworked, Lonen likely outweighed these men by half again.
No wonder Oria found him physically intimidating. Yet another way he’d never be the husband she’d expected to have, in yet another aspect totally out of his control.
“Destrye.” The High Priestess’s voice rang like a hollow gong. “You are not allowed within the sacred temple of Bára. Princess Oria, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“High Priestess, I—”
Without thinking, Lonen grasped Oria’s upper arm, stopping her and asserting his command of the situation. This, he could control. She stiffened with a gasp, but Chuffta didn’t leap to her defense, so it seemed his touch over the robe didn’t harm her, or at least not overly much. Nevertheless, he loosened his grip.
“You will address me as Your Highness,” he informed the High Priestess in a cool tone that should convey both his rank and her trespass. “Or King Lonen. I’m here to invoke the ancient right of conqueror. I claim Princess Oria as mine. You will bind her to me under your laws.”
Oria had gone quiet and still, barely breathing, and he would have given a great deal at that moment for her trick of reading thoughts and emotions. High Priestess Febe betrayed nothing of her reaction, but the sense of magic thickened. Nothing like battles with mages to teach a warrior to pay attention to impending attack of an uncanny nature. Magic built much like static charges in still air heralded a bolt of lightning. The wise man took cover in such circumstances.
If only he could.
He shook Oria’s arm, trying to make it look forceful without requiring a tighter grip. “Command them to stand down. You’ve acknowledged my claim as lawful—and you’ve been warned of the consequences should your people attempt to do me harm.”
“It’s true,” she blurted, her voice strained. Concerned that he might be hurting her through the thin silk, he let go under guise of thrusting her forward. She stumbled slightly on the too-long hem of her robes, but caught herself, straightening proudly. Nobly resigned daughter of the house of Tavlor and Rhianna. He had to force back the smile, concentrating on his deep well of anger, although the rage didn’t leap to mind as eagerly as usual.
“The Destrye king has returned to claim me as his. He’s willing to make me his wife under Báran law.” Oria managed to sound infuriated, frightened, courageous, and forbearing all at once. Quite the woman, his Báran sorceress. “His armies wait beyond the bay, as a token of good faith, but if he does not signal them at set intervals, they will invade Bára and this time they won’t leave again.”
Febe surveyed him, taking her time, but a flick of her fingers had the sense of impending lightning dispersing. “How has King Lonen entered the city without my knowledge? His Highness wears the clothes of a Báran man, so it appears he’s been here long enough to be tended.”
“Your knowledge?” Oria’s tone went scathing. “I
’m unaware of a change in protocol that would have the City Guard notifying the temple of a high-ranking visitor before the royal family.”
“Indeed, High Priestess Febe,” Captain Ercole, a stalwart and canny soldier who’d led the resistance against the Destrye and won Lonen’s respect as few Báran fighters had, stepped forward. “King Lonen arrived and requested an immediate audience with the ruling family. With Prince Yar out of the city and the former queen Rhianna unable to receive visitors, I escorted him to Princess Oria. Our scouts have verified the presence of his armies on the far side of the bay,” he added smoothly, as if they’d practiced the deception. Lonen appreciated Oria’s cleverness in protecting him. In retrospect, bringing an army—or even a small guard—would have been smarter. Arnon had argued viciously for it. But Lonen had been unwilling to lead yet more Destrye into conflict and possible death. That reluctance might prove to be his great failing as a king. Or one of them. So many to choose from.
“Why now, Your Highness?” Febe turned her attention to him, her manner more obsequious. “We thought you satisfied with the treaty you made and required nothing more of Bára. Certainly not her most treasured daughter.”
He allowed himself to smile, ever so slightly. If they shared Oria’s abilities they would sense something of his emotions. So he allowed the feelings of lust and possessiveness—even obsession—for Oria to rise up. With a careful hand he picked up one of her long, perfectly plaited braids, running it through his fingers. It glinted in the sunlight like finely wrought copper chain. “I discovered I could not forget a certain Báran princess. The Destrye have a long, much celebrated history of taking women from Bára and your sister cities to serve us. It occurred to me that with the defeat of Bára, it’s time to resurrect the tradition. A trophy, if you will, as lasting memory of our triumph and your defeat.”
“Our Trom bloodied you and yours, Your Highness. But for Princess Oria’s concessions to you, Bára might have called it your defeat.”
Oria's Gambit Page 7
