Or that her personal scale of sorrows and successes would alter quite so dramatically.
The nine-person council—composed of two priests, two priestesses, four folcwitas, who managed all nonmagical aspects of running Bára, headed by Folcwita Lapo, and High Priestess Febe—all seemed to frown at her as one. Captain Ercole, representing the City Guard, stood to the side as a non-voting consultant only. Though as Oria understood it, the council didn’t exactly vote so much as attempt to persuade the titular heads of the body, those being the senior folcwita and high priest or priestess, to then advise the king or queen. With the current balance, it seemed that Febe had placed herself in the role of royal by adding an extra temple representative.
“Princess Oria,” Folcwita Lapo puffed with the suspicion of an embattled man, “this is most irregular. Why are you here, bringing that Destrye—”
“King Lonen,” she corrected in a cool, cutting tone.
“Not my king,” he snapped back.
“Your king, yes, and your conqueror. Or have you forgotten so soon?” Lonen’s voice rumbled at his most intimidating. Even his energy seemed larger, filling the room. Did he do it consciously? Probably not. Or maybe he did, having learned rapidly from her. Regardless, he affected them all, magically gifted and not.
Folcwita Lapo rose and steepled his hands on the semi-circular stone table, inclining his head at Lonen. “The council apologizes for the misunderstanding, King of the Destrye, but the treaty you believed valid is not. As Bára has no one on the throne at present, we are not in a position to pass binding law on anything.” Yellow frustration oozed from him in light wisps.
“Your laws are irrelevant to me,” Lonen replied, “except as my wife and I determine to uphold them.”
Lapo glanced at Febe, puzzled. “His wife?”
“Behold your new queen,” Lonen overrode any other reply. “Queen Oria of Bára.”
Lapo laughed, while Febe continued to be silent, her sgath drawn tightly about her. The other priests and priestesses held physically still, impassive in their hwil, but the three junior folcwitas fell to whispering among themselves, one opening a tome of Báran law.
“The council has not ratified—”
“The council has no power to ratify anything without a royal on the throne of Bára,” Oria cut in again. “You said as much yourself, Folcwita Lapo. I’m sure my father would express his gratitude to you, if he could, for holding this council and city together in this state of emergency. The burden has no doubt been great. However, I’m now ready to relieve you and High Priestess Febe of the mantle that should never have fallen upon you so heavily. I’m here to rule Bára as queen, as I was born to do and as my power and marriage entitles me to. Of course, I hope to retain all of you, for your good counsel for the benefit of all Bárans—less one priestess, naturally. It appears some imbalance has been introduced.”
“Princess Oria,” Febe said, not standing or moving at all, a statue of a priestess. “We all understand the strain that—”
“Queen or Your Highness,” Oria stated. “You will address me properly.”
Folcwita Lapo looked between them, then bent to speak into the ear of the folcwita with the law book.
“You are not queen until the temple crowns you as such.” Febe’s voice oozed with warning.
Oria waved a negligent hand. “Exactly. Which is why we are here. Truly I didn’t expect you all to be so obtuse. My father, King Tavlor, always spoke so highly of this council’s wisdom.”
“The temple cannot seal the throne to—”
Folcwita Lapo held up a hand, tapping the law book. “No disrespect, High Priestess, but the law is very specific. In the absence of any of the royal family on the throne, when the first masked progeny of the previous ruler is married and presents themselves to the council, the temple is required to crown them as ruler of Bára. If Prin—Queen Oria has indeed been married by the temple, then all is in order.”
“It’s not an ideal marriage,” Febe gritted out. “Not temple-blessed. He’s a Destrye!”
“Were His Highness King Lonen and Her Highness Queen Oria duly married by the temple?” inquired the folcwita with the book, seemingly unaware that he pedantically repeated information already on the table.
“Yes,” Febe conceded with ill grace, “by Priest Vico and myself, yesterevening, but they are obviously not an ideal match. His Highness is mind-dead. Her magic will go nowhere, possibly even turn back on itself.”
Folcwita Lapo stewed with excitement. Febe had been injudicious, perhaps, in trying to overbalance the council in the temple’s favor. It seemed she might have an unexpected ally in this. “Magic is the province of the temple,” he said, bowing in Febe’s direction. “As the keepers of Báran law, we note that the law books do not specify the magical quality of the marriage, only that there be one. Captain Ercole—what does the City Guard advise?”
“The guard stands with the law and the royal family,” Captain Ercole replied, a solid, steady presence. “We support Queen Oria, naturally, as we supported her father and mother before her. The people will rejoice to have order restored after so long, and so much out of balance.”
“Queen Oria.” Febe kept her voice even, but her hwil cracked here and there. “Surely Your Highness does not wish to be Queen of Bára when your destiny lies with your new husband in Dru. We understand His Highness wishes to leave immediately for his homeland. We would not wish to delay you, King Lonen.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Lonen sounded almost lazy, brushing a hand over Oria’s braids, making one of the priestesses come alert with surprise beneath her hwil. In his determination to make a powerful show, he forgot to restrain himself and burned brightly with lust. But either she was becoming accustomed to his energy infiltrating hers, or because she’d burned off enough sgath, she absorbed it with relative ease. Even Folcwita Lapo’s brash presence, which had buffeted her severely in the past, seemed little more than an uncomfortably hot breeze.
“I’ve come to like Bára,” Lonen continued. “After all, it is mine, along with everything—and everyone—in it. Why not take my leisure to enjoy all my city has to offer?”
“You cannot be King of Bára, Your Highness,” Febe said with considerable strain. “Only someone who’s taken the mask can rule our city, by sacred law. You can only be the queen’s consort.”
The folcwita with the law book nodded, glancing up with an apologetic mien. Their excitement still hummed with bright hope, though Folcwita Lapo bowed to Lonen, showing his concern. “No dishonor to Your Highness, King Lonen.”
“I am not concerned with such details,” Lonen replied, attention on Oria and the braid he fingered. It was for show this time, however, not sending those waves of potent lust into her. Thankfully. “I have my kingdom, and yours. Oria can be Queen of Bára and I shall rule her. All the same in the end.”
Insufferable oaf. He’d better have said that for show or they’d have words about it.
Febe rose slowly to her feet now. “Queen Oria, I beg of you. Bára begs you. You may not realize it, but your honored brother Prince Yar seeks an ideal bride. He’ll return to Bára at any moment with her and they can rule as Sgatha and Grienon intend, as an ideal partnership, in a temple-blessed marriage. Bára needs this. You know it in your heart. Don’t allow the Destrye this final victory over us. Our throne, the very bedrock of our lives, will be forever tainted.”
Oria very nearly felt bad for the older woman. She truly believed in what she said, and had served Bára and the temple all her life. But she’d also been in favor of calling in the Trom, risking disaster with her remorseless drive to preserve those beliefs at all costs.
In the end life was more precious than any belief.
“Yes. You’ve grown wise, Oria.”
“I try. Soon I’ll be lecturing you.”
Chuffta laughed, sending affection through her.
“Yar is not here and I am,” she answered, speaking to them all. “For all we know he may not ret
urn with an ideal bride, who would still be foreign to Bára regardless. He might not return at all, as so many have not. My father would expect me to shoulder my ancient responsibility. My mother does expect it.”
“The former queen is not here to support your claim,” Febe protested. “You put words in her mouth.”
“Are you calling me a liar, High Priestess?” Oria held onto her grien, but allowed her sgath to slide up against Febe’s. “As your queen, I take exception to your tone. Perhaps the temple is in need of new leadership.”
“You can’t do that.” The woman’s hwil cracked a bit more, enough so one of the priests took note, moving in his chair. “You are not queen until I crown you.”
“Then you had best crown me, or I’ll put someone in charge who will.”
Febe looked to Folcwita Lapo who radiated smug satisfaction at this point. He held up his palms. “Temple business falls to the temple and the royal family, as has been pointed out to the folcwitas many times. We keep secular law and all is in order. The folcwitas, the city guard, and—I feel confident in presuming to say—the people of Bára acknowledge Rhianna and Tavlor’s daughter as queen. I see no reason for the temple to delay the final ritual.”
Stiff necked, Febe inclined her head to Oria. “Very well. Though, as High Priestess, keeper of the sacred magics of Bára, I express grave reservations. Mark my words. This will be the day our revered city truly falls to the Destrye. You all seal our doom.”
~ 14 ~
Once again, Lonen followed Oria through the palace halls to the temple. The Bárans, with their convoluted, even circular, laws and elaborate posturing sure came up short on preparations for rituals. No pomp and ceremony for this coronation.
Though he supposed he and Oria had that in common, as he’d taken his own father’s wreath and sword on the battlefield. They’d never celebrated his ascent to the throne either, with so much work to do back in Dru. In truth, celebrating had been the last thing on his mind.
Still, hopefully that would change. He and Oria would not have to forever labor under the sawing need to address one crisis after the next. One day they would be in a better place, with their peoples fed and stable. With the gifts Oria had demonstrated on the rooftop, she could grow the crops the Destrye needed for several winters in the course of an afternoon. The impossible could be made possible indeed.
He eyed her slim, straight back as she preceded him, head held regally high. She’d looked incredible in the throes of working her magic. She’d nearly glowed with it, the force palpably sizzling against that internal part of him so sensitized to her. Other parts, too. He still throbbed with the arousal she’d incited. And from the vicious triumph that he’d not only found a way to save the Destrye from the Trom, but in the same victory acquired a sorceress to feed them and a wife for himself replete with magical beauty. Had he been able, he would have seized her in a crushing kiss, barely leashing himself to only press one to her mask.
If they didn’t find a way for him to bury his cock in her, he might lose his mind. Oh right—he’d already done that. Perhaps madness occurred in stages, growing ever worse. Cheerful thought.
Oria canted her head slightly in his direction, giving him the distinct impression of reproof. If he didn’t need to help her keep it together through whatever Arill-cursed trial her people intended, he would have shared some of those salacious images. As it was, he would come up with a reasonable plan to give her pleasure as it was his duty to Arill to provide his wife. For himself, he might be thrown back to bitter youth, taking himself in hand several times a day while fantasizing about the woman he couldn’t touch.
Probably a deserved fate, though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight it with every trick he possessed. He’d gotten very good at fighting.
High Priestess Febe paused at the bridge to the temple, stone-stiff in every line of her body. “Only the masked may enter the temple,” she intoned, in what he’d come to think of as her priestess voice. It always seemed to bode ill. “King Lonen, you must remain without.”
“Not happening,” he replied in a level tone and taking Oria’s sleeve, keeping her from leaving him. “I entered the temple before.”
“For your wedding. The unmasked may enter at five times in their lives, the wedding is one.”
He was not letting Oria face this alone. He’d much prefer, in fact, if Oria had appointed a new temple head to perform the coronation ceremony. It seemed to be a foolish risk to have this woman, who so clearly resented and feared the prospect of Oria as queen, to have any power over her. She knew Oria’s particular fragility and how to capitalize on it. What would stop her from gaming the ritual against Oria? From Oria’s shoulder, Chuffta’s eyes gleamed green and knowing. Could her Familiar read his thoughts, too? Regardless, it seemed they understood one another.
“What are the other occasions?” he inquired of the high priestess.
“The temple secrets are not yours to—”
“These are not temple secrets, High Priestess,” Oria cut the woman off with that regal poise she’d put on as easily as she’d donned her mask. “This is something any Báran child knows. I apologize for our priestess, Your Highness. She is clearly overwrought and forgetting herself. The occasions are five, as on the fingers of a hand. The temple receives any and all at birth, byrebod, monahalgian, marriage, and death. Those with magical ability also may enter certain areas for instruction.”
“What are byrebod and monahalgian?”
“Apologies, Your Highness—they are old terms, with no trade tongue correlations. They mean essentially presentation as an adult and consecration to the moons, respectively.”
“I’m pledged to Arill, so there will be no consecration to the moons for me. What’s involved in the other?”
Febe’s featureless mask, for all the world seemed to smirk at him. “For men, it involves a ritual where he proves his manhood by demonstrating his fortitude, and by sealing a covenant.”
That didn’t sound bad, but Oria murmured, “Monahalgian would be easier on you. Surely your goddess will not mind a small transgression.”
“I am loyal to all of my women, wives and goddesses,” he muttered back. “Presentation as an adult for me, then I remain for the coronation.”
“This is most irregular,” Febe protested. “Are we to become a people who follow only the letter of the law and not the spirit of it under your reign, Queen Oria?”
Oria didn’t exactly flinch, but the accusation clearly hit home—something he felt in his own gut—so he spoke up before she could waver.
“As Bára is mine, so am I hers. It’s fitting that I present myself to the temple as every boy of the city does upon reaching his manhood. I consider this a covenant with Bára, which should be sufficient spirit to satisfy anyone.”
Oria moved ever so slightly closer to him, relaxing the tautness of the silk sleeve he gripped, conveying her appreciation with the subtle gesture. Crazy how happy it made him that he’d pleased her. Though making her happy meant better fortune for the Destrye. He’d just think of it that way.
“Your Highness.” Priest Vico stepped up. “While I’m delighted to perform your byrebod, particularly given the reasons you state, you should be aware that, ah, blood must be drawn.” He tilted the mask significantly. “To seal the covenant,” he added, not at all elucidating. “As a, uh, man.”
“All right,” Lonen replied slowly. The Bárans seemed to love drawing blood for their little rituals. The priest seemed to be waiting still, and it dawned on him. “Draw the blood from where?”
“Your … manhood,” the priest answered in a much lowered voice, as if that added delicacy to it.
Lonen found himself gaping, then looked to Oria. “You went through this?”
“Women produce their own blood, don’t they?” She said in a tart voice, clearly discomfited. “You needn’t do this, Your Highness. Take your leisure and await me.”
Barbarians, the lot of them. But Arill knew he’d shed plenty of blood.
He’d just hoped never to be wounded there. Still, if the Báran boys could withstand it, a full Destrye warrior certainly could. Besides, he’d already made a pretty speech about it and couldn’t very well back pedal on that. “We’ll proceed as I outlined. Priest Vico will do my byrebod ceremony, followed by the coronation.”
Priest Vico bowed. “As you will. Follow me, Your Highness.”
“Queen Oria will come with me.” The High Priestess turned to lead her away.
“No. The queen doesn’t leave my sight,” Lonen declared, letting himself growl over it, venting some of the aggravation over his impending ordeal. “She belongs to me and by my side she stays.”
Priest Vico coughed and the high priestess went rigid. “Women do not attend a boy’s byrebod,” she declared.
“Or vice-versa,” Vico added, not at all helpfully.
“I would assume that a boy has his byrebod well before he’s married, yes?” At the priest’s nod, Lonen continued. “A wife knows everything about her husband and her magic belongs to him, along with the succor of her body. Of course she would attend this important ceremony, should they occur in the reverse order.”
“Most logical,” Oria agreed.
Stymied, Febe bowed—stiffly, of course—and glided away. “I will await you in the ceremonial hall then, Your Highnesses.”
Priest Vico gestured them to follow, but Lonen tugged Oria’s sleeve so she’d hang back.
“They don’t cut off any important bits, do they?” he whispered to her.
“I wouldn’t know, would I?” she hissed back. “As I’m not a boy.”
“I can’t believe your brothers wouldn’t have hinted.”
“Unlike you,” she replied in a prim tone, lifting her chin, “they did not discuss their male parts with all and sundry.”
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