Oria's Gambit

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Better to retreat and rest to fight tomorrow, than to surely suffer defeat today.”

  “And if Yar arrives?”

  She’d asked Chuffta, but Lonen replied. “Then we cut down that tree when we come to it. Let me carry you, Oria.” He pulled his mantle off his shoulders, setting it around her, then strapped his axe again to his back. “That will be hot, but will protect you from my touch. Say yes.”

  “Fine,” she replied, if only because she’d run out of energy to argue. Maybe even to stand, the way she swayed on her feet. “With the sun going down, I’m a little chilled anyway.”

  “Only a Báran could say such a thing. Chuffta, man, do a buddy a favor and either fly or ride on my shoulder.”

  “He says he’ll fly so he won’t score your flesh, but that if you get padding, he’d ride your shoulder in the future.” She drew the cloak around her, making sure it covered her skin. “I’m ready.”

  She braced herself for the searing contact, but he slipped gentle arms familiarly beneath her shoulders and knees, easily lifting and tucking her against his muscled chest. With easy strides, he crossed the bridge and carried her through the palace.

  Dreamily, she let her sgath vision go, closed her physical eyes, too, and simply absorbed the scent and feel of him. So familiar already. “This is so easy for you,” she remarked.

  “I’m getting quite a lot of practice,” he replied in that wry tone of his.

  She winced, opened her mouth to apologize, remembered she shouldn’t, and sighed instead. “I wish I wasn’t like this.”

  “I understand why you say that, but don’t. Your blessing and your curse. Without this, you can’t have the other—and your sorcery is fantastic to behold. I wouldn’t change a thing about you.” To her surprise, he pressed a kiss to her mask over her forehead, his energy swirling with a tenderness that disarmed her. “Well, maybe I’d change that stubborn temper of yours. And your reckless bravery.”

  “And the fact that you can’t bed me,” she reminded him.

  “Oh, I’ll find a way to bed you, Oria. Mark my words on that. You promised me if I survived the Trom, that would happen.”

  “I’m sure I never said such a thing.” She yawned.

  “That’s how I heard it.” He sounded insufferably pleased with himself.

  “And you call me stubborn. You’re worse.”

  “Oh yes, my lovely sorceress. More stubborn than you are by a far stretch, so you might as well give up and succumb to my manly charms.”

  They were just passing through the main doors of the palace, about to take the turn to her tower when he halted. Then cursed, using Arill’s name.

  “What?” She reached to see with sgath. Like lighting a too-short candle wick, it sputtered, then died, leaving her effectively blind. She reached for the magic below Bára, but it trickled in far too slowly to replenish her stores anytime soon. Much as she hated to acknowledge it, Lonen had been correct about not facing the coronation ceremony.

  “Oria—there’s an entourage at the bridge to Ing’s Chasm. I think it’s—”

  “I think Yar has returned,” Lonen spoke at the same time.

  ~ 17 ~

  “Put me down,” Oria commanded. Because she sounded more like her imperious self and not the bone-weary waif of before, he acceded. But he kept a hand near the small of her back, in case she fainted.

  “I’m not going to faint,” she said irritably, making him smile.

  “At least you’re feeling spry enough to read my mind again. I’ve been thinking all sorts of things that you missed.”

  “Perhaps I chose not to sully my own mind by looking,” she replied in that lofty, prim tone. If her odious brother hadn’t been crossing the bridge to the palace, he’d have sent her an image to make her lose that composure. Chuffta winged in, angling through the open palace doors to accommodate his wide wingspan, sinuous neck snaked back in flight like the great fishing birds that frequented the lakes of Dru. Oria held up her left forearm and he landed there as neatly as any tamed raptor might.

  The three of them waited in resigned silence, with increasing resignation, as it became clear that the young prince had indeed brought a priestess with him. The pair led a joyful procession up from the gates below, both in their golden masks, though hers was of a slightly different style, and she wore yellow silk robes instead of crimson. They walked arm in arm, sleeves drawn back and her forearm laid over his, their hands laced together. A posture even Lonen recognized as a blatant display of their compatibility. He’d never thought to experience a jagged bolt of envy for another man’s fortune with a woman, but he hated that Yar and his future bride already enjoyed what remained a distant promise for him and Oria.

  Unfair to them both, but Arill bestowed Her blessings according to wisdom known only to Her.

  “Steady, Destrye,” Oria murmured, her usual epithet sounding more like an endearment. Was she even aware of the shift? For a moment she leaned into his hand resting lightly on the cloak covering her. A gesture as potent as the most intimate caress.

  Yar caught sight of them, hitched, then strode forward at an increased pace, his priestess fiancée losing some of her grace as she hustled not to be dragged along by the impetuous boy. “Oria,” he called. “What is the meaning of this? Why is this bar—”

  “Prince Yar,” she cut him off, “allow me to present my husband, King Lonen of the Destrye.”

  All fell silent. Captain Ercole hastened up. “Forgive me, Queen Oria, I would have sent word, but you were in the temple.”

  “No apologies needed, Captain, I—”

  “Queen?” Yar’s voice rose perilously, the priestess still on his arm flinching away ever so slightly. She wore her very blond hair in two big plaits that wrapped up to form a sort of crown. “You cannot be queen—I am King of Bára now!”

  “I married in Bára’s temple first,” she replied implacably. “I greet you, my future sister.”

  “Greetings, future sister, Queen Oria” the priestess inclined her head. “Thank you for—”

  “Don’t call her that,” Yar strangled over the words. Lonen imagined the prince’s face going red and purple with impotent rage. “It can’t be a temple-blessed marriage. Not married to that barbarian, mind-dead Destrye.”

  “Yar!” Oria’s tone was cutting. “You are being unforgivably rude to your brother, His Highness King Lonen.”

  “No insult taken,” Lonen replied, giving them all the lazy smile—and attendant image—of the forest cat cleaning its claws. “I am at peace with being both mind-dead and Destrye, though it seems others than myself demonstrate barbaric behavior. Greetings, future sister. Are you gifted with a name?”

  “I am Gallia of Lousá. Greetings Your Highness.”

  “My marriage trumps yours,” Yar spoke over his bride-to-be with newfound confidence, earning a twitch of annoyance from Gallia. “Especially as you clearly have not yet been crowned. Sloppy of you, dear sister. Otherwise you might have won the race. I admit you’ve surprised me with this … unorthodox move. But you’ve sacrificed your lifelong happiness along with any chance your progeny may have had to hold Bára for nothing. You married in the temple first, but High Priestess Febe will join us in a temple-blessed marriage for our ideal match.”

  “High Priestess Febe is dead, Prince Yar.” Priest Vico stepped up with smooth manners, bowing as he delivered the news.

  Yar paused, reassessing. “How is this possible?”

  “The Trom killed her,” Oria supplied, lying with admirable ease. “She summoned them and they killed her.” She rubbed Chuffta between the eyes, appearing to be completely relaxed. Faking her hwil most likely. Then she lifted her mask to face Yar’s. “At least we now know who the Summoner was, which means we shall not be disturbed by them again. I might rest easy, yielding the throne to you—perhaps even retiring with my husband to Dru—knowing that the Trom will never be called on, for any reason.”

  She layered meaning into her words, delivering both a promise and
a subtle warning. No one there need know of Yar’s culpability, if he agreed to suspend his attacks on the Destrye. Though Gallia remained still and apparently serene, Lonen thought she paid very close attention to the exchange. Yar covered his fiancée’s hand with his, stroking her skin, clearly taunting Oria with the gesture.

  “I don’t need Febe. I have another priestess and her magic will be mine,” he said with soft menace. “I shall call on whatever power I wish. For the good of Bára. Your loyalties are questionable, my sadly delicate sister. Perhaps your recent… difficulties have made you mentally unstable. There’s precedent for that in the females of our family, as all have witnessed.”

  The folcwita from the council session who’d been the keeper of the law books cleared his throat. He spoke sofly to Priest Vico, who nodded with interest. “It seems,” the priest said in a voice that carried through the hall, “that there is provision for equally qualified married couples to demonstrate their compatibility and abilities to the temple leadership, who then judge who will be crowned.”

  “Nonsense,” Yar snarled, hand tightening on Gallia in a way that made Lonen twitch to stop him. “We will be king and queen. You’ll marry us immediately.”

  “I will marry you now, yes, but tomorrow both couples will present themselves for my judgement. As is my sacred responsibility as High Priest of the temple of Bára.”

  “I’ll replace you,” Yar said.

  “Only the king or queen can do that,” Priest Vico replied implacably, “and neither you nor Princess Oria can claim that rank as yet.”

  “That solution is satisfactory to me,” Oria inserted, sounding unconcerned, but the way she leaned into his supporting hand made her think she wearied. “King Lonen and I will meet you tomorrow. Congratulations on your wedding, to you both. I regret that we cannot attend the post-celebration.”

  “Prince Yar,” Gallia spoke up. “As you know, the journey between cities strained me considerably. I’d prefer to—”

  “What?” Yar cut her off. “You’d prefer to let my sister be crowned and leave you without the throne you left Lousá for? Your family and temple would be greatly displeased, especially to lose the many bride gifts I offered.”

  She inclined her head graciously. On Oria’s arm, Chuffta ruffled his wings, the tip of his tail twitching where it dangled off her wrist, the only indication of her disquiet.

  “Don’t worry, my sweet.” Yar gathered himself and stroked Gallia’s hand, with a glee that was nevertheless avaricious. “It will require very little to demonstrate the superiority of our marriage. Look at them—she cannot even bear his touch skin-to-skin, much less give him any magic. We can win the throne, be crowned, and return to our wedding bed. I have heirs to beget.”

  “Of course,” Gallia murmured.

  “To the temple then,” Priest Vico said, leading the way.

  Oria wouldn’t want to show weakness, so Lonen offered his sleeved arm to lean upon, glad that she took advantage of the support as he escorted her away from the less-than-joyful couple. Once her guard locked the doors to her tower behind them, she sagged and Chuffta took wing. Without asking, Lonen swept her up in his arms, and she sighed with relief, letting him carry her without protest.

  ~ 18 ~

  She liked being in Lonen’s arms, all safe and comfortable—which were not things she’d expected to ever feel with him. He ascended the stairs with tireless stamina, seeming as if he could carry her forever. Maybe he could.

  “I never thought I’d feel sorry for an ideally matched couple,” she finally said, after he’d climbed for some time. Without either her sgath or her physical sight, she couldn’t be sure how far they’d come, but it felt like nearly halfway.

  “I figured you for asleep.”

  “No—just thinking. All my life I wanted that, what Gallia has. It’s what every girl dreams of. The perfect husband and an ideal marriage. All a lie.”

  “What Gallia has is a vicious idiot for a husband. I don’t suppose you could have stopped it.”

  “Yar is young…” And she was running out of excuses for him. “But no. She would not have thanked me for intervening. Yar is correct that her family and temple would ostracize her for refusing an ideal match, especially one that will make her Queen of Bára. At least it seems as if she’ll make a good queen, from the little I saw of her.”

  “You’re so certain we’ll lose tomorrow?”

  “Of course we’ll lose.” He’d surprised her. Even in his eternal optimism, he had to recognize that they couldn’t possibly triumph in a contest of that sort.

  “Priest Vico favors you. If he can, he’ll call it for you.”

  “If being the operative word. We’ll likely have to demonstrate physical contact, as Yar and Gallia did so blatantly.”

  “Is that not usual?”

  “Bárans are formal about physical contact in public, for obvious reasons. Yar’s display wasn’t quite obscene, but it was rude. Especially with a priestess new to our people. He did not accord her the respect he should have.”

  He made a mental note of that, to show Oria respect according to her customs, which were far more formal than those of the Destrye. “What else will the testing involve?”

  “Almost certainly performing feats of magic. Meaning you would have to use grien, drawing on my sgath. Two impossible obstacles, right there—and don’t take that as a challenge,” she added emphatically, immediately regretting using that word at all.

  “Too late.” Lonen sounded far too cheerful. “You’ve set the stakes for me, my sorceress fair.”

  She groaned. “Lonen, we can’t win this. We’ll have to find another way to help the Destrye.”

  “Keep talking—every disclaimer makes me want to triumph that much more.”

  “Put me down. I can walk.”

  “Not so tired now?”

  “I’m feeling more energized.” Indeed, Lonen’s bracing proximity refilled her empty spaces with surprising rapidity, her sgath vision returning with, if not its usual clarity, a very decent level considering she’d been cleaned out not long before.

  “Excellent news,” he said, not putting her down. “But save your strength. I have plans for it.”

  Her face went hot. “You can’t be thinking that—”

  To his credit, he waited for her to finish the sentence until it became clear she wouldn’t. “Exactly.”

  “Lonen.”

  “Oria,” he echoed in the same tone of exasperation.

  She wouldn’t reward his mischievous behavior by laughing.

  “Look,” he said. “Part of the deal tomorrow is demonstrating our compatibility and the solidity of our marriage, yes? How can we do that if you don’t believe I can be a real husband to you?”

  “I think I have very good reasons for my doubts,” she said quietly, not wanting to dampen his spirits, but whatever he had in mind, he would come away disappointed.

  “That’s why I need to convince you.” He pressed a kiss to her mask, as he had before, but pausing in his climb to let it linger. “Say you’ll give me the chance to try.”

  “Will you encase me in metal then?” She meant to sound scathing, but it came out breathless. This close to him, the ardent energy of his desire flowed through her in inescapable waves.

  “Something like that. Will you trust me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He stopped entirely. “Yes or no. And before you answer, let me remind you of how much you’ve trusted me already. This is a small thing compared to your life.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a small thing.” Her heart thudded in dread. Or anticipation? So difficult to know.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “I’m not an idiot. Of course I’m afraid of that pain.”

  “Am I hurting you now?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “I’m going to interrupt that ‘but.’ It will be pleasure only, Oria.” He swarmed with earnest hope and desire, steely determination beneath. “Pleasure that Arill besto
ws upon us, so that people who love can share themselves intimately. Let me have that with you.”

  She couldn’t resist him, and she suspected he knew it. “Fine.” She blew out the capitulation on a long breath, and he resumed climbing with an increased, even jaunty stride. No telling what she’d just agreed to.

  “I don’t suppose Chuffta hunts at night?” he asked.

  “I will give you privacy,” her Familiar immediately chimed in. “I will not be listening, so call loudly should you need me.”

  She felt unexpectedly bereft. Chuffta hadn’t been away from her thoughts since she was a child.

  “I’m still only a loud thought away. And you’re a woman grown. You deserve a little private joy.”

  “Thank you. I love you.”

  “And I love you.” He withdrew from her, with one last affectionate and wordless thought.

  “He’s giving us privacy,” she told Lonen.

  “Good man. I wondered if your connection to him is part of why you never experimented with pleasuring yourself.”

  She had to keep from squirming, knowing he’d feel it. “I really don’t want to discuss that.”

  “Oria, sweetheart—you just gave me permission to do a lot more than talk about sex with you. And we have a bit of a climb still. Help me understand you. Having sex with me will be a lot more intimate than talking about it.”

  She was afraid of that, which meant she might as well start conditioning herself to this exposure. Not unlike learning to be around people in the first place. “I’m sure that’s part of it, but I also never really felt the urge.”

  “Never? Not even a little?” He sounded entirely dubious.

  “No.” Except those books. They’d made her feel this way, too, which was entirely wrong.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Lonen murmured.

  “Are you certain you can’t read my thoughts?” She could understand why it discomfited him that she could read his.

  “Not exactly, but your body reveals a great deal—especially when I’m holding you like this.”

  “I really could walk.”