Forcing himself forward, he managed to climb the bank. After a few moments, the scrabbling clop of Buttercup’s hooves reassured him that the warhorse followed. He staggered to a high, dry area. This side of the bay had less sand and more hard ground. Scrappy evergreen shrubs dotted the landscape in bunches, though many had gone rusty with dried needles. The few clumps of deciduous trees were naked skeletons of their former selves, littering the banks like the corpses of thieves hung to warn of disaster ahead.
But they—and the driftwood washed up by the ferocious tides from distant lands—would make for good firewood, and Oria was cold as death.
Laying her on the ground, he risked skin-to-skin contact, checking the pulse in her throat. After all, his touch could hardly harm her if she were in fact dead. The flickering flame inside him said she lived, but part of him wondered if he wouldn’t carry that piece of her for the rest of his life, even if she had passed into Arill’s arms.
But her heart still beat, pushing the blood through her body, however feebly, her damp skin chill in the thin desert air. The land around Bára grew as cold at night as it scorched in the day, something that never made sense to him. Though not much in that city of sorcerers did.
“I have to build a fire, to warm her up,” he told Chuffta, who’d landed on a piece of driftwood nearby. He scraped out something of a shallow in the baked soil to hold the fire and provide a bit of protection to bank the coals through the night. Then he began dragging over fallen logs and driftwood, using his battle-axe to chop some into smaller pieces. His armsmaster would chew him up and down for abusing a weapon so, but Lonen was simply glad to have that instead of a sword.
To his surprised pleasure, Chuffta had gathered a significant pile of good-sized twigs and kindling by the time Lonen was satisfied with his supply. “Good man,” he said.
Glad of the muscle memory that had carried him through many a time after his battle-numbed brain had given up, Lonen stripped Buttercup of his tack, talking to him all the while and apologizing for not doing it sooner. The horse slept on his feet, an enviable skill, and barely stirred as Lonen moved around him. They were all mud-caked, but no remedy for that right then. He’d have to find water and sustenance for him and Oria the next day. The Destrye horses had stomached the bitter brine just fine—an enviable ability at this point. Hopefully Chuffta could, too. All of that would have to wait.
Thank Arill, his furred cloak had been stowed in his saddle packs, and was only somewhat damp. If only they’d been stocked with fire-making tools. He could do it with the available stones, it would just take longer. He assembled a small cone of kindling and began working to create a spark, when Chuffta nudged Lonen’s shoulder with his pointed chin, politely, it seemed. As soon as Lonen pulled his hands back, Chuffta breathed a lick of flame that set the kindling to merrily burning. Happy to leave it to the expert, he set Chuffta to fanning the flames with gentle strokes of his wings, coaching the winged lizard to add larger sticks as the fire grew.
Meanwhile he stripped first Oria, then himself of their soaked clothes, laying them out on the still-warm rocky soil to dry during the night. He’d seen her naked before, but even if she objected, she could castigate him later for it. He’d actually enjoy that. It would be a happy day when she’d recovered enough to exercise her fiery temper on him.
With some bemusement, he noted that his optimism had returned. The black despair from the far side of the bay had faded, washed away in the tides of Bára, perhaps. Or maybe just from leaving that soul-sucking landscape behind, walled off by that bitter sea. Oria would eventually wake, he’d bring her home to Dru, and they’d find a way to defeat Yar and save the Destrye.
“Chuffta, man.” His voice grated hoarse. “How’s the wing?”
Chuffta, standing on one leg, wings mantled for balance, tucked a good-sized chunk of wood into the fire by manipulating it with one set of talons, his mouth and tail. The derkesthai blinked at him, for all the world seeming to smile. Okay then.
With the last of his strength, Lonen wrapped Oria in the cloak, furred side in. It covered her from her feet to over the top of her head. Making sure their skin didn’t touch, Lonen laid himself beside her, drawing the loose side over him.
“All right then. I’ll just rest a moment,” he told Chuffta, “and get her warm. Just a short rest. Wake me in a couple hours.”
And fell into oblivion.
~ 5 ~
She couldn’t breathe. The gray mists swaddled her so thick and tight that she couldn’t fight free of them. Though far too familiar to her, the misty place at least meant she lived. It also meant, however, that she’d collapsed, that the magic had overwhelmed her physical body. Bad, yes, but when she’d broken before, she’d always come back to herself first in the realm of the timeless fog. This was—more or less—normal. She’d begun to think of it as a cocoon, from which she’d emerge stronger, ready to fly. It should be a good thing, in the long view.
Not this time.
Now it seemed the chrysalis trapped her, a prison of her own making from which she’d never emerge. It constrained her, making her feel that no matter how she might continue to grow inside it, that would only worsen her situation. She’d end up beating her wings in a frenzy until the heat sent the whole thing up in flame, burning her to nothing. Just like all those people seared by the dragons to ash that blew away like so much sand in the winds of Bára.
The Destrye crops, too. They’d burned in the images in Lonen’s mind—the living plants bursting into flame as if they were cured leaves, along with the curious wooden structures. And the people. So many people dead. She been supposed to do something, save them, somehow. Something important. Urgent.
But what?
She flailed against the suffocating mist, fragments of images tormenting her, fighting the terror of being trapped in that formless void forever. Something must have happened. Not the wedding ceremony—she’d wakened from that. The trial, the battle with Yar?
No, after that. She’d won. And then had the victory snatched away.
An enormous black horse, like nothing she’d ever seen. Cold sweat and grien magic exploding, oh so satisfying. Perhaps that had burned her. That explained the heat, the suffocating shroud. Perhaps she had died after all and even now lay on her funeral pyre, her body burning, burning to ash, until it too blew away on the hot winds.
I’m not dead! She screamed in her mind. I’m not really dead, don’t burn me!
“A great relief to us all, I’m sure,” came Chuffta’s dry mind-voice, soft and rustling as his white scales under her hand. “I kept the fire going, see? It’s only a little one. Not enough to burn a body.” He showed her an image of an orange-flamed fire, the ground around it stretching out flat, sere, and empty.
She stilled, processing information as her senses began working again. It was ever thus. First she became aware of the mists, then fighting to escape them. Chuffta’s mind-voice talking to her, then sound, light, and sensation from the outside world. Only after all that could she move her body again. She breathed into it, letting the panic dissipate.
It would be incredibly helpful if she could remember this early on.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you anchoring me to the world,” she told Chuffta. “It’s like finding the city wall in a blinding sandstorm.”
“Maybe that’s one reason your mother asked me to be your Familiar.”
It would be nice to believe that. Her mother hadn’t always been so broken. Before Oria’s father fell in battle, Queen Rhianna had been as constant as Sgatha, ever serene, powerful, and wise—and knowing more about Oria’s abilities than she’d said, subtly guiding her path. Losing that compass had been as if the moon herself dropped out of the sky. But her mother had at least given her a final gift, in those last few moments, whispering the secret to surviving outside the walls.
And Oria had survived. At least, she wasn’t quite dead, much as she might feel like it.
It might be better to say ‘not yet
.’ Already the wild magic flowed into her again, jangling through her pores, as if that sense awoke along with sight, sound, and touch. Not always easy to sort the difference, what her magical portals brought in versus the physical ones. Like seeing with her body’s eyes and sgath simultaneously—a fast path to overload and a debilitating headache. Not necessarily in that order. From what Lonen had said of the old Destrye tales, the priestesses captured by the Destrye had lived for a while, their death a slow attenuation.
She opened her eyes, working against the stiff movement of her eyelids, but still saw only muffling darkness. Night?
“You’re wrapped in Lonen’s cloak, to keep you warm. I fed the fire.” Chuffta sounded enormously pleased with himself.
“Thank you—I’m impressed.”
“I’m learning new skills, too.”
She chuckled mentally at his boasting, judiciously trying a small amount of sgath to see what her physical eyes could not. Then reeled it back with a groan. All that wild magic—wow. Her sgath sight practically blinded her. She shut it down to the narrowest possible window, closing the sgath portal with it.
As Sgatha wanes, so does sgath. Put it in shadow. Narrow the crescent.
Like most temple teachings, her mother’s advice hadn’t been straightforward, but the imagery helped. Eventually she could maybe separate the two—still use sgath sight without allowing the wild magic to pour in like the relentless fury of a bore tide—but for now she’d be conservative. As in, locking herself up tight.
Paying attention to other physical senses, she became aware of a gentle snore, then the weight of an arm holding her. Lonen. He’d stayed with her, wrapped her in the cocoon of fur. No wonder she couldn’t breathe. Tentatively she wriggled her fingers, unable to feel much of the motion, then flexed her hands, clumsily worming them along the furry interior of the cloak, seeking an opening to the outside air.
It had to be there somewhere.
Feeling increasingly desperate to breathe, she pushed at the smothering stuff around her face, finding that some of it was her braids, damp and stiff with salt. What in Sgatha had happened to her? She dragged them off her face as best she could, her skin covered in grit. Some fell into her dry mouth, astringently bitter. She sneezed, then coughed—which made her stomach lurch, salt water burbling up her throat to burn in her nose, making her cough harder.
The arm pinning her tightened convulsively, which didn’t help her master the cough in the least. Just as abruptly, the pressure released. Bright daylight made her clench her lids closed, and blessed fresh air rushed in. She threw herself onto her side, gasping for air between coughs, then ignominiously vomiting up bitter salt.
The furry cloak pressed up against her belly, as Lonen supported her, the arch helping to open her throat and chest. He also thumped her gently between the shoulder blades through the cloak. In a distracted part of her mind, she wondered how he’d learned such useful tricks. At the forefront, she burned with humiliation that he should see her under such conditions. Surely other newlywed brides were able to preserve the mystery and romance a while longer.
Though, one thing she’d learned over the past days, from not only her marriage, but also Gallia’s, was that the reality of being married did not in any way match the fantasy.
“Water,” she croaked through her scorching throat.
“I wish,” Lonen’s voice came from just behind her ear. “Sorry, I hoped to have some when you woke, but I fell asleep. You were supposed to wake me,” he said in an accusing tone.
She only realized he didn’t mean her when Chuffta replied.
“He needed sleep. I fed the fire.”
She tried to tell Lonen that, but it only made her stomach heave again and sent her head throbbing—though the final spasm seemed to kick out the rest of the vile stuff she’d somehow swallowed. Exhausted, unable to hold herself up any longer, she flopped onto her back, finding Lonen—looking more like a barbarian than ever, and strangely appealing for all that—leaning over her.
His hair and beard were caked with mud, streaked with dried salt, and what hadn’t dried in mats against his scalp, temples and jaw stood out in mad curls. Smears of black and brown covered his face. Only his gray eyes were clear and unsullied. They roved over her face with a bright wonder incongruent with how terrible she must look. An unexpectedly tender array of emotions curled around her. His or hers, she didn’t know. That, too, had become increasingly difficult to tease apart.
“You’re alive,” he whispered. Something about the intensity of his expression made her abruptly shy and she had to look away—unfortunately taking in the length of his nude body poised above her. Her face heated.
“You’re naked,” she blurted out. Then realized she felt either fur or sunshine all along her body, too. She covered herself, though clumsily, her arms felt so weak. “I’m naked!”
Lonen laughed, shaking his head at her. “We’ve seen each other naked before.”
This was different. “We’re outside.”
“Yes,” he replied in a grave tone, nodding solemnly, but humor sparked through it. “I should make you a scout for the Destrye, with such keen observation skills.”
He didn’t understand—but then he didn’t know what it was like to wake up from the nothing, not remembering what had happened, naked, vulnerable.
“I know what happened—I can be your memory. And we’re both here to protect you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, carefully shielding the rest of her thoughts from her Familiar. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings by betraying that none of that made her feel more secure. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied.
Groaning, she struggled to sit, body creaking in protest from every parched tissue. Lonen helped lever her up and she clutched at the cloak with those nerveless fingers to keep some semblance of modesty, though the blazing sun several hands above the horizon made that uncomfortably hot.
She recognized nothing. All around, the land stretched bare and flat, only clumps of leafless trees and brown shrubs scattered about. A wide, shallow crevice cut through nearby, stretching as far as she could see in either direction—though the distant orange peaks on one horizon might be the Enchantment Mountains that rose behind Bára. No sign of the city. The sky arched in a pitiless, endless void above and she acutely felt her miniscule nature, a fragile creature easily swallowed by it all.
Unable to bear it, she cast about in the other direction, where Buttercup—also filthy—nuzzled at some bush that hardly seemed edible. Closer by, Chuffta worked intently to drag what looked like a tree limb to a blazing bonfire. He had his wings spread and managed it by half-flying, half-hopping on one leg, and wrestling the thing with mouth, tail and the free foot.
“What are you doing?” she asked aloud, for Lonen’s benefit, though the words scraped her raw throat.
“I’m feeding the fire,” he chirped happily. “Keeping you warm!”
Lonen groaned. “Hey, man. Enough with the fire. You’ll roast us.”
“No?” Chuffta paused, releasing the limb with foot and mouth, but keeping his tail wrapped around it. He sounded terribly disappointed. He cocked his head at the fire. “Maybe just one more?”
“No more, please, Chuffta.” She rubbed at her gritty, sensitive eyes, though it only made them water more. She certainly wasn’t weeping. She blinked them open to find Lonen grinning and grimacing at once. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” she said, ducking her face so he wouldn’t see.
“I like fire! It’s hot.”
“His first time with fire?” Lonen suggested. “Other than your purple magic kind.”
“Could be.” She must have sounded dubious, because he shrugged.
“Some people are like that, obsessed with fire. Why not a derkesthai?”
“I’ve never played with fire before,” Chuffta confirmed. “It’s not like breath-flame, that runs out. As long as I keep putting wood, in there, it goes and goes.”
“You can build another one when we
sleep tonight, how’s that?” she suggested. Chuffta grumbled, but agreed. He stayed by his fire, though, tail lovingly wrapped around the limb he’d wanted to add.
“How are you feeling?” Lonen asked as he rose and went to gather something from the ground. She thought she couldn’t be hotter, but a rush of embarrassed heat washed over her at the sight of him striding around naked, hairy buttocks flexing as he bent over. It seemed impossible to feel both ill and an uncomfortable surge of desire, but there it was.
“You could put some clothes on,” she croaked, clapping a hand over her eyes. Then dropped it and stared at him aghast. “Do we have clothes?”
He laughed and held up her crimson robes, bringing them to her. “Considerably worse for wear, but yes.”
To avoid looking at him, she busied herself with sorting through the ragged, stiff and muddied mess of her priestess robes tangled with her formerly white chemise, now a mottled mix of pink and brown. Her fingers, numb and enervated like the rest of her, wouldn’t work properly. The last time she’d broken, she’d awakened perfectly energized. Though that had been a smaller episode. The time before that had been much worse, and she’d put the state of her body down to sleeping for a week. Perhaps that hadn’t been the only reason, which did not bode well for her current prospects. Nor did the continued cramping of her stomach.
She swallowed down the foul taste in her mouth, clearing her throat again. “My robes are filthy and so am I—I think I’ll go wash in that stream down there.”
Lonen squatted before her, making her hastily avert her gaze. “Not a good idea. The bore tides come without warning. You could be mired and drown.”
“The bore tides?” she echoed, meeting his somber granite eyes if only to keep from looking at the rest of him. “That’s… the Bay of Bára?”
“I don’t think there’s more than one,” he teased gently. His vitality and good humor grated on her. Not fair for him to be bouncing around and teasing when she felt as listless as the silt in the sullen bay.
The Tides of Bára Page 5
