“I scent water on the wind, yes.”
“Can you go look for it, and lead us there?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to leave you. I promised I never would.”
“You’re not leaving me any more than if you went hunting. Just for a little while.”
“Your thoughts are very quiet, Oria. I can’t hear you unless I’m close and I listen very hard. If I go, I won’t be able to hear you at all.”
“That’s all right. Lonen will protect me, like you said. Go. Find the water.”
“All right. Hang on, Oria. I love you.”
“And I love you. Fly and be well.”
She waited until she didn’t sense him, Lonen frowning at the derkesthai’s departure.
“Lonen,” she said. But her voice emerged without sound. She tried again. “Lonen.”
He glanced down at her, eyes brightening. “You’re awake. Are you feeling any better? We’re almost there.”
That he’d lie to comfort her nearly broke her heart. “Lonen…”
His expression sobered, seeing something in her face. “What do you need?”
“Leave me here.”
“Not if Arill Herself asked me to.”
“You, Buttercup—you’re better without my weight. I’m dead anyway. Leave me.”
“I hate to tell you this, Oria. You’re a beautiful woman, but you’re skin over bone at this point. You weigh practically nothing.”
“Chuffta… he said you’d walk if you didn’t have to hold me on. Leave me. Save yourselves.”
“Oh, I see now. You sent him off, didn’t you? That explains it. But your brain has clearly baked in this heat because even if I were daft enough to dump you here, Chuffta would simply find you and he’d sit here and die right with you.”
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye at the image he painted. It burned on her cheek as it tracked down.
“Don’t cry, Oria.” All the harshness left Lonen’s face and voice. “Arill knows your willingness to sacrifice yourself is a fine and noble quality, but we love you too much to leave you here.”
“I’m a burden.”
“You won’t be. You’re going to save the Destrye, remember? We need you. I’m taking you to Dru if I have to drag you there, pouring water down your throat every step of the way. Do you understand me?” He asked the question with such fierce determination that it was more of a demand.
She wanted to answer him, but couldn’t. She’d used up all she had left, arguing with the barbarian. No longer fighting to keep her eyes open, she let her lids fall and the gray mists take her.
~ 7 ~
Oria lapsed into unconsciousness again. Just as well, as he’d be hard put to continue to disguise his helpless rage from her. He kept picturing calm lakes for all he was worth—though that only made him thirstier—but beneath he fumed with his inability to help her.
He was an idiot twelve times over. Why in Arill hadn’t he rechecked the markers on the journey from the oasis to Bára? Because he’d known the way to Bára, had made the journey back and forth several times over during the various battles and restagings. He’d been grossly overconfident. Worse, on the journey to Bára, he’d been so full of revenge fantasies—and, if he were honest with himself, as a doomed man ought to be, so consumed with lust to see Oria again—that he hadn’t given any thought to the return journey. He’d grown soft already in his kingship, relying on his scouts and lieutenants to mark the way and guide the armies.
It was one thing to follow an army. Another to find one’s way alone across an empty landscape.
He would figure something out. He would not allow Oria—or Buttercup, who valiantly continued on—to die in this remorseless desert like jerky smoked too long over the fire. Chuffta could make it for sure. The winged lizard seemed to be in his element, never too hot, apparently unaffected by the lack of water. Surprising that Oria had been able to persuade her Familiar to leave her, but she could be convincing when she set her mind to it.
Not that it worked on him. Leave her, indeed. He’d strap her to Buttercup and send her on without him, if he thought they’d make it. His was the much greater weight, even scrawny as he’d gotten over the last years of privation. If he’d had anything to tie Oria to the saddle with, he’d have long since done it. Over the last excruciating hours, he’d contemplated cutting the furred cloak into lengths to use as rope. It might work.
If he could muster the strength. Dubious at this point, as he barely clung to the saddle himself. Everything in him focused on holding onto Oria, and keeping them both on the horse.
Buttercup, head down, stumbled—and Lonen caught his breath, anticipating the fall. Once they went down, they’d all stay down. He knew it in his gut.
But the valiant steed recovered, pausing only a moment and blowing out froth before continuing on. Lonen adjusted Oria so her face would be shaded from the sun. Her formerly lush lips were thin and dry as old leaves, her breath barely whispering through them. Still so beautiful, her bones elegant arcs. And such a strong and noble heart. Arill had given him a treasure in this woman and he’d bumbled it, as careless as if he’d dropped one of her glass figurines to shatter on the stones of her rooftop terrace.
To distract himself from despair, he drew on his memories of her in her high garden, surrounded by exotic blooms, a violet cast to her face from the flames of her magical fire table. He might have started to fall in love with her then. Or before that, when she rode dressed all in white to surrender Bára, full of prickly pride and pragmatic resignation. She deserved more from him than this. So did he. If they survived this, he’d find a way to recreate her garden and her violet fire. He would give them both the romance they’d had no time for.
Something hit his head and he loosed a hand to bat at it. It ducked him, then the something wrapped hard around his wrist, yanking. Lonen pulled back, hard, making a fist to punch the cursed thing—and it bit him.
The sharp pain penetrated the fog of his erotic daydreams. Chuffta.
“Hey, man.” His voice came out gritty as the sand that coated his throat. “Thought you ditched us.”
The derkesthai, tail wrapped around his wrist still, flapped his leather wings, hovering there. Holding Lonen’s gaze, Chuffta then turned his head deliberately in a direction angling to the left and behind them.
His thoughts tumbling clumsy as unpolished stones, Lonen tried to grasp what he might mean. Chuffta released his wrist, flew in that direction, and back again, eyes bright green with intent.
“Water?” Lonen asked—and Chuffta bobbed up and down in an aerial dance of agreement. “Can’t kill us any deader to go back, I guess. Lead the way.”
He turned Buttercup, who obeyed dully, going back the way they’d come, though at an oblique angle. If Chuffta had found the oasis, then Lonen had seriously fucked up in passing it by. They might have reached it hours ago. If it took that long to get there, then…
Ah well, at least he hadn’t died by dragon breath or at the Trom’s hand. Arnon would make a good king. If anyone could find a way to defeat Yar and his monstrous minions, clever Arnon would. He’d cling to that hope, rather than face that he might have doomed more than Oria and himself in his terrible carelessness.
Buttercup stumbled again, nearly going to his knees, barely catching himself.
Nothing in sight. Only the heat haze and those corpses of trees. Once this had been a forest like in Dru, the histories said. Now the sun and sand ate everything that passed here. An omen he should have heeded.
Buttercup caught his foot a third time. Rocks skittered away, clattering, and the stallion scrambled for purchase, throwing up his head and nearly unseating them. Only long practice had Lonen’s thighs gripping, holding them on.
Then he caught sight of it.
A smear of blessed green. Buttercup nickered, catching the scent of water in the desert, picking up his pace. Chuffta swooped around them, making a whistling sound that could only be joy.
“Oria.”
&
nbsp; Sweet water coated her lips, sliding down her throat, a strange and foreign sensation after being dry for so long. It felt as if she floated in water. Cool, not like the baths. A delightful, impossible fantasy. Or she’d died and this was the afterlife. If so, being dead might not be so bad.
“Oria, drink the water.”
She knew that voice. Lonen. He’d made it an order, but sounded ragged, desperate. That wasn’t right. He should be happy and float in the water, too. She smiled at him. “Come on in. Feels good.” Then she frowned at the sharp pain of her lips cracking. Had he even heard her? Maybe they were both dead, ghosts who could never talk to each other, much less ever hope to touch each other. She gasped over the sharp grief of that thought.
He made a sound, inarticulate, and more water dribbled over her lips. She lapped at it. Tasted so wonderful. Like no water she’d had in her life. Not salty or bitter. Not even like the water at Bára, which seemed like some faint-hearted cousin of this one.
“That’s it, love,” he murmured. “Drink the sweet water.”
She turned her face, loving the feel of it. She was floating. And not in gray mist, but in the real world. Definitely not the baths, though—instead a dusky violet sky arced above. So funny. She giggled.
“Drink, Oria. You’ll feel better.”
“Chuffta?”
“Always.”
“I sent you away.” Memory rushed back. She’d told him to go so he wouldn’t grieve if she died.
“Yes. We’ll have words about that. For now, drink.”
Another time she might have laughed at how much her Familiar sounded like Lonen, promising they’d have words. But drinking the water sounded like excellent advice. She turned her face—she was floating—and gulped, the shock of the cool water hitting her empty belly and making it cramp.
“Not too fast. You’ll make yourself sick.” Lonen’s laugh skated over the words. Not his musical, delighted bellow, instead he sounded somewhat unhinged with relief.
Oria squinted her eyes open, then ducked her head back to let the water run over them, washing away the grit and stinging salt. Lonen sat beside her, cross-legged in the shallow water of what appeared to be a small lake, Chuffta on his shoulder, peering at her with concern. Buttercup stood fetlock deep a bit farther on, black nose submerged in the water, silvery bubbles rising around. Feathery looking trees ringed the edges, making the sky a smaller pink- and orange-shot circle of dusky blue above. Sunset. Grienon, in a widening crescent, stood high in the sky. No sign of Sgatha, but she’d be near the horizon, behind the trees. How odd not to be able to see past them. A different world.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“The oasis.” Lonen choked a little, his voice breaking on the second word. He scooped up a handful of water and drank it down, his thick throat working as he swallowed. Scooping up another handful, he splashed it over his face and head, shaking the water droplets free and sighing in pleasure. He’d succeeded only in smearing the dust and dried mud around, so his eyes looked crystalline light in comparison.
“You look awful,” she said, though it wasn’t entirely true. He looked like he’d been dragged across the desert, but also deeply appealing. Maybe that came from the rush of gladness to be alive, the wrenching gratitude that he’d saved them. She had no energy, could barely swallow, and yet she still wanted to lick the water droplets from his strong throat. “Why don’t you wash? And drink more.”
He gave her a wry half-smile, unamused. A firm pressure at her back made her aware he supported her with a hand under her. “I’m keeping you from drowning. You’re welcome.”
Oh. Chagrined, she tried to sit up, managing only a half-baked sort of flail that had her head going under, making her choke and sputter.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Lonen soothed. “It wasn’t a complaint. I’m sorry. There’s plenty of time to drink all the water we want and to get clean. I’ve got you. That’s all I meant. Relax.”
“Sometimes your humor escapes me, Destrye,” she grumbled, attempting to relax again, to find that nice floating place.
He wiped his face with his other hand again. “Believe me—it’s not just you. Nolan always complained that I had a warped sense of humor.”
“The brother who fell into one of Yar’s crevasses on the battlefield.” She’d said it as a touchstone to the memory, regretting it when Lonen’s smile dimmed. She wasn’t in her right mind still, to be so careless. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, remember? It’s okay. I’m impressed you recalled that detail. And that’s no surprise—I figured it had to have been Yar’s doing.”
“Only he could have worked such a powerful stone magic,” she agreed with remorse. She restrained herself from apologizing again. She turned her face, drinking more water, trying to think what the right thing to say would be, how to recover some sense of dignity. Being able to keep her own self from drowning would be a good place to start.
“It’s actually good to think of him that way again.” Lonen scratched his beard, gazing at the sunset sky, the gray of his eyes taking on an indigo cast from it. “You know—with all the war and grief, it seems like the normal life stuff gets swallowed up by the violence and intensity. But just then, I remembered him giving me a hard time about my black humor. He said I’d never win a bride that way.” Lonen slanted her a look at that, a bit of his cocky grin returning.
“He couldn’t have guessed that a bride would manipulate you into marrying her.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
She didn’t know what she thought. Mostly she felt. The coolness of the water restoring something of life to her body. Experimentally she moved her arms and legs, swishing them. It seemed maybe she had more control again. She might even feel more energized. That part of her that measured the level of sgath seemed to register something. Not a lot, but more than the emergency empty warning there’d been on the verge of the Bay of Bára. Extending the experiment, she opened a sliver of a crescent, bracing for the chaotic impact of the wild magic.
Instead, much like the water surrounding her, a pure and fresh magic streamed into her. She drank it in along with more water. Not like Bára’s magic, but also not jangling and jarring like the kind outside the walls. Giddy relief rose in her.
“I told you that you wouldn’t die. Since you’re better, I’m going to build a fire for us!” With that, Chuffta took off with a clap of leathery wings, zooming out of sight beyond the trees.
She laughed aloud and Lonen frowned at her, making her realize that laughing at his last question wouldn’t be an appropriate response at all. “Chuffta wants to build a fire,” she explained.
Lonen scanned the small lake. “Where did he go? He can’t just build it anywhere—he’ll risk setting fire to the trees or undergrowth.”
“I’ll tell him to wait for you. Go show him where.”
“Keeping you from drowning, remember?” He rubbed her back through the silk of her robes and chemise, darker concern dampening his thoughts. Nice to feel something of them again. That, too, grounded her. Amazing how much she’d relied on sensing the direction of his emotions behind what tended to be a brooding visage—when he wasn’t amused at her expense. Surprising, too, how familiar in a comforting way sensing that connection with him had become.
“I think I can maybe sit up. It’s shallow enough here, right?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me again?”
“I should apologize for that. My earlier behavior was—”
“Understandable. I don’t even feel bad about interrupting you on that one, since you broke the rules by apologizing.”
“That was an apology for something I could control. It doesn’t count. But never mind. Would you please help me sit up? I think I can. And then I can tend myself a little while you get Chuffta going with the fire. Unless you don’t want him to build one?”
“No, we’ll certainly need it. Already the air grows chillier.”
“I see Buttercup still has his tack
on. I’m sure you want to take care of him and clean up yourself.”
Lonen followed the direction of her gaze to where Buttercup still happily stood fetlock-deep, now apparently snoozing. “Yes, he deserves tending. Though forgive me if I wanted to get water into you first.” He smiled at her, relaxing into the relief that they’d made it. “Are you sure you can do this?”
“Let’s try and if I can’t, then we’ll know.”
It took more effort than she’d expected—or maybe more than she’d hoped. Floating in the water with Lonen supporting her had been deceptive, leading her to overestimate her vitality. When she tried to move on her own, her muscles quavered, at first not obeying. Lonen couldn’t help her as much he clearly wanted to, pushing with the one hand at her back, the other repeatedly waving around as he began to take hold of her, then stopping himself. She floundered about, throttling back the humiliation, even as Lonen’s frown darkened.
“Oria, give it a bit more time. I can—”
“No. I want to try to do this.” She would master herself and free him to take care of more important things.
“Fine, but let’s be more methodical about it. Lie still a moment.” He moved so he knelt over her, straddling her body with his big thighs. He slipped his other hand behind her back, gathering a handful of the crimson silk of her robes as they billowed in the currents they made. “Brace your hands on my shoulders so you don’t fall into me.”
She could do that much, though clumsily, pressing her palms to the soaked leather of the vest he wore. An oddly intimate gesture, especially considering the reason and the circumstances. Feeling shy, she looked at him through her lashes, to find him watching her with that wry half-smile of his. “On three,” he said, seeming as if he said much more. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.
“One. Two… Three.” Gently he pulled her up and she balanced against his chest, grateful for the support as her head went woozy with the changed posture. Finding her position in space again, she centered more over her hips, even managing to draw her knees up so she sat cross-legged. “I think you have it,” Lonen murmured.
The Tides of Bára Page 7
