And she glanced up with a delighted smile. To find him so close, his face only a hand’s length from hers, gray eyes glittering nearly silver with the lowering light. His gaze fell to her mouth. Thinking of kissing her? Yes. His desire misted around her. Not really possible and yet… they had shared that one kiss, during the trial, to prove they could. The touch had burned her, yes, scorching her magical senses but also deeper, sensually female ones.
He cleared his throat, yanking his gaze away and replacing that trickle of emotion with the image of a still lake. “Let’s try it without any support. Ready?”
Swallowing back the absurd disappointment—quite the turnabout that he’d become more careful of touching her than she remembered to be about it—she nodded again.
She swayed as he slid his hands slowly away, so she put her hands down, finding smooth, rounded stones lining the bottom. The instability seemed to come almost as much out of being bereft of his closeness as the loss of physical support. Silly thought.
And perhaps desperation. It would be really wonderful not to feel so absolutely alone.
“Forgetting me?”
“No.” Though even Chuffta felt not quite as close as he once had. Probably a result of narrowing her portals so completely. It was better now that she’d opened up to the oasis magic. “You’re waiting for Lonen before you build the fire, yes?” He’d already told her he would and she believed he’d abide by that, but she asked by way of distracting him.
“Yes.” His mind-voice held a distinct grumble. “I’m piling up wood while I wait.”
“I think I’m okay,” she told Lonen. “And Chuffta grows impatient.”
He frowned at her, digging both hands through his hair to push the filthy mess out of his face. And maybe to restrain himself from grabbing onto her again. His impulse to do so came through clearly. “Your well-being is more important than Chuffta’s obsession with fire. Or Buttercup’s tack for that matter. They can wait a while longer.”
“Have already waited forever…”
She giggled—and it occurred to her that Chuffta might be providing distraction also. Much better not to be scrutinizing every twitch of her weak and uncooperative body. For both of them, as Lonen hovered much too anxiously.
“Really, I’m fine.” She layered more asperity into her voice than she felt. “A little breathing room would be welcome, Destrye.”
She didn’t fool him, because he gave her a wry smile. But he also stood, brushing water from his soaked clothes before pointing a commanding finger at her. “No moving. No going deeper. Call Chuffta if you feel at all faint.”
“I will.” She tried to sound meek.
“I mean it, Oria. People can drown in a few inches of water.”
“Babies and invalids,” she retorted. “Even this desert girl knows that much.”
“I am not touching that one,” he replied evenly. “I’ll be back in a moment to help you take your hair down.”
She nearly protested out of reflex that it wouldn’t be necessary, but in truth her scalp crawled with the pulling tightness of the filthy braids and itched to be clean. Hopefully there wasn’t anything else in there crawling around to make her itch. With a last glance to be sure of her obedience, Lonen waded to the shore a few feet away, calling for Chuffta.
Leaving her blessedly alone in the still silence of the lake.
~ 8 ~
Though weariness dragged at him more heavily than his water-sodden leathers, Lonen forced himself to go on. Despite the temporary satiation of the water, his gut crawled up his spine with twisting emptiness. He’d managed to put on a strong show for Oria, but his thoughts came in disconnected bursts. They’d found water, but they needed food. Something not plentiful at the oasis, unfortunately.
He’d been on some other errand, however. It would come to him. Checking over his shoulder, he verified Oria had stayed put. At least her fiery will remained intact, though that’s about all she had. Anyone else—even the mightiest Destrye, much less a slight, city-bred foreigner—would have long since given up their grip on mortality and taken refuge in the Hall of Warriors. Dread that in her fragility she might tip over and drown scuttled through his gut. No—that was hunger. They needed food.
What had he come up on the beach to do?
“Show me where to build the fire. Then I can hunt for you and you can cook the meat.”
“Oria?” In his bafflement, he turned again—but she sat docilely enough, the water eddying in blue-silver circles around her waist as she scrubbed at her face, scooping up water to alternately drink and splash herself.
“No, idiot. Me.” Chuffta hovered in front of him, in midair.
“Who?” He was an idiot. Or delirious. He’d heard of this—men hearing voices, seeing things that weren’t there. Nightmares invading the waking world. He focused on Chuffta, certain the dragonlet’s green eyes burned with exasperation. “I’m hearing you in my thoughts?”
“Obviously.”
“How? I never did before.”
He got the definite impression of a mental shrug. “It’s not like I wasn’t talking, so it must be that you weren’t listening.”
That didn’t sound exactly right but he couldn’t pull together the brain power to argue the point.
“So…” The voice in his head slowed down to an exaggerated degree. “Show me where to build the fire. Then I can hunt for you and you can cook the meat.”
“You can hunt for us?” He repeated, knowing it sounded stupid, but somehow unable to move his head past that.
“Yes. I’m not excited about spending the rest of my days living alone in this oasis with your rotting corpses. Where. Fire. Barbarian idiot.”
“Hey!” He began to understand some of Oria’s reactions to her Familiar now. Still, Chuffta’s ire snapped through his daze somewhat. As Oria appeared to be still upright in the water—and would be getting cold soon—he scanned the shore for a campfire ring. Spotting one, he directed the derkesthai to it. “See? In places like this previous travelers, if they’re responsible, choose good locations and build a semi-permanent ring. Go ahead and clear out some of that old ash, so it won’t suffocate our fire.”
Chuffta set to the job with enthusiasm—and without further comment, thankfully—while Lonen whistled for Buttercup, who came trotting, happy enough to be finally divested of his tack. “Sorry, Buttercup,” Lonen murmured to the warhorse. “I’ll take better care of you, I promise. Thanks for carrying us through the desert. You have the heart of a lion.”
The stallion bobbed his head as Lonen removed his halter, giving him the uncanny impression that the animal heard and agreed. Although, there he was, talking to the creature as if it could understand. He was beginning to sound like Oria. At least he hadn’t “heard” Chuffta speak to him again. That had been beyond the pale. A sorcery no Destrye should experience. Perhaps he’d imagined it.
After brushing down Buttercup and sending the horse off to happily graze on some grasses, Lonen went to build the kindling start, surprised to find Chuffta already nursing a small fire burning with a green flame.
“I watched you last night,” he said, giving Lonen what looked like a smile, complete with sharp teeth, a lolling forked tongue, and a wisp of green fire. “How did I do?”
“Not bad at all. I’ll chop some bigger pieces for you.”
“Get the fire hot and I’ll go hunt. Tend to Oria. She needs you.”
She needed someone better than him, but the lizard had already taken off. What the derkesthai would be able to take down at his size that would feed them, Lonen didn’t know. Any number of critters should come in for water, so perhaps the lizardling would get lucky. Arill make it so.
With the fire burning bright, he laid out his furred cloak to warm before he returned to Oria. They’d want it to curl up in. She sat where he’d left her, face tipped up to the sky, eyes closed. Had she returned to her dream state? She sat upright, so he didn’t think so.
“Are you all right?” He asked, resist
ing the urge to touch her cheek, gilded on the edges by the firelight.
She opened her eyes, shadowed, haunting with the flickering flames. “Do you hear them?” she whispered.
Senses going alert, he crouched beside her, drawing his hunting knife as he’d left the battle-axe by the fire. Thickheaded and careless. “What?” He kept his voice hushed, as it would carry over the water.
“The stars,” she replied in a dreamy tone. “They’re singing. Do you hear them?”
He relaxed fractionally, though it boded ill that she hallucinated, too. At least Chuffta and Buttercup had their wits. Then he shook his head at the absurd thought. “Come on, let’s undo your braids so we can wash and dry off.” He set the point of his knife to one of the knots, rather than untie the ribbons. It chafed his thrifty heart to do it, but she shouldn’t need the cursed things anymore anyway, and he wanted to get her dry.
“Just cut all the braids off,” she replied with brisk irritation, scrubbing at her scalp with such vigor that he very nearly did slice through a few.
“No need,” he replied. “And keep still, lest I slice your pretty skin.”
“You and my hair,” she scoffed, but at least subsided. “It would grow back, you know.”
“A few moments of work and it won’t need to,” he answered in as even a tone as he could manage. It did wonders for his heart, to hear her speaking of the future again, that she teased him for his foibles. “How are you feeling?” he dared to ask.
“Better,” she replied, surprise in her voice. “I don’t know why, but I’m not going to question it. Here, you keep cutting the ribbons—at least you’ll concede this much to efficiency—and I’ll untangle them.” In demonstration she plucked a braid from his hands and began working the plaited hair free, splashing it with water to help it along.
“What would be efficient is to cut all the ribbons, then take you into deeper water so you can soak the mud and salt out.”
“Oh.” She sounded taken aback and glanced over her shoulder at him, a slight smile curving her lips. In the dim light, the scabbed cracks in them barely showed. “And you’ll… help me with the not-drowning part, will you?”
The wistfulness of her expression disarmed him, and he tugged lightly on the braid he held. “Always.”
Her smile altered slightly—a bemused twist to it—and she turned away again, dropping her hair. “That’s what Chuffta says to me, too.”
Uncertain what had changed her mood, he sorted through the stiff mass of braids, aware of a similar stiffness between them. He very nearly told her that Chuffta had spoken in his head, but he wasn’t sure if that would please or further upset her. Besides—he wasn’t sure if it had been real or the product of fever, starvation, and all the strangeness of recent events.
He also considered asking if she was still angry that he’d refused to take her back across the bay, that he’d nearly killed her already dragging her over the desert to Dru. But no sense resurrecting that argument either. So he worked in silence.
“There,” he finally said.
“Will you help me stand?” she asked, in a tone so neutral he might have missed how much she disliked asking, if he hadn’t been through that with her before.
“I could carry you,” he offered.
She shook her head, pulling the braids out of his grip where he still reflexively caressed them. “I want to stand on my own, Lonen.”
Which said everything about her and their relationship, right there.
“All right.” He made an effort to push back his annoyance, focusing on the peaceful lake, and stood. “I’ll get behind you and lift you to your feet.” And they would see how well she stood. At least that way he’d be ready to catch her.
If he remained standing, himself.
“No, I want to try something. Take my hands.”
He studied her, but she seemed rational. “Are you sure?”
“If I’m wrong, we’ll know quickly.”
She said that so matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t felt every agonized shudder his touch wracked her with. “Why stress yourself further when you—”
“Give me some credit, Destrye. I know something of what I’m about here.”
She sounded tart enough, but he’d come to know her better over the last days and recognized when she brazened her way through things. She’d confessed to him that she’d managed to fake hwil well enough to fool her temple busybodies. Besides, not long ago she’d been muttering about death and lapsing in and out of consciousness, not to mention the crazy bit about the stars singing just a few moments before.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Don’t help me.”
“Arill save me, woman,” he growled back. “I’m not in the best of shape either. Give me a chance to catch up. Here.” He thrust his hands at her. “Take them if you’re so determined to. I suppose you can only die once.”
“That’s a matter of some debate,” she muttered, slipping her cool, damp hands into his. Hesitating only a moment, she clasped him tighter and tried to stand. She wobbled considerably, nearly falling back, so he gripped her and pulled—ready to let go and catch her by the shoulders or waist if needed.
He watched her face for signs of strain, for those distinctive brackets of pain around her mouth that came with physical contact, but she remained serene except for a grimace when her leg threatened to give. Checking himself, he squeezed her hands, savoring the delicacy of her hands with their fine bones. “How can we be touching?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then wobbled dangerously. “Curse it,” she grated out as her legs went. He caught her in time, sweeping her up in his arms, as she should have let him do in the first place. Blinking at him with some surprise, she smiled, though it was more a grim twist of her mouth. “Admirable, those warrior reflexes.”
“Handy for dealing with stubborn sorceresses.” Wasting no more time—and hoping to prevent an argument from that hasty observation—he waded deeper into the water, carrying her with no effort despite his own fatigue. Though he wished he’d taken the time to shuck his boots. They were already soaked, from his precipitous dunking when they finally made it to the oasis, but the rounded stones the ancients had paved the bottom of the pond with made for uneven footing. Keeping his balance on the precarious surface took such concentration that Oria’s hand caressing his face nearly shocked him.
She had that dreamy look again, dragging her fingertips lightly through his beard. “It’s so soft. How can it look rough but feel soft?”
“Many things are not as they appear. You should be the queen of knowing that.”
“And yet I’m queen of nothing. A shade forever cursed to live beyond the walls and tides of Bára.”
Not a good time to remind her that she would be Queen in Dru. It wouldn’t have made him feel better either, were their positions reversed. He stopped in water deep enough for her soak herself, but shallow enough to stand should she insist on trying that again. She dipped her head back with a sigh, her braids swirling into a halo, but she didn’t relinquish her grasp on his beard.
“How can you be touching me, Oria?” he asked softly, unsure if he wanted to know the answer. It could be a bad sign, that she’d gone so far in her steps to the Hall of Warriors that she’d lost sight of what might injure her further.
“My mother gave me the key,” she replied just as quietly, without opening her eyes, stroking his beard so he leaned his cheek into her hand. It would feel marvelous if it didn’t make him sick with worry. “To fend off the wild magic I… closed all the portals for it to enter. That means it closes off everything else, too. I can touch you—and you can stop picturing that cursed lake, because I can’t read your thoughts anyway.”
“If you can’t read my thoughts, how do you know I’m picturing it?”
A faint line formed between her brows. “I don’t know. I’m still getting something. As if it comes from another place. The water? I don’t know. But if I wasn’t getting magic from somewhere, I’d already be dead.”
Though he thought he’d already faced that possibility, her words struck cold terror through his heart. “Maybe you should open up more of those portals then. Feed yourself from the magic.”
“It is more coherent here,” she admitted, then opened her eyes, the copper uncannily bright even in the dimness, as if lit from within. “And I am doing some of that. But I like touching you. We could have sex, for real. Finally. It’s what you’ve wanted.”
He bit back a vicious retort. She wasn’t in her right mind so he wouldn’t take offense at the implication he lusted for her so badly that he’d take her even though it meant her death.
“Let’s get us both cleaned up first,” he said. “Can you float?”
She frowned at him and let her hand fall, turning her face away. “I don’t know how.”
“Standing then—the water should help buoy you.” He lowered her legs, transferring his supporting grip to her waist. “Or you can hang onto me and I can loosen the braids.”
“You do it.” She held onto his shoulders and tipped her head back into the water again. The movement exposed the long, graceful line of her neck, and with her silk robes plastered to her skin, outlined her small, perfect breasts, nipples taut from the cool water. She might have his number after all because his cock stiffened at the sight. He did crave her, beyond reason.
But he wasn’t a monster. He might have behaved like one in the past, entertained dark-edged lustful thoughts about her that she’d unfortunately glimpsed in his mind, but he could be a better man than that. He wouldn’t act on them. Especially with her so fragile.
As gently as he could, he combed his fingers through the braids, loosening the salt and caked dirt, freeing the silken strands of her hair to float like seaweed. Recalling how she’d complained of them itching and pulling at her scalp, he judiciously massaged that too, watching her face for any hint of pain.
“Help me undress, too,” she murmured.
He paused in his scrubbing. No hint of mischief or guile in her face, but he suspected her of continuing an ill-advised seduction. “I thought you didn’t like being naked outside.”
The Tides of Bára Page 8
