The Tides of Bára

by Jeffe Kennedy

  He just had to get her there, and perhaps marry her in Arill’s temple, to cement the connection from the other direction, in case such magic worked for the Destrye also. Oria had a point about Natly’s likely fury at such an event. Frankly he’d forgotten about her until Oria evoked her. It said a great deal about the tenuous connection he had to his former almost-fiancée.

  Natly had never consumed him as Oria had and did. She’d be better finding a man who loved her with that kind of consuming passion.

  No, taking Oria all the way to Dru would be the lasting solution, no matter how tempting it had been to stay at the oasis. Even she couldn’t live on magic alone and those rodent things Chuffta had found wouldn’t be enough to sustain two adults for long. He’d have thought all sorts of wildlife would come in for the water, but that didn’t seem to be the case. The Destrye scouts had noted that before, the strange lack of animal life in the oases that studded the desert, like sterile jewels in a barren crown. Perhaps to do with those llerna Oria had referenced. Chuffta had likely found the creatures out in the desert, which was paradoxically far more full of life than the verdant oases.

  Magic. Always replete with questions and lacking solid answers.

  Reaching Dru might end up being the best thing for Oria. Never mind what happened to the sorceresses in the old tales. Who even knew if those contained the least grain of truth? His warrior ancestors had been a brutal lot on many fronts, by all accounts. Besides the sexual contact that would have eroded the hwil of Oria’s sisters in magic, those men had likely deserved the moniker of “barbarian”—and every other insult a Báran princess could think to heap upon them.

  They would not have been gentle men. And even if they hadn’t been brutal enough to cause the women to suffer and die from physical abuse alone—which certainly could have occurred—the mental and emotional trauma for the women, on top of being ripped from their homes, would have eroded their will to live.

  Not a good line of thinking, as Oria had too much in common with those women. But he hadn’t raped her. Would never treat any woman so shamefully. The Destrye had changed under Arill’s taming hand. The roving bands of pillaging warriors had learned to treat women as sacred as the Goddess herself. Now, Arill knew that Lonen lacked the temperament to be Her acolyte. He was far from the Goddess’s chosen—and never further from that blessed state than when he’d slaughtered the Báran priestesses with his own hands—but he tried his best. He’d visited Arill’s temple and asked to atone, made his sacrifice to Her.

  And his path had led directly to taking Oria as his bride, however unlikely that development had seemed at the outset. Perhaps Arill set him to make up for the many sins of his past brethren against Oria’s sister sorceresses. Whether that was Arill’s intention or not, and though he’d been pressed to restrain himself as much as he had, he felt sure he’d be cursed if he ever treated the fragile Oria at all roughly. He’d be careful with her and never unleash the violent lusts that surged at the least thought of her.

  Which seemed to be all his thoughts of late. Where all thoughts led, after all.

  Full circle, yet again.

  At least out of the oasis they again had to contend with the proscription against skin-to-skin contact. The more barriers against his darker nature, the better. He could wish for more distance from his brutish ancestors. There were tales that Destrye warriors who strayed too long from Arill’s temple reverted, like domestic wolves going feral in the woods—and like those, even more dangerous for it. As if the brief taming caused a backlash into savagery, like a fire once banked finding new kindling.

  Perhaps his long journeys accounted for the restless savage growing inside him. From his first glimpse of her, Oria had obsessed him, occupying his mind waking and sleeping, testing his control of the barbarian that lurked in the hot blood of his darkest heart. If they could only get to Dru, then he wouldn’t be so much with her. Better perhaps that she refused to converse with him, saving it all for that silent communion with the derkesthai. Probably no less than he deserved.

  He sighed heavily, Buttercup echoing the sound.

  Lonen drove them on like a man possessed by demons. After badgering her for the first few hours of their ride, he’d finally subsided into a sullen silence. At least so Oria presumed. She tried to be like the new moon, Sgatha in her dark phase, holding all her light and power within. Thus she read nothing of the Destrye’s thoughts, only interpreting his mood from the rigid line of his back and the tension of his muscles. She knew him somewhat, having tasted the brooding anger that seethed in him, a familiar flavor on the back of her tongue. He possessed a dual nature it seemed—both the sparkling humor and the smoldering ire. For now, the latter worked in him, like one of his campfires banked so the embers glowed hot.

  That was fine. He didn’t need to be happy with her. In fact, it would be better for him to remain unattached.

  “He’s already attached. The Destrye worries for you. You’re being willfully dense if you don’t perceive that.”

  She might not be able to read thoughts, but Chuffta projected his easily enough into her mind. They’d reverted to him speaking mind-to-mind to her and she unable to respond except vocally—which she wouldn’t do where Lonen could overhear and get ideas about drawing her into conversation—and with very strong thoughts.

  Unfortunately, Chuffta tended to pick and choose which of her thoughts he responded to. She’d never been sure how much of that depended on the thoughts themselves, or if he could hear everything in her mind if he wished to and the picking and choosing simply gave her the illusion of privacy. When she was a girl, he’d seemed to be entwined in her consciousness far more than he was now. Perhaps the attenuation she’d perceived as she got older had less to do with her growing control of hwil, as she attributed it with great hopefulness, and more to do with his circumspection.

  “You know I don’t listen to everything you think. You’re not that interesting.”

  She thought very hard about yanking his tail. Either he didn’t get the image or he ignored her.

  “And I don’t lecture. It’s my job to give you advice, as you and I both know. It doesn’t matter that you’ve left Bára and are no longer a priestess. You weren’t a priestess when we bonded. I agreed to be your Familiar, not a priestess’s or the future queen of Bára’s or any of those things you’ve been thinking.”

  But he had agreed because her mother—and his derkesthai family, too—all had believed she had some great destiny. Not one where she’d perish in a foreign land after ignominiously wasting away.

  “It would make for an excellent tragic ballad.”

  She thought fiercely at him to stop his teasing, but he blithely ignored her, his mind-voice taking on the melodramatic, ringing tones of a court minstrel. “The once-powerful, orphaned princess of Bára, exiled beyond the foul deserts to the cruel land of Dru, foully abused by her barbarian warrior husband, died upon a bower of flowers, her faithful derkesthai Familiar by her side. With her last breath, she extolled his wisdom, charm, and loyalty. ‘If only I had listened to your advice,’ she gasped, coughing up a spot of blood, ‘if only! I might have led a happy and healthy life. Instead I’m dying because I’m a self-pitying idiot and I—’”

  “Stop it!” she snapped.

  Lonen instantly halted Buttercup—who danced in place at the abruptness of it, Chuffta exploding off her shoulder in a clap of wings, too—and Lonen had leapt off, reaching up for her before she knew it. The man moved like lightning when alarmed.

  “What’s wrong?” He demanded, already lifting her down with big hands around her waist. “Are you ill?”

  “No,” she gasped, steadying herself by bracing against his chest. “No—I’m sorry. I was…” She was embarrassed to admit it. “Chuffta was haranguing me and I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

  “Snapped you out of that miserable funk.” Chuffta’s mind-voice oozed smug, self-satisfaction, and she glared at the white blur of him in the sky. “You were making me
want to kill myself.”

  “If only,” she muttered. “I’m sorry. We can keep going.”

  “That’s two surplus apologies for the day.” Lonen had a hint of amusement in his voice, but he let go of her and stepped back. “I’ll have to exact a penance for it.”

  “Surely it’s well past midnight, so one of those can count for today. Tell you what—apply the other to the day after.” She wouldn’t apologize to him for anything more.

  “Cranky,” Chuffta observed.

  She’d show them cranky.

  “Better than self-pity.”

  “All right,” Lonen sounded wary. “Since we’re stopped, let’s take a little rest. Eat. I could stretch my legs.”

  At least with the darkness she could wander off a short way to relieve herself. She gratefully drank the water Lonen handed her, and less happily choked down more of the meat. It sat in her gut heavily, but the more she ate of it, the better she seemed to digest it. When Lonen lifted her back onto Buttercup, she grasped his forearms for stability, the play of his muscles through his sleeves reminded her forcefully of their sexual interlude at the oasis. His skin had burned beneath her touch, the surprising softness of the skin of his cock an exciting contrast to the rigidity beneath. Most of all, she missed that closeness they’d had at that moment, how they’d moved together in a mutual understanding. She hadn’t needed to read his thoughts or feel his emotions to know his mind. Now he seemed as far from her as Bára. And just as unreachable. Behind walls she’d erected herself and had no idea how to breach.

  “What?” he asked, and she realized she’d held onto him, staring down into his shadowed face.

  “Nothing.” She let go.

  “Nothing,” Chuffta sang in mimicry.

  In self-defense, she closed Chuffta out of her thoughts, though he likely already knew what lay in her secret heart. She knew she was being difficult—but she didn’t know how to stop. Is this pride? Lonen’s voice mocked her. Almost certainly. Still bereft of all else, she clung to that. She wouldn’t lay the onus of her feelings on him, along with responsibility for her very life.

  She’d rather be miserable company in her prideful ways, than a clingy burden Lonen would come to resent. He refused her sexual favors, fine. Then she needed to concentrate on providing the only value she did hold for him: using her magic to save the Destrye.

  If she could manage that, perhaps she could even hope for something more than a slow death in a foreign land. Once she’d served her purpose to Lonen he’d be happy to let her go, so he could move on to a healthier woman, like the sensuous Natly. He’d been right to hold her at arm’s length. She could withstand succumbing to this sapping affection for him that made her want to hide in his arms and forever avoid facing the world. He’d become another tower for her, another refuge from all the things she lacked the fortitude to fight.

  This feeling that she cared more deeply for him than a refuge came from fear and insecurity. It had to. She couldn’t have succumbed to such foolishness as to love a man who’d married her only for expediency.

  She couldn’t let it happen, this desire to give in to having Lonen take care of every little thing for her. Taking care of her. Enough already. She was the daughter of Rhianna, great-niece of the mysterious but powerful Tania, a descendent of great sorceresses. Princess Ponen. She’d faced the Trom and resisted their lethal touch. She alone had done that.

  She could and would do better.

  And she’d do it on her own, too, as was her fate.

  ~ 12 ~

  They stopped only for short rests like that one, Lonen determined to make the next oasis before dawn. Oria gave in to the dragging need for sleep, dozing against Lonen’s back—though the Destrye seemed tireless. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He seemed as weary as she, but pressed on regardless. Though his eyes reddened, with shadows beneath, he did not admit to his obvious exhaustion. She would have given him grief for his own stubborn pride, but she hated to play the hypocrite.

  She was also profoundly grateful for his extraordinary endurance. His and Buttercup’s. Besides, it felt so good to lean on him while she had the excuse to do so.

  “Oria!” Chuffta’s warning call penetrated her sleepy haze. “Stop! Be quiet, but tell Lonen to stop.”

  A strike of fear thudded through her at the alarm in Chuffta’s mind-voice. “Stop!” She tugged at Lonen’s belt to emphasize her hissed warning. “Lonen, Chuffta says to stop and be silent,” she clarified, though he’d already halted Buttercup with some command that had the big horse utterly, eerily still. Just as soundlessly, Lonen drew his big knife. He’d affixed the battle-axe to the saddle packs in order to make room for her.

  He twisted in the saddle, putting an arm around her waist and his lips near her ear. “I hear you,” he said, words barely above a breath. “Can he tell me in my head?”

  “No. That might have been an oasis thing.”

  She shook her head, pressing her lips together.

  “Does he say what it is? Don’t whisper—that carries—voice it as quietly as possible.”

  “Golems. Many, many of them, marching your way. These are not like the city golems. These have fangs and claws, like the ones Lonen said they fought outside the walls.” And in Dru, he didn’t have to add.

  Golems? “But Priest Sisto died. How can his creations persist?”

  “I only know what I see.”

  Following Lonen’s directions, she relayed the information, murmuring in his ear, his hair tickling her cheek. Absurd that she’d notice the savory scent of his skin at such a moment. He dipped his chin sharply, not arguing as she had. “Is there a way to avoid them?”

  “Tell him to angle toward where Grienon sets.”

  She did, then held her breath for fear of making any sound as Lonen gave some undetectable signal that had Buttercup moving silently in that direction. How the big warhorse could pick his way across the rocky soil without striking anything with his massive hooves, she didn’t know. No longer the least bit sleepy, she stretched her senses—a trick without opening her portals to the magic, like patting her head and rubbing her belly at the same time, but one she seemed to be improving at with practice—trying to detect the presence of the magical constructs.

  She sensed nothing magical, but with Buttercup walking so stealthily the ambient sounds of the desert swelled around her. For such a barren place, a surprising amount of life emerged at night. Various insects clicked, buzzed, and hummed. Some sort of bird sent a lonely sounding call through the chill air. And just after, the hoot of perhaps an owl. Something furiously rummaged in a mound of succulent-covered rocks as they passed. Perhaps one of those rodent things Chuffta had caught.

  As Grienon plunged to the horizon in his impetuous way, the night grew more shadowed, only Sgatha’s rosy light emanating from her waning crescent, barely a sliver now, which meant the stars bloomed ever brighter, a dizzying array of brilliant colors. She’d only ever seen the like when both moons were in dark phase and around the curve of the horizon. Still, they hadn’t been like this, with none of the light of Bára to steal their glory.

  Perhaps she should have tried to stay awake, with such a sky to see.

  Buttercup picked his way through the heavy dark near the ground, Lonen’s body flexing here and there to guide him, both of them able to see what she could not, apparently. When Grienon disappeared with a final blue-white flash, leaving a quickly dissipating glow behind, the night grew even thicker, Sgatha barely touching the dim. How would Lonen know the direction?

  Then, something rustled against her senses. Invisible, inaudible, a breath of magic blowing across her nerves like the first breeze stirring after a baking afternoon. She wrapped her arms around Lonen’s waist, squeezing to alert him, not sure what else to do, but absolutely certain she shouldn’t speak. With his warrior’s awareness, he had stopped Buttercup. He didn’t speak either, slowly turning his head as he scanned the night, projecting questioning emotion at her.

  He’d really gott
en quite good at that. If only she could project into his mind. Though she didn’t know what she’d say. Could be she’d imagined that brush of awareness, just as she’d often imagined—wishful thinking, her lady-in-waiting Alva would say—those longed-for cooling breezes. She should tell Lonen it had been a false alarm. She shouldn’t have stopped their progress with her fancies in the first place.

  “The golems have shifted. Moving your direction, Oria. Straight for you.”

  Sgatha curse them. She needed to tell Lonen. He looked over his shoulder at her, though she couldn’t read his expression in the dark. “They’re headed this way,” she said, as softly as she could.

  “Can we avoid?” he asked, so she barely heard him, even so close. He seemed calm, but his emotional energy grew both tense and still, radiating with increasing power so she felt it without trying.

  “No. They’re moving in behind you, too. I’m coming there.”

  “We’re surrounded.”

  He didn’t curse—not out loud—but she felt it in him. “I need my axe,” he told her, not bothering to be so stealthy, holding her steady with a familiar hand on her hip and reaching around to unstrap the battle-axe from behind her. Then pressed his big knife into her hand. “Stay on Buttercup. No matter what happens. Only use this if you have to.”

  “Why aren’t we being quiet anymore?”

  “They already know we’re here. No choice but to fight through it,” he replied tersely.

  “Wait, can’t we run for it?”

  He swung a leg over Buttercup’s head and vaulted down. “Clearly you haven’t seen your Báran monsters in action. They run faster than a horse and they never stop. Our only hope is to chop them to pieces. Does Chuffta say how many there are?”