Lonen's War

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Thank you.” It took a moment for his numb brain to process. “The truce—”

  “Can we agree to extend it until you are not soiled with the remains of all our dead?”

  “Yes.” As much as he longed to be clean, he lingered a moment more. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “In turn, I appreciate your long afternoon’s toil on behalf of my people,” she returned gravely. “I’ve heard many reports of your efforts and a proper bath seems a small favor in return. Go bathe. There are clothes for you to wear while yours are cleaned. I’m having food and drink brought to the council chambers. Everyone can eat freely.”

  “So we can stay there as long as necessary to come to an agreement.”

  He must have sounded harsher than he meant to because she flinched. The dragonlet’s long white tail snaked around her wrist, coiling and uncoiling.

  “I think it’s best,” she said, in a reasonably smooth tone. “Then we can all be done with each other.”

  As if it were so easy. “That will depend on you, Princess. We’ll go when I’m satisfied with the terms.”

  “You and I made one agreement before. I feel confident we can come to another.”

  “Perhaps so.” Uncertain what moved him to do it, he bowed—a slight incline—but a concession Ion would have smacked the back of his head for. Ion, however, now walked with the dead and Lonen lived. “I shall return shortly and we will find out.”

  ~ 19 ~

  Oria lingered in the entry hall until she felt certain all the Destrye who were going to had returned to the palace and found the baths. Thankfully all of them had been appreciative of the consideration and none had argued. She’d been uncertain how they’d receive the courtesy, as they were hardly well groomed at the best of times. Apparently being covered in the ashes of human bodies crossed the line, even for them. Or they were too exhausted. The cleanup efforts had been grim, all the men emanating dark thoughts. Some angry, some in despair.

  Lonen, in particular, was a tumult of rage and guilt, all underlain with a grief that matched her own—energy he projected as forcefully as he swung that axe.

  “He will not go easy on you,” Chuffta observed.

  “I don’t need easy. I need them to go. We’ll agree to their terms, watch them leave us be, and then set about rebuilding.” She didn’t want to think about the Trom’s promise to return.

  “You don’t know what terms he’ll ask for.”

  “Does it matter?” She sounded bleak, even to herself. “We are a decimated people. Prince Lonen already understands that we wouldn’t agree to total subjugation. Anything else we can live with.”

  “Perhaps he’ll ask for that again.”

  “If so, we’ll ask Yar to build that bridge when we come to it.” She smiled a little at her own joke, making her way down the hall to the council chambers. In truth she was proud of her little brother. She’d expected him to pitch in with heavy lifting, at best, and stay out of her aura at least—not create an entire bridge. And then he hadn’t returned immediately, instead staying out and assisting with the cleanup. Something he wouldn’t have stooped to before now. But then, before now she wouldn’t have possessed the audacity to send him off on a task, either.

  The temple taught that the crucible of crisis built character. True growth is uncomfortable, even painful. Of course, the priestesses meant by testing the strength of hwil under intense pressure, but perhaps the horrors of this week would mature both her and Yar. A small benefit for all they’d suffer—and would still face in the days to come.

  Yar had dragged himself back to the palace before Lonen did, but not by much, exhausted and utterly defeated. Witnessing what horrors he and Nat had wrought affected him enough to agree to let Oria handle the negotiations, saying he no longer trusted himself. Then he shuffled off, uncharacteristically despondent, to bathe and eat in his own rooms, then to sleep.

  More than a little weary herself, Oria envied him the respite. She wanted nothing more at that moment than the remote isolation of her tower. But she’d slept for the past several days—she could make it a few hours more.

  “You were unconscious for days because your body shut down to keep your spirit attached. It’s not exactly the same thing.”

  “I feel all right. Nothing like I did before I collapsed. I’ll ask for a recess if I feel it coming on.”

  “Did you feel it coming on before?”

  She didn’t bother to answer as they both knew she hadn’t. Yes, the pressure and input had been building to unbearable levels—and blew up exponentially once she stepped outside the city gates—but she’d expected to feel the onset of actual collapse. Instead she’d simply blanked. Gone from agonizing consciousness to clawing her way out of that gray fog, days later. Not something to dwell on.

  A number of people waited in the council chambers and she hesitated outside the doors, not ready to go in. Lapo, along with several other folcwitas, had Priest Vico in one corner, arguing in low voices. Priestess Febe sat nearby, apparently meditating. Freshly washed Destrye warriors prowled the laden food table. Even in the pale silk trousers and loose shirts of Báran men they stood out with their dark skin and wild hair. No sign of Queen Rhianna. She’d said she wouldn’t come, though she’d received the news of Nat’s death with her former outward calm.

  She and Oria had spent an hour together while the queen’s handmaidens washed Oria’s hair and fetched her a clean gown from the tower, so Oria wouldn’t have to make the climb. The queen had put her off when she asked why the Trom called her Ponen, though Oria thought it wasn’t that she didn’t know, but rather she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to muster an answer. Her mother also listlessly refused to advise Oria, telling her that whatever terms she set with the Destrye didn’t matter to her.

  With Oria on her feet again, her mother seemed to have again lost the brief spark of her old self.

  “She may yet recover,” Chuffta comforted her.

  Oria fervently hoped so.

  Folcwita Lapo spotted Oria and waved her over. “Does he think I’m a servant girl to be summoned?” she muttered, irritation crawling up her spine.

  “Don’t go then.”

  “I’m not going to.” Instead she waved him off in the same preemptory fashion and ambled to the buffet table, picking up a plate and filling it slowly, deliberately dawdling. The Destrye gave way, nodding with more courtesy than she would have credited such rough men with. Ironic that she’d rather be in their company than the folcwitas’.

  “Princess.” Lonen greeted her with a nod, taking up a plate of his own and scowling at the table. He’d tied his still-wet hair back with a piece of leather and trimmed his beard to a neat scruff. Between the two, the hard line of his jaw stood out more, along with the scar that dragged down his cheek. He shouldn’t look so appealing, nor should she be battling an unsettling urge to run her hand over his beard, to discover if it felt soft or scratchy. She never wanted to touch people, as it only led to disaster.

  Lonen noticed her intent stare and raised dark brows. “Problem?”

  “I didn’t expect you so quickly, Prince Lonen.”

  He tilted a wry glance at her, a glint of something in his slate-gray eyes. “Your baths were such a treat I thought it best not to linger, lest I get too comfortable and fall asleep. A strategy of yours, perhaps, to incapacitate me before the negotiations.”

  “I’m sure you must be exhausted.” She clutched her plate, glad of something to do with her hands, and focused on not stepping back, though the Destrye stood much too close for her to screen out his emotions. A great deal going on under that remote expression, but…a flicker of humor there, like a blue flame licking up from banked coals of darker feelings.

  “As you must be also,” he returned. “We have not had the opportunity to speak since you fainted in my arms, but I believe you’ve been unwell since.”

  “I did not faint, certainly not in your arms.” She used the excuse of making room at the table for new ar
rivals to put a bit of distance between them. That was better.

  “Actually, the Destrye did catch you when you collapsed.”

  “Not helpful,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  Lonen stepped back also, the scar on his cheek pulling with displeasure. “Is there no meat?”

  “Meat? Animal flesh?”

  A ghost of a smile twisted the man’s lips, the frown smoothing. “Generally, yes—meat is animal flesh. The Destrye are rarely cannibals.”

  “No,” she replied a bit tartly, feeling the sting of embarrassment that she’d implied as much. Surely they weren’t really and he was teasing her. “Bárans eat only fruits, vegetables, grains. There’s some cheese you could try.”

  “No wonder they’re all so weak,” one of the nearby warriors said to another, to a crack of laughter.

  “Don’t try it—that stuff is rancid.”

  “Stand down,” Lonen snapped. “Get your food and go. If I want to hear from you, I’ll say so.”

  They bowed and hastened away with admirable discipline while Lonen peered doubtfully at the round of cheese. He took a bite, then spit it out with a grimace of distaste. “It is rancid. Do you mean to be rid of us with food poisoning?”

  Oria risked drawing near again, reaching a hand around him to snag a piece of the cheese, biting into it and chewing. “No. We don’t think of it as rancid. It’s more…cured over time.”

  He frowned at her in such consternation that she nearly laughed, an odd bubble rising through all the dark despair. “Did my brothers bring in meat for you before this? I didn’t think to ask the kitchens for it. We don’t have much, but…”

  Lonen was slowly shaking his head, expression opaque, but a tendril of curiosity winding through his bleak emotions. “You are the first of your family to offer us food.”

  Oh. Maybe she’d erred in doing so. Probably a conquered people didn’t play host to their overlords. She made a terrible diplomat. Another course of study to add to the list, should their lives ever return to normal.

  “You’re doing fine. I’ll tell you if you make a real misstep.”

  Holding her gaze, Lonen bit into the cheese again, a smaller bite this time, chewing it thoughtfully. He swallowed, the ridge in his throat moving with it. Her fingertips tingled to touch him there, too. “An acquired taste, perhaps,” he said and she had to drag her thoughts back to the subject at hand.

  “Try this,” she said, not certain why she felt hot. Though the curtains lay slack along the windows, no breezes to catch. Reaching for the crock, she dabbed some honey on his hunk of cheese, smiling as he bit in, his brows raising in pleasure.

  “It’s sweet. We have something like this made from the sap of trees in winter.”

  “Ours comes from insects. They make it to feed their young.”

  He made such a grimace at that, setting the cheese down and pushing it aside, that she realized she shouldn’t have told him. It did sound odd, put that way. “I can ask for—”

  “It was thoughtfully done—” Lonen said at the same time, a faint smile for their mutual gaffe. Surely he wouldn’t be as nervous as she? “Thank you,” he continued, “but we have meat at the encampment, if the men wish to find some.”

  “Oh.” She had no idea what armies ate. “Where did you get it?”

  Two lines made brackets between his thick brows, a definite sense of puzzlement coming from him. “We brought some with us, dried, and we’ve been sending parties back across the bay to hunt for more.”

  “Oh,” she said again, feeling like an idiot. Hunting. Of course. She had no idea what animals lived across the bay, but would not ask and further reveal her ignorance. Averting her gaze, she noticed Folcwita Lapo prowling the other side of the room, throwing her black looks. The force of his displeasure crawled over her sensitive nerves even from that distance, a headache pounding into her temple.

  “Careful, Oria.”

  She was sick to death of being careful, of being so cursed weak. But she really did not look forward to sitting at that table and having everyone’s anger shout at her for hours. How could she make good decisions under those conditions? Especially when only she and the Destrye prince need agree to the terms, as they both spoke for their people at the moment. The rest was courtesy and she had used up her quotient of that commodity.

  “An excellent idea.”

  “Right.” So great was her relief at the suggestion that she forgot herself and spoke out load, reaching up to scratch Chuffta’s chest.

  Lonen gave her a startled glance, then scrutinized her Familiar, distaste wafting off of him. That time she didn’t care. She took a physical step back, bringing his stormy gaze to hers again. “I have a suggestion, Prince Lonen. Is there any reason you and I can’t sit down alone and discuss terms one on one—do we need all these people?”

  She’d surprised him, which at least backed off the worst of the disgust. “My brother will be annoyed,” Lonen said slowly, thinking it through, “but I outrank him. What of your advisers, your council?”

  “They will also be annoyed, but I outrank them.” She nearly smiled at the flicker of amusement that lit the stormy gray of his eyes. “Arguably they have had their opportunity for days now to make their opinions known.”

  “Believe me, Princess, they have. Repeatedly.”

  She didn’t ask why the Destrye had tolerated the obstructionism. From the resolute set of Lonen’s jaw and the determined anger rising out of him, he, at least, was done with it.

  “Then I see no reason you and I shouldn’t sit down privately to discuss. Come. I know a place.” She set her plate down, not hungry in the first place, and beckoned to Juli. She liked the junior priestess, who possessed both a solicitous nature and discretion, and asked Juli to relay that Oria had withdrawn to her tower and should not be disturbed—after a suitable delay. They’d see how long that lasted before Folcwita Lapo and the others realized she’d circumvented them. She started to go. When Lonen didn’t accompany her, she turned back. “Problem?”

  “Shouldn’t we include a guard of some sort?”

  “Why—are you afraid of me?” She regretted asking it, because his reaction stabbed at her, that severe distaste, shaded with suspicion and distrust. His eyes flicked to Chuffta and away.

  “I don’t know.” He paused for a long moment. Then his mood shifted and he smiled in truth, a bright emotion echoing it, a flash of who he might be when not at war. “It depends on if you have that sword on you. My life could be in danger.”

  “A risk you’ll have to take, Prince Lonen.” She made herself stay somber. And did not further draw attention to Chuffta by mentioning his ability to guard her well-being.

  ~ 20 ~

  “It’s King Lonen, by the way,” he told Oria as he followed her out the doors. The dragonlet had swiveled its head backwards on its neck, keeping those bright green eyes fixed on him, unblinking, reminding him uncomfortably of its enormous lethal cousins. He wouldn’t let it unsettle him. Or her, with her uncanny gaze that seemed to see more in him than he liked.

  Could she read his thoughts? It would be interesting to test it. Something to discomfit her from that unshakable poise. Like working up a vivid image of tossing up her skirts and ravishing her until she screamed his name and—

  “When did that happen?”

  He nearly asked what before he caught himself. She cast him a questioning glance, which at least seemed to prove she hadn’t eavesdropped on those prurient thoughts. Something that felt like a reprieve, after the fact. Still—what witchy powers did she possess? He wanted to pose the question, but it seemed…intimate. Not appropriate for the conversation they needed to have. About politics. So the Destrye could finally leave this cursed place and go home, find their own women again.

  What Oria—or any of the vile Bárans—could or could not do should no longer be his problem. A fine goal for the negotiation.

  Oria frowned slightly, and the dragonlet leaned into her, tail coiling so much like a snake that h
e fought the impulse to throw it to the ground and stomp on it. “King Lonen?” she prompted, emphasizing the title.

  “As soon as my brother the heir died,” he said shortly. “There’s no need for discussion, ceremony, or…law committees, among us, as it seems you Bárans have.”

  She nodded, looking thoughtful, neither confirming nor denying. They arrived at a set of closed doors, two of the city guard outside it.

  “Admit no one but Queen Rhianna,” she told them, and they bowed, opening the doors for her. She began to ascend a winding set of stairs, but Lonen paused, taking a moment to observe the weight of a large metal-clad bar settling into place behind them, as if by magic.

  “Operated by a secret external mechanism,” came her explanation, and he turned to find her copper gaze on him, again discerning far too much. “But it can be lifted from the inside with a bit of effort. I managed it, so I’m sure you could.”

  “Ah.” He restrained a comment that her slim arms looked barely able to lift the weight of the dragonlet, much less that bar.

  “I hope you don’t mind climbing,” she said as he joined her on the step. “It’s a bit of one.”

  “Not a problem.” He took in the spiraling stairs, made of stone and clinging to the curved outer wall of the tower, circling an echoing space from the ground floor to the dizzying heights above. Flaming sconces studded the walls at intervals, but failed to illuminate the ceiling that must be there, somewhere, high above. Open windows looked out on the city, though the night seemed too still for breezes. “Do you intend to be queen?” he asked, earning a startled glance.

  “Is that one of your terms?”

  “No.” He didn’t know why he’d blurted out that question. “I don’t care about your government, as long as you keep it far away from the Destrye.”

  “Then why do you ask?”