Lonen's War

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “A fine sight this is.” High Priestess Febe said, stepping up beside her. “Who would have believed even a day ago that they’d leave so easily?”

  “It was hardly easy,” Oria replied, toying with the strip of leather Lonen had used to tie his hair. He’d left it on her fire table and she’d picked it up, first out of curiosity, not sure what it was, this foreign object in her otherwise unchanging world. Then she’d held onto it for no reason other than it gave her something to do with her hands. “It only took the near total destruction of our people.” A destruction brought upon them twice over by her own family, something she still didn’t know how to reconcile. A destruction that still loomed in their future, if what Lonen had said was true. If Bára had gone to such lengths to steal so much water for so long, did they have any reserves at all? The cloudless sky and heating plain mercilessly glared in confirmation of her worst fears.

  “The arrival of the Trom frightened them.” The priestess’s mask inclined as she nodded at her own insight, oblivious to Oria’s point—and probably Bára’s dire circumstances. “Else they would not have agreed to terms so speedily afterwards. However you managed that, particularly without the advice of the council, at least they are gone.”

  Oria bit her tongue, keeping her opinion on that to herself. There would be time enough to sort out all of that, once the Destrye left. Already Bára felt different with none of them in it. In exchange for her promise that they would not be attacked or pursued, Lonen had withdrawn every last warrior the night before. Perhaps the vacancy in the usually humming energy of the city could be attributed to the loss of so many lives.

  Or perhaps to the long shadow cast by the advent of the Trom. The people of Bára looked to face a rapid extermination by fire and bone-crunching, or an extended demise by starvation and drought. Removing the threat posed by the Destrye had only changed the cause and the timeframe—Bára still stood to fall as surely as she’d predicted the week before.

  But if Oria had learned nothing else, she understood now that fretting changed nothing. Her mother would be proud. If she could see past her mourning.

  Resolutely, she put her mind on next steps. “What can we expect of the Trom now, High Priestess?”

  “That’s not something for you to worry about, Princess Oria. This is a matter for the temple.”

  Chuffta made a snorting sound in her mind, one she’d love to make aloud. She wouldn’t, however. Though she’d lost much of her respect for the temple in the past days, she would not demonstrate it overtly.

  “I disagree. The Trom indicated that it would be back to visit me, personally.”

  “Surely the Trom meant the temple, where the priestesses are trained to interact with them. Without having received your mask, without hwil and the teachings that follow, you are ill-equipped to deal with such an important entity.”

  Oria turned with angry incredulity on the woman. “The important entity that dropped my brother with one touch, that killed him and countless others for no reason at all?”

  The priestess’s mask gazed back at her with equanimity. “I understand that such emotional outbursts are difficult for you to control, as you have no hwil, but do try to restrain yourself from wild accusations, Princess. Clearly Prince Nat, while seemingly worthy of his mask, was in truth lacking.”

  Back to “prince” for Nat, demoted again, if he’d ever been truly elevated to king. “By that logic, I was not found lacking because the Trom’s touch didn’t kill me,” Oria snapped back.

  The priestess didn’t reply, turning her face back to the Destrye army. Aha.

  “Indeed,” Chuffta echoed the thought. “Something there.”

  “It called me Princess Ponen,” she said, noting how the other women tensed, ever so slightly. Not enough to break hwil, but a lick of bright emotion leaking through.

  “I don’t know that word,” Febe said, voice blander than the gray fog that had cocooned Oria. A lie. Oria felt it in her bones.

  “I need training,” she told the priestess. “If I’m ill-equipped to deal with the Trom, then it’s the temple’s responsibility to teach me what I need to know.”

  “You know the rules, Princess. Only those with hwil can be taught. The knowledge is too powerful to be entrusted to the unstable.” Priestess Febe attempted to sound regretful, but the untruth radiated off of her. Did she not know how easily Oria could sense that?

  “Perhaps not.” Chuffta sounded thoughtful. “I don’t have access to anyone else’s experience, so I don’t know how they perceive magic. We know yours is unique, with your unusual sensitivity. We’ve learned much about your magic in the last days.”

  She really wanted to be able to discuss this with Chuffta, a surge of excitement lifting her spirits from the morose depths. It seemed wrong to feel hopeful when they faced so much mourning and such severe trials ahead. And yet the prospect that there might be an alternative solution to her problem, some other way to access her sgath—maybe without all that endless and futile meditating!—to end this crippling sensitivity and maybe have a weapon to fight that loathsome Trom, to find other sources of water for Bára…

  The possibility gave her reasons to keep going. She sorely needed those.

  Once Lonen had said goodnight and goodbye, she’d expected the relief of aloneness. Having his jangling, angry, and grieving presence gone should have given her a whole other level of palliation. Like stepping into the rooftop garden after all the chaos.

  And his departure had given her some of that respite. But it left her with an odd feeling that had taken her time to identify. She’d even let Chuffta guide her into meditation so she could sort it out before she tried to sleep. Finally, she’d identified the emotion.

  Loss.

  For the first time in her life, she experienced real loneliness.

  You live up here, all the time, alone? His incredulous question kept rattling back through her brain. That and the feelings he’d emanated, sensual and rich, that heated her inside as if the sun’s midday rays penetrated her. Waking feelings she hadn’t tasted outside of those illicit illustrations of the Destrye that had so fascinated her.

  They’d lingered long after his departure, touching her even in her sleep. She’d wakened from an intense dream of impossible sensations—of his hair in her hands, his mouth on her body, and their skin slicked together. Things she was unlikely to feel other than in dreams, as she’d never be able to bear such contact with anyone other than an ideal husband, which the temple wouldn’t grant her even the opportunity to test for until she earned a mask.

  Certainly she would never be able to touch Lonen so intimately, even if he wasn’t gone from Bára forever.

  She wrapped the leather band around a forefinger. Perhaps she kidded herself that she only held it to give vent to her restless fretting. The scent of the leather, maybe something of the man’s energy, lingered in the tie. The Destrye king was such a creature of the larger world, with his exuberant masculinity. She’d watched him from her tower, greeting his men, slapping backs, and shouting happily about going home. The words had echoed clearly even to her heights.

  Unable to sleep after those restless, unsettling dreams, and telling herself she was only performing her duty to the Bárans, she’d kept vigil all night, watching them pack up and go, just as she bore witness as they streamed away into the rising sun.

  It had all left her strangely bereft, which seemed impossible on top of all her other sorrows. So this renewed purpose would put her back on track to do what she needed to serve Bára and her people, however she could. No more wallowing in grief over the past or of what would never be. The next step would be to get real answers.

  “That would be helpful, indeed,” Chuffta agreed wryly.

  She scratched his chest in silent solidarity and gratitude that he didn’t comment on or judge her preoccupation with King Lonen.

  Not without some petty pleasure, she broke the cloud of smug satisfaction surrounding the high priestess. “Tell Queen Rhianna and P
rince Yar I’d like them to meet me for breakfast in the salon, as soon as they can manage it.”

  Febe stiffened. “Am I your handmaiden, Princess?”

  “The temple has not yet seen fit to supply me with a replacement for Alva, and you seem to be available.” She let the pause hang, tasting the woman’s rancor, learning what she could from it. If they wouldn’t teach her, she’d discover her own truths. How had the first sorceress learned, after all?

  “An oversight, Princess,” Febe replied. “With all the tumult and you being an invalid all those days. We believed you near death, not in need of tending from one of our few remaining priestesses. A pity that your fragile psyche cannot withstand the company of someone less trained. They are a precious resource, not to be squandered on frivolous whims.”

  Oria ignored the escalating barbs, easier to do with the promise that she might not be so fragile forever. “An excellent point,” she said in her mildest tone. “Fortunately, I don’t require a great deal of tending, especially as I will be out and about in the palace and the city.”

  “Is that wise, Princess? Your fragile condition—”

  “Grows no less fragile for this sequestration. I faced the worst and survived.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “You can’t be sure of that, Princess. Perhaps your condition is more akin to those sensitive to the sting of the honey-makers—the first reaction is merely a shadow of successive ones.”

  Oria flashed Chuffta a glance for sounding so much like the priestess. He resettled his wings, a gesture remarkably like an irritated shrug.

  “If that’s the case,” she told Febe, “then I shall find out. In the meanwhile, a junior priestess to come by from time to time will suffice. While I’m away from my rooms, regular servants can assist with upkeep.”

  “I could carry messages for you,” Chuffta offered, “if you would like to see how you fare without me for short times. That might be a good test of your endurance.”

  Gratitude for her Familiar’s understanding welled up. That felt good, too. Enough to disperse the feedback from the high priestess, who seethed with that buried something. Nevertheless, Febe inclined her head. “I shall see if any junior priestesses will volunteer to be assigned to you.”

  “Thank you. On your way to take care of that, you can pass along the message to my mother and brother.”

  Without another word, the high priestess glided out, her fulminating resentment swirling in her wake.

  “Well, that made her a bit angry,” Oria commented.

  “You sensed something else, too, beneath the resentment and irritation.”

  Had she? She sorted through it, as she had the night before, peeling away the layers. “Fear?”

  “Yes, a kind of alarm. And maybe… jealousy. You unsettled her. I wonder why?”

  “We’ll see if my mother has answers.”

  ~ 22 ~

  The queen and Prince Yar arrived together, she leaning heavily on her son’s arm. When she saw Oria already waiting, Queen Rhianna opened her arms, a sad smile breaking over her face. “Oh, Oria.”

  Oria slid into her mother’s welcome embrace. Even filled with the ragged shadows of grief and failure, the cool serenity of the woman felt like a balm on sunburn. “Mother,” Oria whispered.

  Yar waited stiffly, his mask of course impassive, control in place. She sensed nothing of his state beyond a faint burn of…more resentment and fear? After he’d been so much better the night before. And she’d had such high hopes that he had matured. Something had happened, she sensed it in the rapid shift of his emotions.

  “Let’s sit and eat,” Oria said, gesturing to the table. The sight of the greens and fruits gave her pause. How much longer would they be able to grow food?

  “I already ate in my rooms, where I’d intended to stay and rest, but I was summoned.” Yar stalked broodily over to the window. “And we shouldn’t be breakfasting while the Destrye army might yet turn around and attack us.”

  She didn’t point out that resting in their rooms would be no better in that case. “Should they do so, our watching them will change nothing. We’ve reached treaty agreeable to both sides. Let it go.”

  “I’m only relieved to have them gone,” Queen Rhianna said, sitting and nodding to her servant to fill her plate.

  “Yes, and for so little on our part.” Yar paced the room restlessly. “It makes me wonder what my lovely sister promised—or gave to—Prince Lonen in exchange.”

  “Oh, of course.” Oria stabbed a berry, wishing it could be her brother. Never mind that her illicit dreams and their lingering effects made Yar’s sally rather closer to the mark than it should have been. She felt sure he’d eaten, or lied about having eaten, because he didn’t want to remove his mask. He was definitely hiding something. “I can barely stand the most casual touch from a carefully shielded and trained masked priest or priestess, but you believe I bedded the enemy so he’d take his army away? I suppose I should be flattered that you think my charms sufficient to accomplish such a great task.”

  “Then why were you closeted with Prince Lonen?” Yar retorted. “Folcwita Lapo is furious. I wouldn’t have gone to bed and left things to you if I’d imagined you’d exclude the council! I thought you’d be smart and let them handle things. You were supposed to be only a figurehead.”

  She bit back her frustrated response to that. “What do I care if the folcwita is angry? I accomplished what he could not—what you and the council didn’t, I might point out. Besides, I invited our mother. She did not attend.”

  “I couldn’t have offered anything. Without my mask, without Tav, I am nothing.” Queen Rhianna focused on her plate, eating methodically but without relish.

  “Exactly.” Yar paced over. “Which is why Oria, who also has no mask, should have left the decision-making to the council.”

  “Yar…” Their mother sounded infinitely weary and wounded. “We’re still family. Sit with us and eat.”

  “Is that a command from my queen—or should I say, former queen?” he snarled.

  Their mother’s face crumpled, and she stared at her meal, a tear rolling down her cheek. Oria leveled an accusing glance at him, which must have worked, because he finally sat, if sullenly, but still did not remove his mask.

  Probably better to direct the conversation away from the erratic bore tides of personal issues and onto the problems Bára faced. “So, did both of you know that Bára had been sending golems to raid Dru for water?”

  The queen set down her fork, pressing her fingertips to her eyelids. “I warned Tav that would come to no good.”

  “What water?” Yar shifted in his chair, restless and unhappy. He’d never been much for politics, even at his best. “Why are we talking about this now?”

  “Bára’s water, all of it,” Oria explained patiently. “Priest Sisto sent the fighting golems to Dru to bring back wagonloads of water, because we’d run out. That’s why the Destrye attacked.”

  “The Destrye attacked because it’s in their nature. They’re barbarians.” Yar got up to stare out the window again.

  “We were desperate, Oria,” her mother said, at least sounding bolder, more alive. “So were our sister cities. The drought has gone on for too many years. Dru was the only place close enough with plenty of fresh water still.”

  “So we slaughtered the Destrye for it—even their children?” Oria couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. Her mother opened her mouth but swallowed the reproof Oria expected.

  “The Destrye weren’t supposed to die,” she said instead. “We never intended that. Sisto claimed he’d found a way to create the golems with a kind of ongoing spell. It acted like a packet of sgath. He embedded them with both the command to carry out the task—to fill the barrels with water and bring them back—and also provided them with the magic to keep them animated. No one realized that would result in them going through anything—or anyone—who stood in the way.”

  “But you knew,” Oria whisp
ered. “You and Father, Vico and Febe—you knew afterwards.”

  “Not at first. Not until the Destrye began to fight back. They discovered that iron would kill Vico’s golems by neutralizing the packet of sgath. He felt them die.”

  “So you—” no, Oria shared the responsibility as a member of the ruling family of Bára “—we sent more.”

  “Yes.” Queen Rhianna looked sick with it. “We chose our children over theirs. It was supposed to be only for a short time. Until the monsoons returned. But they never did and then, before we knew it, the Destrye had traced the golems back to Bára.”

  “Oh, Mother.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Yar sounded incredulous. “Were you even listening? It was us or them. They made the same choice—only we won in the end.”

  “That’s highly debatable,” Oria said without looking at him. The question applied even more to him. “Though the Destrye let us off lightly, Bára still faces utter destruction. Do we have any reserves of water left?”

  “Enough to last a few months,” the queen replied, poking at her salad. “Longer if we stop trading it to our sister cities, but that will create backlash from them.”

  Oria rubbed her temple. “Because of the goods they trade in return?”

  “Food we don’t grow here, yes, but also because they will see us as weak with no one on the throne, with our temple so depleted. Why not simply come and take the rest of our water? They need it as badly as—probably even worse than—we do.”

  Fragments of family dinner conversations turned around and fit together to make a new pattern. Her father and Nat boasting of Bára’s power, how the other cities sent wealth in tribute, that King Tavlor ruled them all, with Nat gleefully planning to follow in his footsteps.

  “It wasn’t just about keeping our people alive, was it?” Oria laid her hand over her mother’s. “Maybe at first it was, but then it became about the wealth and power.”

  Her mother turned her hand to grip Oria’s. “Your father was a good man. He only wanted the best for us and for Bára. We cannot leave our cities, not now, after so many generations living above the source of magic. If we go outside our walls for very long, we’ll die. Some of us waste away, effectively starving. Others, like you…”