He encircled her waist with his hands, brutally aware of the swell of her hips below his fingers, the narrow path of her ribcage that begged him to slide his hands up and cup her lovely breasts, tease her nipples until that teasing pretty mouth begged him both to stop and for more. His cock hardened with almost painful ferocity, his darker nature seething to toss her on the bed and throw up her skirts, plundering her until they both wept with exhaustion.
Oria narrowed her eyes slightly. “What are you thinking? You haven’t said a word since your astonished observation that I look good.”
“Gorgeous,” he reminded her quietly. “I said you’re gorgeous. And you smell of qinn.”
“They put all sorts of stuff on me. I’m not sure which that was.”
He knew. Natly—well, all of the Destrye women—used the spice in their soap and oils. It smelled to him of home and comfort. And it did crazy things to his brain to scent it on Oria.
Clearing his throat, he added, “They made the gown red because I told them to. All of your state garments will be red, unless you request otherwise.”
She blinked long and slow, considering closing of her eyes. Her lashes were copper, too, and long, but rarely showed until she lowered her lids like that, and then they stood out against the faint scatter of freckles on her cheeks, an almost invisible constellation of fawn stars. Then the full sun of her eyes bored into his again. “Why?”
“A sorceress should have her robes, no matter the material. I have no silk to give you, but you wouldn’t be warm enough anyway.”
“True,” she murmured. “Thank you, Lonen.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I wish I could kiss you.”
He nearly groaned at that. ‘Wishing’ didn’t come close to how he felt about it. “We’ll find a way.”
She didn’t smile, exactly, but her eyes danced with amusement. “You always do, my Destrye warrior.”
Which only reminded him. He let her go and stepped back with a massive effort of will. “Shall we have a glass of wine? There’s time before we eat.”
“Yes. And you can tell me what’s preying on your mind. How was the excursion with your brothers?” She poured him a mug of warmed wine and handed it to him, cupping her own in her gloved hands. “Also, you might change clothes.”
He took a swig of wine and set the mug aside. “I no doubt smell of Buttercup, who says hello, by the way.” He’d meant to tease her about her attachment to the warhorse, but she looked pleased, as if the steed really had sent a message. “Where is Chuffta, by the way?”
“Stretching his wings. The aswae made him feel frisky, so he’s exploring. He’ll be back to accompany me to dinner. Enough stalling—what has you worried?”
“What doesn’t have me worried?” he shot back. But he told her about the state of Dru as he shucked the day’s clothes, found the washing bowl and sponged himself clean of the worst of the day’s sweat, then pulled on the clean clothes Alby had left out for him.
Oria listened gravely, asking questions here and there. Finally, she gave him a considering look. “All of this is serious news, but none of it is new. You knew all of this when you left this morning. Before you left to confront me in Bára, in truth.”
“I didn’t know the exact extent of it,” he argued, knowing as he said it that it wasn’t the full truth. He had known. Somehow hearing the dire facts recited by his older brother, all of them laid squarely at his feet as if he’d created the situation from his utter carelessness as king, made it all that much more painful. He reached for the wreath of metal leaves, realizing he’d left it in the other room. Some king, forgetting his crown.
Then Oria was in front of him, a staying hand on his arm. “Talk to me, Lonen.” Her lush mouth curved in a sly smile. “We’re in this together.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath at her ways, then indulged himself by sliding a hand through the sheet of her hair. The ladies had oiled it—probably the source of the qinn, then—which gave it that heavy, silky feel. She gazed up at him, her face so magically lovely that he hesitated to say anything that might dim her regard for him.
“You can’t say anything that will make me think less of you,” she said softly.
“Reading my thoughts, sorceress?” The prospect, which had once made him uneasy at best, strangely heartened him.
She looked thoughtful. “Not the way I used to, but… some? Maybe. I felt something today, something in the trees…” She shook it off, her hair sliding thick through his fingers. “Never mind that. Tell me what has you so churned up.”
“I think,” he said slowly, searching for a way to articulate his turbulent thoughts. “Maybe I should abdicate to Nolan. Or to Mago, with Nolan as regent.”
“Because of me?” She asked it evenly enough, but he scowled at her.
“No. Because of me. Because I’m … I’m not a good king, Oria. I was never meant to be one. The Destrye deserve a good king. Not me. I’m careless, undisciplined, reckless, my head always in the canopy.”
She tilted her head, considering. Then shrugged. “I don’t know this man you’re speaking of.”
“I’m trying to explain that this is who I am. You haven’t known me long, but I—”
“Oh nonsense!” She broke in and broke away, once again that imperious princess who’d laid out his options with ruthless clarity while the quiet towers of Bára stood sentry around them. “I’d venture that I know you better than anyone else, just as you know me. We’ve crossed the desert together, nearly drowned in the bore tides together, fought back to back, saved each other’s lives and listened to each other’s deepest fears when things seemed bleakest. You have flaws, Lonen—I won’t deny that. You’re ridiculously stubborn, won’t leave well enough alone. That you remain so optimistic in the face of impossible odds never ceases to amaze me.”
“So you’ve mentioned,” he said drily. “And the point is that I’m not feeling that now. I’m not sure… Oria, I might not be up to the task.”
“All right then,” she said, pouring them both more wine, then clinking her mug against his with a sunny smile he could see right through. “Back to the oasis then? Or to one of Bára’s sister-cities? It might not be so bad crossing the desert this time, if we actually take some water and food along.”
“That’s not what I—”
She set down her mug, threw up her hands, and began pacing. “Oh, you mean stay here? What a great idea. You can let Nolan lord it over you for the rest of your days that he got you to knuckle under and admit he’s the better ruler. That will be fun.”
The image made him want to growl. “I never said he’s the better ruler.”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying,” she snapped back, skirts whirling out as she reached the wall and spun to pace in the other direction. “Whether you step down for him to be king or regent, it would be an admission that you think he’s the better man.”
“Maybe he is the better ruler!”
“Fine.” She shrugged elaborately, like it didn’t matter a whit to her. It rankled a surprising amount.
“That’s it? No sage and wifely advice to offer?”
She paused, giving him a long look. “My advice? I think, Destrye, that it was easier for me. I had no doubt that Yar would be a terrible king. My potential inadequacies as queen blew away like so much sand in the face of what his rule would mean, for both Bára and Dru. I don’t know Nolan. I barely recall him from when he rescued us. Certainly I owe him my life, but other than that, he’s a cipher to me. I’m very interested to take his measure tonight. I do know you—and you’re none of those things you cited. You are canny, wise, deliberate, noble. Even from the beginning you’ve never been anything but careful with me. You act decisively, yes, but never recklessly, with the possible exception of when you decided to sacrifice yourself fighting an army of golems to save my life.”
“I visited Arill’s Temple just now, and wondered once again if She sent you to me as a blessing or a punishment,” he said in a wry tone.
>
She beamed with impish glee. “Can’t I be both?”
He strode to her, catching her by the hips. “You are both.”
She sobered, her gaze intent on his. “And you are King of the Destrye. Accident or challenge from your goddess, it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to think about if you’re good enough to be king, because you are king. More—you’re the best warrior I’ve ever seen and your people need a warrior to lead them. You and I both know the war is far from over.”
“Yes,” he agreed with regret. “Which Nolan doesn’t see.”
“Maybe he can’t. He missed so much. But you see and you know. If you need to worry about something, worry about being the best king you can be. The best man you can be. Though you’re already the best there is, to my mind.”
“In all the world?” he teased, to cover how much that touched him.
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t seen all the world. Once the war is finally over, maybe you can show me.”
When the war is finally over. “Do you think we can truly end this conflict and find peace for our people?”
Her smile dimmed and she regarded him seriously. “I think we have to. Or die trying.”
Her words riffed over him with premonition. “It could come to that. If Nolan challenges me, I could lose. It would mean my death.”
“Then if it comes to that, we’ll have to make sure you win.”
~ 9 ~
They’re only people, Oria chanted to herself as they progressed down to the formal dining hall. Only people. But she clung gratefully to Lonen’s muscled forearm beneath her gloved hand. Chuffta’s tail spiraled down her arm over the crimson velvet, a perfect match to the white fur trim. His iridescent scales often reminded her of a series of bracelets, but against the Destrye gown, his coiled tail looked more like jewelry than ever.
They’d make an exotic sight for the Destrye court. Talking with the women in the aswae had bolstered her confidence considerably. A good thing, as she’d been in a stronger place to give Lonen the pep talk. He moved with more of his usual swagger, his bold masculine exuberance wafting around her.
Now if she could hold up her end of things.
“You will. These Destrye barbarians will be dazzled by their Báran sorceress queen.”
“Now you sound like Lonen.”
Chuffta mentally preened. “I have plenty of fire, too, if we need it.”
She stifled a giggle. “Let’s try not to burn anyone.”
“I said if,” he replied in wounded tone.
The conversation had distracted her long enough to get them down a flight of stairs. She hadn’t been this way before—at least, not while conscious. The lower parts of the palace had no windows, not even the hide-covered ones of the upper levels. And the walls seemed to be built entirely of enormous logs. Not the occasionally surfacing living branches of Arill’s Temple, but cut trunks of whole trees—three or four of the massive things forming one wall to the ceiling. But surely, they weren’t—
“Originally, the palace was a fortification,” Lonen murmured to her, following her gaze. “Before the Destrye learned to take only dying trees and deadfall, we cleared parts of the forest for farming. We used the felled trees to build several forts, in various quadrants of Dru.”
“Then the walls are…?” she asked faintly, unwilling to sound silly by suggesting the ridiculous.
“Are as thick as each log is tall, yes. No windows. Only a series of doors and portals. This part of the palace, at least, is virtually impregnable.”
“I’m amazed the golems could get to you at all.”
He looked thoughtful, gaze roaming the walls up to the ceiling beams—made of trees a quarter of the size, but still enormous. “Holing up in here is pretty much the only thing that saved us,” he agreed. “But we can’t fit all of Dru into the forts. Plus, it did us little good to save ourselves while your—while the golems stole all of our water and slaughtered our livestock. The Destrye used to be much more scattered throughout Dru—lots of small communities and farms. As they were overrun, people came here, or to the other forts. When you see it… Well, the city around the palace and temple are nothing so beautiful as the towers of Bára.”
I think they did not always live this way, Chuffta had observed and she winced for both the truth of that and the apology in Lonen’s voice. “You were right,” she told her Familiar.
“Yes,” he replied, but for once did not sound pleased about it.
They didn’t enter the grand hall so much as make their way to that end of the enormous fort. It differed from the part they’d passed through in that it had fewer subdivisions. Otherwise, the massive tree trunks dominated the room, dwarfing even the high table built onto a raised platform at one end.
The roomful of people—along with those at the high table—rose to their feet as they entered. Arnon she recognized from the council chambers at Bára, when their respective peoples had negotiated their all-too-temporary truce. She might have recognized him anyway, as he looked like a younger, leaner, and more relaxed Lonen. To his right stood Salaya, her fine-featured face set off by her short hair, her expression clear and remote. She stared off into the distance, perhaps thinking of days when her husband might have sat beside her.
For all that Salaya had been unpleasant, Oria felt for her. She couldn’t imagine facing a formal dinner like this with her late husband’s family. Too much to endure on top of the grief. Oria would have sent her a commiserating smile, but Salaya never looked her way.
The man to Arnon’s left, on the other side of the empty chair between them, she would have guessed to be a relation, but not Lonen’s elder brother. He had to be Nolan, though—cleaned up—as he looked nothing like what she recalled from her brief glimpse of the grizzled, travel-worn man in the forest before she’d passed out.
He had a hard face, his dark beard trimmed ruthlessly short, and his eyes such a sharp blue that the color showed clear across the room like the noonday sun through stained glass. A beautiful Destrye woman stood to his left, her black hair in elaborately piled swirls, studded with metallic bands and glittering jewels. She stared at Oria, lustrous dark eyes full of hatred, until she wrenched her gaze away to smile at Lonen, her full mouth pouting seductively. Her clinging gown revealed her voluptuous curves as she seemed to pose with both studied indolence and sensual grace.
Natly. Lonen’s former betrothed. Oria knew her face well, from glimpses into his mind when her abilities worked with such keen activity that she picked these things up without meaning to. Which meant that, even worse, she had images in her head of Natly naked, writhing with sexual abandon in the very bed Oria now slept in, those luscious lips closing around—
Oria shook her head abruptly to clear her mind of the image, suddenly aware she dug her gloved fingers into Lonen’s arm. And that he’d covered her hand with his, enfolding it tightly in reassurance.
“Brothers,” he said, not pausing in the acknowledgment. “I see you’ve miscounted—there’s one chair where there should be two.”
“Your Highness.” Nolan stared at her as he spoke. “Surely you don’t mean to seat your—”
Lonen went deathly still, the rest of room as uncannily silent. She almost imagined ears growing longer to better hear. “This dinner was your idea, Nolan,” he said, as quiet as a snake’s hiss. “Consider carefully the steps and words you choose.”
“Or what?” Nolan’s blue eyes glittered. “Will you call insult?”
“If necessary,” Lonen replied easily.
Arnon looked as alarmed as Oria felt. He pointed to the people to his right, making them shift down, an annoyed warrior at the end leaving to find another seat. “Your Highness, you’ve yet to properly introduce me to your wife,” he said, adding a smile that looked a bit too much like a grimace, but still there. He gestured to the now-empty chair he’d been occupying. “Would you care to sit, sorceress, and dine with us?”
Lonen still vibrated with tension, so Oria took the situation in
hand. “Thank you. I’d be most pleased. Lonen, would you perform the introductions?”
Some of that got through to him, because he glanced down at her, gray gaze wary, but not flinty. “Oria, love, meet my younger brother, Prince Arnon.”
She ignored the reactions of the others to his endearment—one she’d passed off as meaningless initially, but it appeared to carry even more impact than she’d come to believe—and inclined her head. “A pleasure to meet you, Prince Arnon.”
Arnon’s smile warmed. “We encountered each other glancingly … in the past, sorceress, but it is truly enchanting to get a chance to know you better. Welcome to Dru. We know you traveled great distances and suffered harrowing trials to help the Destrye in our hour of need.”
Lonen’s bemusement wafted over her, but she focused on Nolan, whose expression had decidedly soured at Arnon’s speech.
“And Prince Nolan,” she said, taking the initiative and emphasizing his title ever so slightly, “I have not had the opportunity to thank you for saving my lord husband’s life. Please accept my gratitude for your timely intervention.”
Nolan’s mouth thinned. “You thank me for his life and not yours, sorceress?” What had sounded like an honorific from Arnon’s mouth became an epithet on his brother’s tongue, but Oria smiled with all the calm tranquility she’d learned to muster in the face of priestesses far more toxic than this Destrye.
“My life is my own,” she answered, pleasantly enough but letting him hear the steel beneath. “It was never yours to give or withhold.”
He gazed back at her, not frowning, but sorting through her words. “And your loyalty, sorceress—who owns that?”
Lonen stirred. “Is this a dinner or an inquisition?”
“The question is easy enough for me to answer, love, even if we haven’t even been served wine yet.” She smiled up at her husband, at his surprise that she returned the endearment and how much that obviously pleased him, then allowed her smile to sharpen as she returned her focus to Nolan. It’s better if they fear reprisals from you. “I am pledged by binding vows to my husband, Lonen, King of the Destrye—where his loyalty goes, mine follows. His friends are mine. His enemies? Also mine.”
The Forests of Dru Page 11