“Is that so?” He made it sound bored, the texture of Oria’s hair finer than silk, his fingers itching to unplait it all and run his fingers through the coppery shimmer of it. As he’d hoped, it seemed she easily tolerated his touch to her hair, her breathing quiet and Chuffta peaceful. “Perhaps you need another demonstration of Destrye might. Call your Trom and drive us out again if you can.”
One of the priests murmured to Febe, his mask inclined towards hers, and she turned away with some irritation. Good thing that Oria had told him their threats would be empty with Yar away from the city.
“Perhaps it need not come to that, Your Highness,” Febe spread her hands, all accommodation. “The temple acknowledges your right as conqueror to claim a woman of Bára, and we accept that it is Princess Oria who has seized your attention. But you need not marry her. If you wish to take her away, back to your homeland, we will be unable to prevent you. We ask only that you take her and go in peace, without troubling the people of Bára further.”
~ 7 ~
The traitorous bitch. Of course she should have realized High Priestess Febe would seize the opportunity to be rid of Oria and her unknown potential that bothered the other woman so. Ponen, the Trom had called her. At least Oria had accurately predicted that the priestess would be pleased to see Oria consigned to such a terrible fate—indeed, smug delight radiated through the woman’s hwil, with hints of stronger, darker emotions beneath—but she’d miscalculated the depth of the high priestess’s ambition and disregard for Oria’s wellbeing. She’d cheerfully send Oria off to be a sex slave to the Destrye king, knowing full well how quickly it would kill her, never mind the rest. With not even slim protection a temple marriage would afford her.
She scrambled to think of a way to persuade Febe that marriage would be necessary, but Lonen was, again, ahead of her. Fortunate, as his gentle caress on her braid sent distracting heat through her. And not of the painful, distressing variety. Seductive and soothing at the same time, the sensation made her want to lean into him for more. A very bad idea as it would turn destructive in the blink of an eye.
“You think me unworthy of marrying a Báran princess, High Priestess?” Lonen was saying, his voice as dark and edged with violence as the anger fulminating at the forefront of his mind. At that moment he seemed every bit as ruthless and terrifying as the illustrations of his Destrye ancestors, delighting as they burned and pillaged. “I don’t propose to help myself to a random assortment of Bára’s wealth—though that idea holds appeal, also—I want Princess Oria as my bride, forever cementing that Bára belongs to Dru. She’ll be my queen and I shall be King of Bára.”
Febe didn’t quite look to Oria, but her smugness had gone carefully avaricious. “Is this agreeable to you, Princess Oria? We all know what you’d be sacrificing, taking the Destrye king as your husband. Bára would hate to see you leave her walls forever. It’s unfortunate His Highness is so impatient, or we’d await Prince Yar’s return, so he could witness the ritual.”
A strategically worded message—that still managed to avoid acknowledging that the high priestess would send Oria to a short life of sexual servitude that would eventually kill her. If going outside the walls didn’t take care of that sooner rather than later. Febe knew perfectly well that Lonen marrying Oria wouldn’t automatically make him King of Bára. Her mistake, however, was in believing Oria would be in collusion with her to mislead him—and that Yar would inevitably return with an ideal bride to put paid to the Destrye’s ambitions. Febe might be thinking that Lonen and Oria would be long gone by the time Yar returned, in which case Lonen’s assumption that he was King of Bára would last awhile with no information to contradict that belief. In the scenario Febe likely envisioned, he might labor under that misapprehension far longer than Oria would survive.
“Like my mother and father before me, I’m bred to my duty to Bára,” Oria replied, holding to her role of resignation to her terrible fate to yet again save her city, all handled with a demonstrable exercise of hwil. Febe thought her a fool for it, but then she’d never contemplate making any sort of sacrifice, much less of the level that Oria proposed to suffer, for anything but her own self-advancement. “I ask only that we get this over with as quickly as possible. No offense intended to Your Highness.”
Full of the lust Lonen so determinedly radiated, though not completely manufactured she felt sure, he tugged on the braid he still held. “A man likes an eager bride.”
Though she knew he’d said it to sustain and enlarge on the ruse they perpetuated, the insinuation still made her face go hot. Febe actually leaked some vestiges of sympathy through her hwil. It was to her credit that she could at least feel pity for what she imagined Oria would endure. Hopefully Rhianna would never have occasion to tell Febe of the agreement she and Lonen had made. Oria regretted telling her, especially as it had made no difference and potentially exposed them to trouble.
“You’ll have to leave that outside, however.” High Priestess Febe pointed at Lonen’s axe with a gesture very like the Destrye one against magic. Oria had never noticed that similarity before.
“Not a chance, lady,” he growled.
“It’s an offense against the source of magic.”
“Which is why it doesn’t leave my body. I’ve had enough of Báran magic.”
“Fine then. But you’ll have to remove it for the ceremony itself.”
“As long as I have it close to hand,” he told her, his posture and energy showing how willingly he’d use it against her if she tried anything to harm him or Oria.
“Enter the temple, then,” she intoned, “and we will join you as the moons intended.”
Lonen didn’t move, though he released Oria’s braid. “Just like that? There are no ceremonial preparations?”
“Such as?” High Priestess Febe had already turned to go in, Oria ready to follow on her heels before anyone saw through to the flaws in their story.
“Shouldn’t Oria—the princess, that is—have a special gown? Attendants or some such?”
Febe cocked her head at him, puzzlement and suspicion faint on the air. “Come now, Your Highness is good to be solicitous of his captured bride, but this ceremony will simply bind her to you under our laws. I understood you to be in something of a demanding mood. It will not be a temple-blessed marriage, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” Her voice held sudden suspicion.
Oria willed Lonen to play dumb. As if he’d heard her, he said, “What is that?”
Mollified, the high priestess inclined her head. “Merely a local custom, something idealistic young women pine for. The ceremony I shall conduct will be equally binding.”
“Proceed then.” Lonen retreated to his curt and lustful conqueror role, following in Febe’s wake, the priests behind them at a decorous distance, the City Guard remaining outside.
“He is a smart man. Pays attention,” Chuffta mused.
“Why is the Destrye king suddenly your new best friend?” It annoyed her more than it should. She’d never had to share Chuffta’s affections with anyone.
“I still love you best,” he soothed her, “but he is also concerned about you taking on the Trom and wants to protect you. I like him for that.”
“Then the two of you can sit around and console each other when I do the summoning.”
Chuffta tsked at her. “Such temper.”
“This isn’t exactly the best day of my life,” she snapped at her Familiar—and then felt bad about it. Just as she had when she’d used Lonen’s buried pain to punish him. She’d thought she’d been handling all the changes and challenges so well, but then she combusted into a ball of emotion. Having to ruthlessly suppress any hint of grien—and maintain the façade of hwil—around the temple priests and priestesses strained her fragile control even more. Still she didn’t need to be full of self-pity. This path had been her idea. She started to apologize to Chuffta, then remembered Lonen’s chiding about how she apologized too often, and stopped herself.
B
ut that left her at a loss. How was she supposed to never apologize for anything?
“Maybe by not doing anything worth apologizing for in the first place.” It could have sounded huffy, but Chuffta said it like a peace offering, his tail a comforting bracelet around her wrist.
They entered one of the smaller temple ritual spaces, simple and sacrosanct, even though it might not be as grand as the main sanctuary where she would have celebrated her temple-blessed marriage, had it not been for Lonen.
Of course, before the Destrye came, she’d been nowhere near attaining her mask, so a temple-blessed ceremony had remained a distant ambition. Important to keep that firmly in mind.
Febe positioned the two of them before the altar, waited for Lonen to unstrap his axe from his back, instructed them to kneel, then retreated behind the altar. Lonen looked about, then laid the axe by his left hand. To Oria’s surprised pleasure, Febe did not banish Chuffta. The temple honored the derkesthai in general, though their relationship to the temple hierarchy tended to be more like Grienon’s rapid passage through the skies, his phases ever shifting, now brightly present, then abruptly gone. To Oria, her Familiar was like Sgatha, ever present, looming large in her mind.
Much as Lonen did, occupying her senses and attention. It would be welcome when he finally departed, giving her some peace of mind again. Mental quiet had never been her forte, but the man had a knack for agitating her.
As the High Priestess assembled her tools, saying prayers over the various unguents, consecrating the wine to Sgatha, the grains to Grienon, Lonen spoke to Oria under his breath.
“How does this go?”
“I don’t know.” She kept her reply barely audible, but the Destrye warrior was not so easily put off.
“How can you not know?”
“I’ve never seen the ceremony. It’s always private. Now, shh.”
He didn’t like that answer, his energy restive and seeking. “You could have warned me,” he had to mutter, which unfortunately made her want to laugh. Exercising firm resolve, she managed not to, but the mask was what saved her from exposing the amusement so not appropriate to a nobly resigned captive bride.
“Maybe not the worst day of your life either,” Chuffta noted in the idle tone he liked to use to tease her.
“You hush, too.”
“Take a moment to meditate,” High Priestess Febe intoned. “Clear your minds. Settle your emotions. Seek hwil in your hearts and contemplate the step you take today, with Sgatha and Grienon as your witnesses.”
Oria folded her hands together and bowed her head, stilling her sgath so it pooled peacefully, creating the appearance of deep meditation.
“Would you like me to lead you into a true meditative trance?”
“Not now, thank you. I’d rather have my wits about me.”
“Done correctly, meditation should result in greater alertness through a relaxed and open mind.”
“Yes, well, we’ve established that I’m terrible at meditating. Leave me alone. It’s my wedding day.”
Chuffta snorted at that, but let it go.
“What are we supposed to be doing?” Lonen whispered, though High Priestess Febe had left the room.
“Meditating,” she hissed back.
“Yes, I heard that part. What in Arill does that mean?”
“Like… praying to your goddess. Silently,” she emphasized.
He was quiet for a few breaths, no more. “Now what?”
She tried to suppress the laugh, but failed so it choked out in a most unladylike sound. Lonen flashed a grin at her and she shook her head. “Keep doing it. And be quiet—she could come back at any time.”
“Why would I keep doing something I already did?”
“You’re supposed to be contemplating!” She tried to sound stern, but his complaints so closely echoed hers through the years that she couldn’t manage it.
“Contemplate what?” he groused. “I already made the decision about the step I’m about to take. There’s no sense revisiting it.”
“Then pretend. It won’t be that much longer.”
He stayed quiet for a bit more, though he shifted restlessly, looking around the room and studying the various representations of the moons, looking at her from time to time. That insatiable curiosity of his built, feeding into her sgath, slowly intensifying. She was so keenly aware of him, she knew he’d speak the moment before he did.
“You don’t mind?” he asked.
“You talking when we’re supposed to be meditating?”
“Do you always do what the temple tells you to do?”
“Hardly ever,” she admitted. “But appearances are critical. Especially now.”
He sighed and was quiet for a while. But his question remained between them, tugging at her like Chuffta pulling her braids when he wanted attention. And it might be some time before Febe returned. She reached out with her sgath to keep tabs on the high priestess, who was indeed still in one of the inner sanctums, no doubt also meditating and preparing herself for the ritual.
“We have a little time and I’ll give us warning,” she relented. “Do I mind what?”
“Not having a special dress, a big celebration. I don’t have a beah for you.”
“What is a beah?”
“A Destrye gifts his bride with a beah and she wears it as a symbol of their marriage. I thought I’d have time to find something to stand in place of it until I can give you a proper one. And that we’d have time to change clothes.”
“You look fine—I told you before.”
“I look like a Báran,” he grumped, then glared, annoyance sparking when she giggled. “It’s not funny.”
“Báran clothes look good on you,” she soothed, much as she would Chuffta’s offended dignity. Perhaps males of all species were the same.
“Hey!”
She ignored Chuffta’s indignant response. Lonen did look appealing in the silk pants and short-sleeved shirt, even though her sgath mainly showed her his exuberant masculine presence.
“Well, you deserve something better than that robe,” he replied. “And more than this hasty ceremony. Arill knows, Natly went on enough about the details of planning…” He trailed off, chagrin coloring his thoughts.
“Yeah,” she drawled. “Maybe better to not bring up your fiancée during our actual wedding ceremony.”
“Former fiancée,” he corrected. “Really not even that. And this isn’t the ceremony yet—this is waiting around for it to start. My knees are getting sore.”
“And here I thought you were the big, bad warrior.”
“I am. Big, bad warriors don’t kneel. We charge about, swinging our weapons.”
She laughed, shaking her head at him. That good humor of his flickered bright, charming her, banishing his perpetual anger to the shadowed corners of his aura. In the back of her mind, Febe moved. “She’s coming back. Not much longer. Try to school your thoughts.”
He muttered some Destrye curse at that, but subsided. Oria did her best to still her thoughts. It would be comforting to know ahead what the ceremony entailed, but the temple liked their surprises. The mystery was part of all rituals—intended to catch a person in honest reactions, particularly those that revealed a failure of hwil. Something, she now understood, to prevent the inevitable gaming of the system. Whatever the magical binding of the marriage ceremony, it would likely be uncomfortable, perhaps even painful for her. With any luck, Lonen’s insensitivity to magic should prevent him from suffering from it.
High Priestess Febe entered the small chapel, bringing such a powerful charge of sgath with her that Oria’s illicit grien leaped to devour it, forcing her to choke it back. The High Priestess had been drawing heavily on Bára’s magic, using her female sgath to store it up. Priest Vico followed her, taking his place beside her at the altar, his male grien soaking up the sgath and activating the magic. They did not have an ideal partnership, but long practice and Febe’s powerful sgath allowed him to perform feats usually reserved fo
r priests of much higher rank. Fortunate, as all of those highly ranked priests had died when the Destrye attacked.
“Princess Oria, you come to the temple to beseech the moons to give you a husband. Is this so?”
“I do.” Oria spoke the words firmly. Magic responded to intention and she would start this marriage with a firm one.
“King Lonen has proposed himself to be your husband, to channel your sgath to grien, to be both your walls and your guide to the world. Is he an acceptable choice?”
Ironic, all the truths and untruths in the ritual words. “He is.”
“You come as a priestess to the temple and will leave as wife to King Lonen. Remove your mask so you come before him barefaced, and so that he may gaze on the face of his beloved, forevermore known only to him.”
She should have expected that, but hadn’t. Priest Vico came around behind her with a bowl, a platter for her mask, and bearing the small silver knives the masked used at meal times to cut the ribbons. He set the platter to her left and Oria covered her mask with her palms to hold it in place. Priest Vico cut the ribbons at her temples, sliding them from the knots in her braids. She lowered the mask to the platter, not looking at Lonen, feeling terribly shy though he’d seen her face before she gained her mask. Even so. Quickly she took the cool, scented cloth from the bowl and wiped her face with it, deeply understanding the need for this part of the ritual. It gave her time to compose her expression—and hopefully not look too sweaty or red-faced.
Lonen’s comments about her having a pretty gown or time to make herself beautiful as Natly would have done niggled at her. But he wasn’t marrying her for her appearance, or out of affection. Better for him to see her truly, without anything prettified between them. Come before him barefaced. It took more courage than she’d have thought, but she lowered the cloth to the bowl, and raised her eyes to meet his.
He smiled at her—not that cheeky grin full of mischief, but a more solemn one, gaze roving over her face. A vivid image of him caressing her cheek, then kissing her lips, came from him, and she blushed.
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