Oria's Gambit

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Which meant, by reverse logic, that he himself would not be restful to Oria. He had zero idea how one went about containing their emotional energy. Or how to know what it was in the first place. He spread his hands, looking at them for any indication of what came out of his skin that affected Oria so. On his right wrist, a livid scar pulsed an angry red—and yet far more healed than it ought to be already. He knew how to wield his battle axe, how to lead his warriors, maybe something of the endless cascade of decision-making that made up being king, even something of farming and building aqueducts, now, but he didn’t know how to keep from harming his own wife with those hands.

  “Will she be all right?” He sounded plaintive and for once he didn’t care. Exhaustion had him by the balls and he suddenly felt he couldn’t rise from that chair, much less help Oria or anyone else. Never had he felt his own mortality so keenly.

  “I believe so, Your Highness. She recovered from a far graver condition before, and she’s much stronger now in her magic than she was then.”

  “The other time I touched her.”

  “Well, yes and no, Your Highness—many stresses conspired to cause Princess Oria’s collapse at the surrender of Bára.” She said it as if it were part of a legend. Probably it was. Wonderful. He’d go down in Báran history as the worst of fiends. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

  “You might as well call me Lonen. As your mistress’s attendant, you’ll likely be in my company a great deal. The Destrye don’t much stand on ceremony.”

  “Then you plan to stay in Bára? The rumor mill had you riding off with the princess before Grienon rose.”

  He snorted at that. One thing the Bárans and Destrye shared—a love of gossip, particularly about the royal families. “We’re here to stay for the time being.” He stopped there, unsure of how much of Oria’s ambitions she’d shared with her waiting woman. “You’re not much like the others,” he noted.

  “No, Your Highness? How not?”

  “Oria is forever telling me the answers to my questions are temple secrets. She confides very little.” He waited to see if Juli would reveal how much Oria had confided in her.

  Juli straightened, rubbing her palms briskly on her robes, as if drying them, or shedding dirt. “May I speak frankly, Your Highness?”

  “Lonen. And please do. I’ve had a surfeit of secrets and Báran double-talk.” He rubbed a hand over his brow, his eyelids heavy. Oria seemed to be resting a more natural sleep, however, and even Chuffta dozed, green eyes slitted as he crouched beside her on the fancy of a bed.

  “Forgive me, Your—Lonen.” Juli began mixing several new potions, measuring them into various containers, then combining them into a single goblet. “I should have realized the wedding ceremony would exhaust you also. This will be restorative and also let you sleep.”

  She handed him the pretty Báran glass and he studied it dubiously. Ion would have knocked it from his hand, lest the foreign sorceress seek to poison him. Or kill him in his sleep. “I should stay awake. Keep watch.”

  Juli put her hands on her hips, conveying an affectionate exasperation that reminded him of his mother, though the priestess couldn’t be much older than himself. “You rode straight here from Dru, yes? Probably sleeping little on the journey and starting well before dawn today.”

  When he grudgingly nodded, she pointed at the glass he still held. “The temple ceremonies drain even the most stalwart, those in the best of health. There will be no staying awake for you. The tower is well protected. I’m sure you noted the guards below as you entered.”

  He had, bemused by their crisp, deferential salutes, instead of challenges, and total lack of surprise that he carried their unconscious princess.

  “And Master Chuffta himself is no minor obstacle. Rest is what you and Oria both need.”

  “Not until you tell me whatever frank words you sought permission to say.”

  She faced him, cocking her head. “She has to be careful of you, Lonen. I say this as her friend as well as her serving woman and priestess attendant. Oria has not been much among people outside her family and priestesses like myself, all of whom have served her with perfect hwil. She is powerful, yes, but that power comes with a price that requires a delicate balance. Wedding you is an extraordinary step for her to take. One might say it’s a choice so courageous as to be foolhardy. You could easily kill her—or worse. There you sit, hesitating to drink a healing potion from me because you fear poison. Surely you must see that you seem no less dangerous to us.”

  She had a point. And, he supposed, he’d already made a choice—one Ion would have beaten him bloody for considering—in marrying Oria and living among the Bárans at least as long as it took her to access those secrets she needed.

  Lonen drained the glass, grimacing at the bitter flavor, handed it back to Juli, and wrapped one fist in his other hand, feeling the pull of the new wound. “Am I so terrible?”

  “You are…” She hesitated.

  Big, came Oria’s voice in his head. And you carry a great big battle-axe.

  “Formidable,” Juli decided, and he thought she smiled behind her mask. “You radiate emotional energy as fierce as the sun’s heat in summer.”

  “I don’t know how stop doing that.” He set his jaw in frustration, though it bled quickly away into lassitude. Juli’s potion worked fast.

  “Let me help you, Your Highness.” Juli knelt at his feet, removing his slippers, then helped him sit up in the chair, nimble fingers finding the buckles of the shoulder harness, freeing him of it. She wedged a shoulder under his and levered him to his feet, though he tried to resist.

  “My touch won’t hurt you?” His words came out slightly slurred.

  “Some.” Her voice held strain, though that could be from his weight. She possessed a surprising amount of strength, her frame far sturdier than Oria’s, walking him around to the far side of the bed, between Oria and the doors. “But my hwil protects me and I have nothing like Oria’s sensitivity. It is both her blessing and her curse.”

  “Seems like mostly a curse to me.”

  “Only because she has yet to fully grow into her abilities—and you’ve seen very little as yet that she’s already capable of. She will be a sorceress beyond compare, and a queen to go down in legend.”

  So, Oria had shared her plans. That was good. Though he couldn’t recall why. Befuddled, he sat on the side of the bed and Juli undid the ties at his throat, then pulled the shirt over his head. “I’m sleeping here?”

  “Yes.” She eased him back on the pillows, the silk cool against his hot skin. A breeze scented with Oria’s lilies wafted from the terrace. His eyes closed of their own accord. “Keep the sheet between you, but it’s good for you to be with her. You’re Oria’s husband now. We’re counting on you to take good care of her.”

  She draped another silk sheet over him, again reminding him of his mother, and days of boyhood long gone, when he’d slept without fear of dreaming. He might be dreaming already, Juli’s voice a musical whisper like the moonlit breeze.

  “Sgatha knows, no one else will.”

  ~ 9 ~

  She floated through gray mists, remembering them from before. Which helped her not fight them. Instead, she accepted the way the mists wrapped her in cocoons of enshrining silk that healed her, as if she were a butterfly, soon to emerge with damp wings and no more duties than kissing flowers. That might be lovely—a life of nothing but the sugar offered by flowers and the sun on her colorful self, bringing a sigh of joy to someone’s lips.

  “Until a bird snapped you up.”

  She knew that wry mind-voice, too. Chuffta, her Familiar. Memories came back faster this time, too—good. Cracking open dry eyelids, she squinted at his triangular face, the large eyes green as new leaves in spring, his white scales shining iridescent in the rising sunlight.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said.

  She tried to think back, recover more from the blank mists. “Did I break again?”


  “Well, really you just chipped a little. Juli patched you up so the cracks don’t even show and you only slept a good long night rather than days.”

  “What happened? Did the—”

  A jagged snore interrupted her and she flipped her head on the pillow to take in the darkly haired and burly Destrye on the other side of the bed. Lonen. Her—

  “Husband. Congratulations on your felicitous union. Worst wedding night in history, however.”

  “Oh hush.”

  It was good to see him again with her physical eyes. Lonen lay on his back, face relaxed so the scar that cut from his forehead, over one eye and down his cheek didn’t pull to the side as it did when he was awake. More scars criss-crossed his chest and concave belly—funny that her sgath didn’t show them. She tried looking with both sights at the same time, something she hadn’t quite mastered the trick of. The overlapping images tended to make her dizzy. No one else admitted to it, but she nursed a theory that the temple had developed the custom of the masks exactly because they helped prevent that sort of double-vision.

  Relinquishing sgath sight again was far more restful. Besides, she liked seeing Lonen with her actual eyes. Her husband. The bond resonated in the deepest part of her. Unreal.

  His black hair curled in wild disarray, a dark contrast to the pale silk of the pillows. Dressed only in light trousers, and with one arm flung over his head, his body looked long and powerful—and his manhood tented those trousers dramatically, making her yank her gaze away again.

  Something else to put on the list of intimidating things about him.

  Just then he drew in another rumbling snore, which cut off in a mutter of blurred words, and she rolled her eyes at Chuffta. “I slept through that?”

  “He didn’t do it all night. He’s been making more sounds and thrashing around just in the last little while. Dreaming, maybe? It seemed to be what woke you up.”

  As if to verify the words, Lonen kicked at something, then shouted. “Go on! Get out of here!” The hand flung over his head clenched into a fist, his muscles flickering, though the arm barely moved. He shouted again, anger and fear coiling around him, his words unclear, as if he spoke through deep water. Then he growled, more like a beast than a man. His eyes rocketed under his lids and he made a strangled cry.

  Not knowing what to do, Oria sat up and reached out a tentative hand. She’d touched his hair before—and he hers—without any effect, but she could hardly tug on that to wake him. It seemed far too callous.

  “What should I do?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be having that dream, whatever it is.”

  Okay then. “Lonen,” she called softly—and with no result. He tossed his head on the pillow, crying out broken, inarticulate sounds, that pierced her heart. Jagged images of blood, death, and pain danced through the turmoil of emotions. Those dark things didn’t belong in the dancing light of morning. “Lonen…” she tried louder. To no avail. Could he even hear her?

  “Lonen!” she nearly shouted, layering in imperious command. “Wake up!”

  His eyes flew open, seeing the dream still, one hand snapping to his side, before he went entirely still, the hard granite of his gaze taking in the ceiling, then landing on her, and softening while a smile spread across his face. “Oria.” He breathed her name like a meditative chant. “You’re better.”

  His gaze dropped to her breasts, making her realize she wore nothing but her very thin chemise. Juli must have taken off her priestess robes and loosened the ties of the undergarment, because the neckline gaped open, showing a substantial amount of skin. Self-conscious, she drew the cloth together and pushed her hair back from her forehead, snagging it in the tangled braids. She’d slept in them, which would make them an unholy mess to desnarl.

  The least of her problems, really.

  Giving it up, she drew up the sheet higher, using the movement to scoot back a little from his rapidly intensifying sexual energy. “You were dreaming.”

  He grimaced, then sat up, too, and scrubbed his hands over his scalp. The curls sprang back in the same bountiful disarray as before, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. I do sometimes. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “More like you disturbed yourself.” She wasn’t sure if a hard man like him would welcome comfort. “It sounded bad.”

  “Sometimes they are.” He shrugged it off, chagrin and irritation both rippling off him with the gesture. “Made Natly crazy. Said she couldn’t sleep with me fighting golems all night. Yelling and kicking and such like.”

  Ah, so she’d shared his bed. Though, of course Oria had known that—had glimpsed their lovemaking in Lonen’s head, much as she hadn’t wanted to. Of course they’d slept together afterwards.

  “So she stopped—sleeping with me, I mean.” Lonen watched her with gray eyes gone clear and calm, now that the dregs of the nightmare had left him. “And I didn’t much care, I found.”

  Curious. “Why not?”

  “Because a lot of those dreams weren’t fighting golems, but were having sex with you.” He grinned. “It kind felt disloyal to be longing for you and keeping her from a good night’s sleep while doing it. Ah, there it is. I like being able to see you blush again.”

  She clapped hands over her cheeks, which did feel hot. “I should put on my mask.”

  He stopped her as she reached for it, carefully catching the trailing cuff of her undergarment. “Don’t. Not yet. During the… ceremony, or whatever in Arill you’d call that thing we endured, Febe said I alone get to see your face, something about a husband’s privilege.”

  Of course that would be customary. Her own parents had always removed their masks once private with each other, and with their children. She hadn’t thought of that aspect. She and Lonen would not have children to share her face with, but she would have him. She drew her hand back, leaving the mask where it sat, though she felt exceptionally exposed.

  The wedding ritual had been something to endure, for sure, and she wouldn’t blame him for being unsettled, even frightened by it. Much as in her own testing, something in the binding light had looked out at her. Like the Trom and yet not. It spoke to her without words, though she imagined the hissing voice. Princess Ponen. She shuddered at the memory and Lonen tipped his head, studying her. “Cold?”

  As if. The morning heat already sat heavy on the day, not a breeze stirring. “We should get up.”

  “Should we?”

  “I should summon Juli. We’ll need to eat.”

  “We have time for that. The council meeting isn’t until this afternoon, right? And Juli said you were to rest.”

  Well, yes. But it felt… dangerous to be in bed with him, with his masculine exuberance sizzling hot on her skin and his gaze wandering over her, seeing more than anyone ever had. She wasn’t at all sure how to handle him, what one did with a husband in one’s bed in the morning. When one couldn’t do the normal thing. Even then. “Do you want to tell me about your nightmare then?”

  He gave her a curious look. “I figured you would have seen it in my head.”

  “No. Just fragments and … feelings.” She fidgeted with the sheet. “I really do try not to prowl about in your mind. It’s more that you sometimes project images rather forcefully—as you know, since you’ve discovered how to do it deliberately.”

  He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems only fair, to balance out the power. But I don’t project the same way when I’m asleep and dreaming?”

  “Perhaps it’s the nature of dreams—nothing coherent came through.”

  “I have some privacy there then.”

  “Yes.” She twisted the sheet in her fingers, choking back the apology that wanted to spill out.

  “I was fighting the Trom,” he offered. “They were at the door, trying to get in and I was afraid they’d get to you. And then I turned, and you were one of them, coming at me with your hand upraised, and I knew you’d kill me.”

  By Sgatha’s light, it wouldn’t be so. “It was only a dream,” she managed
to say around a tongue gone thick and dry.

  “I know that. And still it seemed—I don’t know. During that ritual I thought I saw something odd about your eyes.”

  “I barely remember anything about that ritual.” She laughed, but it came out far too ragged and breathless.

  It worked well enough to distract him, though, because he smiled with her. “That was a hell of a thing, wasn’t it? You’ll like our wedding in Arill’s temple much better. It will actually be pleasant. Fun even. I have to tell you, Oria—you Bárans do not know how to have a good time.”

  “Yes, well, dealing with the magics that we do, we have to be a disciplined people. The temple and its rituals safeguard us in myriad ways. We observe rules to make sure the magic doesn’t destroy us, or that we don’t destroy each other.”

  “Disciplines like hwil.” He studied her face intently for a reaction and she regretted that her mask sat so far away.

  “What do you know about hwil?” She sounded, and felt, stiff.

  “Juli told me some, last night when I brought you here.”

  “Juli shouldn’t have—”

  “Juli realizes that I’m going to need to know some of these things that you think to withhold from me. This is an important aspect of your life—and of any possibility that we’ll be able to touch each other—so I think it’s obviously valuable for me to be aware of its properties.”

  “Understanding hwil won’t change anything, Lonen.” She realized she’d clenched her hands into fists by the bite of her nails into her palms. “I can’t just learn to bear someone else’s touch.”

  “How do you know—have you ever tried?”

  “What I’ve tried is to explain that I haven’t had much opportunity to practice any of this!”

  “Don’t get all huffy with me.” He pushed a few pillows into a better position and leaned back against them, stretching lazily and then putting his hands behind his neck, displaying his furred chest to excellent effect. “Tell me what hwil feels like.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “First of all, relax. We’re just having a conversation.”