Oria's Gambit

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Oria smiled at him, stray wisps of hair plastered to her cheeks and temples, her face a perfectly erotic blend of sensuality and satisfaction. Setting the dagger aside, he rose to free her, releasing her from the bed post so she could sit, then untying the bonds around her wrists. She sighed as she plucked the ribbon ties from her nipples and wiggled out of the binding scarves, then flopped back with a gusty breath. Bemused, he watched her as he wiped himself and then the floor where he’d spilled his seed.

  Perhaps his seed once parted from his body wouldn’t hurt her, but he hadn’t been sure. A man’s seed contained a great deal and who knew how it would affect his sensitive Oria. Something they could test, however, in judicious amounts. He might be able to spill his seed on her and work it inside. With something better than his knife hilt. Perhaps he could speak to one of her glass forgers to create a phallus for the purpose. Several of various sizes would be useful, to determine which best pleasured her.

  That would be an interesting conversation.

  Still, the thought of Oria bearing their heirs lit a fire of hope in him. They would find a way.

  Moving carefully, he edged himself onto the bed around her. Lazily, she turned her head, her coppery eyes owlish and sated. “Why aren’t you naked?” she asked.

  Raising his brows at her, he sat up, shucked off the pants he’d just fastened, along with the boots he’d never gotten around to removing, and rejoined her, obligingly naked as she.

  “Lie on your back,” she commanded, and he did, bemused, watching her look at him.

  “I thought you’d already seen me naked,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, well.” She gave him an impish smile—a delightful one he’d never before seen, that curved her luscious lips and brought dimples to her cheeks—and returned to her scrutiny. “I may have exaggerated. I tried not to look.”

  “And now?”

  She raised her gaze to his again. “I like looking at you. I understand now why you wanted to see me.” She gestured at his flaccid cock. “Good thing you didn’t have a wound there to tend after all.”

  He winced at the prospect. “I’ll do it, but I won’t say I’m not savoring the reprieve.”

  “I think I could do what you did to yourself,” she said, a hint of shyness in her smile. “Maybe by wrapping cloth around my hands or some such.”

  His cock stirred at the image. “In Dru we have thick garments for our hands, called gloves, that we wear for warmth. I’ve thought of that for both of us.”

  She cocked her head with interest. “I’d like that.” She sobered then. “I thought about using grien to touch you, but ….”

  “Yeah.” He grinned and picked up a lock of her trailing hair, winding it around his finger. “Maybe after you’ve practiced a bit more. I wouldn’t want to be emasculated by my sorceress bride. Think of what the other guys would say.”

  “Good incentive for you to mind your smart mouth, Destrye,” she replied in a tone so arch he wanted to pull her down and drown it with a kiss. She read it in him, her eyes wandering over his face. “I know you don’t want me to apologize, but I’m sorry you can’t do that, kiss me and touch me for real.”

  “This is real,” he returned. “And it’s more than I knew to hope for. You are the burning fire in my heart, Oria.”

  Her gaze went dewy. “This is more than I imagined to hope for, too.”

  “Even if I’m not a perfect match for you?” he teased.

  She shuddered lightly, a delicious sight on her naked form. “I can’t even imagine being like this with anyone but you. Thank you for making this so good for me.”

  “It’s all you, Oria.” He fingered the lock of hair. “This would be when we’d cuddle. I’d pull you close against me and hold you in my arms. I’d whisper how sweet and lovely you are, and you would tell me what a huge cock I have.”

  She burst out laughing and hit him with a pillow. “How about something to eat instead, and then sleep?”

  He grinned at her, delighted in everything about her. “Sounds great. Big day tomorrow.”

  She stilled in pulling on her chemise. “What are we going to do about the contest?”

  “Our best.” He tugged her hair. “Between the two of us, that’s not inconsiderable.”

  In the morning, they descended the stairs together. Oria rested her hand slightly on Lonen’s sleeve, where he’d created padding by wrapping his forearms in leather strips. Both for Chuffta to land on and for her to touch, he’d explained, muttering something about similarly sharp talons on each of them that she ignored. Chuffta, riding on her other shoulder, wryly agreed.

  She felt too relaxed to rise to Lonen’s teasing. Too replete. Though she was sore in places, the slight pain made her feel smug, rather than injured. And not at all fragile. She’d married a man who pleased her well—and with great inventiveness. To her surprise, she discovered she’d begun to believe his assertions that they could triumph over anything. Perhaps they could win the contest and the end of the day would see her crowned Queen of Bára.

  He’d been right, too, about their increased intimacy. After all they’d done with each other, she felt more at ease with him. Even at his greatest extremity he’d been careful of her, taking her on that wild ride of pleasure beyond anything she’d imagined. He’d relaxed, also, just what he’d declared good sex would do. Even with shadows of caution threading through his thoughts as he contemplated what they faced, his aura radiated satisfied happiness and he shone with confidence.

  Also, an idea had occurred to her.

  “So,” she said quietly, though their voices could hardly carry out of the tower and her sgath revealed no one nearby until the guards at the bottom. The sheer audacity of the idea had her reluctant to speak it too loudly. “I’ve been thinking. If we’re to demonstrate a partnership of sgath and grien, perhaps I can do both. Any grien tricks required of you, I can do, and you can pretend to be generating them.”

  He gave her a sideways look. “They’d never believe I can work magic. They’d have to know it was you.”

  She shook her head. “That’s it—a woman with grien magic is even more unlikely than a Destrye with it. If they see, they’ll believe. There won’t be any other explanation.”

  “Too much risk. We don’t dare expose that talent of yours.”

  “I agree. Too dangerous,” Chuffta chimed in, unsolicted.

  “This is worth the risk,” she argued with both of them. “Otherwise we’re certain to lose and I won’t be able to wrest control of the Trom from Yar, and both Bára and Dru will be doomed.”

  Neither of her men liked it, but neither could come up with a better solution.

  “Maybe it won’t come to that,” Lonen said, but the words lacked his usual optimistic confidence.

  “I’ll save it for a last resort only, I promise.”

  “I never thought I’d wish for magic,” Lonen muttered, then subsided into increasingly brooding thoughts for the remainder of their descent.

  Yar and Gallia met them in the courtyard between the palace and temple, along with Priest Vico and a considerable assembly of onlookers from all walks of life. Apparently everyone wanted to witness the show. Juli, who’d been up to help Oria dress and braid her hair, bowed and came to stand behind her as an attendant. No sign of Rhianna, if the former queen had even been told what was going on.

  Just as well if not. Even with her aggravation with Yar and disappointment in Oria, it would have to be impossibly difficult to watch your only remaining children duel. For that reason, Oria hadn’t sent a message. No matter how this day turned out, their mother would face grief, which she had no ability to withstand.

  Another turnabout, for Oria to be strong and her mother so fragile.

  Gallia looked as beautifully composed as she had the night before, but her sgath had dimmed, streaked with unhappiness and a sickly pain.

  “Are you well, sister?” Oria asked her, after the formal greetings, which Yar rushed through, shimmering grien snaking about him. />
  Gallia started with surprise. “Very well, thank you. Bára’s magic is yet unfamiliar to me. I would not have expected it, but I assimilate Báran sgath differently. It has a … different flavor.”

  Oria wouldn’t have expected that either, but it was interesting. So rarely did the priestesses travel to their sister cities that little information was available regarding such things. “We can postpone the contest if you—”

  “Do you seek to delay, sister dear?” Yar ostentatiously took Gallia’s bare hand in his. “Perhaps you are afraid and seek to avoid the certain humiliation of defeat. We will accept your forfeit.”

  “No forfeit,” Oria replied, though she didn’t like his lack of concern for his new wife. Had Yar always been so self-involved, so callous to the needs of others? Perhaps so. Sometimes what seem to be the flaws of youth are truly the chasms of personality.

  “Prepare to be defeated then. Priest Vico—we are ready to begin!” He dropped Gallia’s hand as abruptly as he’d seized it, striding over to address the priest.

  “Quickly,” Oria bent to Gallia. “Whatever should happen today, you will find a champion in our mother, the former queen. She has bad days and good. More of the former than the latter. But visit her regularly, talk with her. You’ll learn to anticipate the good days. And if Yar doesn’t treat you well, take your appeal to her. She’ll help you.”

  Gallia seemed briefly taken aback before her cloak of hwil settled. “I appreciate your concern, sister, but I am content.”

  Oria doubted it, but she let the woman maintain that façade. Deliberately, she set it aside. She couldn’t think of her new sister’s plight and maintain the appearance of her own hwil.

  Lonen brushed a hand over her braids. “She is a sorceress like yourself, not powerless. She’ll find a way to handle him.”

  “Arill make it so,” she replied, just so he’d smile. “The onlookers will leave,” Priest Vico declared. “Contestants and attendants to remain. Master Chuffta, you may sit to the side.”

  “The creature helps her,” Yar protested. “It’s an unfair advantage.”

  Oria didn’t say that she had to be in contact with her Familiar for most of the benefit. If Yar didn’t realize that, all the better.

  Priest Vico considered. “The derkesthai have a long history of assisting Báran kings and queens. If Princess Oria’s Familiar gives her an advantage, then that would go towards her duties as queen as well, and should be ascertained as such. Master Chuffta may remain.”

  Oria breathed an internal sigh of relief to at least have Chuffta with her.

  “Always. Even when I’m not physically present, I am with you.”

  “Unless I’m intimate with Lonen and you’re not listening,” she reminded him.

  “Naturally.” He managed to keep his mind-voice free of even the least hint of sarcasm. He hadn’t commented on her belated wedding night this time, for which she was grateful. Some things weren’t for sharing with anyone else. What had passed between her and her Destrye warrior would remain their private secret.

  “The contest,” announced Priest Vico, “consists of three parts. We begin the first, the demonstration of compatibility.”

  Just as Oria had predicted. She’d explained to him that the initial testing of compatibility between prospective spouses began with proximity, progressed to casual skin-to-skin contact, and then probably to some form of more intimate contact. She didn’t know about the last as she hadn’t made it that far with anyone. It perversely pleased him that she hadn’t, even though rationally it would be better if she had, and could have known what to prepare them for.

  Regardless, this portion would likely be the most difficult for Oria. Her powerful magics weren’t in doubt—at least to his eye—only her ability to withstand her husband’s touch.

  After the onlookers departed at Priest Vico’s command, Juli stepped up to cut the ribbons to Oria’s mask, while Yar and Gallia’s attendants did likewise. For the first time, Lonen looked on Yar’s face, studying his enemy. He had the gawky looks—and unfortunately pimpled skin—of a beardless boy, his eyes strangely dark beneath beetling red brows. Gallia was a lovely woman, with blue eyes and skin more golden than Oria’s cream. She took her time blotting her face, her hands unsteady.

  “The journey took a toll on her,” Oria murmured to him.

  “Perhaps last night also,” he agreed. It bothered his wife to think of her brother mistreating a woman, though it hardly surprised him, given what he’d seen of Yar’s selfish character. Even if he hadn’t been deliberately cruel to her, the boy had no compassion in him, no sensitivity to the needs of another person. On top of his likely inexperience with a woman, it made for a bad combination for a virginal bride. Drawing on the hard heart he’d built over years of warfare, he pushed the sympathy aside. “It may sound callous, but if her exhaustion helps our cause…”

  “I know.” But Oria sounded glum.

  “This battle was forced upon us. We didn’t choose it, but we’ll fight it anyway.” If the Destrye had learned nothing else from the Golem Wars, they’d come to understand that truth all too well.

  Oria flexed her fingers on his sleeve. “And yet we’ve both discovered the myriad regrets of the actions we’ve taken to win those battles. I’d prefer to find a victory that doesn’t require another’s crushing defeat.”

  He winced at the reminder that many Bárans had been equally forced into conflict. Now who was selfish? He was saved thinking up an optimistic reply to that by Priest Vico.

  “Please embrace your spouse.”

  Lonen brought Oria into his arms, carefully touching her over her clothes, postponing the inevitable impact on her. They’d been close when he carried her, but still nothing like this, the lines of their whole bodies folding together. She turned her cheek to lay it against his chest, wrapping slender arms around his waist and nestling against him. Her soft breasts and thighs snuggled into him as if made for him, a slim dagger fitting perfectly into the sheath of his body. Holding her like this reminded him of the first time she’d handed him one of her delicate glass wine vessels—that he might fail to temper his strength and shatter her out of carelessness.

  “This is proximity?” he murmured, brushing his lips over the braids crowning her head.

  She breathed a laugh. “He skipped a few phases since it’s clear we are able to be near each other without suffering.”

  Indulging himself in the rare luxury, he ran his hands along the elegant line of her spine and dainty curve of her waist. “Is it truly better with me then than it was—being near?”

  She raised her face, giving him a small smile. “Better than I ever imagined.”

  “Remain in physical contact, but take each other’s hands, please,” Priest Vico instructed.

  “Here we go,” Lonen muttered, and Oria drew composure about her like a cloak of winter chill.

  “Whatever happens, just keep going,” she told him. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  He doubted that, and reserved the right to act to protect her according to his own judgment, but he dropped his hands to his sides as she did, lacing his fingers carefully with hers, as if being gentle with her would make any difference. She shuddered, closing her eyes as lines of pain formed around them. She slowed her breathing in a way he recognized now as a method for mastering difficult input. Not unlike a wounded warrior steeling himself against the surgeon’s knife.

  From what he could tell, she seemed to be doing better than during their wedding ceremony, though that could be entirely false optimism. Especially as bewildering as that experience had been.

  Over her head, he met Chuffta’s intent gaze, exchanging wordless hope and concern.

  Priest Vico might be helping her as Lonen hoped, because he wasted little time making Oria endure the contact. “And now a kiss, maintained until I ask you to stop.”

  Number three. At least the trial would stop at a kiss. Not what Lonen had hoped for their first kiss, but so it went in their
star-crossed marriage. Oria raised her face, lines of strain between her brows and bracketing her lovely mouth. “Stop fretting,” she taunted. “Chicken.”

  Arill, how he loved this woman. Delay only made it worse, so he brushed her lips with his, unable to savor the sweetness of her with the incoherent sound of pain she made. Doing his best to shield her, he held back his emotions as he would on the battlefield. Her heart pounded in frantic beats, shuddering into him, and he kissed her softly, soothingly, if only to make that aspect as bearable as possible.

  A scuffle and cry in the background. “Beast!” Gallia cried. Adhering to the rules, Lonen kept the kiss, ignoring whatever had happened. If Yar and Gallia forfeited, so much the better.

  “You may desist,” Priest Vico called in a placid tone as if nothing had happened.

  Oria broke away from him, gasping for breath, clutching her hands to her stomach as if she might be ill. He checked his impulse to reach for her, to comfort her, clenching his hands into fists instead. So wrong that what should be good between them was the worst thing for her.

  “Both marriages pass the compatibility test,” the priest declared.

  “Are you insane?” Yar thrust a finger in Oria’s direction. “Look at her. She’s staggering from the impact of that barbarian’s foul touch.”

  “Look to your own bride, Prince Yar,” the priest replied. “Impacts occur on many levels. However, I concede that Prince Yar and Priestess Gallia demonstrate greater compatibility, so far as magic is concerned.”

  A fine point, as Gallia, while not obviously physically stressed as Oria, looked miserably unhappy, a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. She took the cloth her attendant offered, wiping it away and seemed grateful to don her mask again.