“Why did you bring us here? We can’t cross the bay. No one can cross it and live.”
“We already did. Last night. People can cross—how do you think the Destrye got to Bára in the first place? Crossing that thing is how we got so wet and muddy, not to mention you with a belly full of brine. I’m sorry about that,” he added, brow furrowing in concern. “I had no idea you’d swallowed so much. How are you feeling?” This second time he asked the question with pointed emphasis, as if he guessed she’d dodged answering before.
“I’m fine,” she replied, coolly cloaking the lie with hwil as best she could. “I’d like to get dressed though.”
“So dress.” He didn’t move.
“Could you give me a little privacy?” She wasn’t sure how she’d manage the robes—or easing her roiling gut—but no way would she let him to see her so ill, weak and clumsy.
He cocked his head, studying her. “Why are you acting so strangely with me? We’re husband and wife. You know I undressed you. I know that you’re not fine. Arill take you, Oria—more than once I thought you were dead. We may yet be dead if we don’t find some water and Dru is a long journey yet.”
“Dru?” She couldn’t go to Dru. She needed to go to one of Bára’s sister-cities, where they could heal her. She hoped.
“Exactly, which is quite a journey still. So this isn’t a time for lady games.”
She choked on her rising ire, startled into a half laugh. “Lady games?” she repeated incredulously.
He waved a hand at her and stood, manhood flagrantly swinging as he did. “Acting all prim and embarrassed, as if we haven’t been as intimate as a man and woman can be.”
“Well, not exactly as—”
“Lying to me,” he interrupted, “about how you feel.”
“I feel thirsty,” she snapped.
“What else?” he demanded, fists on hips.
“I can’t talk to you when we’re naked.”
He yanked the robes from her hands, tossing them out of her reach. “Let’s test that theory.”
“Hey!” She wanted to reach for them, but they were hopelessly distant.
“You can have them back when you tell me the truth.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me, Destrye!” She would have surged to her feet, but the wobbly weakness in them told her she’d just collapse. Even more ignominious.
“Technically that’s blackmail, not a threat,” he replied, as if that were a reasonable response. “How. Are. You. Feeling?”
She wrapped her arms around her knees under the robe. “Naked.”
“Truthful, at least. What else?”
Miserable, ill, weak, feeble, supremely incapable of dealing with any of it. Both overloaded with magic and completely without useful resources. She felt thrown back to all those years of being useless, too fragile for anything. She was afraid. And she really needed to answer the call of nature and she was pretty sure she couldn’t even stand. She was paradoxically both excruciatingly lonely and desperate to be left alone for a few moments. She wanted to lie back and weep, which would solve nothing.
“I’m here. Can I help?”
“I don’t think so. I just need to rest a bit. And deal with the Destrye.”
Lonen muttered something that sounded foul, tossed her robes at her again, then began yanking on his own clothes. She clutched the filthy silks, too hot in the cloak, but unable to muster the energy to move. Fully dressed, Lonen sat in front of her again, then took her hand through the thick fur, prying it away from her knees to do so. “Talk to me, Oria. Help me out here.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Her voice came out as small as she felt and cold sweat dripped down her spine, though she could have sworn her parched body had no water in it.
He studied her. “How about just spitting out whatever you’re trying to hide from me. Then you won’t have to spend the effort lying about it, when you’re already clearly weak as a baby bird fallen from the nest.”
“I’m not weak,” she spat at him, her vision going a little black at the edges. Chuffta finally abandoned his beloved fire and hopped to her side. Lonen frowned slightly at her Familiar, then transferred the scowl to her.
“Do you need help getting dressed?” he asked more gently and she cringed at the thought. All those days after her first collapse, her mother and Juli had sponge-bathed her, helping her remember how to power her limbs, dressing and undressing her. Here, in the middle of nowhere, with no food or water, and no one but this Destrye warrior for leagues, she couldn’t afford the luxury of such delicacy.
Nor could she imagine asking him for such intimate assistance.
“I need privacy,” she muttered, mortified.
He sighed, studying their joined hands. “I’ll tell you what. You show me you can stand on your own, and I’ll give you some time alone.”
She pressed her lips together, raised her chin and stared him down. “You’ll do as I tell you, Destrye.”
With a grim half-smile, he shook his head slowly. “Not a chance, Princess. You’re weak as a newborn, aren’t you? This is why you were abed for a week after that first collapse when we went out the gates. That’s what it does to you, being out here.” He squeezed her hand through the cloak. “What I don’t understand is why you don’t want me to help you.”
She gazed over his shoulder miserably, fixing her gaze on the horizon, clenching her teeth against the chattering of incipient tears. She had no words.
“Is it pride?” He asked. He wouldn’t give up. She knew that about him. There was no getting past him. She’d have to have his help to pee, to dress, probably even to eat and drink—if they found water—as the alternative was to sit there and die under the scorching sun. It should be an easy decision and yet… Pride. It sounded so superficial, but if she gave that up, too, what would she have left?
“I hate this,” she finally whispered.
“Yeah.” He nodded, still squeezing her hand. “You and I—we’re not people who ask for help easily. We like to be strong and independent. But sometimes we’re sick and hurt and need the help. So come on—don’t you need to piss?”
She choked a little, certain her face had gone as crimson as the silk still wadded in her lap. “Yes, but—”
“This might surprise you, but I figured even elegant Báran princesses do that, too.” He scooped her up, cloak, clothes and all, giving her a warm smile. “Let’s set you on a log you can hang that pretty behind over, so you can do your business.”
~ 6 ~
By alternately coaxing and bullying her, he got Oria tended and dressed. Once she gave in and let him help her, it amazed him she’d managed to sit up straight as long as she had. She was clearly miserable. Her muscles had no strength and her coppery eyes shone glassy with fever. He kicked himself for not realizing how much of the poisonous water would have flowed into a throat lax with unconsciousness. He’d spat it out every time he took a mouthful and his gut made him feel as if he’d eaten bad meat.
Thank Arill, he’d found a flask in Buttercup’s packs with a small supply of water. He gave it all to Oria, who sat on his cloak—upright, but barely—sipping at it. His own thirst raged, but he could last a while longer without. Listlessly she watched him brush the warhorse down, a cloud of dried mud billowing around them.
“Why bother when he’ll only get dirty again?” she asked, the first thing she’d said to him since admitting she needed his help. He sympathized with her embarrassment, his usually regal and poised foreign princess so reduced. But it also pissed him off that she acted as if she couldn’t trust him. They might not yet be lovers in truth—though that was only because she couldn’t bear the touch of his skin, or he’d have long since plumbed her depths—but she had allowed him to pleasure her with various implements. And had watched him take himself in hand with all apparent delight.
Now she was acting as if they’d never spent that passionate night together. As if she barely knew who he was. Erecting barriers around herself
like a miniature version of her walled city where only she lived inside.
“If there’s sand and dirt between the tack and his hide,” he told her, “it will rub and cause sores. I should have done it last night, but I was nearly as exhausted as you are. This won’t take much longer and then we can get going. If we move at a good pace, there’s an oasis we can reach by mid-afternoon.”
She was quiet a moment, eyes cast down. Chuffta surreptitiously tucked another twig onto the fire and she didn’t reprimand him. A real firebug, the derkesthai had turned out to be.
“You’ll like it there,” he continued, as if they were having a real conversation. “There’s a pool deep enough to submerge in. We can take your braids down and you can wash. You’ll feel better then.”
She muttered something, almost too quietly for him to hear. Re-cross the bay? Surely he had mistaken her words.
“What’s that?” He drew the brush over Buttercup’s glossy black coat, letting the regular movements soothe his ire, steeling himself for the fight that would be over quickly. Oria was in no shape to battle him.
“We have to go back across the bay,” she said more loudly.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he told her easily.
“I can’t go to Dru.”
“I think you’ll find that you can, because that’s where I’m taking you.”
“You’re taking me to Lousá. Or one of the other sister-cities. I’m not sure which is closest.”
“Uh huh.” Finished with the stallion’s grooming, Lonen checked his hooves for any remaining packed mud or rocks. Buttercup complied with unusual placidity. They were all exhausted. Or the cursed creature really did like his name. “And you know the way to these cities?” He asked Oria, keeping the tone light and conversational, knowing full well she didn’t.
“Well… no.” She frowned into the distance. “But there must be a way to find them. There are roads.”
“Which ones?”
“I don’t know, Destrye, but we’re going back across the bay.”
“I’ll tell you what, Princess.” He paused to beat the dirt from the saddle blanket and draped it over Buttercup’s back, then hefted the saddle up. Once he had it all cinched in place, he went to crouch in front of Oria. Her mud and salt encrusted braids snarled around her narrow, high-cheekboned face, reminding him of the stories of the snake-haired goddess. As in those illustrations, Oria’s eyes burned with a scathing otherworldly determination. If she weren’t also pale as death and wracked by a fine trembling, he’d fear for his extremities. Once she recovered her powers, he’d have to watch himself. Until then…
“I’ll tell you what,” he repeated, meeting her stare without flinching. “If you can walk across that bay under your own power, then sure, I’ll go with you and we can wander around the desert searching for those sister-cities.”
Her lush mouth thinned. “You know I can’t. That’s low, Destrye, even for you.”
“Nice to know there’s new depths for me to sink to,” he replied with false cheer. “I wouldn’t want to think I’ve topped out at my age. Guess that means we’re going to Dru. Chuffta, man, make yourself useful. Quit feeding the Arill-cursed fire already and kick some sand over it. We’re heading out.”
“It’s not like it could spread to anything,” Oria pointed out in a bitter tone as Chuffta set to the new task with enthusiasm, sweeping his wings to brush sand into the shallow pit.
“Habit,” Lonen admitted. “We’re wary of fire in Dru. Everything is built of wood there, not stone. A loose flame can cause great devastation in only moments. Up you go.”
He scooped her up, trying not to be alarmed at her frailty. If she’d reminded him of a furious kitten on previous occasions—all fur and spitting feistiness—now she felt like a broken-winged bird. She didn’t fight him, likely couldn’t, but refused to meet his gaze as he lifted her to Buttercup’s back. “Hold on to the saddle there until I climb up. If you can do that mind-trick again to hold him still that would be good. He’s calm today—tired, to tell the truth—but just in case.”
“I can’t,” she said in a small voice, slouching in the saddle like a crumpled flower.
“Why not?” At least she admitted that much and he preferred to keep her talking—and to keep an eye on her as he shook out and folded the cloak to pack it away. “You were amazing yesterday. Controlling Butter—the warhorse, blasting the city gates. You were something to see.”
“Stop trying to flatter me. I know I’m a pitiful mess. It’s the wild magic,” she clarified, an edge to her voice. Better that than the defeated tone. “To shut it out I have to close up everything.”
“Nothing in, nothing out, huh? Makes a kind of sense.” As much as magic ever did. It explained why she still lived. He gathered up the rest of their things, wedged them into the packs, and prepared to mount. “Hold still so I don’t touch your skin by accident.” Vaulting up behind her, he caught her slight body against him as she swayed. Despite her mean-eyed looks and barbed replies, she leaned back against him, closing her eyes and relaxing, a sigh passing her cracking lips. He needed to get her to water. “You okay being this close to me? I figure you don’t want anything heavier between us, what with the heat, but…”
She shook her head. “It’s better, actually, with my magic senses closed. I don’t feel near as much from you.”
Good and bad, he supposed. Probably base of him that his brain went to the sexual possibilities. If she mastered this shutting-down trick, maybe they could be husband and wife as Arill intended. Not an admirable thing for him to consider with Oria so ill. But if they made it through this, then… something to look forward to. Arill had made him an optimist for a reason. He nudged Buttercup into motion, Chuffta flying up to pace above them.
“You can’t take me to Dru,” Oria said without opening her eyes.
“Oria…” He sighed. “I can’t take you anywhere else.”
She didn’t reply, her body motionless against him. With any luck, they’d make it to the oasis in half a day.
Oria drifted in a dream of gray fog, swaddling mist, and scorching heat. Her body had long since gone completely numb, but so had her other senses. For the first time in her life, she felt nothing at all from the world around her. Always it had been a question of too much. Too many emotions, too much intense energy pouring in from all directions, the restlessness filling her, needing to be vented.
Now she felt like the blossoms of her rooftop garden, which she’d likely never see again. Wilting, drying up to a husk under the withering sun.
What happens to a plant without water?
She’d asked Lonen that question, by way of explaining what happened when a priestess left the sgath source beneath her city. When she’d said it, she thought to end the argument over whether she could ever go to Dru to serve as queen of the Destrye.
Now he was taking her there.
When her thoughts assembled with any coherency, she fulminated with fury at his high-handedness. Yes, they’d had to flee Bára, but she’d never agreed to go to Dru. She couldn’t. And Lonen knew that. He’d been the one to tell her their old stories, of captives like her, withering away to nothing before they died. She’d thought, here and there, that he cared about her. Had felt something of it. And maybe he did on some level. But he cared more about his own people. Not that she blamed him for that. He saw her as the key to saving the Destrye—and once that might have been the case.
No longer. With that bleak thought her ire bled away into nothingness.
Before she’d thought it had been overload that killed her long ago ancestresses—both from the wild magic beyond the walls and the corrosive effects of intimate contact with their barbarian captors. Through the hazy lethargy, she understood that she’d had the situation turned on its head. She would die, not from taking in too much wild magic, or even too much of Lonen’s exuberant masculine energy, but through starvation. She couldn’t digest the wild magic and with every league they went farthe
r from the purified magic of the cities that could sustain her.
Yar would have his way, as she’d unfortunately predicted. She’d die out here in the wastes, and he would triumph. How ironic, that she’d lived so much of her life feeling worthless because she couldn’t master enough hwil to manage the tides of magical and emotional input and now she’d be even more useless without them. The idea filled her with listless fury. She’d come so far that it seemed brutally unfair for her to fail now.
And just as she’d finally married—and discovered the great pleasure that could bring.
Creaking open her crusty eyelids, she gazed up at Lonen. He’d turned her so she sat sideways on his lap, holding her against him with one strong arm, so she wouldn’t fall. Every once in a while, he shifted her to the other side, apologizing for waking her. She didn’t bother to explain that she wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t. As if she’d lost that ability, too.
He looked as terrible as she felt, his jaw set and tense, lines of strain radiating from his creased eyes as he watched the horizon. Though she couldn’t sense his emotions, the worry in his face told her all she needed to know of how he felt.
“Can you find your way back?” She reached out to Chuffta. “To your people, should I die?”
“You’re not going to die,” he replied with equanimity, the pulse of his wings part of the rhythm of his mind-voice. He sounded tired, too. “We’re almost to the water and then you’ll be fine.”
She didn’t bother to argue. “Come ride with us. Rest your wings.”
“Buttercup is tired, too, so even my weight adds strain. Lonen would walk, but he’s afraid you’ll fall off without him holding you. I’m all right.”
Hazily, she contemplated that. “You can hear his thoughts?”
“It seems to help that he’s in proximity to you. He’s concerned that we’ve not found the oasis yet. Some of the markers he followed have gone.”
Oh. “But you said we’re close.”
The Tides of Bára Page 6