Lonen woke once or twice, still disoriented, but better each time—drinking down the water she offered, watching her with gray eyes gone almost silver with fatigue. After that first time, he no longer pleaded with her not to leave him.
A good thing, as her heart couldn’t take that again.
And each time, once he fell back to sleep, she and Chuffta sought out more golems to feed her reservoir of sgath, leaving the drained ones as heaps of once-again inanimate glass. The ones ‘dead’ the longest had begun to disintegrate into sand again.
By early afternoon she’d done all she could for Lonen—short of putting him on Buttercup’s back and taking him to the shade of the oasis. She’d blown the golems away in that initial fit of fury, with the power of her grien, yes, but that had been instinct. She didn’t think she could hold Buttercup still and exert enough power and finesse to lift Lonen into the saddle. She certainly wasn’t going to be carrying him physically.
“Why not make shade for us?” Chuffta asked, a yawn in his voice. She glanced at him sharply, alarmed to see him visibly drooping. The derkesthai always seemed so indefatigable, she hadn’t thought to tend him. Though she’d noticed his flame growing thinner and weaker with every visit they made to the golem junk pile.
“Are you all right? You must be exhausted.”
“I am tired. And hot, even. I’ll have some of that water and a nap. Shade would be lovely.”
If he’d been less tired, that would have come out even more pointed, she suspected. “I don’t want to waste the sgath.”
“The remaining golems will keep. They’re not going anywhere. This can be our oasis, with shade. We have enough water, thanks to the golems. It is not wise, I think, to skimp on our recovery now for fear of the future. Let’s survive the present.”
“Always so practical,” she replied. A little stung by the rebuke and that, absorbed in Lonen’s condition, she’d failed to pay attention to her Familiar or to tend Buttercup, she cleared her mind. The sgath from the golems wasn’t anything like having the magic below Bára to use. It felt somehow stale, like water that had been stored in barrels as compared to the bright taste of the oasis water. But, just like barrel-water, it worked for the purpose well enough.
This wasn’t the brilliant billow of grien she’d unleashed on her garden or in the marriage trial, or even the blast she’d leveled at the remaining golems. This stream she shaped with cool hwil, directing it into the glass heaps that had been Sisto’s creations—and that still vaguely resonated with his personality. It helped, in truth, that the substance had been shaped by grien before, as if it retained a certain affinity for it. Which could help to explain priestly affinities, but she set that thought aside for later consideration.
Instead she worked with meticulous care, smoothing the glass into a bubble, as she’d seen the glass-blowers do once on one of her rare excursions to the forges. She’d asked how glass was made and her father took her there—with her brothers all crowding around—the king explaining to his progeny where Bára’s famous glass came from, a treasure to forever safeguard, one that could not be measured as the value lay in the skill of their artisans, not in piles of treasure.
That had been before the monsoons stopped altogether, a change in the world she hadn’t marked at the time, but which had led to this moment, to her building a glass dome over her Destrye husband. To nurse him back to health so they could resume their journey to Dru, where she would reign as queen.
And live to strike a devastating blow to the King of Bára.
If only her father could have predicted things would come to such a pass. Would he have made different decisions?
“Would you?” Chuffta, curled up in the shade of the now opaque dome beside the sleeping Lonen, asked the question in a mind whisper, eyes half lidded, tail wrapped around himself so many times he resembled a coiled snake, chin propped as if to strike.
“I don’t know,” she replied, but he’d already fallen asleep.
~ 16 ~
“How do you feel?” Oria sounded highly amused to be asking the question. Lonen blinked the grit of sleep from his eyes, then rubbed at them, absently noting that—although stiff and painful—his arm responded to his brain’s commands. Oria sat beside him, Buttercup dozing head-down behind her, all of them under some kind of shelter while dusk fell outside. She proffered a cup. “Water?”
His thirst raged like a chained beast, so he levered up on one elbow—holy Arill, his side hurt!—and took the water, drinking it down. Without a word Oria took the cup from his hand, dipped it into a bucket and handed it, dripping, back to him. He drank that, too, taking a moment to assess her and their situation.
“Where did you find water?” he asked, handing the cup back for more.
She smiled, surprisingly dazzling—a way she hadn’t smiled since before they escaped Bára. Since the morning after their wedding night. Intimate and relaxed. “I’d made a bet with myself what your first coherent question would be.” She handed him another full cup.
“And were you correct?” he asked, bemused by this radiant Oria, sitting serenely, her hair unbound and streaming around her shoulders.
“It was in my top five.” As he sipped at this cupful more slowly, she stroked the curved back of Chuffta coiled beside her, a gleaming white spiral wrapped in folded wings and a tail. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the derkesthai asleep. “The golems,” Oria said. “They had several barrels of water with them. I managed to hack into one of them—the barrel, not the golem—and it’s all good water. We must have run afoul of them on a water-gathering mission.” She met his gaze somberly, both of them too familiar with what that might mean.
“You hacked into a barrel…” he mused, struck by the image of delicate Oria hacking into anything—then struck again with a further incredulous thought. “With my axe?”
“Sgatha, no!” She looked appalled. “I can’t even lift that thing. It’s there by your side, where you dropped it when you, also, dropped.”
Further bemused, he looked to where she pointed. Indeed, the axe lay by his side, haft still caked with dried blood from his own hands. “I wasn’t sure—I know your penchant for wielding weapons too heavy for you to lift.”
“Ha ha.”
He glanced up at the ceiling. No, a dome? Like a rigid tent, it curved overhead, gleaming with rose and gold from the setting sun. “If I’m lying where I fell”—and it certainly felt like it, though she’d clearly undressed, washed, and tended him—“then where did this come from?”
Oria beamed, mouth curving again in a proud smile. “I made it.”
“You… made it?”
She nodded, full of a youthful enthusiasm she rarely exhibited. “With grien. I used grien magic, Lonen! To make this shelter, so we’d be in the shade.”
He returned her grin and levered himself painfully to a sitting position. “You figured out how to process the wild magic.”
“No such luck.” She grimaced and waved a hand out the opening of the dome. “I took it from the golems. Each one carries a kind of a reserve of magic inside—like you carry water in flasks—that’s how they keep going away from Bára. When you cut them with your axe, it released the sgath and I soaked some up. I only realized after a while what had happened. That’s when I came back.”
Fury and terror rose up in him. He set the cup carefully down. “Which I expressly ordered you not to do.”
“You’re welcome.” She scowled at him. “I forget—did we have the argument yet where I tell you that you don’t get to order me about?”
“Probably.” He tried to remember, then laughed, surprising her. Then reached out to take a lock of her hair, letting the silk slide through his fingers. “Thank you for saving my life, my powerful and resourceful sorceress wife. Where do you stand on being touched now?”
“Oh no, you don’t.” She pulled her hair from his hand, reminding him of the time she’d cut off a lock, to escape his grasp. He still had it somewhere in his things. “Even if I co
uld withstand it—which I probably can’t for long, as the intake of sgath has sensitized me again—you, my battered barbarian, are in no condition for frolicking.”
“Frolicking?”
“And so forth.” She scooted back as he reached for her again, and his side grabbed.
“Ow! Holy Arill.” His hand came away bloody and … charred? He held it up to the dimming light to see the crisped flakes of skin better. “How did I get burned—Chuffta?”
“A few of the wounds we had to cauterize.” She sounded apologetic, her face scrunched up in sympathy. “I’m sure it hurts like anything, but I didn’t have many options.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” he replied absently, surveying his body in greater detail. He was a mess, a crisscross of bloodstained bandages, purpling bruises, and scabbed over lacerations. In places, like the forearm the golem had gnawed, fresh blood seeped into the bandages from his movements, but all things considered… “Is it the same day?”
“Yes—I found you an hour or so past dawn and it’s just evening.”
“How am I so healed? These scabs look at least a day old, maybe two—and the deeper wounds are only seeping.”
She rolled her eyes at him and shook her hair back. “You would be an expert on wound healing.”
“I’ve had some experience.” Particularly with the sort caused by the glass-knifed claws and fangs of the golems, he didn’t have to add, because Oria already looked pained at the reminder.
“I helped the healing along,” she said softly, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. “It worked better than I expected.”
“You have healing powers, too?” The possibilities there could be phenomenal.
“Not exactly… It’s more like what I did with the plants. I kind of added energy to your natural healing process.”
“That explains why I’m so ravenous.” Over the years of privation, especially the last months, he’d grown accustomed to being hungry. Now that he’d slaked his thirst, his body demanded food like a bear fresh out of hibernation.
“Sorry. I’d hoped to have food for you by the time you awoke, but Chuffta has been sleeping.” She stroked the derkesthai again, who didn’t move. “He was exhausted from the battle he fought alongside you, and then helping me all day. He even ran out of green flame and I didn’t know he could. I don’t think he did either.”
Lonen stretched carefully. The side hurt like a demon, but he felt reasonably strong—and surprisingly energized. Now that he thought about it, he could feel Oria’s blend of bright feminine and fruitful zest flowing through his body. He tapped one of the bandages. “Was this your chemise?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately. You’re wearing all that’s left of it. And those are what’s left of the clothes you were wearing. Your saddle packs are there, though, if you have more. I didn’t want to rifle through your things too much.”
He raised a brow at her, grabbing a pack and dragging it over, though it made his side pull painfully. That would take some getting used to. “At this point I’d say they’re our things. How did you get the tack off the horse?”
“Buttercup told me how.”
He paused, arrested by that. “I thought you said he doesn’t think that way?”
She shrugged a little. “He doesn’t so much. But that’s a familiar routine for him and the tack was uncomfortable. He’s used to you taking it off when he’s not working, so he kind of… expected it, I guess is a way to put it. So I just followed his expectations.”
“Your abilities are truly remarkable.” Unaccountably, she blushed at that, glancing away. “I really wish I could kiss you right now, Oria.”
Her gaze came back to his, less shy, the copper burning with heat. “I’d like that, too,” she said quietly. Almost an admission, which for her he supposed it was.
“You love me,” he said, mostly to himself, still assimilating that startling information, but the warmth in her eyes turned hard and hot.
“Are you going to hold that over my head forever?”
“Pretty much,” he returned cheerfully. At least his iron-shod boots had survived intact. “When dealing with a hugely powerful sorceress who can melt you in your boots, it’s definitely an advantage if she’s too softhearted towards you to blast you when you aggravate her.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed.”
“I see that. Why?”
“We need food, so I’m going to hunt.”
“No, you are not. That spot on the ground was very nearly your death bed. Look at all that blood soaked into the ground. You need to rest and build your strength.”
“We need to eat, Oria,” he told her gently, but firmly. Though it was true, lifting his hips to pull on his pants about took his breath away. He’d have to avoid using those abdominals as much as possible. “I need food to fuel this healing, and so do you and Chuffta. You two helped me. Now it’s my turn. Besides,” he added, with a wary eye at the thickening dusk, “what if more golems find us?”
“I think I might actually be of help there,” she said tentatively.
That shouldn’t surprise him. “Good news. I’m happy to leave the dealing with magical creatures to your capable hands then.” He stood, the dome plenty high enough to accommodate the warhorse’s height, much less his. The world spun a little, but he remained upright. Oria studied him, a line between her brows. “I’m not an idiot,” he reassured her. “If I’m going to pass out, I’ll sit.”
“Good, because I won’t be catching you if you fall.” She stood, straightening her robes. The silk clung to her slender form.
“So, you’re naked under there, huh?” he couldn’t help teasing her.
She gave him an arch look. “I was always naked under my chemise, too. This is hardly different.”
He shook his head slowly, letting some of his desire for her leak in her direction. Like his hunger, he’d become somewhat accustomed to feeling it all the time, in the background of his thoughts—until moments like this made it rage. “Trust me, love, it’s different.”
“You must be feeling better,” she observed, bending to gather some things and put them in the packs.
“Now what are you doing?”
“Packing up. If you’re not going to rest, and now that you can get on Buttercup under your own power, then we might as well load up and get going. I know you want to keep heading to Dru. You can watch for some hapless creature to kill on the way.”
“What about Chuffta?”
“I’ll hold him. If he wakes, he can hunt for us.”
It was a solid plan, so he helped her pack things away. Lifting the saddle would have been a struggle, but the warhorse unexpectedly knelt, making it much easier. When he glanced at Oria in question, she lifted her hands, palms up. “What can I say? I wasn’t lifting that thing off his back. I couldn’t even reach it, so Buttercup and I worked out an arrangement.” The horse nodded his head at her and whuffed in affection—a sound he hadn’t made since he was a colt.
The sight of the fearsome warhorse acting like a puppy dog tamed to his mistress’s hand took Lonen aback. On the one hand, yes—it made saddling up much easier, given his injuries. On the other, the stallion should be meaner and tougher than that. The comparison to his own vulnerability to the foreign sorceress’s taming was unavoidable.
Although the goddess Arill had done the same for all the rough Destrye warriors, hadn’t She? Perhaps She approved. Still. He could just hear what Ion would have said. What smart remarks Arnon and the other warriors would toss about once they reached Dru, if they overheard Oria explaining her deal with his horse.
“You need to give him a different name,” he muttered, slapping the warhorse’s flank in a signal to rise to his feet again.
“Why?” Oria sounded surprised. “That is his name.”
“It’s a name I called him in jest. You know, like men call each other flower names to taunt them into being tougher.”
“Buttercup is a flower?”
“Yes. Small, yellow, and sweet. The opposite of this horse.”
“Hmm. Because flowers aren’t tough. Or manly.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, relieved that she seemed to understand. Though a certain tone in her voice made him decide to leave the topic there. He climbed into the saddle, giving in and pressing the heel of his hand hard into the aching wound. Hopefully he wasn’t aggravating the healing process by moving too soon. But neither was he going to sit idly by and helplessly watch while Oria tried to defend them from more golems while the two of them steadily weakened from hunger. He’d take the gift of her saving his life and use it to better ensure she made it safely to Dru. “Hand me Chuffta.”
She scooped up the sleeping derkesthai and handed him up, then took his proffered forearm and climbed into the saddle behind him. “I can take him now.”
“I’ve got him.” The lizardling made for a warm and comforting weight in his lap. “You concentrate on holding on.”
“My seat has gotten much better,” she replied tartly, but she snaked an arm around his waist on the good side. Well, the less injured side, anyway. “Does that hurt?”
It did some, but he wasn’t giving up the delicious feel of her slim body and soft breasts snuggled up against his back. “I’m good. And I meant that you can help keep me in the saddle. Though if I do pitch over, just let me fall. Don’t hurt yourself getting crushed.”
“Oh right. I’ll just wave my hands in the air while you get hurt.”
He let that go. If she didn’t understand by now that he’d pay any price to preserve her well-being…Well, it wasn’t worth arguing about. He gazed around at the litter of broken glass ringing the uncanny dome, all gleaming in the blue-white light of Grienon climbing the sky, waxing rapidly to full. “I guess we just leave this here?”
The Tides of Bára Page 15