Lonen wrestled down the twin urges to throttle Oria for her stubbornness and to simply toss her over his shoulder again.
He should never have put her down, no matter the provocation. That had been his first mistake, followed by a whole sequence that ended with letting her talk him into this fool’s errand.
Worse, he couldn’t pin down where the presentiment came from, but he strongly suspected she was lying to him about passing along Chuffta’s warnings. She got a certain look and feel to her when the lizardling spoke to her and, if his instincts didn’t miss, the derkesthai had been chattering away. Probably with bad news, as all news in Bára seemed to be. He tightened his hand on her slim shoulder, the bones so frail beneath he could crush them if he wasn’t careful.
Totally in contrast to her personality, which might crush him if he let her. Especially if anything happened to her because of it. He’d already faced losing her several times that day, which was plenty for one morning. And they had a great deal to get through before the day ended. He needed her to save his people, never mind his personal feelings.
“Oria, time’s up. Come willingly or I’ll take steps.”
She resisted with surprising strength in that delicate frame, staying poised with her mother’s lips against her cheek. A flutter at the window had him leaping back and drawing his axe in the same movement. Chuffta landed on the stone sill, wide wings buffeting the sides of the arch, which was by no means narrow. Though the derkesthai’s body was no longer than Lonen’s forearm, his wings were each double that, with thin white webbing that showed sunlight between fine bones, like the fingers of a hand. As if the wings were indeed the animal’s forelegs, he possessed no others—only taloned hind legs he used to grip the sill.
Chuffta’s brilliant green eyes fixed on him with uncanny intelligence and there was no missing the urgency in them.
“That’s it. We’re leaving.” With no more warning, he bent down, wrapped an arm around Oria’s slender waist and hauled her unceremoniously off her feet. She wailed pitifully and he hardened his heart. The former queen reached for her daughter, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oria, wait! Take me to Lousá with you! I’ll help you find a husband worthy of you.”
Setting his teeth, Lonen carried Oria away, Chuffta winging close above.
“I’ll be back, Mother,” Oria cried. “I promise.”
Manfully, Lonen didn’t comment on the likelihood of Oria keeping that promise. If he had anything to say about it—and he most certainly would—his wife wouldn’t set foot anywhere near Bára again.
“You can put me down,” Oria said loudly, maybe not for the first time, as they reached the outer doors. “It might look better for me to walk instead of you dragging me along like some captured slave girl.”
He carried the burden of guilt for many things, Arill knew, but he wouldn’t be ashamed over this one, no matter how she needled him. He’d also take the higher road and not remind her how much her slave-girl-captured-by-the-Destrye-barbarian sexual fantasies had played into their very hot wedding night. She’d could have used her magic to stop him, as she’d done earlier, and she hadn’t. He’d probably behave just as badly if torn away from his one remaining loving family member, too, so he’d give her the rope.
He set her on her feet and Chuffta landed neatly on her padded shoulder, rubbing his triangular head against her cheek as she dashed her own tears away. “Stay right here while I check the corridor,” he instructed her, as if she were someone who listened to sense.
Fortunately, the way was clear—the guards had absented themselves. If Arill watched over him and Oria, the guards had simply run off to avoid punishment, not for other, more sinister reasons. Reaching back through the doorway, he nearly forgot himself and took Oria’s hand, diverting to her sleeve at the last moment. “Come on. Move fast.”
She trotted beside him, face flushed, breathing too hard. “Can you keep up?” he asked.
Her extraordinary copper eyes flashed to his, her expression smoothing into something like her favored remote mask. His haughty foreign sorceress. “I’m not a child, Destrye.”
“No bigger than one,” he said in a dubious tone sure to fire her up.
She glared in fury—and picked up her pace, her tears drying. “When I make you pay for all of this, the price will be dear indeed.”
“I look forward to it,” he replied in all sincerity. At least she was talking as if she planned to survive, which was all that mattered for the moment.
They hurried over the bridge from the palace into the city proper, the denizens turning in surprise at their hasty passage. Because of the way various chasms—all without fences or railings of any kind—riddled the city, rather than take the far-too-exposed main bridge from the palace doors, they had to travel past the guard barracks to reach a bridge to take them over. They crossed and retraced their steps on the other side, weaving amongst the people traveling the path between the chasm and the towers and various associated buildings. Lonen glimpsed the palace guard pouring out the grand doors, weapons bristling.
“Through here.” He tugged Oria through a doorway into a dark pub he recalled from the days the Destrye occupied the city. The proprietor, a genial Báran man, gaped at them. “Princess Oria!” he called out. “And King Lonen? Is all—”
“I’m fine,” she answered, all graciousness, pausing to wave at the people. “Taking a stroll through the city. Such a lovely day.”
She was an abysmal liar, but a decent actress. The man relaxed and the people summoned a cheer. They all supported Oria’s claim to the throne. Because they weren’t idiots.
“Back door open?” Lonen asked, and winked at them. “Better to keep the princess off the main paths.”
“Of course, I—”
But Lonen was already hustling Oria in that direction, taking her through a storeroom with wine—and water—casks, and out again into the scorching Báran sunlight.
“How did you know that place had a back door?”
“Most of your dwellings do. All those open doors and windows you riddle every damn building with.”
“For cross-ventilation.”
“I get it.”
“But you knew that place in particular.”
“They serve that honey ale. The men liked it. I chased down more than a few of mine there, who thought to use that back door to duck me.”
“I had no idea.”
“It was a long week that you slept through.”
She pressed her lush mouth over whatever retort she planned, so he suppressed his grin at her expense. “Where are we even going?” she asked instead. “The city gates are that way. And Yar has the palace guard after us.”
“I saw them,” he replied grimly. “We’re going to the barracks to get my horse.”
“You have a horse?”
“Did you think I walked from Dru?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.” She had that faint tone, the one she got when she ran up against her unfamiliarity with the world outside Bára. So fierce in so many ways, so powerfully magical, and yet she’d also spent far too much of her life sequestered in her tower. Even without the challenge of withstanding the wild magic outside the walls, the coming journey would be a trial for her.
She said nothing more as they wove through the puzzle of back alleys and jagged lanes that made up the less polished side of Bára. Here merchants unloaded wares and the occasional work golem performed some manual task, an unsavory sight. The Bárans didn’t like to use animals for labor, a nicety Lonen found ironic given how easily they dismissed the humanity of the Destrye they’d slaughtered for the precious water they hauled about in casks. Besides, though the city golems were innocuous cousins of the ones he’d battled as they attacked the Destrye in relentless waves, and though they lacked the razor-sharp teeth and claws of their fiercer versions, the things still sent a rill of terror through him.
Old habits die hard. Especially when they haunt your nightmares.
Every single person they passed stared in astonishment at the sight of their beloved princess—unmistakable with her metallic copper hair, intricately braided in the priestess style. In retrospect he viciously wished he’d thought to roll her up in a blanket. Easier to transport, less trouble, and not so obvious.
Swiveling his head on his sinuous neck, Chuffta gave him a bright-eyed stare that seemed to be full of humor.
“I don’t suppose you can work magic to cloud people’s minds, make them forget they saw you?” he muttered at Oria.
She glanced up in surprise. “Why would I do that?”
He noted in the back of his mind that she hadn’t denied having that ability—something he’d long suspected. She’d only assured him that she hadn’t sent him dreams while they were apart, not that she hadn’t influenced his thoughts while they were together. “We won’t exactly be difficult to track,” he pointed out, gesturing in frustration at the many onlookers.
Pursing her lips, she blew out a huff of exasperation. It was absurdly entertaining to him to see the gesture again. He’d hated the golden priestess mask that had hidden her face. Though he knew it wounded her pride that Vico had stripped it from her, he couldn’t summon up much regret. He liked seeing her face. She might be able to read his mind with ease, but reading her expressions gave him at least a few clues to understanding his enigmatic sorceress.
“There’s only one way out of Bára,” she said. “It’s not a mystery which way we’ll go.”
Grimly, he acceded to the truth of that. It had made the city both impregnable from most assaults and then almost ridiculously easy to take, once they found the key. “Assuming we make it out of the gates, how far will Yar chase you?”
She considered that with a bemused expression—though some of that could be for the city guard barracks they’d entered. “I’ve never been here,” she commented, confirming his speculation.
“The stables are through here, at the other end. Answer my question.”
She shrugged. “If we make it through the gates, he won’t. He knows I’ll die out there. Why bother chasing me beyond the walls?”
Fear stabbed at him, but he put it away. No sense thinking about that. She was certainly dead if they stayed. He turned down a narrow corridor—and several of the guard appeared, blocking their passage, swords drawn, postures clearly belligerent. Wonderful. Thrusting Oria behind him, he brandished his battle-axe. Chuffta flew up to hover above them, hissing, wings working furiously.
“Princess Oria,” the one in front called out. “We are to escort you back to the palace. Please step back while we dispense with this barbarian. We’ll protect you.”
Lonen choked back a curse as she slipped in front of him, as if her slight body gave him protection. The light-framed men of Bára posed no great threat. Even their fighters had become weak in comparison to the Destrye, sheltered too long by their magical overlords. Once they’d disabled their sorcerers, the Destrye armies had dealt with the men at arms with comparative ease.
Something of Oria stirred deep inside him, however, in that place that had come alive following their grueling ritual of a wedding ceremony. A bright place she seemed to occupy, like a candle in a window at night. Normally a slim spark, the sense of her grew, glowing like a torch gaining fire, eating the fuel and getting hotter, burning.
He’d felt something of it before at the temple, though this was as the sun to the small moon Grienon in its intensity. Was this her magic?
“Stand down,” she commanded. “You will not block us.”
“Princess, by order of King Yar, we—”
“He is no king of mine, nor of yours.” She cut them off, face pale in the murky interior. The low buildings in the shadow of the city wall had no windows to let in the light and air—none of the cross-ventilation of which the Bárans were so proud—like the towers did. More defensible, no doubt. Or the barracks didn’t rate the consideration. “Yar has usurped my throne. I won the contest fairly. But rather than plunge Bára into civil war, I seek to leave peacefully.”
Had he thought her a bad liar? She’d spun that one skillfully enough.
“You speak treason,” one guard said, his lips white, eyes widening in horror.
“She does,” came a deeper voice. The tall form of Captain Ercole came up the dim corridor. “And the punishment for treason is exile. Let them go.”
The men put down their weapons without argument, stepping aside to let them pass. If nothing else, the Báran guard did have good discipline. Lonen would have snorted in disgust at their painting Oria’s actions as treason if it didn’t allow for their easier escape. The complicated tensions between their Temple—which awarded priesthood to those judged capable of controlling their magic, and thus eligibility for the throne—and the ruling council still gave him headaches. The throne should have been Oria’s. But for arcane Temple rules that ousted her, it would have been.
She didn’t have a treasonous bone in her body.
“Thank you, Captain,” Oria said, but the man shook his head, disappointment writ clear on his face.
“I don’t pretend to understand what’s happening. All I know is what I see before my eyes—a daughter of the royal house, hope of her people, abandoning the city in its hour of need.”
Though her spine remained straight, chin high, something in Oria sagged. Lonen might have felt it more than he saw it. Chuffta landed on her shoulder, wings folding with a snap, prehensile tail snaking down her arm in a series of coils, glittering like ivory bracelets. Lonen set his hand at her waist to brace her on the other side. A low and vicious verbal blow from Ercole, who’d been one of her strongest supporters. And after Oria had sacrificed so much of herself for Bára. Would they only be happy when she gave up her very life for them?
Oria held up her hand, stopping him from speaking before he knew he’d been about to voice the thought. “So be it then,” she said quietly, and pushed past Ercole, giving him and the guard the wide berth she needed around the non-magical, the tense set of her face revealing how their harsh emotions must be affecting her. For her sake then, he reined back his own anger and outrage, moving between her and the men.
“You should know, Captain,” she said over her shoulder, “that I said goodbye to my mother, after forcing our way past the guards at her door who sought to keep her from me. They should not be held to fault for that.” Her tone strongly implied she held Ercole responsible for their safety.
“Princess,” Ercole called after them. Oria took several more steps before she halted, looking back without fully turning.
“We’ll guard your back this last time,” Ercole said, with a grave nod. “The least we can do is see you safely into exile. Go swiftly and in peace.”
She dipped her chin and turned swiftly away, hurrying to keep up with Lonen, not meeting his gaze. It didn’t take long to reach the outbuildings between the guard barracks and the towering wall. Lonen’s stallion stood at the near end of the room, having long since scented his approach.
“I didn’t know horses were so big,” Oria gasped.
“My stallion is particularly large. And trained to be aggressive. Stay back until I have him suited up. Keep clear of both his front and back—he bites and kicks.”
Oria gazed about the slapdash construction, made mainly of cannibalized casks that had seen better days, a slight wrinkle to her pert nose. For his part, Lonen worked quickly, retrieving the stallion’s tack and fitting him with it—a task made no easier by the horse, restive from days of inactivity.
“This room is made of wood,” Oria said, a question in her voice.
“Yes. Bára had no stables when we occupied originally, so Ion”—he managed to say his late brother’s name without any special emphasis, proud of himself for the neutral tone—“had this built for the few horses we needed to keep in the city. The rest, of course, stayed with the encamped army. Arill take you, horse! Hold still.” He elbowed the stallion’s shoulder. It would feel like a gnat bite to the massive warhorse, but Oria cried out a protest.
“Don’t hurt him!”
Lonen, holding aloft the heavy leather saddle to slide it onto the horse’s back—not easy with the stallion’s shoulder level with the top of his head—scowled at her. Normally several grooms would have helped with this. “He knows better. He’s being a brat because he’s mad at being cooped up all these days and we don’t have time for his dramatics. Oria, no! Don’t go near his—”
He dropped the saddle and lunged for her, but Oria moved fast when she made up her mind. Recklessly brave—and with much of the same impetuous nature that drove Yar—she stretched up on tiptoe to lay her hands on the horse, bracketing his jaw. Having expected the vicious stallion to bite through her delicate fingers, Lonen checked himself as the horse stilled immediately, then snuffled Oria’s braids and nickered, a sound he’d never heard from the warhorse.
Chuffta, still on Oria’s shoulder, arched his neck back like a striking snake staying clear, nostrils flaring as he surveyed the stallion with bright-eyed interest.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“He’s a horse—he doesn’t have a name.”
“Don’t be stupid. Everything that’s alive has a name, if only to itself.”
“Then ask him.”
“He doesn’t think that clearly. But there’s something… Something you call him sometimes. He likes it.”
“We don’t have time for—”
“If you want him to hold still, I need his name. What is it? I can hear it just on the edge of your thoughts… Aha! Buttercup.”
“His name is not—”
“I would hate being cooped up, too, Buttercup,” Oria was murmuring, blithely ignoring him. “You like to run and fight and be free, just like your master, don’t you? But if you’ll be still a few moments longer, we can all go. Won’t you like that, Buttercup? I think you can finish now, Lonen.”
Shaking himself out of the spell it felt like she cast on him, too, Lonen took advantage of whatever magic she’d wrought to calm the warhorse. He couldn’t help sneaking peeks at her, however, her slim form inclined against the muscled bulk of the big black steed, her white hands like fairy wings against the stallion’s massive jaw that Lonen had seen chomp through far sturdier bones. Though some of her braids had come loose from the elaborate weave hanging in coppery tangles down her back, and her robes were dusty and ragged from the magical duel and their mad flight through the city, she looked beyond beautiful.
The image reminded him sharply of the first time he saw her, framed by candlelight in a window, looking like something out of an old storybook. Now, as then, the sight stirred something deep in him he’d thought long lost to countless dead and the relentless tread of clawed golem feet.
Some part of him that still believed that magic brought light and hope, not devastation.
That happy endings could be real.