“It’s an audacious plan,” Arnon commented after stroking his neat beard in silence a few moments. “I have to hand it to your Oria—she doesn’t think small.”
“She’s your Oria, too,” Lonen replied without rancor. “Your sister and your queen.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Arnon waved that away, still deep in thought. “The communication is a problem.”
“That’s what I told Oria. She says she has a solution.” Tired of sitting, Lonen rose from the study table and paced over to the window, one of the few in the palace proper, and pulled aside the hide covering it to keep the warmth in. The new apartments would have many windows, according to the designs Arnon had showed him. His canny brother hoped to bring back the transparent glass the Bárans forged from the sands surrounding the city—or, better still, with the knowledge to make it themselves. The Destrye knew plenty about forging metal, Arnon reasoned—why not sand?
“If we leave Nolan here, even as a fake king surrounded by people who know better, what’s to stop him from summoning the Trom and their dragons to set fire to Arill City in our absence?”
“That would be bad,” Lonen agreed. Where had Oria gone?
“Then we’d be a scattered people,” Arnon continued, “with no base to speak of, our warriors at Bára and the rest of the Destrye isolated refugees.”
“Our warriors would be at Bára, regardless.”
“Yes, but even if we failed in the attack, the rest of our people would have a somewhat defensible place here. Some of our people would survive. At least they’d have a better chance together, with the moat and the stout walls of the palace between them and the golems and Trom. But not if Nolan has the power to undermine that.”
“True,” Lonen said. “But he won’t have real power. We’ll have people watching what he does, which will give us clues as to what the Bárans plan.”
“Not if the people watching him can’t communicate with us.”
“I think I mentioned already that Oria has a way around that.”
“What is it?”
Lonen shrugged. Still no sign of her. Easy to promise to trust. Not so easy to set aside his anxiety. He felt her presence, however, a bright and vital sun at the other end of the marriage bond—which felt stretched over a distance. Though…maybe less so that it had only a few minutes ago?
“It’s a real flaw in the plan,” Arnon argued, as if Lonen had denied it. “A horse and rider, even with fresh mounts at intervals and going top speed through the tunnels, would still take days. Overland would take even longer. Birds… maybe we could use birds, but they’d need at least a day each way, and we don’t have messenger birds trained to find Bára. Besides, the Trom dragons could burn them from the air. And sending messenger birds could alert the Bárans to our movements and the element of surprise would be lost.”
“Also true,” Lonen answered, though Arnon hardly needed a response.
“I suppose we could just leave Mother in charge and trust her to use her best judgment. Alyx and her warrior women could serve as her personal guard and—”
“Alyx comes with us,” Lonen interrupted. “So do all the warriors. Every Destrye who wishes to come and fight will be allowed—no, encouraged—to do so.”
Arnon raised his brows. “You mean to stand by that idea, allowing the women to fight alongside the men?”
“I do.” Lonen let the hide fall and turned to face his brother, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“It will cause problems. You know that our father decreed that—”
“I,” Lonen interrupted in a flat voice, “am not father. I will not repeat his mistakes.”
Arnon paused, considering. “You think his decision that the women shouldn’t come to war with us, a war that seemed certain to end in doom—a debate argued long and hard with a great deal of input from all walks—was a mistake?”
Lonen held his brother’s gaze. “Yes. It was a mistake. It resulted in a schism of our people at a time we could least afford to be divided, a fundamental division that reached all the way to the throne of Dru and resulted in our queen exiling herself from court.”
“That was her decision, Lonen, and she—”
“Is it a ‘decision’ when a person chooses to live their life on their own terms rather than bow to having their rights taken away?”
Arnon pursed his lips. “That’s a rather dramatic way of putting it.”
“Is it? If a person wants to fight the enemy that threatens their home, and someone else says they’re not allowed to, that’s taking away a fundamental human right. Even the lowliest of animals defend their territories.”
“This is different, and you know it.” Arnon threw up his hands. “Those women will endanger us by being on the battlefield.”
“How so?” Lonen asked quietly.
“Don’t play dumb, Lonen. You can talk change and progress all you like, but we are at heart still the barbarian people your Oria calls us. We haven’t departed long from the days when women were legally property—ours to protect and cherish. If a woman is in danger on the battlefield, every man nearby will move to protect her. We won’t be able to help ourselves. It’s pure instinct. Would you punish a man for that?”
“Yes,” Lonen replied. No question there. “If a Destrye warrior fails to follow orders, then yes, they will be punished. That’s basic discipline every warrior learns along with how to properly hold a weapon.”
“But instinct can override their—”
“Have you never had the instinct to run away instead of go forward in the crush of battle, Arnon? Have never had the impulse to do other than your commander ordered?”
“Well… yes, but—”
“There is no argument. We have military order because we have to override our instincts and impulses, for the greater good and strategy. You know that as well as I do, perhaps better.”
Arnon raked a hand through his brown curls, stopping at the back of his neck and gripping it. “It’s a hell of time to test the theory, Your Highness.”
“Oh, now I’m ‘Your Highness?’”
Arnon grinned back at him, releasing his tense posture and shaking his head. “Absolutely. When I’m arguing with you, giving you my best advice, I’m your brother. When I’m certain you’ve decided, then I acknowledge that you are my king and have my unconditional support.”
“Thank you,” Lonen replied, voice unexpectedly rough with emotion. “For both the arguments and the support.”
Arnon’s smile took on a cocky bent. “Of course, I—what in Arill is that noise?”
Lonen had already spun to pull the hide from the window again, leaning out and craning his neck. The beat of thousands of wings thundered through the air, shrill reptilian calls echoing above the lower voiced shrieks of humans. For a panicked moment, he thought the Trom dragons might be attacking, but Oria’s proximity—elated and triumphant—thrummed along the marriage bond.
And then he saw them. Arnon, wedged into the window beside him exhaled a giant breath of stunned awe. “Are those…?”
“Derkesthai,” Lonen confirmed. “An entire colony. Oria brought them here.”
Arnon cleared his throat. “For what purpose?”
Lonen pulled back, looping an arm around his brother’s shoulders, letting the hide fall into place again. “Let’s go find out.”
Atop the palace, all but a few of Arnon’s Destrye workers had fled from the onslaught of derkesthai. The smaller ones—the size Chuffta had been when he easily perched on Oria’s shoulder—lit on the branches of Arill’s tree. They looked oddly in place there, like exotic white flowers bringing the goddess’s tree into bloom early. If Lonen let his gaze unfocus, the hundreds of bright green eyes could be new leaves amidst the living, shimmering wings, unfurling like waxy blossoms.
The derkesthai too large for the branches—fortunately no more than a handful—settled on the platform itself, and Chuffta landed on his accustomed spot, Oria on his back. She seemed to be unbuckling herself, then slid down Chuffta’s leg and trotted toward them, an exultant smile on her face.
“I don’t know that the struts will withstand this amount of weight,” Arnon said, dropping to lie flat and look under the edge.
Lonen had eyes only for Oria. She looked to be wearing fighting leathers like the women warriors did, an adaptation of the standard male warrior’s gear, scaled to size and reinforced in slightly different places to accommodate the female form. Only her leathers were a bright metallic copper that seemed to be embossed with scales. She gleamed in the late afternoon light like a derkesthai herself.
“What have you done, Oria?” he called, more forcefully than he meant to, overcome with both her feelings and his own.
She grinned at him, radiant with victory. “I’ve brought you reinforcements.”
He opened his arms and she launched herself at him, wrapping her slender legs around his waist and returning his kiss with passion. Unable to resist, he slid a hand down to cup her small bottom, so enticingly clad in the soft leather. The embossed scales gave it an intriguing texture, and he squeezed, exploring.
She laughed, breaking the kiss. “Like them?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Who do I have to thank for these?”
Her eyes danced with amusement. “Alyx provided the leathers, and my army of seamstresses adapted them to fit. Then I experimented a little with the color and design. I want something I can wear on Chuffta’s back in battle that will suitably impress the Bárans when we accept their surrender.”
“I understand the Bárans care about such niceties,” he commented blandly.
“Oh yes,” she replied in a mock serious tone. “Can you imagine what terrible terms we’d be forced into if we arrived at their gates dressed like barbarians?”
He scowled at her and bit her neck when she, giggling, dodged his retaliatory kiss. “Just so long as you don’t agree to marry anyone else,” he growled.
“If you two are finished,” Arnon inserted, coming to stand beside them, “Your Highnesses, we really should relieve some of the weight on this platform before it collapses and takes the palace with it.”
“Oops, sorry, Arnon.” Oria glanced to the side, and the derkesthai, Chuffta included, took wing in a temporary blizzard. “I just wanted you to see them.”
Arnon surveyed the departing… it seemed wrong to call them a flock, like birds. Perhaps a squadron? His brother cleared his throat. “It’s an exhilarating sight, to be sure, but why are they here, Your Highness?”
Oria wiggled, so Lonen set her down. Even though she was shorter and far more delicate than the two of them, Oria stared Arnon down with all the regal arrogance of her heritage. “My dear barbarian brother of the heart, I can communicate mind-to-mind with these derkesthai.”
Understanding dawned. “Over long distances?” he asked.
Oria held up her hands. She wore gloves of the same close-fitting, textured copper leather. “We need to test it, but I figure we can post the smaller derkesthai at intervals that match the range of their communication distance. The relay would be nearly instantaneous—at most a matter of minutes.”
“Why only the smaller ones?” Arnon wondered, eyeing the many winged lizards festooning Arill’s tree, preening and fluttering thin-membraned wings.
“First, because they can ride on your shoulder. I think all your officers should have one,” she said to Lonen.
“We can’t hear what they’re saying,” Arnon replied, bemused, as Lonen nodded at the wisdom of the plan.
Lonen clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You’d be surprised how much they can communicate non-verbally. Certainly they can alert you to problems or point you in a necessary direction.”
“And defend you with flame,” Oria added.
“I see.” Arnon mulled that over, casting a glance at the struts underpinning the platform as they descended the steps. They looked fine to Lonen, but Arnon gestured at his foreman, who at least hadn’t fled far, then pointed him at something. “Dare I ask what the big ones will be doing?”
Oria grinned, a lethal smile, full of teeth—and worthy of the most barbarous Destrye warrior woman. “They’ll be in my aerial squadron. You and your warriors will handle the Báran city guard on the ground. If the Trom dragons arrive, we’ll face them in the sky.”
“I’m still not convinced this is the best idea,” Lonen argued, fully aware of his hypocrisy—and relieved Oria hadn’t been there that afternoon for the argument with Arnon about women in battle. What she didn’t know, she couldn’t call him on, and he made sure to push thoughts of that conversation down deep where she couldn’t easily hear it. “There were a lot more Trom dragons at the Battle of Bára than I saw today of even moderately sized derkesthai.”
“I’ll be on Chuffta to lead the defense, so I’ll be using magic. And don’t forget the Great One.” Oria turned her back and held up her hair so he could unlace the gown she’d worn to dinner. Another pretty one, though not half so alluring as those figure-hugging leathers had been. “He’ll arrive when we’re ready to depart. Until then he elected to stay warm by his lava lake.”
“I’m surprised the others didn’t do that, too.”
She shrugged a little the loosening gown falling away more. “They were all curious and excited. How could I say no? But, speaking of warmth, did you—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “I set men to clearing a swath of the moat. The derkesthai are all in there with a good supply of wood lighting their bonfires.”
“Good idea,” she admitted. “I wondered what Chuffta was talking about. It sounds like quite the party. It’s not as if any golems could get past that lot.”
He pushed the gown off her pale shoulders, indulging himself in savoring the texture of her skin. Softer than silk or velvet, that slight shimmery feeling of her magic coursing through her body, her skin enticed him to savor her more and more and more. He kissed the back of her neck, exposed with her hand still holding her hair out of the way, and she hummed with pleasure.
“I don’t like the idea of you facing the Trom and their dragons without me,” he admitted, lips moving on her nape in a caress that made her shiver.
“You’re going to say that, and after you managed to convince Arnon otherwise?” she countered, stepping away and putting her fists on her hips. Her expression was fierce, but the way her copper hair fell in a cloud around her, crackling with static and catching the firelight, her full breasts bare, small nipples pink and tight—she looked far too lovely and alluring. So much so that it took him a moment to catch up to what she’d said. Arill curse it.
“You read that in my mind?” he demanded. He’d have to get better about not thinking about things she could easily “overhear.”
She smiled in triumph. “No. You actually are getting better at hiding thoughts you don’t want me to ‘overhear.’ I read it in Arnon’s mind. He kept going over the conversation in his head during dinner. Loudly. You really upset his tidy world.”
Deciding he’d do better to distract his wife than argue with her, Lonen snagged Oria around her waist, threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the bed. “I think I’d rather upset your tidy world,” he told her as she dissolved into shrieking laughter.
He tossed her on the bed, quickly ridding her of the rest of the gown. She stretched, slender arms over her head, her lovely body pale against her shining hair and the darker furs of their coverlets. Grabbing her ankles, he lifted a delicately arched foot, pressing a kiss to that spot he’d discovered undid her. She moaned, going languid in his grip, then tugged her foot free.
“Think again, Destrye,” she said, kneeling up and crawling over the bed to him. Reaching for his belt buckle, she worked to undo it, glancing coyly up at him. “I believe I made a suggestion at lunch I should follow through on.”
The memory had his already hard cock throbbing. He brushed a hand over her hair as she freed his cock and pushed his pants down. “Are you sure?” he asked, feathering fingers under her chin, coaxing her to look up so he could see her face.
She’d licked her lips, and they glistened full and wet, her eyes full of sensual desire. “Oh, yes, barbarian,” she purred. “Tonight I get to torment you. Isn’t that what a good tame witch does to appease her brutish captor?”
He began to reply in kind, but his sally choked off in his throat as her avid mouth closed over him, and his eyes rolled back in his head from the pure intensity of the sensation. Giving himself over, he let her plunder his body, wondering who in fact had captured whom.