~ 3 ~

He’d never figured himself for a romantic. Even when he was merely a prince and third in line for the throne, he’d known that although he didn’t have to marry for duty—the Destrye did not engage in complicated politics, as the Bárans did—any bride he chose would have been subject to his father’s blessing. Sure, he and Natly had talked about marriage, but looking back, he could see that he’d felt safe coaxing her about it, indulging in the flirtation of it, knowing she’d never say yes. Her ambitions had looked higher than that. She’d sulked for weeks when his oldest brother, Ion, married Salaya.

After that she’d worked her wiles on the second-oldest, Nolan, until he firmly rebuffed her flirtations—not only because King Archimago had decidedly not approved of her. Only then had she returned to Lonen. He hadn’t minded her fickle games. Natly was beautiful, with an arsenal of sensual tricks that turned a man’s mind, and he enjoyed her playful company. But chasing her had been a good deal more fun than having her. Those weeks in Dru after he returned home from the war, reluctantly taking up the crown that should never have been his in the natural order of things, Natly had affixed herself to his side, talking of nothing but the midwinter wedding ceremony he’d never quite agreed to. He hadn’t really meant to lie to Oria by calling Natly his fiancée. After all, Natly figured them to be engaged and he’d never directly disabused her of the notion. He’d simply never found the energy to make a decision one way or the other.

He’d put it down to exhaustion—mental and physical—from tackling the Destrye’s many problems. More than enough decisions to make there, few of them optimistic. That soul-deep weariness from all he’d done had made Natly’s lighthearted ways, the ones he’d once prized, seem somehow tawdry and frivolous.

He’d already been battling the realization that it would be irresponsible of him as king to make Natly queen when Arnon put it into words. You can’t marry her. She would have made a decent princess, but she won’t make a good queen. Part of him had even felt relief at finding a way out. Arnon didn’t outrank him, but his brother had a good brain and knew how to use it. It would take substantial conviction to ignore his one remaining brother’s advice. Perhaps he also channeled their father’s stern ghost.

He’d agreed to Oria’s extraordinary proposal in part because he knew she would make a good queen, even if she was a Báran sorceress who’d bewitched him. She’d demonstrated the resolve, courage, and selflessness to sacrifice herself for any people she took as her own. It had seemed fitting to him, a restoring of balance, that she’d step in to take responsibility for the Destrye when King Archimago had died taking responsibility to protect vulnerable Bárans.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she didn’t intend to act as queen for anyone but the Bárans.

And now she glibly announced that she didn’t care if he took another wife, if another woman pretended to be the Destrye queen in her place. That was the final snowflake to bring down the tree limb.

He pulled the shirt over his head, settling the wide collar, and found she’d stopped her pacing and regained her regal poise, handing him a full glass of wine.

“Perhaps you’ll explain your anger to me,” she said, all polite elegance. “A calm and rational conversation should not be too much to ask.”

Taking the glass, he swallowed a healthy portion. Finding himself unable to match her reserve just yet, he stalled. “Just why are we standing in the baths having a long conversation, Oria?”

She gestured to the many benches. “You are welcome to sit. I came here to discuss next steps with you in private, as I had other tasks nearby, and I thought to save you the trouble of climbing to my tower again.”

He grimaced at that. It had taken a good quarter-hour to ascend those endless curving stairs to her terrace atop the tallest tower in Bára. “What next steps?”

Spreading her palms wide, she huffed her exasperation. He supposed she made that sound when it wasn’t a half-laugh, too. Before, when she hadn’t had a metal mask hiding her face, she’d kind of puffed out her lips when she did it, blowing out her breath as if she released some tension. “The next steps are moot, Lonen, if we’re not going to marry.”

“Oh, we’re getting married all right.” His turn to pace. “We agreed already. But mark me on this: I will not be in violation of my vows by marrying or bedding anyone besides you. I can’t imagine what you think of my honor as a man and a king, but I don’t make promises, then turn around and break them.”

“I don’t either,” she said quietly.

“Don’t you? You promised to be Queen of the Destrye then informed me you’ll never go to Dru and you’re fine with a false queen on the throne, regardless of how well she’d serve the people.”

Oria’s golden mask seemed to ripple with flame as she swung her head to face him. He imagined her pretty mouth hanging open in an O of surprise. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” To her credit, she sounded chagrined, which helped mollify him.

“Clearly.” He polished off the wine, then grabbed a hunk of bread to help soak up the alcohol in his blood. The Bárans made excellent bread, he had to give them that.

“Though I did assume, when you said you were engaged, that you’d chosen a fiancée who’d make a good queen,” she pointed out, with cool logic that stung a little. He couldn’t explain that he hadn’t given it much thought without sounding like the idiot he was, so he made a show of chewing the bread.

“I thought you’d be pleased enough to keep Natly as your lover—or wife according to your customs—and go on your way,” Oria continued, in a tone of infinite patience that didn’t fool him for a moment. “Some barbarian cultures allow a man to have multiple wives and concubines, I understand. A marriage of state that benefits you politically while not tying you down personally should be welcome to you.”

He decided not to touch the condescending “barbarian cultures” remark. Particularly since the Destrye had maintained such practices in the past.

“For someone whose name you heard once, you’ve certainly mentioned Natly numerous times.” He couldn’t help taunting her with that. Oria might not want him to touch her, but she didn’t like the idea of Natly having him either, much as she protested otherwise.

“Because she’s constantly in the forefront of your thoughts,” Oria retorted.

He shook his head at her, pleased to have caught her out. “Oh, Oria. Now that’s a lie.”

She didn’t reply immediately. “That doesn’t matter. I concede the point—if we decide to go ahead with this marriage and you want me to truly be Queen of the Destrye, I’ll do what I can. I’ve learned a great deal, maybe I can eventually find a way to travel there. You’re correct—I owe that much to you and Dru. But have you thought of how your people will feel about having a Báran sorceress among them, affecting their laws, passing judgment on them?”

“If you manage to drive off the Trom and put food in their mouths, they’ll be happy enough.” He repressed a shudder at the thought of those skeletal monsters who could at that moment be riding their fire-breathing dragons to burn the Destrye crops and buildings before they stole more of Dru’s precious water. His people would put up with more than a foreign queen to be rid of that curse. “If the price is marrying their king to you so you can work your magic to protect them, then even Arill cannot deny your fitness to wear the wreath of royalty.”

She sighed and held out a hand. For a moment his heart tripped in ridiculous pleasure; he thought she invited him closer. But no, the dragonl—Chuffta—flew to her. The left forearm and shoulder of her crimson robe were padded, allowing the creature to land with his back talons gripping and wide white wings spread until he balanced. She scratched his breast, her body taking that intimate posture she probably wasn’t consciously aware of, which betrayed that she conversed with her Familiar. To salve his disappointment and irrational jealousy that she lavished affection on her pet and not him, Lonen savagely chewed more bread. At least he wouldn’t be so blazingly hungry. Not for food, anyway.

“There’s something I should tell you,” she said.

“Does that mean you’re relenting on withholding information? Or confessing to a previous lie?” He tensed for the answer, having placed a great deal of trust in Oria’s basic honesty, if nothing else. How much more a fool would he be proved to be before this was done?

“I admit haven’t told you everything. I never will tell you everything, which might be misleading if not an outright lie, so if that’s your line in the sand, we might as well call off the agreement now.”

“You’re awfully insistent on not getting married now,” he noted. “This was your idea to begin with.”

“I know. But I was not completely forthcoming with you and I should have been.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I could marry your brother instead. Connecting to any part of the ruling family should be the same. That would leave you free to marry Natly”—she held up a hand when he opened his mouth—“or another. Someone who would be a real queen for your people. It was unfair and wrong of me not to offer that.”

She cast a glance at Chuffta while Lonen mulled over her words, making him wonder what her Familiar counseled.

“Then why did you insist earlier that it had to be me?’

Oria sighed, mask turned away, though with her uncanny perceptions she’d know exactly where he was, what he was doing. How he felt. Though maybe not entirely. She didn’t seem to sense how much of his willingness to marry her had nothing to do with duty at all. Something that might be best to conceal from her, lest she use it as yet another weapon against him.

“Several reasons,” she said, her words followed by a heartfelt sigh. “All of them self-serving. I am not Queen of Bára because I can’t be crowned until I’m married. Fortunately, neither can the only other viable contender, my brother Yar, whom you no doubt remember.”

He did. Yar was younger than Oria and still a boy in most respects, with a voice that cracked and the brash impetuousness of too much arrogance and too little experience. Still, Yar had helped Lonen’s warriors after the Trom attack, using his truly spectacular magical skills to mold stone into bridges and shelters. An ability like that, no matter how unsettling, would come in handy for building, say, aqueducts that didn’t burn.

Oria began pacing again. Chuffta hopped to a nearby bench, watching her. “Right now, Yar is away looking for a bride from one of our sister cities. If he returns with an ideal—a suitable match, he’ll be married before I can be and the throne will be his.”

Lonen scratched his beard thoughtfully, its trimmed and oiled softness an unfamiliar sensation. “Not to be callous about your ambitions, but would that be such a terrible thing?”

She laughed, this one bitter with a metallic echo. “You think I’m power hungry and crave the throne. I suppose that’s a fair assumption on your part.”

Actually he didn’t think that at all. It didn’t mesh with what little he did know about her, and he felt obscurely ashamed of hurting her by the implication. He opened his mouth to say… something, but she forged on in a rush, wringing her pale fingers together.

“I did not send the Trom to Dru, but someone in Bára did. The ways of the Trom are mysterious even to us, but they can be directed by their summoner. It doesn’t make sense, but I think it had to be Yar who sent them. He’s the one who summoned them originally and he must control them still. He has powerful allies on our council and in the temple, those who believe it’s far easier to continue to steal water from the Destrye than to cast about for other options. We also face problems with our sister cities, because we’ve been supplying them with water—your water—and trading goods and political favors for it. That leverage is part of how Yar will be able to convince them to give him one of their priestesses for a bride. I don’t have a particular yen to be Queen of Bára, but I desperately don’t want Yar to be king. For the good of the Destrye, you don’t either. With the power of the throne of Bára and the sister cities and the Trom under his command…” she shook her head. “I don’t care to picture that future. I thought you might understand.”

He considered the torrent of information, as overwhelming as heavy rain on parched earth. When she decided to confide, she did so full out, something that put him in mind of her restless, energetic stride.

“So your solution is to marry ahead of him and be crowned before he returns,” Lonen summarized for them both. A solid plan, but what had been her intention before he turned up at Bára’s gates only hours ago? She had to have had something else in mind. “Why doesn’t he marry a Báran girl—priestess, that is? Or the same for you—if time is of the essence, that would be easier and faster. You claimed you didn’t have another man lined up to marry. Did you withhold information there also?” A not-so-surprising twinge of possessiveness at that thought. Though he’d never truly contemplated having Oria for himself, not beyond those plaguing dreams and the occasional fantasy, not until she proposed it.

“No—that’s the full truth. I don’t have anyone to marry because it’s not that easy.” She tucked her hands in the small of her back, pacing fast enough to make the crimson silk billow around her legs. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try,” he suggested in a dry tone, and her mask flashed as she glanced at him.

“I don’t think you’re stupid or ignorant. But I do know you’re skeptical about certain elements of magic and how it works.”

“Acknowledged.” He poured the rest of the honey over another hunk of bread, scraped the dregs with a piece of cheese and piled several more on. A slice of meat and it would be a decent sandwich. As it was, he might never stop eating.

“The temple matches us with our spouses. In the best of all possible worlds, we find a … good fit and make a temple-blessed marriage.”

“An arranged marriage.”

“More than that—there’s complex testing that involves magic.” She waved that off as yet another thing he wouldn’t understand. Probably he wouldn’t, but it rankled nonetheless. “Sufficeto say Yar did not find a match in Bára. With so many of our priestesses lost in the battle with, well, with your people…” She took a breath, and he understood the feeling. The memories of that night pained him, too. He’d been the one to kill most of those priestesses, and their blood still soaked his nightmares. Oria had seen him with that blood on his hands. No wonder she didn’t want them and those stains of murder on her unsullied skin.

“There are far fewer candidate priestesses in Bára now, and none satisfied the requirements for Yar, so he’s casting his net wider,” Oria said more briskly. “I’ve received my mask recently, so I’ve only just begun testing, but I face the same scarcity with so many of our priests fallen in battle. So far the results are not promising, which surprises nobody at all even with a reduced pool, because I’m …”

“A princess?” He filled in, when she didn’t—but she shook her head.

“Unusually sensitive, let’s say.” A wealth of feeling crawled beneath her dry tone. Interesting.

“But even if Yar is counting on that,” he said when she didn’t continue, “on you taking longer to find a match, why risk it if the throne is at stake, something he clearly does have his ambitions set on? Why not settle for the second- or third-best pick?” As Oria was doing in proposing to him, it suddenly hit him. A far less savory realization. The honey wasn’t enough to keep the bread from going dry in his mouth.

Oria stopped in front of him, twisting her fingers together again, and he viciously wished he could see her face, read her expression. Although he supposed he didn’t need to see her to know he wouldn’t like her answer. “Just tell me, Oria. Truth is best.”

Though he wasn’t entirely sure of that.

“A mate who’s a good fit is … ideal.” She settled on the word with a frustrated lifting of her hands. “A temple-blessed marriage trumps one that isn’t. Were Yar and I both to marry, whichever of us has the best suited partnership—as the temple evaluates such things—would be crowned.”

“So not only do you need to be married first, you need to be married and crowned before Yar can return with a supposedly better marriage.”

“Yes, exactly.” She sounded relieved that he understood—and maybe that she’d gotten away with not telling him everything about why the Bárans sought these purportedly perfect matches. Knowing them, it had to do with power and status. And magic, more than likely. Something he did not and would never have.

He pondered letting it lie there. Couldn’t. “Why haven’t you stepped up your own search, gone to these other cities to find your match?”

“I was considering it,” she admitted, “before you arrived. But in the first place it’s much easier for men to go beyond the walls than it is for women, for complex reasons I can’t explain, but they’re the same ones that would make it difficult for me to go to Dru. That same … syndrome will also cause Yar delays in bringing a bride back to Bára from her home city, so that gives me breathing room.”

“And in the second place?”

“I don’t have the influence he does. Because I refuse to be part of trafficking stolen water.”

She said it simply, but the bald integrity of her statement touched him in an odd way—more than any of Natly’s declarations of love had. It hadn’t been that long ago that Lonen had sat on Oria’s rooftop terrace and scorned her for not knowing whose life’s blood kept her lush garden alive.

“Thank you for that,” he told her gravely, meaning it. She might be playing a game of omission and half-truths, but he could count on that about her, at least.

She shrugged that off, pacing away and seeming uncomfortable. He wanted to ask more about what an ideal mate for her would be, but likely it would only cause him pain to hear all the things he could not be to her. Words like that could never be unheard and would lie between them. After years of marriage, such small resentments festered and became mortal wounds. He’d seen enough of that between his own mother and father to want to avoid the same in his own marriage, if at all possible. His idealism at work again—to be contemplating a loveless, sexless marriage of state and still hoping for happiness between them. And yet perhaps it wasn’t entirely blind optimism that made him think Oria pushed to marry him instead of Arnon.

“So you call your reasons self-serving because you’ll get to be queen, which makes little sense since you don’t really want the power or the glory.”

He had the impression that she grimaced. “That—and because being queen will give me access to the highest level of temple secrets. Which will let me discover how Yar summoned the Trom, so I can do likewise. That’s how I’ll wrest power from Yar and relieve Dru from the Trom’s incursions.”

“How did Yar get access to these secrets if he’s not yet king?”

She ticked a finger at him. “You’re good at this. I didn’t think to ask that question for some time. I’m not certain, but I think High Priestess Febe broke sacred law and gave the spell to him. Or she gave it to Nat and Nat gave it to him.”

“Your brother Nat was king following your father’s death, so why was that breaking sacred law?”

“Because he wasn’t king.” She made a disgusted noise and waved her hands in the air. “They told the Destrye that, but Nat wasn’t married either, so the rites couldn’t be performed. But Febe and the head of the non-magical side of the council, Folcwita Lapo?”

“I remember him,” Lonen said with grim distaste for the overblown man.

“They both heavily favored bringing in the Trom once it became clear the city had fallen to the Destrye.”

“And they now support Yar’s bid for the throne.”

“Not coincidentally, yes.”

“So, marrying me is the expedient choice, I can see that, but how likely are they to support your claim? Why wouldn’t they delay a decision for Yar’s return?”

“A potential pitfall to be sure, but I have some people on my side, too. My mother, formerly queen, may have been relieved of her mask and crown, but she still holds a great deal of sway on the council, in the temple, and in the hearts of the people of Bára. Also the city guard supports her and me, which helps enormously. For example, that’s how you came to be personally escorted to me without anyone else knowing you’re here. Something I’d like to keep from public notice as long as possible, another reason to have this conversation here, where no one can overhear. Finally, though you declined taking a role in governing Bára when we set terms for our surrender . . .”

Her voice wavered a bit on that word, just as she’d been unsettled when he’d said it to her earlier, about having surrendered to him. She wasn’t nearly as unaffected by him as she pretended to be. Perhaps he stood a chance of wearing her down on the sexless marriage concept. Surely there must be ways for their women to be touched, or there would never be babies. He might not be a Báran man, or a priest, but he knew how to pleasure a woman. If nothing else, Natly with her bold demands and sensuous nature had taught him that much.

Oria had found her composure again, her stride more measured as she paced. “The treaty might say that you did not care to exact governorship of Bára in any way, but you are king of the Destrye and you did conquer Bára. They won’t like it, and I might have a fight on my hands, but they’ll have to acknowledge that Bára, and everything and everyone in it, belongs to you, by right of the ancient laws.”

A heady thought, that Oria already belonged to him. Had he been one of his rougher ancestors, he likely would have already dragged Oria back to Dru with him as a war prize, his to do with as he pleased. The lustful fantasy aroused him profoundly, appealing to some base instinct even though the more civilized part of himself stood back in horror. It made him recall fragments of those old tales though…

“There are stories,” he said, pulling on the memories to bring them out, “of foreign, pale-skinned women brought home to be wives and concubines of Destrye warriors, who inexplicably faded and died. As if they starved for food none could provide. Is that what would happen to you?”

She stopped, the abrupt change in topic derailing her stride along with her thoughts, a strange cant to her body, almost as if she were in pain. Chuffta sat up higher, wings mantling as his sinuous neck moved in a sort of question. A good insight, that he reacted to Oria’s thoughts and moods. Another way to puzzle her out.

“I didn’t know that,” she finally breathed, strain in it. “We have no such stories.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t.” He kept his voice soothing, nearly regretting that he’d brought it up, except that it had garnered such a telling emotional response from her. “If the women were taken away and died without returning home…”

“Yes. No one would have known what happened to them. Tell me—were they … used?”

He nearly choked at the euphemism, especially on the heels of his brutish fantasies, then wrestled with the chagrin at having to answer, to own up to what kind of people the Destrye had been before they settled in Dru, tamed by Arill’s gentle hand. Maybe there was no possible way to explain. For the first time he understood what she meant, that she could give him answers, but that he wouldn’t necessarily understand them. He tried to couch it gently. “If you mean, did the men who captured the women take them to bed in the marriage sense, the answer is assuredly yes.”

“Of course that’s what I mean,” she replied in a tart tone, far better than the pained one, and amusing him that he’d tried to be delicate. “And how can you be so sure—do the stories say so?”

“Not exactly, but—” He had to clear his throat. “Why else take them?”

Her mask faced him as he answered, seeing far too much in him. “That would have contributed, too. The sex,” she clarified unnecessarily, “just as it would damage me if you gave into those … impulses like you imagined just then.”

Stung, he pushed to his feet. “I wouldn’t,” he said far too loudly, and he was further abashed when she flinched and took several steps back. He had to take a steadying breath to lower his voice. “It’s not fair, Oria, that you judge me based on fleeting thoughts and emotions. People think and feel many things they don’t act on. That’s part of learning to be a decent human being—knowing that there are dark yearnings in your heart and being strong enough to recognize them as such and exert control. Maybe your mind is this perfect, serene place and you don’t understand the human struggle to be a better person, but I’m only a man and a flawed one at that.”

She swayed, seeming shocked. “I am human, Lonen.”

“You don’t always seem like it.”

“No?” She sounded surprised and … weary. Sad and weary. “Regardless, I understand that struggle all too well. Being flawed.”

“Maybe I’d know that if I could read your mind, too. But if you couldn’t see so easily into my head, you would have never known I harbored any such thoughts, however temporary, to judge me so harshly for them.”

She nodded, folding her hands. “I apologize for any offense. I did not mean to sit in judgment. I sense enough of you to know your better nature. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have taken this gambit. Still… this conversation has revealed much and I’m growing more certain that it would not be a good idea for us to marry.”

“Because of my sexual feelings for you?” Might as well lay it all out there.

“All right, yes. That’s one reason. I’m concerned by your insistence that you would not take other lovers. I know men have … needs. It’s become obvious to me that yours are quite strong.” She paused, a little breathless, as if flustered. “You must understand that I’ll never be able to satisfy them for you.”

He took the risk of moving closer to her, fascinated that she continued with a conversation that clearly discomfited her. She lifted her chin as he approached and visibly steeled herself not to step back, so he stopped where he was. “Women have needs, too, Oria.”

She tilted her head. “Do they? I’m not sure it’s the same. Or perhaps it’s a difference between Báran and Destrye.”

He couldn’t believe that. “You’ve never felt anything at all sexual? Nothing—never wanted to be with a man or a woman? Never have been with either?” He wasn’t sure if she was playing coy, dumb, or was truly that innocent. Or alien, part of him cautioned.

“Same sex unions are frowned on in Bára—it puts the magic balance off. And no.” Her voice sounded faint and he imagined a blush stained her high, delicate cheekbones. “A Báran priestess lies only with her husband.”

“And I will be your husband,” he couldn’t help saying, edging closer, halting when she raised her palms.

“Not like that. If you can’t agree to that part of the marriage, then we have to call it off.”

“And do what?” He curled his hands into fists of frustration. “I need your help for Dru, you need to be married and made queen to do it.”

“I could marry your brother,” she insisted. “He would have the same freedom I offered you. I would never impose on him or interfere with his life.”

“He’s not here, which thwarts your need for speedy action.”

“A marriage by proxy then. You could command it and the council and temple will abide. The ritual magic knows no physical distance.”

He rather enjoyed debating with her, especially when she forgot to be poised and starting sounding fierce. He’d never be able to step aside and let Arnon have her. Or any man. “Same distance problem in getting him to agree, however. How could I send and receive messages in a short time? It might take considerable explanation and debate.”

She flung up a hand. “I don’t know. Can’t you simply do it and tell him later? You’re the king.”

He could, yes, though Arnon would make the rest of his days a misery. “Not happening,” he said, instead. “There is no way I’m standing by while you marry another man. You proposed to me and I accepted. I won’t allow you to back out.”

“You won’t allow me.” Her voice had gone lethally chill. Something swirled in the air around him that reminded him of the sorcerer’s magic on the battlefield. Her slim body had gone tense as a plucked bow string and he wondered, far from the first time, what form her magic took. Shards of ice, perhaps, instead of fireballs. “How, exactly, do you plan to enforce that edict?” She asked softly, in clear warning.

He leaned in. She was scary, all right, but he found her impossibly titillating at the same time. He’d totally lost his mind, but it seemed to matter less and less. “By invoking right of ancient law. As you noted, Bára and everything in it belongs to me.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

“I won’t have to,” he returned, “because you’re far too intelligent, noble, and rational to be stubborn for the wrong reasons. I’m right here, willing and able to marry you, I’ll agree to a marriage in name only, with the caveat that we’ll revisit if you change your mind about that aspect in the future. The rest is details. Done.”