It wasn’t how she’d expected to face the council, to demand to be ratified as Queen of Bára with a Destrye warrior at her side and her hands tingling from unleashing grien magic that still rattled the leaves of her garden.
Of course, she wasn’t at all sure what she had envisioned, except that her mother was supposed to have handled this, as it was her plan and she was the former queen. She was supposed to have mastered the skill of envisioning a result so that it would manifest as she chose. Oria hadn’t indulged herself with many expectations, as they’d inevitably led to disappointment. Time enough to learn all of that, she’d thought, if she ever mastered hwil. She’d never imagined things would happen so fast, one upon the next.
Or that her personal scale of sorrows and successes would alter quite so dramatically.
The nine-person council—composed of two priests, two priestesses, four folcwitas, who managed all nonmagical aspects of running Bára, headed by Folcwita Lapo, and High Priestess Febe—all seemed to frown at her as one. Captain Ercole, representing the City Guard, stood to the side as a non-voting consultant only. Though as Oria understood it, the council didn’t exactly vote so much as attempt to persuade the titular heads of the body, those being the senior folcwita and high priest or priestess, to then advise the king or queen. With the current balance, it seemed that Febe had placed herself in the role of royal by adding an extra temple representative.
“Princess Oria,” Folcwita Lapo puffed with the suspicion of an embattled man, “this is most irregular. Why are you here, bringing that Destrye—”
“King Lonen,” she corrected in a cool, cutting tone.
“Not my king,” he snapped back.
“Your king, yes, and your conqueror. Or have you forgotten so soon?” Lonen’s voice rumbled at his most intimidating. Even his energy seemed larger, filling the room. Did he do it consciously? Probably not. Or maybe he did, having learned rapidly from her. Regardless, he affected them all, magically gifted and not.
Folcwita Lapo rose and steepled his hands on the semi-circular stone table, inclining his head at Lonen. “The council apologizes for the misunderstanding, King of the Destrye, but the treaty you believed valid is not. As Bára has no one on the throne at present, we are not in a position to pass binding law on anything.” Yellow frustration oozed from him in light wisps.
“Your laws are irrelevant to me,” Lonen replied, “except as my wife and I determine to uphold them.”
Lapo glanced at Febe, puzzled. “His wife?”
“Behold your new queen,” Lonen overrode any other reply. “Queen Oria of Bára.”
Lapo laughed, while Febe continued to be silent, her sgath drawn tightly about her. The other priests and priestesses held physically still, impassive in their hwil, but the three junior folcwitas fell to whispering among themselves, one opening a tome of Báran law.
“The council has not ratified—”
“The council has no power to ratify anything without a royal on the throne of Bára,” Oria cut in again. “You said as much yourself, Folcwita Lapo. I’m sure my father would express his gratitude to you, if he could, for holding this council and city together in this state of emergency. The burden has no doubt been great. However, I’m now ready to relieve you and High Priestess Febe of the mantle that should never have fallen upon you so heavily. I’m here to rule Bára as queen, as I was born to do and as my power and marriage entitles me to. Of course, I hope to retain all of you, for your good counsel for the benefit of all Bárans—less one priestess, naturally. It appears some imbalance has been introduced.”
“Princess Oria,” Febe said, not standing or moving at all, a statue of a priestess. “We all understand the strain that—”
“Queen or Your Highness,” Oria stated. “You will address me properly.”
Folcwita Lapo looked between them, then bent to speak into the ear of the folcwita with the law book.
“You are not queen until the temple crowns you as such.” Febe’s voice oozed with warning.
Oria waved a negligent hand. “Exactly. Which is why we are here. Truly I didn’t expect you all to be so obtuse. My father, King Tavlor, always spoke so highly of this council’s wisdom.”
“The temple cannot seal the throne to—”
Folcwita Lapo held up a hand, tapping the law book. “No disrespect, High Priestess, but the law is very specific. In the absence of any of the royal family on the throne, when the first masked progeny of the previous ruler is married and presents themselves to the council, the temple is required to crown them as ruler of Bára. If Prin—Queen Oria has indeed been married by the temple, then all is in order.”
“It’s not an ideal marriage,” Febe gritted out. “Not temple-blessed. He’s a Destrye!”
“Were His Highness King Lonen and Her Highness Queen Oria duly married by the temple?” inquired the folcwita with the book, seemingly unaware that he pedantically repeated information already on the table.
“Yes,” Febe conceded with ill grace, “by Priest Vico and myself, yesterevening, but they are obviously not an ideal match. His Highness is mind-dead. Her magic will go nowhere, possibly even turn back on itself.”
Folcwita Lapo stewed with excitement. Febe had been injudicious, perhaps, in trying to overbalance the council in the temple’s favor. It seemed she might have an unexpected ally in this. “Magic is the province of the temple,” he said, bowing in Febe’s direction. “As the keepers of Báran law, we note that the law books do not specify the magical quality of the marriage, only that there be one. Captain Ercole—what does the City Guard advise?”
“The guard stands with the law and the royal family,” Captain Ercole replied, a solid, steady presence. “We support Queen Oria, naturally, as we supported her father and mother before her. The people will rejoice to have order restored after so long, and so much out of balance.”
“Queen Oria.” Febe kept her voice even, but her hwil cracked here and there. “Surely Your Highness does not wish to be Queen of Bára when your destiny lies with your new husband in Dru. We understand His Highness wishes to leave immediately for his homeland. We would not wish to delay you, King Lonen.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Lonen sounded almost lazy, brushing a hand over Oria’s braids, making one of the priestesses come alert with surprise beneath her hwil. In his determination to make a powerful show, he forgot to restrain himself and burned brightly with lust. But either she was becoming accustomed to his energy infiltrating hers, or because she’d burned off enough sgath, she absorbed it with relative ease. Even Folcwita Lapo’s brash presence, which had buffeted her severely in the past, seemed little more than an uncomfortably hot breeze.
“I’ve come to like Bára,” Lonen continued. “After all, it is mine, along with everything—and everyone—in it. Why not take my leisure to enjoy all my city has to offer?”
“You cannot be King of Bára, Your Highness,” Febe said with considerable strain. “Only someone who’s taken the mask can rule our city, by sacred law. You can only be the queen’s consort.”
The folcwita with the law book nodded, glancing up with an apologetic mien. Their excitement still hummed with bright hope, though Folcwita Lapo bowed to Lonen, showing his concern. “No dishonor to Your Highness, King Lonen.”
“I am not concerned with such details,” Lonen replied, attention on Oria and the braid he fingered. It was for show this time, however, not sending those waves of potent lust into her. Thankfully. “I have my kingdom, and yours. Oria can be Queen of Bára and I shall rule her. All the same in the end.”
Insufferable oaf. He’d better have said that for show or they’d have words about it.
Febe rose slowly to her feet now. “Queen Oria, I beg of you. Bára begs you. You may not realize it, but your honored brother Prince Yar seeks an ideal bride. He’ll return to Bára at any moment with her and they can rule as Sgatha and Grienon intend, as an ideal partnership, in a temple-blessed marriage. Bára needs this. You know it in your heart. Don’t allow the Destrye this final victory over us. Our throne, the very bedrock of our lives, will be forever tainted.”
Oria very nearly felt bad for the older woman. She truly believed in what she said, and had served Bára and the temple all her life. But she’d also been in favor of calling in the Trom, risking disaster with her remorseless drive to preserve those beliefs at all costs.
In the end life was more precious than any belief.
“Yes. You’ve grown wise, Oria.”
“I try. Soon I’ll be lecturing you.”
Chuffta laughed, sending affection through her.
“Yar is not here and I am,” she answered, speaking to them all. “For all we know he may not return with an ideal bride, who would still be foreign to Bára regardless. He might not return at all, as so many have not. My father would expect me to shoulder my ancient responsibility. My mother does expect it.”
“The former queen is not here to support your claim,” Febe protested. “You put words in her mouth.”
“Are you calling me a liar, High Priestess?” Oria held onto her grien, but allowed her sgath to slide up against Febe’s. “As your queen, I take exception to your tone. Perhaps the temple is in need of new leadership.”
“You can’t do that.” The woman’s hwil cracked a bit more, enough so one of the priests took note, moving in his chair. “You are not queen until I crown you.”
“Then you had best crown me, or I’ll put someone in charge who will.”
Febe looked to Folcwita Lapo who radiated smug satisfaction at this point. He held up his palms. “Temple business falls to the temple and the royal family, as has been pointed out to the folcwitas many times. We keep secular law and all is in order. The folcwitas, the city guard, and—I feel confident in presuming to say—the people of Bára acknowledge Rhianna and Tavlor’s daughter as queen. I see no reason for the temple to delay the final ritual.”
Stiff necked, Febe inclined her head to Oria. “Very well. Though, as High Priestess, keeper of the sacred magics of Bára, I express grave reservations. Mark my words. This will be the day our revered city truly falls to the Destrye. You all seal our doom.”