Once again, Lonen followed Oria through the palace halls to the temple. The Bárans, with their convoluted, even circular, laws and elaborate posturing sure came up short on preparations for rituals. No pomp and ceremony for this coronation.
Though he supposed he and Oria had that in common, as he’d taken his own father’s wreath and sword on the battlefield. They’d never celebrated his ascent to the throne either, with so much work to do back in Dru. In truth, celebrating had been the last thing on his mind.
Still, hopefully that would change. He and Oria would not have to forever labor under the sawing need to address one crisis after the next. One day they would be in a better place, with their peoples fed and stable. With the gifts Oria had demonstrated on the rooftop, she could grow the crops the Destrye needed for several winters in the course of an afternoon. The impossible could be made possible indeed.
He eyed her slim, straight back as she preceded him, head held regally high. She’d looked incredible in the throes of working her magic. She’d nearly glowed with it, the force palpably sizzling against that internal part of him so sensitized to her. Other parts, too. He still throbbed with the arousal she’d incited. And from the vicious triumph that he’d not only found a way to save the Destrye from the Trom, but in the same victory acquired a sorceress to feed them and a wife for himself replete with magical beauty. Had he been able, he would have seized her in a crushing kiss, barely leashing himself to only press one to her mask.
If they didn’t find a way for him to bury his cock in her, he might lose his mind. Oh right—he’d already done that. Perhaps madness occurred in stages, growing ever worse. Cheerful thought.
Oria canted her head slightly in his direction, giving him the distinct impression of reproof. If he didn’t need to help her keep it together through whatever Arill-cursed trial her people intended, he would have shared some of those salacious images. As it was, he would come up with a reasonable plan to give her pleasure as it was his duty to Arill to provide his wife. For himself, he might be thrown back to bitter youth, taking himself in hand several times a day while fantasizing about the woman he couldn’t touch.
Probably a deserved fate, though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight it with every trick he possessed. He’d gotten very good at fighting.
High Priestess Febe paused at the bridge to the temple, stone-stiff in every line of her body. “Only the masked may enter the temple,” she intoned, in what he’d come to think of as her priestess voice. It always seemed to bode ill. “King Lonen, you must remain without.”
“Not happening,” he replied in a level tone and taking Oria’s sleeve, keeping her from leaving him. “I entered the temple before.”
“For your wedding. The unmasked may enter at five times in their lives, the wedding is one.”
He was not letting Oria face this alone. He’d much prefer, in fact, if Oria had appointed a new temple head to perform the coronation ceremony. It seemed to be a foolish risk to have this woman, who so clearly resented and feared the prospect of Oria as queen, to have any power over her. She knew Oria’s particular fragility and how to capitalize on it. What would stop her from gaming the ritual against Oria? From Oria’s shoulder, Chuffta’s eyes gleamed green and knowing. Could her Familiar read his thoughts, too? Regardless, it seemed they understood one another.
“What are the other occasions?” he inquired of the high priestess.
“The temple secrets are not yours to—”
“These are not temple secrets, High Priestess,” Oria cut the woman off with that regal poise she’d put on as easily as she’d donned her mask. “This is something any Báran child knows. I apologize for our priestess, Your Highness. She is clearly overwrought and forgetting herself. The occasions are five, as on the fingers of a hand. The temple receives any and all at birth, byrebod, monahalgian, marriage, and death. Those with magical ability also may enter certain areas for instruction.”
“What are byrebod and monahalgian?”
“Apologies, Your Highness—they are old terms, with no trade tongue correlations. They mean essentially presentation as an adult and consecration to the moons, respectively.”
“I’m pledged to Arill, so there will be no consecration to the moons for me. What’s involved in the other?”
Febe’s featureless mask, for all the world seemed to smirk at him. “For men, it involves a ritual where he proves his manhood by demonstrating his fortitude, and by sealing a covenant.”
That didn’t sound bad, but Oria murmured, “Monahalgian would be easier on you. Surely your goddess will not mind a small transgression.”
“I am loyal to all of my women, wives and goddesses,” he muttered back. “Presentation as an adult for me, then I remain for the coronation.”
“This is most irregular,” Febe protested. “Are we to become a people who follow only the letter of the law and not the spirit of it under your reign, Queen Oria?”
Oria didn’t exactly flinch, but the accusation clearly hit home—something he felt in his own gut—so he spoke up before she could waver.
“As Bára is mine, so am I hers. It’s fitting that I present myself to the temple as every boy of the city does upon reaching his manhood. I consider this a covenant with Bára, which should be sufficient spirit to satisfy anyone.”
Oria moved ever so slightly closer to him, relaxing the tautness of the silk sleeve he gripped, conveying her appreciation with the subtle gesture. Crazy how happy it made him that he’d pleased her. Though making her happy meant better fortune for the Destrye. He’d just think of it that way.
“Your Highness.” Priest Vico stepped up. “While I’m delighted to perform your byrebod, particularly given the reasons you state, you should be aware that, ah, blood must be drawn.” He tilted the mask significantly. “To seal the covenant,” he added, not at all elucidating. “As a, uh, man.”
“All right,” Lonen replied slowly. The Bárans seemed to love drawing blood for their little rituals. The priest seemed to be waiting still, and it dawned on him. “Draw the blood from where?”
“Your … manhood,” the priest answered in a much lowered voice, as if that added delicacy to it.
Lonen found himself gaping, then looked to Oria. “You went through this?”
“Women produce their own blood, don’t they?” She said in a tart voice, clearly discomfited. “You needn’t do this, Your Highness. Take your leisure and await me.”
Barbarians, the lot of them. But Arill knew he’d shed plenty of blood. He’d just hoped never to be wounded there. Still, if the Báran boys could withstand it, a full Destrye warrior certainly could. Besides, he’d already made a pretty speech about it and couldn’t very well back pedal on that. “We’ll proceed as I outlined. Priest Vico will do my byrebod ceremony, followed by the coronation.”
Priest Vico bowed. “As you will. Follow me, Your Highness.”
“Queen Oria will come with me.” The High Priestess turned to lead her away.
“No. The queen doesn’t leave my sight,” Lonen declared, letting himself growl over it, venting some of the aggravation over his impending ordeal. “She belongs to me and by my side she stays.”
Priest Vico coughed and the high priestess went rigid. “Women do not attend a boy’s byrebod,” she declared.
“Or vice-versa,” Vico added, not at all helpfully.
“I would assume that a boy has his byrebod well before he’s married, yes?” At the priest’s nod, Lonen continued. “A wife knows everything about her husband and her magic belongs to him, along with the succor of her body. Of course she would attend this important ceremony, should they occur in the reverse order.”
“Most logical,” Oria agreed.
Stymied, Febe bowed—stiffly, of course—and glided away. “I will await you in the ceremonial hall then, Your Highnesses.”
Priest Vico gestured them to follow, but Lonen tugged Oria’s sleeve so she’d hang back.
“They don’t cut off any important bits, do they?” he whispered to her.
“I wouldn’t know, would I?” she hissed back. “As I’m not a boy.”
“I can’t believe your brothers wouldn’t have hinted.”
“Unlike you,” she replied in a prim tone, lifting her chin, “they did not discuss their male parts with all and sundry.”
“I don’t discuss my cock with all and sundry—just with you, especially as you’re so interested in it.”
Her gasp of outrage took the edge off his nerves—and hers, he hoped—Chuffta’s eyes glittering at him with what had to be amusement. The priest led him into a small chapel room, similar to the one they’d been married in the evening before. This one, however, looked entirely dedicated to Grienon, with representations of the small, dynamic moon in all his phases.
Priest Vico cleared his throat. “Normally, Your Highness, a boy is accompanied by his father, who has explained the ritual in advance. Or, failing that, another male relative.”
“Just tell me what to do, man,” Lonen answered. “Let’s get it over with so we can move on.”
“All right.” He cleared his throat again. “Perhaps Queen Oria might wish to turn away and cover her ears?”
“Oh, for Sgatha’s sake,” she snapped, “I can muffle my eyes and ears and sgath will still show me—” She broke off abruptly, her mask swiveling to the sky beyond the stone temple ceiling. “No,” she whispered, putting a hand to Chuffta’s tail wrapped around her wrist.
“What?” Lonen asked. Then grabbed her sleeve when she only shook her head. “What is it?”
A sound broke through his words. He knew that sound, like the dull roar of a bonfire. The giant fire-breathing draconic cousins to the derkesthai, mounts of the Trom.
“Too late,” Oria said, her voice hard, echoing against the metal mask.
He wasn’t sure if she meant for him, or for them all.