A curse of this benighted land, that death
took his family without leaving bodies to properly anoint, to guide
their steps to the Hall of Warriors. He could only pray they’d find
their way regardless. Surely Arill would not be so cruel as to turn
her back for a technicality of ritual.
They would burn the Destrye dead that they
could, and decamp the next day in stages, dividing the army into
groups by travel speed. There would be no more delays in
negotiation. Lonen intended to put as much distance between the
Destrye and Bára as possible. They’d be done with this place if he
had to browbeat Oria and Yar into staying up all night. And this
Queen Rhianna, if she showed herself. She had not thus far.
The sun was declining to the flat horizon by
the time Lonen walked over Yar’s stone bridge to the palace, weary
in mind and body, and filthier than he’d been in his life. His skin
itched to be rid of the ashes of the dead, but he’d made an
agreement. The Destrye kept their word.
To his surprise, Oria met him just inside
the doors. She’d changed from the gray dress she’d worn earlier,
and had washed her hair. No longer braided, it floated around her
like a cloak of copper, contrasting with the slim outline of the
deep green gown she’d donned. The white dragonlet sat on her
shoulder, iridescent scales catching the firelight from the sconces
in the dimming hall, reflecting back Oria’s colors.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and looked
again. “Princess Oria,” he acknowledged. “It seems the sun is
setting.”
“As it does every day,” she replied, in the
manner of someone returning a ritual greeting. Then shook her head
slightly and gave him a rueful twist of her lips. “I think I don’t
want to know what grime coats you. I’ve arranged for you all to
have access to the palace baths. Several of your captains, your
lieutenant and your brother are already there.” She gestured at a
young serving boy. “Bero will show you the way.”
“Thank you.” It took a moment for his numb
brain to process. “The truce—”
“Can we agree to extend it until you are not
soiled with the remains of all our dead?”
“Yes.” As much as he longed to be clean, he
lingered a moment more. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“In turn, I appreciate your long afternoon’s
toil on behalf of my people,” she returned gravely. “I’ve heard
many reports of your efforts and a proper bath seems a small favor
in return. Go bathe. There are clothes for you to wear while yours
are cleaned. I’m having food and drink brought to the council
chambers. Everyone can eat freely.”
“So we can stay there as long as necessary
to come to an agreement.”
He must have sounded harsher than he meant
to because she flinched. The dragonlet’s long white tail snaked
around her wrist, coiling and uncoiling.
“I think it’s best,” she said, in a
reasonably smooth tone. “Then we can all be done with each
other.”
As if it were so easy. “That will depend on
you, Princess. We’ll go when I’m satisfied with the terms.”
“You and I made one agreement before. I feel
confident we can come to another.”
“Perhaps so.” Uncertain what moved him to do
it, he bowed—a slight incline—but a concession Ion would have
smacked the back of his head for. Ion, however, now walked with the
dead and Lonen lived. “I shall return shortly and we will find
out.”
O
ria lingered in the entry
hall until she felt certain all the Destrye who were going to had
returned to the palace and found the baths. Thankfully all of them
had been appreciative of the consideration and none had argued.
She’d been uncertain how they’d receive the courtesy, as they were
hardly well groomed at the best of times. Apparently being covered
in the ashes of human bodies crossed the line, even for them. Or
they were too exhausted. The cleanup efforts had been grim, all the
men emanating dark thoughts. Some angry, some in despair.
Lonen, in particular, was a tumult of rage
and guilt, all underlain with a grief that matched her own—energy
he projected as forcefully as he swung that axe.
“
He will not go easy on you,”
Chuffta
observed.
“I don’t need easy. I need them to go. We’ll
agree to their terms, watch them leave us be, and then set about
rebuilding.” She didn’t want to think about the Trom’s promise to
return.
“
You don’t know what terms he’ll ask
for.”
“Does it matter?” She sounded bleak, even to
herself. “We are a decimated people. Prince Lonen already
understands that we wouldn’t agree to total subjugation. Anything
else we can live with.”
“
Perhaps he’ll ask for that
again.”
“If so, we’ll ask Yar to build that bridge
when we come to it.” She smiled a little at her own joke, making
her way down the hall to the council chambers. In truth she was
proud of her little brother. She’d expected him to pitch in with
heavy lifting, at best, and stay out of her aura at least—not
create an entire bridge. And then he hadn’t returned immediately,
instead staying out and assisting with the cleanup. Something he
wouldn’t have stooped to before now. But then, before now she
wouldn’t have possessed the audacity to send him off on a task,
either.
The temple taught that the crucible of
crisis built character.
True growth is uncomfortable, even
painful.
Of course, the priestesses meant by testing the
strength of
hwil
under intense pressure, but perhaps the
horrors of this week would mature both her and Yar. A small benefit
for all they’d suffer—and would still face in the days to come.
Yar had dragged himself back to the palace
before Lonen did, but not by much, exhausted and utterly defeated.
Witnessing what horrors he and Nat had wrought affected him enough
to agree to let Oria handle the negotiations, saying he no longer
trusted himself. Then he shuffled off, uncharacteristically
despondent, to bathe and eat in his own rooms, then to sleep.
More than a little weary herself, Oria
envied him the respite. She wanted nothing more at that moment than
the remote isolation of her tower. But she’d slept for the past
several days—she could make it a few hours more.
“
You were unconscious for days because
your body shut down to keep your spirit attached. It’s not exactly
the same thing.”
“I feel all right. Nothing like I did before
I collapsed. I’ll ask for a recess if I feel it coming on.”
“
Did you feel it coming on
before?”
She didn’t bother to answer as they both
knew she hadn’t. Yes, the pressure and input had been building to
unbearable levels—and blew up exponentially once she stepped
outside the city gates—but she’d expected to feel the onset of
actual collapse. Instead she’d simply blanked. Gone from agonizing
consciousness to clawing her way out of that gray fog, days later.
Not something to dwell on.
A number of people waited in the council
chambers and she hesitated outside the doors, not ready to go in.
Lapo, along with several other folcwitas, had Priest Vico in one
corner, arguing in low voices. Priestess Febe sat nearby,
apparently meditating. Freshly washed Destrye warriors prowled the
laden food table. Even in the pale silk trousers and loose shirts
of Báran men they stood out with their dark skin and wild hair. No
sign of Queen Rhianna. She’d said she wouldn’t come, though she’d
received the news of Nat’s death with her former outward calm.
She and Oria had spent an hour together
while the queen’s handmaidens washed Oria’s hair and fetched her a
clean gown from the tower, so Oria wouldn’t have to make the climb.
The queen had put her off when she asked why the Trom called her
Ponen
, though Oria thought it wasn’t that she didn’t know,
but rather she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to muster an
answer. Her mother also listlessly refused to advise Oria, telling
her that whatever terms she set with the Destrye didn’t matter to
her.
With Oria on her feet again, her mother
seemed to have again lost the brief spark of her old self.
“
She may yet recover,”
Chuffta
comforted her.
Oria fervently hoped so.
Folcwita Lapo spotted Oria and waved her
over. “Does he think I’m a servant girl to be summoned?” she
muttered, irritation crawling up her spine.
“
Don’t go then.”
“I’m not going to.” Instead she waved him
off in the same preemptory fashion and ambled to the buffet table,
picking up a plate and filling it slowly, deliberately dawdling.
The Destrye gave way, nodding with more courtesy than she would
have credited such rough men with. Ironic that she’d rather be in
their company than the folcwitas’.
“Princess.” Lonen greeted her with a nod,
taking up a plate of his own and scowling at the table. He’d tied
his still-wet hair back with a piece of leather and trimmed his
beard to a neat scruff. Between the two, the hard line of his jaw
stood out more, along with the scar that dragged down his cheek. He
shouldn’t look so appealing, nor should she be battling an
unsettling urge to run her hand over his beard, to discover if it
felt soft or scratchy. She never wanted to touch people, as it only
led to disaster.
Lonen noticed her intent stare and raised
dark brows. “Problem?”
“I didn’t expect you so quickly, Prince
Lonen.”
He tilted a wry glance at her, a glint of
something in his slate-gray eyes. “Your baths were such a treat I
thought it best not to linger, lest I get too comfortable and fall
asleep. A strategy of yours, perhaps, to incapacitate me before the
negotiations.”
“I’m sure you must be exhausted.” She
clutched her plate, glad of something to do with her hands, and
focused on not stepping back, though the Destrye stood much too
close for her to screen out his emotions. A great deal going on
under that remote expression, but…a flicker of humor there, like a
blue flame licking up from banked coals of darker feelings.
“As you must be also,” he returned. “We have
not had the opportunity to speak since you fainted in my arms, but
I believe you’ve been unwell since.”
“I did not faint, certainly not in your
arms.” She used the excuse of making room at the table for new
arrivals to put a bit of distance between them. That was
better.
“
Actually, the Destrye did catch you when
you collapsed.”
“Not helpful,” she muttered through clenched
teeth.
Lonen stepped back also, the scar on his
cheek pulling with displeasure. “Is there no meat?”
“Meat? Animal flesh?”
A ghost of a smile twisted the man’s lips,
the frown smoothing. “Generally, yes—meat is animal flesh. The
Destrye are rarely cannibals.”
“No,” she replied a bit tartly, feeling the
sting of embarrassment that she’d implied as much. Surely they
weren’t really and he was teasing her. “Bárans eat only fruits,
vegetables, grains. There’s some cheese you could try.”
“No wonder they’re all so weak,” one of the
nearby warriors said to another, to a crack of laughter.
“Don’t try it—that stuff is rancid.”
“Stand down,” Lonen snapped. “Get your food
and go. If I want to hear from you, I’ll say so.”
They bowed and hastened away with admirable
discipline while Lonen peered doubtfully at the round of cheese. He
took a bite, then spit it out with a grimace of distaste. “It
is
rancid. Do you mean to be rid of us with food
poisoning?”
Oria risked drawing near again, reaching a
hand around him to snag a piece of the cheese, biting into it and
chewing. “No. We don’t think of it as rancid. It’s more…cured over
time.”
He frowned at her in such consternation that
she nearly laughed, an odd bubble rising through all the dark
despair. “Did my brothers bring in meat for you before this? I
didn’t think to ask the kitchens for it. We don’t have much,
but…”
Lonen was slowly shaking his head,
expression opaque, but a tendril of curiosity winding through his
bleak emotions. “You are the first of your family to offer us
food.”
Oh. Maybe she’d erred in doing so. Probably
a conquered people didn’t play host to their overlords. She made a
terrible diplomat. Another course of study to add to the list,
should their lives ever return to normal.
“
You’re doing fine. I’ll tell you if you
make a real misstep.”
Holding her gaze, Lonen bit into the cheese
again, a smaller bite this time, chewing it thoughtfully. He
swallowed, the ridge in his throat moving with it. Her fingertips
tingled to touch him there, too. “An acquired taste, perhaps,” he
said and she had to drag her thoughts back to the subject at
hand.
“Try this,” she said, not certain why she
felt hot. Though the curtains lay slack along the windows, no
breezes to catch. Reaching for the crock, she dabbed some honey on
his hunk of cheese, smiling as he bit in, his brows raising in
pleasure.
“It’s sweet. We have something like this
made from the sap of trees in winter.”
“Ours comes from insects. They make it to
feed their young.”
He made such a grimace at that, setting the
cheese down and pushing it aside, that she realized she shouldn’t
have told him. It did sound odd, put that way. “I can ask for—”
“It was thoughtfully done—” Lonen said at
the same time, a faint smile for their mutual gaffe. Surely he
wouldn’t be as nervous as she? “Thank you,” he continued, “but we
have meat at the encampment, if the men wish to find some.”
“Oh.” She had no idea what armies ate.
“Where did you get it?”
Two lines made brackets between his thick
brows, a definite sense of puzzlement coming from him. “We brought
some with us, dried, and we’ve been sending parties back across the
bay to hunt for more.”
“Oh,” she said again, feeling like an idiot.
Hunting. Of course. She had no idea what animals lived across the
bay, but would not ask and further reveal her ignorance. Averting
her gaze, she noticed Folcwita Lapo prowling the other side of the
room, throwing her black looks. The force of his displeasure
crawled over her sensitive nerves even from that distance, a
headache pounding into her temple.