Oria's Gambit (10 page)

“You laugh?” she hissed.

“Wriggly bits, indeed,” he replied, shaking
his head.

It made her pause, and then her escort of
armed City Guard arrived to escort them to the temple, ending
further argument between them.

They walked side by side, the guard flanking
and following, deeper into the palace than he’d been before. As
with all of Bára, the halls were open and spacious, with regular
windows open to the breezes that relieved the intense heat of
afternoon. As Oria had predicted, people noted his presence with
variations of shock and alarm, any number of young servants and the
occasional crimson-robe figure dashing off to spread the news. He
imagined them like Oria’s jewelbirds, zooming about from flower to
flower.

They emerged from the far side of the public
areas of the palace and onto a bridge that spanned a smaller chasm
to yet another set of towers, built entirely of rose-colored stone
carved in circles, tiled with blue-white moons in various phases. A
tribute to the moons Sgatha and Grienon.

At the far end of the short span, the high
priestess stood flanked by two priests. Though they all wore the
smooth golden masks of their office, the high priestess had become
familiar to him with her extravagantly braided white hair, and the
priests recognizable as male by their bulk. Such as it was—the
Báran men stood taller than Oria, but generally slight in stature
compared to Destrye warriors. Even starved and overworked, Lonen
likely outweighed these men by half again.

No wonder Oria found him physically
intimidating. Yet another way he’d never be the husband she’d
expected to have, in yet another aspect totally out of his
control.

“Destrye.” The High Priestess’s voice rang
like a hollow gong. “You are not allowed within the sacred temple
of Bára. Princess Oria, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“High Priestess, I—”

Without thinking, Lonen grasped Oria’s upper
arm, stopping her and asserting his command of the situation. This,
he
could
control. She stiffened with a gasp, but Chuffta
didn’t leap to her defense, so it seemed his touch over the robe
didn’t harm her, or at least not overly much. Nevertheless, he
loosened his grip.

“You will address me as Your Highness,” he
informed the High Priestess in a cool tone that should convey both
his rank and her trespass. “Or King Lonen. I’m here to invoke the
ancient right of conqueror. I claim Princess Oria as mine. You will
bind her to me under your laws.”

Oria had gone quiet and still, barely
breathing, and he would have given a great deal at that moment for
her trick of reading thoughts and emotions. High Priestess Febe
betrayed nothing of her reaction, but the sense of magic thickened.
Nothing like battles with mages to teach a warrior to pay attention
to impending attack of an uncanny nature. Magic built much like
static charges in still air heralded a bolt of lightning. The wise
man took cover in such circumstances.

If only he could.

He shook Oria’s arm, trying to make it look
forceful without requiring a tighter grip. “Command them to stand
down. You’ve acknowledged my claim as lawful—and you’ve been warned
of the consequences should your people attempt to do me harm.”

“It’s true,” she blurted, her voice strained.
Concerned that he might be hurting her through the thin silk, he
let go under guise of thrusting her forward. She stumbled slightly
on the too-long hem of her robes, but caught herself, straightening
proudly.
Nobly resigned daughter of the house of Tavlor and
Rhianna.
He had to force back the smile, concentrating on his
deep well of anger, although the rage didn’t leap to mind as
eagerly as usual.

“The Destrye king has returned to claim me as
his. He’s willing to make me his wife under Báran law.” Oria
managed to sound infuriated, frightened, courageous, and forbearing
all at once. Quite the woman, his Báran sorceress. “His armies wait
beyond the bay, as a token of good faith, but if he does not signal
them at set intervals, they will invade Bára and this time they
won’t leave again.”

Febe surveyed him, taking her time, but a
flick of her fingers had the sense of impending lightning
dispersing. “How has King Lonen entered the city without my
knowledge? His Highness wears the clothes of a Báran man, so it
appears he’s been here long enough to be tended.”

“Your knowledge?” Oria’s tone went scathing.
“I’m unaware of a change in protocol that would have the City Guard
notifying the temple of a high-ranking visitor before the royal
family.”

“Indeed, High Priestess Febe,” Captain
Ercole, a stalwart and canny soldier who’d led the resistance
against the Destrye and won Lonen’s respect as few Báran fighters
had, stepped forward. “King Lonen arrived and requested an
immediate audience with the ruling family. With Prince Yar out of
the city and the former queen Rhianna unable to receive visitors, I
escorted him to Princess Oria. Our scouts have verified the
presence of his armies on the far side of the bay,” he added
smoothly, as if they’d practiced the deception. Lonen appreciated
Oria’s cleverness in protecting him. In retrospect, bringing an
army—or even a small guard—would have been smarter. Arnon had
argued viciously for it. But Lonen had been unwilling to lead yet
more Destrye into conflict and possible death. That reluctance
might prove to be his great failing as a king. Or one of them. So
many to choose from.

“Why now, Your Highness?” Febe turned her
attention to him, her manner more obsequious. “We thought you
satisfied with the treaty you made and required nothing more of
Bára. Certainly not her most treasured daughter.”

He allowed himself to smile, ever so
slightly. If they shared Oria’s abilities they would sense
something of his emotions. So he allowed the feelings of lust and
possessiveness—even obsession—for Oria to rise up. With a careful
hand he picked up one of her long, perfectly plaited braids,
running it through his fingers. It glinted in the sunlight like
finely wrought copper chain. “I discovered I could not forget a
certain Báran princess. The Destrye have a long, much celebrated
history of taking women from Bára and your sister cities to serve
us. It occurred to me that with the defeat of Bára, it’s time to
resurrect the tradition. A trophy, if you will, as lasting memory
of our triumph and your defeat.”

“Our Trom bloodied you and yours, Your
Highness. But for Princess Oria’s concessions to you, Bára might
have called it your defeat.”

“Is that so?” He made it sound bored, the
texture of Oria’s hair finer than silk, his fingers itching to
unplait it all and run his fingers through the coppery shimmer of
it. As he’d hoped, it seemed she easily tolerated his touch to her
hair, her breathing quiet and Chuffta peaceful. “Perhaps you need
another demonstration of Destrye might. Call your Trom and drive us
out again if you can.”

One of the priests murmured to Febe, his mask
inclined towards hers, and she turned away with some irritation.
Good thing that Oria had told him their threats would be empty with
Yar away from the city.

“Perhaps it need not come to that, Your
Highness,” Febe spread her hands, all accommodation. “The temple
acknowledges your right as conqueror to claim a woman of Bára, and
we accept that it is Princess Oria who has seized your attention.
But you need not marry her. If you wish to take her away, back to
your homeland, we will be unable to prevent you. We ask only that
you take her and go in peace, without troubling the people of Bára
further.”

T
he traitorous bitch. Of
course she should have realized High Priestess Febe would seize the
opportunity to be rid of Oria and her unknown potential that
bothered the other woman so.
Ponen
, the Trom had called her.
At least Oria had accurately predicted that the priestess would be
pleased to see Oria consigned to such a terrible fate—indeed, smug
delight radiated through the woman’s
hwil
, with hints of
stronger, darker emotions beneath—but she’d miscalculated the depth
of the high priestess’s ambition and disregard for Oria’s
wellbeing. She’d cheerfully send Oria off to be a sex slave to the
Destrye king, knowing full well how quickly it would kill her,
never mind the rest. With not even slim protection a temple
marriage would afford her.

She scrambled to think of a way to persuade
Febe that marriage would be necessary, but Lonen was, again, ahead
of her. Fortunate, as his gentle caress on her braid sent
distracting heat through her. And not of the painful, distressing
variety. Seductive and soothing at the same time, the sensation
made her want to lean into him for more. A very bad idea as it
would turn destructive in the blink of an eye.

“You think me unworthy of marrying a Báran
princess, High Priestess?” Lonen was saying, his voice as dark and
edged with violence as the anger fulminating at the forefront of
his mind. At that moment he seemed every bit as ruthless and
terrifying as the illustrations of his Destrye ancestors,
delighting as they burned and pillaged. “I don’t propose to help
myself to a random assortment of Bára’s wealth—though that idea
holds appeal, also—I want Princess Oria as my bride, forever
cementing that Bára belongs to Dru. She’ll be my queen and I shall
be King of Bára.”

Febe didn’t quite look to Oria, but her
smugness had gone carefully avaricious. “Is this agreeable to you,
Princess Oria? We all know what you’d be sacrificing, taking the
Destrye king as your husband. Bára would hate to see you leave her
walls forever. It’s unfortunate His Highness is so impatient, or
we’d await Prince Yar’s return, so he could witness the
ritual.”

A strategically worded message—that still
managed to avoid acknowledging that the high priestess would send
Oria to a short life of sexual servitude that would eventually kill
her. If going outside the walls didn’t take care of that sooner
rather than later. Febe knew perfectly well that Lonen marrying
Oria wouldn’t automatically make him King of Bára. Her mistake,
however, was in believing Oria would be in collusion with her to
mislead him—and that Yar would inevitably return with an ideal
bride to put paid to the Destrye’s ambitions. Febe might be
thinking that Lonen and Oria would be long gone by the time Yar
returned, in which case Lonen’s assumption that he was King of Bára
would last awhile with no information to contradict that belief. In
the scenario Febe likely envisioned, he might labor under that
misapprehension far longer than Oria would survive.

“Like my mother and father before me, I’m
bred to my duty to Bára,” Oria replied, holding to her role of
resignation to her terrible fate to yet again save her city, all
handled with a demonstrable exercise of
hwil
. Febe thought
her a fool for it, but then she’d never contemplate making any sort
of sacrifice, much less of the level that Oria proposed to suffer,
for anything but her own self-advancement. “I ask only that we get
this over with as quickly as possible. No offense intended to Your
Highness.”

Full of the lust Lonen so determinedly
radiated, though not completely manufactured she felt sure, he
tugged on the braid he still held. “A man likes an eager
bride.”

Though she knew he’d said it to sustain and
enlarge on the ruse they perpetuated, the insinuation still made
her face go hot. Febe actually leaked some vestiges of sympathy
through her
hwil
. It was to her credit that she could at
least feel pity for what she imagined Oria would endure. Hopefully
Rhianna would never have occasion to tell Febe of the agreement she
and Lonen had made. Oria regretted telling her, especially as it
had made no difference and potentially exposed them to trouble.

“You’ll have to leave that outside, however.”
High Priestess Febe pointed at Lonen’s axe with a gesture very like
the Destrye one against magic. Oria had never noticed that
similarity before.

“Not a chance, lady,” he growled.

“It’s an offense against the source of
magic.”

“Which is why it doesn’t leave my body. I’ve
had enough of Báran magic.”

“Fine then. But you’ll have to remove it for
the ceremony itself.”

“As long as I have it close to hand,” he told
her, his posture and energy showing how willingly he’d use it
against her if she tried anything to harm him or Oria.

“Enter the temple, then,” she intoned, “and
we will join you as the moons intended.”

Lonen didn’t move, though he released Oria’s
braid. “Just like that? There are no ceremonial preparations?”

“Such as?” High Priestess Febe had already
turned to go in, Oria ready to follow on her heels before anyone
saw through to the flaws in their story.

“Shouldn’t Oria—the princess, that is—have a
special gown? Attendants or some such?”

Febe cocked her head at him, puzzlement and
suspicion faint on the air. “Come now, Your Highness is good to be
solicitous of his captured bride, but this ceremony will simply
bind her to you under our laws. I understood you to be in something
of a demanding mood. It will not be a temple-blessed marriage, if
that’s what you’re hoping for.” Her voice held sudden
suspicion.

Oria willed Lonen to play dumb. As if he’d
heard her, he said, “What is that?”

Mollified, the high priestess inclined her
head. “Merely a local custom, something idealistic young women pine
for. The ceremony I shall conduct will be equally binding.”

“Proceed then.” Lonen retreated to his curt
and lustful conqueror role, following in Febe’s wake, the priests
behind them at a decorous distance, the City Guard remaining
outside.

“
He is a smart man. Pays attention,”
Chuffta mused.

“
Why is the Destrye king suddenly your new
best friend?”
It annoyed her more than it should. She’d never
had to share Chuffta’s affections with anyone.