Oria's Gambit (11 page)

“
I still love you best,”
he soothed
her,
“but he is also concerned about you taking on the Trom and
wants to protect you. I like him for that.”

“
Then the two of you can sit around and
console each other when I do the summoning.”

Chuffta tsked at her.
“Such
temper.”

“
This isn’t exactly the best day of my
life,”
she snapped at her Familiar—and then felt bad about it.
Just as she had when she’d used Lonen’s buried pain to punish him.
She’d thought she’d been handling all the changes and challenges so
well, but then she combusted into a ball of emotion. Having to
ruthlessly suppress any hint of grien—and maintain the façade of
hwil
—around the temple priests and priestesses strained her
fragile control even more. Still she didn’t need to be full of
self-pity. This path had been her idea. She started to apologize to
Chuffta, then remembered Lonen’s chiding about how she apologized
too often, and stopped herself.

But that left her at a loss. How was she
supposed to never apologize for anything?

“
Maybe by not doing anything worth
apologizing for in the first place.”
It could have sounded
huffy, but Chuffta said it like a peace offering, his tail a
comforting bracelet around her wrist.

They entered one of the smaller temple ritual
spaces, simple and sacrosanct, even though it might not be as grand
as the main sanctuary where she would have celebrated her
temple-blessed marriage, had it not been for Lonen.

Of course, before the Destrye came, she’d
been nowhere near attaining her mask, so a temple-blessed ceremony
had remained a distant ambition. Important to keep that firmly in
mind.

Febe positioned the two of them before the
altar, waited for Lonen to unstrap his axe from his back,
instructed them to kneel, then retreated behind the altar. Lonen
looked about, then laid the axe by his left hand. To Oria’s
surprised pleasure, Febe did not banish Chuffta. The temple honored
the derkesthai in general, though their relationship to the temple
hierarchy tended to be more like Grienon’s rapid passage through
the skies, his phases ever shifting, now brightly present, then
abruptly gone. To Oria, her Familiar was like Sgatha, ever present,
looming large in her mind.

Much as Lonen did, occupying her senses and
attention. It would be welcome when he finally departed, giving her
some peace of mind again. Mental quiet had never been her forte,
but the man had a knack for agitating her.

As the High Priestess assembled her tools,
saying prayers over the various unguents, consecrating the wine to
Sgatha, the grains to Grienon, Lonen spoke to Oria under his
breath.

“How does this go?”

“I don’t know.” She kept her reply barely
audible, but the Destrye warrior was not so easily put off.

“How can you not know?”

“I’ve never seen the ceremony. It’s always
private. Now, shh.”

He didn’t like that answer, his energy
restive and seeking. “You could have warned me,” he had to mutter,
which unfortunately made her want to laugh. Exercising firm
resolve, she managed not to, but the mask was what saved her from
exposing the amusement so not appropriate to a nobly resigned
captive bride.

“
Maybe not the worst day of your life
either,”
Chuffta noted in the idle tone he liked to use to
tease her.

“
You hush, too.”

“Take a moment to meditate,” High Priestess
Febe intoned. “Clear your minds. Settle your emotions. Seek
hwil
in your hearts and contemplate the step you take today,
with Sgatha and Grienon as your witnesses.”

Oria folded her hands together and bowed her
head, stilling her sgath so it pooled peacefully, creating the
appearance of deep meditation.

“
Would you like me to lead you into a true
meditative trance?”

“
Not now, thank you. I’d rather have my
wits about me.”

“
Done correctly, meditation should result
in greater alertness through a relaxed and open mind.”

“
Yes, well, we’ve established that I’m
terrible at meditating. Leave me alone. It’s my wedding
day.”

Chuffta snorted at that, but let it go.

“What are we supposed to be doing?” Lonen
whispered, though High Priestess Febe had left the room.

“Meditating,” she hissed back.

“Yes, I heard that part. What in Arill does
that mean?”

“Like… praying to your goddess.
Silently
,” she emphasized.

He was quiet for a few breaths, no more. “Now
what?”

She tried to suppress the laugh, but failed
so it choked out in a most unladylike sound. Lonen flashed a grin
at her and she shook her head. “Keep doing it. And be quiet—she
could come back at any time.”

“Why would I keep doing something I already
did?”

“You’re supposed to be contemplating!” She
tried to sound stern, but his complaints so closely echoed hers
through the years that she couldn’t manage it.

“Contemplate what?” he groused. “I already
made the decision about the step I’m about to take. There’s no
sense revisiting it.”

“Then pretend. It won’t be that much
longer.”

He stayed quiet for a bit more, though he
shifted restlessly, looking around the room and studying the
various representations of the moons, looking at her from time to
time. That insatiable curiosity of his built, feeding into her
sgath, slowly intensifying. She was so keenly aware of him, she
knew he’d speak the moment before he did.

“You don’t mind?” he asked.

“You talking when we’re supposed to be
meditating?”

“Do you always do what the temple tells you
to do?”

“Hardly ever,” she admitted. “But appearances
are critical. Especially now.”

He sighed and was quiet for a while. But his
question remained between them, tugging at her like Chuffta pulling
her braids when he wanted attention. And it might be some time
before Febe returned. She reached out with her sgath to keep tabs
on the high priestess, who was indeed still in one of the inner
sanctums, no doubt also meditating and preparing herself for the
ritual.

“We have a little time and I’ll give us
warning,” she relented. “Do I mind what?”

“Not having a special dress, a big
celebration. I don’t have a
beah
for you.”

“What is a
beah
?”

“A Destrye gifts his bride with a
beah
and she wears it as a symbol of their marriage. I thought I’d have
time to find something to stand in place of it until I can give you
a proper one. And that we’d have time to change clothes.”

“You look fine—I told you before.”

“I look like a Báran,” he grumped, then
glared, annoyance sparking when she giggled. “It’s not funny.”

“Báran clothes look good on you,” she
soothed, much as she would Chuffta’s offended dignity. Perhaps
males of all species were the same.

“
Hey!”

She ignored Chuffta’s indignant response.
Lonen did look appealing in the silk pants and short-sleeved shirt,
even though her sgath mainly showed her his exuberant masculine
presence.

“Well, you deserve something better than that
robe,” he replied. “And more than this hasty ceremony. Arill knows,
Natly went on enough about the details of planning…” He trailed
off, chagrin coloring his thoughts.

“Yeah,” she drawled. “Maybe better to not
bring up your fiancée during our actual wedding ceremony.”

“Former fiancée,” he corrected. “Really not
even that. And this isn’t the ceremony yet—this is waiting around
for it to start. My knees are getting sore.”

“And here I thought you were the big, bad
warrior.”

“I am. Big, bad warriors don’t kneel. We
charge about, swinging our weapons.”

She laughed, shaking her head at him. That
good humor of his flickered bright, charming her, banishing his
perpetual anger to the shadowed corners of his aura. In the back of
her mind, Febe moved. “She’s coming back. Not much longer. Try to
school your thoughts.”

He muttered some Destrye curse at that, but
subsided. Oria did her best to still her thoughts. It would be
comforting to know ahead what the ceremony entailed, but the temple
liked their surprises. The mystery was part of all rituals—intended
to catch a person in honest reactions, particularly those that
revealed a failure of
hwil
. Something, she now understood,
to prevent the inevitable gaming of the system. Whatever the
magical binding of the marriage ceremony, it would likely be
uncomfortable, perhaps even painful for her. With any luck, Lonen’s
insensitivity to magic should prevent him from suffering from
it.

High Priestess Febe entered the small chapel,
bringing such a powerful charge of sgath with her that Oria’s
illicit grien leaped to devour it, forcing her to choke it back.
The High Priestess had been drawing heavily on Bára’s magic, using
her female sgath to store it up. Priest Vico followed her, taking
his place beside her at the altar, his male grien soaking up the
sgath and activating the magic. They did not have an ideal
partnership, but long practice and Febe’s powerful sgath allowed
him to perform feats usually reserved for priests of much higher
rank. Fortunate, as all of those highly ranked priests had died
when the Destrye attacked.

“Princess Oria, you come to the temple to
beseech the moons to give you a husband. Is this so?”

“I do.” Oria spoke the words firmly. Magic
responded to intention and she would start this marriage with a
firm one.

“King Lonen has proposed himself to be your
husband, to channel your sgath to grien, to be both your walls and
your guide to the world. Is he an acceptable choice?”

Ironic, all the truths and untruths in the
ritual words. “He is.”

“You come as a priestess to the temple and
will leave as wife to King Lonen. Remove your mask so you come
before him barefaced, and so that he may gaze on the face of his
beloved, forevermore known only to him.”

She should have expected that, but hadn’t.
Priest Vico came around behind her with a bowl, a platter for her
mask, and bearing the small silver knives the masked used at meal
times to cut the ribbons. He set the platter to her left and Oria
covered her mask with her palms to hold it in place. Priest Vico
cut the ribbons at her temples, sliding them from the knots in her
braids. She lowered the mask to the platter, not looking at Lonen,
feeling terribly shy though he’d seen her face before she gained
her mask. Even so. Quickly she took the cool, scented cloth from
the bowl and wiped her face with it, deeply understanding the need
for this part of the ritual. It gave her time to compose her
expression—and hopefully not look too sweaty or red-faced.

Lonen’s comments about her having a pretty
gown or time to make herself beautiful as Natly would have done
niggled at her. But he wasn’t marrying her for her appearance, or
out of affection. Better for him to see her truly, without anything
prettified between them.
Come before him barefaced.
It took
more courage than she’d have thought, but she lowered the cloth to
the bowl, and raised her eyes to meet his.

He smiled at her—not that cheeky grin full of
mischief, but a more solemn one, gaze roving over her face. A vivid
image of him caressing her cheek, then kissing her lips, came from
him, and she blushed.

She waited. Knowing the temple, the next
phase would likely test her sorely.

“King Lonen,” High Priestess Febe intoned,
her voice echoing with ripples of sgath, even as Priest Vico’s
grien seized Oria in a fierce mental grip, “take your bride’s
hand.”

Oria braced herself. Oh, this would be bad
indeed.

L
onen hesitated, startled
out of his joy at seeing Oria’s face again—so much more exotically
beautiful even than he’d remembered, her eyes an even brighter
coppery brown than in his dreams—taken aback by the strange
request.

Much as he’d been hoping to find a way around
the restriction against touching Oria’s skin, he believed her that
it would be painful for her, even damaging. And surely her temple
brethren knew this. The twin masks of the priest and priestess
behind the ornate altar both seemed to frown at him. These Bárans
couldn’t do anything simply. Everything had to be tied up in
magical ritual and other assorted nastiness. Oria should be able to
put on a pretty dress, accept his
beah
before Arill, and
then dance the night away in his arms. Before spending the rest of
it in his bed.

Not … whatever it was that loomed ahead
of them, putting his short hairs on end.

Oria solved his dilemma by taking his hand,
lacing her slim fingers between his in a grip as fierce as her
bones were delicate. A small sound escaped her, she swayed, and
Chuffta coiled more of his tail around her other wrist, even
wrapping his sinuous neck around hers.

“Get on with it,” Lonen growled at Febe,
grateful his role as rampaging conqueror allowed him to force
things along.

The priestess didn’t like it, her posture
full of disapproval, but she similarly joined hands with the priest
who’d returned to her side after cutting away Oria’s mask, and he
raised his other hand in a gesture Lonen knew well. From the battle
mages it had meant a fireball or earthquake soon to come, and he
had to throttle back his now-instinctive reach for his axe.

Instead something strong, yet not entirely
painful, grabbed him, darkening his vision until he seemed to be in
another place. Almost like a dream, one of those surreal ones when
Oria had visited his nights, prowling through his mind and
consuming him body and soul. She was there in this place, too,
holding his hand and—not exactly smiling at him—but looking deeply
into his eyes, her copper gaze bright and sparking like candle
flames. Lines of pain bracketed her pretty mouth and he tried to
let go of her. She held on as tenaciously as in any of his dreams,
when he’d been unable to muster the will to stop her from milking
his cock or devouring his heart.