Oria's Gambit (20 page)

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.”

O
nce 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.”