Oria's Gambit (4 page)

“Why can you touch Chuffta and not me?”

His question caught her by surprise and she
realized he’d transferred his gaze to her face, focus intent on
her, as if he tried to see through the mask.

“It’s an … energy thing,” she replied,
far too breathlessly. Not a useful trick, long term, to hold her
breath as a way of holding her tongue. She’d have to find something
else.

“An energy thing.” His hand strayed much too
close to hers on Chuffta’s hide.

She snatched hers away and tucked both hands
behind her back. “Well, energy and magic and … emotion.”

“That goes through the skin.” His voice had
hardened, a step short of calling her a liar.

“I tried to explain that you wouldn’t
understand.”

“I touched you once before, at the city gates
when you surrendered to me.”

Something about the way he said that made
heat wash over her. “I surrendered Bára to you, not myself.”

“You’re one and the same, just I am myself,
and also the Destrye and also Dru.”

“Whatever you’re driving at, even after we’re
married—should you decide to go forward with that plan—you will
never be able to touch me without hurting me, so decide
carefully.”

His attention sharpened, a hint of dismay to
it. “Did I hurt you before?”

Better to be candid. “Yes.”

“And that’s why you fainted—and were ill for
a week.”

Tempting to tell him yes and put a forever
end to this line of inquiry, but she didn’t like lying to him. Not
outright. Not more than she had to. “That was part of it, but not
all.”

“Because I made you go outside the
walls.”

“Yes, that was another part. I can’t leave
Bára.”

He stilled, outraged astonishment buffeting
her. “Then how do you propose to be Queen of the Destrye?”

It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d had some
idea of taking her with him to Dru. “I—I don’t know,” she replied,
far too faintly.

“I’m to tell my people their queen will never
set foot in their forests?” His voice rose in volume on the
question, his incredulous frustration hammering at her.

Oria threw up her hands, giving in to the
urge to pace, to release the restless feelings he stirred up, a
mirror to his. A break in
hwil
, but he wouldn’t have any way
to know that. “Don’t tell them you married me at all! I don’t care.
Marry your Natly and have her play your queen.”

“You said it matters to the magic, that you
are bound to the Destrye king.”

“It does. But what occurs on the magical
plane doesn’t have to be exactly replicated on the human one. What
matters is that you marry me in our temple, that we’re bound by
oath and magic. I don’t care if you marry Natly, too…in whatever
kind of temple you have.”

He stared at her for one more long,
incredulous moment, then appeared to snap. With an abrupt turn, he
stalked over to the pile of clothes, tossed aside the drying cloth,
and yanked on the pants with furious gestures.

Though Oria averted her gaze automatically,
her sgath worked largely on a subconscious level, constantly
feeding her information about her surroundings—including a far too
detailed vision of how Lonen looked naked.

“Arill take you, Oria,” he snarled. “You sure
know how to piss me off.”

How she longed for a swig of that wine.

H
e’d never figured himself
for a romantic. Even when he was merely a prince and third in line
for the throne, he’d known that although he didn’t have to marry
for duty—the Destrye did not engage in complicated politics, as the
Bárans did—any bride he chose would have been subject to his
father’s blessing. Sure, he and Natly had talked about marriage,
but looking back, he could see that he’d felt safe coaxing her
about it, indulging in the flirtation of it, knowing she’d never
say yes. Her ambitions had looked higher than that. She’d sulked
for weeks when his oldest brother, Ion, married Salaya.

After that she’d worked her wiles on the
second-oldest, Nolan, until he firmly rebuffed her flirtations—not
only because King Archimago had decidedly
not
approved of
her. Only then had she returned to Lonen. He hadn’t minded her
fickle games. Natly was beautiful, with an arsenal of sensual
tricks that turned a man’s mind, and he enjoyed her playful
company. But chasing her had been a good deal more fun than having
her. Those weeks in Dru after he returned home from the war,
reluctantly taking up the crown that should never have been his in
the natural order of things, Natly had affixed herself to his side,
talking of nothing but the midwinter wedding ceremony he’d never
quite agreed to. He hadn’t really meant to lie to Oria by calling
Natly his fiancée. After all, Natly figured them to be engaged and
he’d never directly disabused her of the notion. He’d simply never
found the energy to make a decision one way or the other.

He’d put it down to exhaustion—mental and
physical—from tackling the Destrye’s many problems. More than
enough decisions to make there, few of them optimistic. That
soul-deep weariness from all he’d done had made Natly’s
lighthearted ways, the ones he’d once prized, seem somehow tawdry
and frivolous.

He’d already been battling the realization
that it would be irresponsible of him as king to make Natly queen
when Arnon put it into words.
You can’t marry her. She would
have made a decent princess, but she won’t make a good queen.
Part of him had even felt relief at finding a way out. Arnon didn’t
outrank him, but his brother had a good brain and knew how to use
it. It would take substantial conviction to ignore his one
remaining brother’s advice. Perhaps he also channeled their
father’s stern ghost.

He’d agreed to Oria’s extraordinary proposal
in part because he knew she
would
make a good queen, even if
she was a Báran sorceress who’d bewitched him. She’d demonstrated
the resolve, courage, and selflessness to sacrifice herself for any
people she took as her own. It had seemed fitting to him, a
restoring of balance, that she’d step in to take responsibility for
the Destrye when King Archimago had died taking responsibility to
protect vulnerable Bárans.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she didn’t
intend to act as queen for anyone but the Bárans.

And now she glibly announced that she didn’t
care if he took another wife, if another woman pretended to be the
Destrye queen in her place. That was the final snowflake to bring
down the tree limb.

He pulled the shirt over his head, settling
the wide collar, and found she’d stopped her pacing and regained
her regal poise, handing him a full glass of wine.

“Perhaps you’ll explain your anger to me,”
she said, all polite elegance. “A calm and rational conversation
should not be too much to ask.”

Taking the glass, he swallowed a healthy
portion. Finding himself unable to match her reserve just yet, he
stalled. “Just why
are
we standing in the baths having a
long conversation, Oria?”

She gestured to the many benches. “You are
welcome to sit. I came here to discuss next steps with you in
private, as I had other tasks nearby, and I thought to save you the
trouble of climbing to my tower again.”

He grimaced at that. It had taken a good
quarter-hour to ascend those endless curving stairs to her terrace
atop the tallest tower in Bára. “What next steps?”

Spreading her palms wide, she huffed her
exasperation. He supposed she made that sound when it wasn’t a
half-laugh, too. Before, when she hadn’t had a metal mask hiding
her face, she’d kind of puffed out her lips when she did it,
blowing out her breath as if she released some tension. “The next
steps are moot, Lonen, if we’re not going to marry.”

“Oh, we’re getting married all right.” His
turn to pace. “We agreed already. But mark me on this: I will not
be in violation of my vows by marrying or bedding anyone besides
you. I can’t imagine what you think of my honor as a man and a
king, but I don’t make promises, then turn around and break
them.”

“I don’t either,” she said quietly.

“Don’t you? You promised to be Queen of the
Destrye then informed me you’ll never go to Dru and you’re fine
with a false queen on the throne, regardless of how well she’d
serve the people.”

Oria’s golden mask seemed to ripple with
flame as she swung her head to face him. He imagined her pretty
mouth hanging open in an O of surprise. “I hadn’t thought of it
that way.” To her credit, she sounded chagrined, which helped
mollify him.

“Clearly.” He polished off the wine, then
grabbed a hunk of bread to help soak up the alcohol in his blood.
The Bárans made excellent bread, he had to give them that.

“Though I did assume, when you said you were
engaged, that you’d chosen a fiancée who’d make a good queen,” she
pointed out, with cool logic that stung a little. He couldn’t
explain that he hadn’t given it much thought without sounding like
the idiot he was, so he made a show of chewing the bread.

“I thought you’d be pleased enough to keep
Natly as your lover—or wife according to your customs—and go on
your way,” Oria continued, in a tone of infinite patience that
didn’t fool him for a moment. “Some barbarian cultures allow a man
to have multiple wives and concubines, I understand. A marriage of
state that benefits you politically while not tying you down
personally should be welcome to you.”

He decided not to touch the condescending
“barbarian cultures” remark. Particularly since the Destrye had
maintained such practices in the past.

“For someone whose name you heard once,
you’ve certainly mentioned Natly numerous times.” He couldn’t help
taunting her with that. Oria might not want him to touch her, but
she didn’t like the idea of Natly having him either, much as she
protested otherwise.

“Because she’s constantly in the forefront of
your thoughts,” Oria retorted.

He shook his head at her, pleased to have
caught her out. “Oh, Oria. Now that’s a lie.”

She didn’t reply immediately. “That doesn’t
matter. I concede the point—if we decide to go ahead with this
marriage and you want me to truly be Queen of the Destrye, I’ll do
what I can. I’ve learned a great deal, maybe I can eventually find
a way to travel there. You’re correct—I owe that much to you and
Dru. But have you thought of how your people will feel about having
a Báran sorceress among them, affecting their laws, passing
judgment on them?”

“If you manage to drive off the Trom and put
food in their mouths, they’ll be happy enough.” He repressed a
shudder at the thought of those skeletal monsters who could at that
moment be riding their fire-breathing dragons to burn the Destrye
crops and buildings before they stole more of Dru’s precious water.
His people would put up with more than a foreign queen to be rid of
that curse. “If the price is marrying their king to you so you can
work your magic to protect them, then even Arill cannot deny your
fitness to wear the wreath of royalty.”

She sighed and held out a hand. For a moment
his heart tripped in ridiculous pleasure; he thought she invited
him closer. But no, the dragonl—Chuffta—flew to her. The left
forearm and shoulder of her crimson robe were padded, allowing the
creature to land with his back talons gripping and wide white wings
spread until he balanced. She scratched his breast, her body taking
that intimate posture she probably wasn’t consciously aware of,
which betrayed that she conversed with her Familiar. To salve his
disappointment and irrational jealousy that she lavished affection
on her pet and not him, Lonen savagely chewed more bread. At least
he wouldn’t be so blazingly hungry. Not for food, anyway.

“There’s something I should tell you,” she
said.

“Does that mean you’re relenting on
withholding information? Or confessing to a previous lie?” He
tensed for the answer, having placed a great deal of trust in
Oria’s basic honesty, if nothing else. How much more a fool would
he be proved to be before this was done?

“I admit haven’t told you everything. I never
will
tell you everything, which might be misleading if not
an outright lie, so if that’s your line in the sand, we might as
well call off the agreement now.”

“You’re awfully insistent on not getting
married now,” he noted. “This was your idea to begin with.”

“I know. But I was not completely forthcoming
with you and I should have been.” She took a deep breath and
squared her shoulders. “I
could
marry your brother instead.
Connecting to any part of the ruling family should be the same.
That would leave you free to marry Natly”—she held up a hand when
he opened his mouth—“or another. Someone who would be a
real
queen for your people. It was unfair and wrong of me not to offer
that.”

She cast a glance at Chuffta while Lonen
mulled over her words, making him wonder what her Familiar
counseled.

“Then why did you insist earlier that it had
to be me?’

Oria sighed, mask turned away, though with
her uncanny perceptions she’d know exactly where he was, what he
was doing. How he felt. Though maybe not entirely. She didn’t seem
to sense how much of his willingness to marry her had nothing to do
with duty at all. Something that might be best to conceal from her,
lest she use it as yet another weapon against him.

“Several reasons,” she said, her words
followed by a heartfelt sigh. “All of them self-serving. I am not
Queen of Bára because I can’t be crowned until I’m married.
Fortunately, neither can the only other viable contender, my
brother Yar, whom you no doubt remember.”

He did. Yar was younger than Oria and still a
boy in most respects, with a voice that cracked and the brash
impetuousness of too much arrogance and too little experience.
Still, Yar had helped Lonen’s warriors after the Trom attack, using
his truly spectacular magical skills to mold stone into bridges and
shelters. An ability like that, no matter how unsettling, would
come in handy for building, say, aqueducts that didn’t burn.