Oria's Gambit (7 page)

“But that’s the plan. Which means tonight is
our wedding night.” That wave of fierce sexuality rolled over
her.

“Not in the way you mean.”

“We’ll figure out something to consummate the
momentous occasion. Lead the way, my lovely fiancée.”

Setting her teeth against several replies,
she did.

Lonen couldn’t quite define to himself why he
enjoyed teasing Oria so much. Maybe because it came close—a distant
second, but still—to actually touching her. If he couldn’t seize
her and kiss her breathless, rattling that infernal poise, he could
at least make her sound all faint with words.

Besides, it was fun.

For the first time since he’d accepted the
king’s wreath and the burden of leading the Destrye over his
father’s corpse, here with Oria he’d gone long minutes without
giving any thought to his crushing responsibilities and the looming
threat of disaster from so many directions. He couldn’t do any more
for his people than he was at that moment—which included giving up
a normal marriage and very likely the hope of having heirs of his
own. He couldn’t regret that aspect too deeply. Not as far as his
responsibilities to the Destrye were concerned. It would be fitting
for Ion’s boys to inherit the throne that their father should have
had.

That he minded the loss for himself came as
something of a surprise. Somewhere deep in his heart he’d nursed
the idea that he’d have a loving wife and children to be his family
one day. That he wouldn’t always feel so alone.

Amazing that any such tender idealism had
survived all he’d seen and done.

Dueling with Oria provided a most welcome
distraction from such useless thoughts. Also, with every indignant
retort and flummoxed response, she became less enigmatic fantasy
creature and more flesh and blood woman to him. A welcome
transformation. Along with the most pleasant news that he at least
hadn’t been alone in his strange obsession with her. There might be
hope for their marriage yet. It might never be the loving union
he’d dreamt of, the wife who’d listen to his foolish thoughts and
deepest fears, who he’d be able to confide in when the throne
demanded he keep a brave face for all others. But maybe they could
make something of a friendship.

If nothing else, conspiring with her to
navigate Báran politics was far better than making decisions on his
own. He’d never wanted to be king of Destrye. He wouldn’t refuse
the path Arill set for him, but maybe along with the punishment
Oria would be, the goddess also offered him someone to share the
trials of that path.

Oria led him out of the baths to a back
stairway, walking just ahead of him with spine straight and chin
high. Chuffta rode on her shoulder, head swiveling to watch him
with those discerning green eyes. Hard to believe such a small
skull could contain much intelligence, though he had to admit the
Familiar demonstrated more of it than a typical animal, clearly
much smarter than his own hunting hounds. The Trom had ridden much
larger dragonish creatures that looked much the same as the
derkesthai, only in darker colors. Perhaps the adult version of her
Familiar. Not a reassuring possibility.

“Is Chuffta a juvenile?” He asked.

“No, he just acts juvenile—hey!” She slapped
a hand at Chuffta, freeing the braid he’d yanked with sharp teeth,
her giggle like water in the desert. A fascinating woman, so
remote, even stern at times, cloaked with magic that shone almost
as brightly to his eyes as her copper hair, and then almost girlish
in her innocence. She hadn’t stepped outside Bára until he forced
her to, and she evinced an almost childlike naiveté about the world
even a short distance beyond the walls. More than that, she’d told
him she mostly stayed in her tower, living alone but for her
Familiar and visits from her mother. Why?

“Why?” Oria asked, an uncanny echo of his
thoughts. It took him moment to think back.

“I thought maybe Chuffta would grow into one
of those dragon creatures the Trom flew in on.” Chuffta’s mouth
parted, showing sharply fanged teeth, long forked tongue lolling
out, for all the world looking like a ferocious smile.

Apparently Oria didn’t perceive
that
because she continued walking, smoothly replying, “He says not,
though I wondered the same thing. He told me that would be like
comparing a house cat to one of the golden desert jaguars.” She
breathed a laugh. “Also he wants me to tell you that he’s far
smarter than the Trom dragons, who he calls vile and witless
beasts.” At the top of the stairwell, she turned and followed a
narrow interior hall, stuffy from the lack of windows that normally
graced most Báran passageways.

“Is this a servants’ corridor?”

“Yes.” She glanced back at him, an odd habit
as she clearly didn’t need to. Perhaps because she hadn’t had her
mask long. “I hope you’re not offended. I mean no insult, only to
hide your presence in Bára as long as possible.”

His hands twitched with the impulse to slide
around her waist and pull her back against him, to kiss that
delectably exposed nape and tease her about offending him. Could he
really never touch her at all? If skin-to-skin contact was the
problem, perhaps he could wear gloves… He had some for cold
weather—unfortunately back in Dru. “No, I’m not at all offended.
The Destrye are not like your Báran men, so obsessed with status. I
ask out of simple curiosity.”

“You seem to have plenty of that and none of
it simple,” she muttered, then stopped before a door, rapping on it
briskly, then opening it. “Would you make sure she’s alone?”

Lonen took a step to oblige, but Chuffta
spread his wide white wings and took off from her shoulder, doing
his mistress’s bidding—much as Lonen himself had been so eager to
do. Ion would be laughing his ass off.
Don’t let a bit of
foreign pussy make you think with the little head instead of the
big one.
For once the memory of his eldest brother didn’t come
with a wave of fresh grief. If he watched from the Hall of
Warriors, Ion would be hugely amused that Lonen had not only failed
to follow what was likely very good advice, but wouldn’t even enjoy
the promised reward for his loss of good sense.

“All right, let’s go in,” Oria said suddenly,
her voice and body tense. She’d probably overheard his salacious
thought. Maybe she could teach him how to keep his more obnoxious
fantasies hidden. It didn’t seem like she heard
everything
that crossed his mind—maybe mainly the ones he was more
enthusiastic about.

“Ready?” she prompted, looking back at him,
something in her voice. Maybe it wasn’t that he provoked her, but
her own nerves over presenting her plan to this former queen Lonen
had never glimpsed.

“Do I look all right?” he asked her, partly
to tease, but also to give her a moment to recover her poise. “I
wouldn’t want to bias your mother against her future son-in-law by
looking like I fell out of a tree.”

Oria tilted her head slightly, facing him.
She’d be wrinkling the bridge of her nose for his frivolity. “You
have”—she waved fingers at his temple—“some hair that’s come
loose.”

“Where?”

She pointed. “Right there.”

Deliberately he stroked a hand over the wrong
spot. “I don’t feel anything.”

Chuffta flew back, landing on her shoulder,
and she huffed her impatience. “Really it’s not important and she’s
waiting for us.”

“Can’t you fix it for me?”

“No,” she drew out the word as if he might be
stupid after all. “Because I can’t touch you.”

“You said skin to skin—this is skin to hair.
They’re different.”

“Lonen.” She put her hands on her hips,
bristling with exasperation.

“Just try,” he coaxed. “You said your
mother’s good opinion and support are important.”

“You don’t know that,” she said in a sharp
tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you.” She waved a hand to erase the
words. “I’m sorry. I was replying to Chuffta. It’s not always easy
with both of you talking at me at once.”

He and the derkesthai exchanged rueful looks,
an odd brotherhood. “He thinks you can try?”

“Yes.” She sighed her exasperation. “Fine.
But don’t move.”

He could swear her Familiar gave him a
knowing nod of complicity before leaning his cheek against the
smooth skin under Oria’s ear. She relaxed at the contact—deriving
some kind of stability or comfort from it—and stepped closer to
him. With slowly tentative fingers, she reached up, caught the
escaped curls, and tucked them back in with deft skill.

That close, her heady scent of lilies wafted
over him and he imagined her face intent as she took care not to
touch him. “Are you all right?” he asked her quietly and she
stilled, her copper eyes perhaps flying to his.

“So far,” she breathed, the outline of her
exquisite breasts rising and falling under the silk. Though he’d
called the robe shapeless and ugly, in truth it clung in exactly
the right places, even if it did cover up too much. She stepped
back abruptly, erecting that chill barrier between them again. “No
more delays. And let me do the talking.”

Happy enough with the results of that test,
he bowed and gestured for her to precede him, though he reserved
the right to speak up if necessary. She pivoted, her tiny behind
twitching as she stalked away into a set of rooms that exceeded
even his imaginings for the former queen of Bára. Sculptures made
of more glass twined in shades of ice-white, gold, and rose,
scattered about the room. The floor of mosaicked tiles reflected
light like the treacherous ice cliffs in the sea off Dru. All of it
had a cooling effect—soothing in the desert climate, perhaps—but he
found he preferred Oria’s sunny and lush rooftop terrace, with the
vivid sails of silk catching the breezes and her fire table of
violet flames.

Elegant even by Báran standards, the lavishly
furnished and decorated chambers looked out through grand arched
windows to the city wall just below—though across the deep chasm
that divided the palace grounds from the city proper—and then to
the wide, desolate plain and distant hills beyond. When he wasn’t
baking in the landscape, Lonen could appreciate its austere appeal,
the clean, simple lines and radiant colors reminding him of
Oria.

All thoughts led back to Oria. His particular
goddess and doom.

This, then, was the window he’d glimpsed her
in that night, as he’d run along that very wall. Now, as then, her
Familiar took a perch upon the sill, green eyes knowing.

A woman rose from a chair by that window,
dressed more richly than the common women who strolled the paths of
Bára, but not in the crimson priestess robes or even as grandly as
Oria had for state occasions on his previous visit. She also wore
no mask, her eyes a deep enough brown to contrast with her golden
hair, but neither as spectacular a color as Oria’s. Their kinship
shone clear, however, in the widely set eyes framed by delicate
brows and arched cheekbones, fine lines accenting her fair skin,
and in her slight, willowy build. She looked as his wife would
decades from now, a strange glimpse of the future. If he ever saw
Oria’s face again.

The intensity of her gaze had Lonen forcing
himself to continue forward, despite the uncanny prickling of his
scalp. Had his neck not been freshly shaved, those hairs would be
standing up, too.

“What is this about, Oria?” The woman’s eyes
flashed with hatred that seemed to crawl across his skin like
fireants, but she drew her daughter into a gentle embrace, holding
her a moment before releasing her and facing Lonen. Without waiting
for Oria’s explanation, she launched her attack. “Destrye. I can’t
imagine what brings you back to Bára—surely you’ve pillaged enough.
We have nothing more to sacrifice to your bloodthirsty lusts.”

If she only knew about those lusts.

“Mother,” Oria inserted herself between them.
“You did not have the opportunity to meet before. This is King
Lonen of the Destrye—not the king who led their armies to Bára.
He’s a good man and an honorable ruler, doing his best as we are,
to salvage something for the future from this terrible conflict.
He’s come here in peace, to ask for our help.”

A pretty speech and not entirely accurate—as
he was far from good and honorable—but he wouldn’t object even
silently as Oria calling him that made up for any bending of the
truth. He did send a mental apology to his father, however, for not
defending his honor. As the former queen’s hard gaze came back to
him, he tried to look like a good and honorable king, and not a
giddy lad flattered by a pretty girl’s sweet words.

“King Lonen”—Oria inclined her head—“my
mother, Rihanna, former queen and priestess of Bára.”

No title for the woman now, apparently, but
he bowed to her anyway. “I greet you, lady mother of Bára, and
thank you for your hospitality under such trying
circumstances.”