Lonen's War (22 page)

Back to “prince” for Nat, demoted again, if
he’d ever been truly elevated to king. “By that logic, I was not
found lacking because the Trom’s touch didn’t kill me,” Oria
snapped back.

The priestess didn’t reply, turning her face
back to the Destrye army. Aha.

“
Indeed,”
Chuffta echoed the thought.
“Something there.”

“It called me Princess Ponen,” she said,
noting how the other women tensed, ever so slightly. Not enough to
break
hwil
, but a lick of bright emotion leaking
through.

“I don’t know that word,” Febe said, voice
blander than the gray fog that had cocooned Oria. A lie. Oria felt
it in her bones.

“I need training,” she told the priestess.
“If I’m ill-equipped to deal with the Trom, then it’s the temple’s
responsibility to teach me what I need to know.”

“You know the rules, Princess. Only those
with
hwil
can be taught. The knowledge is too powerful to be
entrusted to the unstable.” Priestess Febe attempted to sound
regretful, but the untruth radiated off of her. Did she not know
how easily Oria could sense that?

“
Perhaps not.”
Chuffta sounded
thoughtful.
“I don’t have access to anyone else’s experience, so
I don’t know how they perceive magic. We know yours is unique, with
your unusual sensitivity. We’ve learned much about your magic in
the last days.”

She really wanted to be able to discuss this
with Chuffta, a surge of excitement lifting her spirits from the
morose depths. It seemed wrong to feel hopeful when they faced so
much mourning and such severe trials ahead. And yet the prospect
that there might be an alternative solution to her problem, some
other way to access her sgath—maybe without all that endless and
futile meditating!—to end this crippling sensitivity and maybe have
a weapon to fight that loathsome Trom, to find other sources of
water for Bára…

The possibility gave her reasons to keep
going. She sorely needed those.

Once Lonen had said goodnight and goodbye,
she’d expected the relief of aloneness. Having his jangling, angry,
and grieving presence gone should have given her a whole other
level of palliation. Like stepping into the rooftop garden after
all the chaos.

And his departure
had
given her some
of that respite. But it left her with an odd feeling that had taken
her time to identify. She’d even let Chuffta guide her into
meditation so she could sort it out before she tried to sleep.
Finally, she’d identified the emotion.

Loss.

For the first time in her life, she
experienced real loneliness.

You live up here, all the time,
alone?
His incredulous question kept rattling back through her
brain. That and the feelings he’d emanated, sensual and rich, that
heated her inside as if the sun’s midday rays penetrated her.
Waking feelings she hadn’t tasted outside of those illicit
illustrations of the Destrye that had so fascinated her.

They’d lingered long after his departure,
touching her even in her sleep. She’d wakened from an intense dream
of impossible sensations—of his hair in her hands, his mouth on her
body, and their skin slicked together. Things she was unlikely to
feel other than in dreams, as she’d never be able to bear such
contact with anyone other than an ideal husband, which the temple
wouldn’t grant her even the opportunity to test for until she
earned a mask.

Certainly she would never be able to touch
Lonen so intimately, even if he wasn’t gone from Bára forever.

She wrapped the leather band around a
forefinger. Perhaps she kidded herself that she only held it to
give vent to her restless fretting. The scent of the leather, maybe
something of the man’s energy, lingered in the tie. The Destrye
king was such a creature of the larger world, with his exuberant
masculinity. She’d watched him from her tower, greeting his men,
slapping backs, and shouting happily about going home. The words
had echoed clearly even to her heights.

Unable to sleep after those restless,
unsettling dreams, and telling herself she was only performing her
duty to the Bárans, she’d kept vigil all night, watching them pack
up and go, just as she bore witness as they streamed away into the
rising sun.

It had all left her strangely bereft, which
seemed impossible on top of all her other sorrows. So this renewed
purpose would put her back on track to do what she needed to serve
Bára and her people, however she could. No more wallowing in grief
over the past or of what would never be. The next step would be to
get real answers.

“
That would be helpful, indeed,”
Chuffta agreed wryly.

She scratched his chest in silent solidarity
and gratitude that he didn’t comment on or judge her preoccupation
with King Lonen.

Not without some petty pleasure, she broke
the cloud of smug satisfaction surrounding the high priestess.
“Tell Queen Rhianna and Prince Yar I’d like them to meet me for
breakfast in the salon, as soon as they can manage it.”

Febe stiffened. “Am I your handmaiden,
Princess?”

“The temple has not yet seen fit to supply
me with a replacement for Alva, and
you
seem to be
available.” She let the pause hang, tasting the woman’s rancor,
learning what she could from it. If they wouldn’t teach her, she’d
discover her own truths. How had the first sorceress learned, after
all?

“An oversight, Princess,” Febe replied.
“With all the tumult and you being an invalid all those days. We
believed you near death, not in need of tending from one of our few
remaining priestesses. A pity that your fragile psyche cannot
withstand the company of someone less trained. They are a precious
resource, not to be squandered on frivolous whims.”

Oria ignored the escalating barbs, easier to
do with the promise that she might not be so fragile forever. “An
excellent point,” she said in her mildest tone. “Fortunately, I
don’t require a great deal of tending, especially as I will be out
and about in the palace and the city.”

“Is that wise, Princess? Your fragile
condition—”

“Grows no less fragile for this
sequestration. I faced the worst and survived.”

“
We don’t know that for sure.”

“You can’t be sure of that, Princess.
Perhaps your condition is more akin to those sensitive to the sting
of the honey-makers—the first reaction is merely a shadow of
successive ones.”

Oria flashed Chuffta a glance for sounding
so much like the priestess. He resettled his wings, a gesture
remarkably like an irritated shrug.

“If that’s the case,” she told Febe, “then I
shall find out. In the meanwhile, a junior priestess to come by
from time to time will suffice. While I’m away from my rooms,
regular servants can assist with upkeep.”

“
I could carry messages for you,”
Chuffta offered,
“if you would like to see how you fare without
me for short times. That might be a good test of your
endurance.”

Gratitude for her Familiar’s understanding
welled up. That felt good, too. Enough to disperse the feedback
from the high priestess, who seethed with that buried something.
Nevertheless, Febe inclined her head. “I shall see if any junior
priestesses will volunteer to be assigned to you.”

“Thank you. On your way to take care of
that, you can pass along the message to my mother and brother.”

Without another word, the high priestess
glided out, her fulminating resentment swirling in her wake.

“Well, that made her a bit angry,” Oria
commented.

“
You sensed something else, too, beneath
the resentment and irritation.”

Had she? She sorted through it, as she had
the night before, peeling away the layers. “Fear?”

“
Yes, a kind of alarm. And maybe…
jealousy. You unsettled her. I wonder why?”

“We’ll see if my mother has answers.”

T
he queen and Prince Yar
arrived together, she leaning heavily on her son’s arm. When she
saw Oria already waiting, Queen Rhianna opened her arms, a sad
smile breaking over her face. “Oh, Oria.”

Oria slid into her mother’s welcome embrace.
Even filled with the ragged shadows of grief and failure, the cool
serenity of the woman felt like a balm on sunburn. “Mother,” Oria
whispered.

Yar waited stiffly, his mask of course
impassive, control in place. She sensed nothing of his state beyond
a faint burn of…more resentment and fear? After he’d been so much
better the night before. And she’d had such high hopes that he had
matured. Something had happened, she sensed it in the rapid shift
of his emotions.

“Let’s sit and eat,” Oria said, gesturing to
the table. The sight of the greens and fruits gave her pause. How
much longer would they be able to grow food?

“I already ate in my rooms, where I’d
intended to stay and rest, but I was
summoned
.” Yar stalked
broodily over to the window. “And we shouldn’t be breakfasting
while the Destrye army might yet turn around and attack us.”

She didn’t point out that resting in their
rooms would be no better in that case. “Should they do so, our
watching them will change nothing. We’ve reached treaty agreeable
to both sides. Let it go.”

“I’m only relieved to have them gone,” Queen
Rhianna said, sitting and nodding to her servant to fill her
plate.

“Yes, and for so little on our part.” Yar
paced the room restlessly. “It makes me wonder what my lovely
sister promised—or gave to—Prince Lonen in exchange.”

“Oh, of course.” Oria stabbed a berry,
wishing it could be her brother. Never mind that her illicit dreams
and their lingering effects made Yar’s sally rather closer to the
mark than it should have been. She felt sure he’d eaten, or lied
about having eaten, because he didn’t want to remove his mask. He
was definitely hiding something. “I can barely stand the most
casual touch from a carefully shielded and trained masked priest or
priestess, but you believe I bedded the enemy so he’d take his army
away? I suppose I should be flattered that you think my charms
sufficient to accomplish such a great task.”

“Then why were you closeted with Prince
Lonen?” Yar retorted. “Folcwita Lapo is furious. I wouldn’t have
gone to bed and left things to you if I’d imagined you’d exclude
the council! I thought you’d be smart and let them handle things.
You were supposed to be only a figurehead.”

She bit back her frustrated response to
that. “What do I care if the folcwita is angry? I accomplished what
he could not—what you and the council didn’t, I might point out.
Besides, I invited our mother. She did not attend.”

“I couldn’t have offered anything. Without
my mask, without Tav, I am nothing.” Queen Rhianna focused on her
plate, eating methodically but without relish.

“Exactly.” Yar paced over. “Which is why
Oria, who also has no mask, should have left the decision-making to
the council.”

“Yar…” Their mother sounded infinitely weary
and wounded. “We’re still family. Sit with us and eat.”

“Is that a command from my queen—or should I
say, former queen?” he snarled.

Their mother’s face crumpled, and she stared
at her meal, a tear rolling down her cheek. Oria leveled an
accusing glance at him, which must have worked, because he finally
sat, if sullenly, but still did not remove his mask.

Probably better to direct the conversation
away from the erratic bore tides of personal issues and onto the
problems Bára faced. “So, did both of you know that Bára had been
sending golems to raid Dru for water?”

The queen set down her fork, pressing her
fingertips to her eyelids. “I warned Tav that would come to no
good.”

“What water?” Yar shifted in his chair,
restless and unhappy. He’d never been much for politics, even at
his best. “Why are we talking about this now?”

“Bára’s water, all of it,” Oria explained
patiently. “Priest Sisto sent the fighting golems to Dru to bring
back wagonloads of water, because we’d run out. That’s why the
Destrye attacked.”

“The Destrye attacked because it’s in their
nature. They’re barbarians.” Yar got up to stare out the window
again.

“We were desperate, Oria,” her mother said,
at least sounding bolder, more alive. “So were our sister cities.
The drought has gone on for too many years. Dru was the only place
close enough with plenty of fresh water still.”

“So we slaughtered the Destrye for it—even
their children?” Oria couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her
voice. Her mother opened her mouth but swallowed the reproof Oria
expected.

“The Destrye weren’t supposed to die,” she
said instead. “We never intended that. Sisto claimed he’d found a
way to create the golems with a kind of ongoing spell. It acted
like a packet of sgath. He embedded them with both the command to
carry out the task—to fill the barrels with water and bring them
back—and also provided them with the magic to keep them animated.
No one realized that would result in them going through anything—or
anyone—who stood in the way.”

“But you knew,” Oria whispered. “You and
Father, Vico and Febe—you knew afterwards.”

“Not at first. Not until the Destrye began
to fight back. They discovered that iron would kill Vico’s golems
by neutralizing the packet of sgath. He felt them die.”

“So you—” no, Oria shared the responsibility
as a member of the ruling family of Bára “—
we
sent
more.”

“Yes.” Queen Rhianna looked sick with it.
“We chose our children over theirs. It was supposed to be only for
a short time. Until the monsoons returned. But they never did and
then, before we knew it, the Destrye had traced the golems back to
Bára.”

“Oh, Mother.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Yar sounded
incredulous. “Were you even listening? It was us or them. They made
the same choice—only we won in the end.”