Lonen blew out a short breath—both relieved
that he wasn’t the only one to be disturbed and bothered that Ion
felt the same. “Do you think they could be deliberately stalling,
that they’ve somehow called for aid that could be on the way?”
“It’s what I would do.” Ion had his hands
clasped behind his back, brow furrowed. “We know next to nothing
about these people. The Destrye have—or had—allies. Why wouldn’t
the Bárans?”
“That’s my take, too.” Lonen hesitated
before broaching the difficult question. “Then why is Father
allowing them to drag their feet?”
Ion flashed him a dark scowl and Lonen
braced himself for his older brother’s withering scorn. He should
have known better than to question the king aloud. But Ion’s
forbidding expression crumpled and he rubbed his brow with a sigh.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “The same is bothering me.
Arnon has noted it, too, and pulled me aside last night with the
same concerns.”
At least they all three agreed. “Do you
think,” Lonen ventured, tentative in this new territory of being
aligned against their father, “that they could be working some form
of mind magic against him? Something subtler than fireballs,
thunder, and earthquakes, but just as powerful?” If they could do
such things, it might explain the way thoughts of Oria clung to
him.
Ion’s dark brows rose as he considered that.
“It hadn’t occurred to me. Arnon and I thought to blame it on
Nolan’s death. That grief is still fresh.”
“It is for all of us,” Lonen pointed out,
taking a moment to choke back the black emotion that wanted to rise
at the very mention of his brother’s demise.
“Harder, though, for a parent to lose a
child, a king to lose an heir, than for us to lose a brother.”
Was it? Ion had sons out there with his wife
on the Trail of New Hope, so perhaps he understood something Lonen
did not. In many ways, he had a hard time coming to grips with
Nolan being truly gone. For long spaces, he could forget about it.
Until moments like this one.
“Perhaps so.” He hesitated, then voiced one
of the ideas he’d been mulling. “We’ve had no opportunity to say
the prayers to Arill to guide Nolan’s feet to the Hall of Warriors.
With his body lost in battle, it could be that his shade wanders
until we do. It’s a plaguing thought.”
“Do you—” Ion cleared his throat, gazing
into the chasm. “Has it occurred to you that he might not be dead?
He could be down in something like that, hoping we’ll come find
him. He could be hurt and…”
Lonen put a hand on his brother’s shoulder
when Ion’s voice choked off, his own throat going tighter. “Yes,”
he said. “In dreams, I see him, falling, lying there broken,
calling to me.” A pall settled over them. Lonen had thought he’d be
the only one to be plagued with such morose phantasms. Ironic that
he and Ion should bond over this, of all things.
“Remember when he was seven?”
“And fell in the river? Yes.” Lonen shook
his head, a smile alleviating the strangling grief. “And you jumped
in after him, fully dressed, sword in hand.”
Ion laughed, which was better. “Father
nearly skinned me alive for that one—for ruining good boots, nearly
dropping my sword, and because I was supposed to be watching all of
you, not flirting with that girl. I can’t even remember her name.”
He’d gone back to sounding bleak.
“Nolan wasn’t a little kid, Ion. He was a
grown man in charge of a battalion of Destrye who fought bravely to
save our people—including you and me and that girl whose name you
can’t remember. It’s not your job to watch us anymore.” A strange
place to be, offering such comfort to his eldest brother.
From Ion’s sidelong glance, he thought so,
too. “That’s not how it feels. But enough of this. Tell me why you
think they’re working some form of mind magic on the king.”
He absolutely would not mention Oria. “I
don’t have any good reason. More…a feeling?” Lonen waited for his
brother’s disdain, but Ion said nothing, only listened. “I’ve told
you how it was, killing the priestesses who stood on the walls that
night.”
“Yes.” Ion’s voice and face were grave. None
of them liked that they’d won the battle on the broken bodies of
women.
“It seemed—this will sound strange.”
“Can any of this be stranger than it already
is? We’ve already witnessed the unthinkable. Stop dithering and
tell me straight.”
Lonen had to smile. Ion, back to being
himself with his didactic ways, but also a changed man, wanting to
hear the strange thoughts of his fanciful younger brother. Once Ion
would have rubbed his face in the dirt for saying such foolish
things. In a sudden glimpse, Lonen could see his brother as king
after their father’s death. Something that had once been
unthinkable. Now it seemed not only possible, but that Ion might
make a good king.
“When I killed the first one, not knowing
she was a woman, I did so because she faced out toward the battle.
At least, I told myself it was only that. But—thinking back to that
night, I must have felt something else at work. Something about
those masks and… Have you noticed the way they seem to glow
sometimes?”
“A reflection of the light,” Ion offered,
but not dismissively, simply as an alternate argument.
“I thought that, too. Metal reflects and the
gold is bright, highly polished.” Oria hadn’t worn a mask. So far
every man and woman of higher rank who’d spoken in the negotiations
did, while the bare-faced denizens of the city all seemed to be of
lower status. But everyone who spoke of her freely acknowledged her
as a princess. As if of their own will and not his, his eyes
strayed to her high tower. He wrenched them away before Ion
noticed. “It makes me wonder is all. Why do they wear them? It
seems they shouldn’t be able to see, but they behave as if they
can.”
“It’s cursed unsettling, I can tell you
that.” Ion pursed his lips behind his thick beard. “He hasn’t said,
but it could be that Father meant to leave them some measure of
dignity by allowing them to retain the masks.”
“Or because none of us really wants to see
what lies behind them,” Lonen said, before he rethought the
jest.
Ion nodded to that, however. “That could be
part of their trickery. Like the Xyrts who paint their faces blue
to frighten their enemies.”
“It makes it more difficult,” Lonen said
slowly, thinking it through, “to guess at their intentions when we
can’t see their faces. I’m not adept at negotiations, but that
bothers me.”
“None of us are skilled in this arena, which
is why we shouldn’t have accepted their surrender and simply
continued the battle until they could no longer fight.”
Lonen bristled at the implicity accusation.
“I know you think you wouldn’t have done the same in my shoes,
but—”
“But nothing,” Ion cut in, more the brother
Lonen knew well. “You were swayed by a pretty face and a sorrowful
smile.”
“What makes you think Princess Oria is
pretty? You’ve never laid eyes on her and I certainly never said
so.”
“You didn’t have to. It was writ all over
your face when you defended her actions—to her own people, I might
add. Besides, plenty of Destrye witnessed your conversation with
her and described how you saved her from falling, all noble and
full of concern. You have a soft spot for females and always have.
Didn’t you consider how it might look, that you showed such care
for one of the enemy?”
Lonen clenched his teeth, keeping his
response measured. “No, I didn’t think at all. She fainted and I
caught her. Any man would have done the same.”
“Not any man. I wouldn’t have. But that’s
always been your problem, Lonen. You follow your heart, not your
head.”
“The big one or the little one?” Lonen
snapped back, tired of this old argument.
Ion clapped a hand over the back of Lonen’s
skull, hard enough to make his ears ring. “The one is empty and the
other attached to your heart. See if you can figure it out. Still,”
he said, while Lonen fumed, “your points are well taken and I will
bring them to Father’s attention. We should demand they remove the
masks or we will rejoin the fight and see who wins.”
“And if they don’t agree?”
“They will, because even their proud and
stubborn boy king will see that they cannot prevail against
us.”
“Unless they have aid coming,” Lonen
replied, full of the foreboding that had plagued him these past
days. Ion called King Nat a boy, but he was their age. He might
seem younger and softer, not being a warrior, but that did not make
him foolish or without weapons of his own.
“All the more reason to insist on this
measure immediately.”
O
ria lived in a world of
alternations. Asleep. Awake. Dark. Light. Drink. Sleep. Eat.
Drink.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Every time she awoke, her mother and Chuffta
were there, ready to offer her a glass of cooled water and
affectionate reassurances. A bouquet of lilies sat in a vase on the
table beside the bed, wafting a sweet, thick fragrance. She’d gaze
at their vivid colors, feeling as if she’d forgotten something, but
she always fell asleep again before she could determine what it
was.
Eventually she stayed awake long enough to
string several thoughts together. Her mother attended her
constantly. No one else did. Where was Alva?
“
Don’t worry over these things. You have
one concern—to rest and heal.”
“I’ve been doing that.”
“You’ve been doing what, baby?” her mother
murmured. “Have some broth.”
“I don’t want broth. I want to know what
happened. Am I sick?”
“Yes.” Her mother looked away as she said
it. “You’ve been very ill and you must take care not to relapse.
You must rest and heal.”
“That’s what I just told Chuffta—I’ve been
doing that.”
“He’s wise and you should follow his advice.
That’s why you have him. This is not something to be quickly
overcome. Recovery follows its own calendar.”
Oria struggled to sit up, to look around,
not sure who or what she sought or why her body responded so
sluggishly. Then realized her mother was holding her down by the
shoulders, the slight pressure more than Oria could muster the
strength to resist.
“Why am I so weak?”
“Because you’ve been ill,” her mother
replied with strained patience. “It’s not good for you to become
agitated. Sleep. Rest. Heal.”
The familiar calm of her mother’s soothing
energy spun through her. Reminding her of something. Her mother,
face creased with devastation, unresponsive. In a chair,
overlooking the wall, where a Destrye warrior covered in blood,
carrying an axe, paused in a pool of light, just as in those lurid
paintings that had aroused the fascination of adolescent self. So
vividly real and—
With a choked gasp, her eyes flew open. “The
Destrye!”
Her mother winced in regret. “Don’t think
about it. It’s done. You must—”
Harsh reality cut through. “Father is dead.
What of Ben, Nat, and Yar?”
The queen passed a shaking hand over her
face. “Nat and Yar are fine.”
Oh no, not Ben. Not her gentle brother,
who’d never once teased about her lack of
hwil
. Who’d taken
his mask after his little brother and never showed bitterness or
any kind of grudge. She’d secretly hoped Ben would even things out
by finding his ideal wife first. Now he never would. She lay back,
letting the deep and formless grief move through her. Something
else. “And the Destrye?”
“Try not to—”
This time Oria managed to struggle up to a
sitting position, mostly because her mother seemed unable to resist
further. Oria’s body protested, stiff as a corpse and weak as a
newborn’s. What in Sgatha had happened to her?
“I have to know.” The memories came back,
jagged, sharp-edged scenes, and her head began to throb. Descending
from her tower. Her mother unconscious. Enemy within the walls. Her
brothers without. Meeting with what remained of the council.
The granite-eyed Destrye prince. Something
in her shied away from thinking past him.
“You were overcome,” she said, touching her
mother’s arm. “Are you all right?”
“I will live. Thanks to you.” Something in
her tone made it sound more like an accusation, but only sorrow
showed in her mother’s face. “Though I shall always regret that I
failed you in your hour of need.”
“Failed me?”
“I’m so, so sorry, my baby girl.” With a
broken sound, she stood. “I need a moment.”
Oria watched her mother, the unflappably
hwil
, ever cool and composed queen and priestess, as she
hastened out to the terrace, a hand over her mouth to muffle the
sobs that nevertheless blew back in on the breeze. Chuffta remained
on the light blanket beside her, the tip of his tail lightly
clasping her wrist. Steadying her. As he always did.
“
She believes you would not have fallen
ill had she remained cognizant,”
he explained with great
gentleness.
“What does my being sick have to do with…”
But the rest came back, reverberating through her skull. The
excruciating agony of stepping through the gates, the cascade of
energy and emotion, along with vibrations she’d never before
encountered, one upon the next, until—
“
Stop it.”
Chuffta’s sharp thought
cut through the rest.
“That’s in the past. You survived it. But
thinking of it can recall the damage. Exercise some self-discipline
and cut it off.”
Gaping at the lizard, whose green eyes
sparked with unprecedented ferocity, she wrenched her thoughts from
that moment. The pounding in her head receded, a welcome reward.
“Tell me what happened after.” She put a finger to her temple to
stop the distracting pulse beat. “Are they—gone?”
A pair of stone-gray eyes in a scarred,
blood-spattered face.