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  Oria’s Gambit

  Sorcerous Moons – Book 2

  by

  Jeffe Kennedy

  A Play For Power

  Princess Oria has one chance to keep her word and stop her brother’s reign of terror: She must become queen. All she has to do is marry first. And marry Lonen, the barbarian king who defeated her city bare weeks ago, who can never join her in a marriage of minds, who can never even touch her—no matter how badly she wants him to.

  A Fragile Bond

  To rule is to suffer, but Lonen never thought his marriage would become a torment. Still, he’s a resourceful man. He can play the brute conqueror for Oria’s faceless officials and bide his time with his wife. And as he coaxes secrets from Oria, he may yet change their fate…

  An Impossible Demand

  With deception layering on deception, Lonen and Oria must claim the throne and brazen out the doubters. Failure means death—for them and their people.

  But success might mean an alliance powerful beyond imagining…

  Dedication

  To the wonderful members of SFWA, who helped me figure out the moons. All subsequent license and errors are my fault entirely.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jeffe Kennedy

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

  Thank you for reading!

  Credit

  Content Editor: Deborah Nemeth

  Line and Copy Editor: Rebecca Cremonese

  Back Cover Copy: Erin Nelson Parekh

  Cover Design: Louisa Gallie

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About Jeffe Kennedy

  Titles by Jeffe Kennedy

  ~ 1 ~

  The golem’s glassy claws flashed, arcing through the rosy light of the moon, and sliced open his throat. Blood poured down his naked body, steaming in the chill desert air. Out it flowed, sweeping around him like the bore tides of Bára. So much of it pooled around him that he began to drown in it. He strained to lift his battle axe, to cut the golem down with cold iron, but found a flower in his hands instead.

  A white lily, luminescent and fragile, somehow escaping the blood that drained his life away.

  The golem struck again and he shouted at it, no sound escaping. Because he had no throat left. Because he was dead.

  How could he still be standing?

  The golem’s claws dripped crimson and its black maw yawned, glistening with glasslike fangs. It wouldn’t ever die, forever coming after the Destrye until every last one of his people were dead, unless he managed to cut it down. Out of its mouth, sickly green fire blew, a lethal wind of flame that burned the crops and aqueducts. Not a golem then, but one of the Trom. Skin over bones, a humanoid spider, it grinned, lips red as the claws, hand reaching to turn him into skin without bones, nothing but pulped flesh. No, they were fingernails, enameled and jeweled. Natly’s elegant hands slicing across his throat again, lips curving in a lascivious smile. With that third swipe, his head tumbled to the ground, and as she reached for his cock with those scarlet daggers of her nails, he finally managed to shout his anguish and fury.

  “Your Highness?”

  Lonen jerked in the hot water, the nightmare shredding around him with the spray of droplets. The servant boy gave him a wide-eyed look. Bero. The Báran lad had attended him his last time at baths, too. He was in Bára, again, cleaning up after the journey. No Trom or golems here.

  Except in his tortured brain.

  “Did you need something, Your Highness? You called out, but I didn’t understand the words.” Bero carried a stack of the much lighter colorful clothes that men of Bára wore. Silk, Oria had called the fabric, another thing apparently made by insects. Despite its disturbing origins, and like the addictive and tangy sweet honey she’d also introduced him to, the cloth had an exotic loveliness, more refined than anything produced in his homeland.

  Like the sorceress herself, both unsettling and compelling.

  “No, I’m fine.” He cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. Sloppy of him, to have fallen asleep in the city of his enemy—and then failing to awaken at Bero’s footfalls as he approached. Too comfortable in the soothing waters. Too many months of short sleep. Ion would have slapped him upside the head hard enough to have his brain ringing for the carelessness. But his brother was dead and gone these many weeks, reduced to boneless pulp at the simple touch of the Trom’s evil hand.

  “Would you care for wine or food now, King Lonen?” Bero asked in the trade tongue, setting out the soaps and oils. “Princess Oria said you’re to have anything you ask for.”

  Luxurious baths, booze, and fine food—an excellent strategy to lull him into meekly doing the sorceress’s bidding. The nightmare had served as a timely reminder of his purpose here—to save his people from destruction, not to indulge in Oria’s gifts or seductive presence. He might have agreed to her startling proposal of marriage, but he’d proceed on his terms, not hers. For the sake of the Destrye and his sanity both.

  “What are the chances of a decent steak?” He meant it as a joke, though the boy wouldn’t know that. The Bárans didn’t eat meat as a rule and, though the Destrye did, the grave losses to their livestock and wild game meant Lonen hadn’t had anything worth calling a steak since before Battles of Bára.

  “Princess Oria said to tell you she sent some of the hunters to find meat for you, Your Highness. It might take a few hours, however. Until then the best she can offer is some meat kept to feed the animals, and our usual fare.”

  Him and livestock—both pets of the Bárans. But his stomach growled, cramping with hollow pain, so he told Bero to bring whatever, enjoying the quiet when the boy went to fetch it. It seemed like years, not weeks, since he’d last visited the baths. That evening he’d washed himself clean of the ashes of too many dead before negotiating the peace treaty with Oria. Short-lived as that peace had been.

  Then, as now, the elegant beauty of the underground chambers both enchanted and intimidated him. Built of carved gold and rose stone like the rest of Bára, the baths were pools of still water, several of them at varying temperatures, going from shallow to deeper than a man could stand. Elaborately carved pillars and arches supported the shadowy ceiling, the subtle light of the sconces not quite enough to illuminate it or the far corners of the room.

  For a man who’d learned to jump at shadows, he found it surprisingly lulling. As evidenced by his falling asleep deeply enough to dream, though the nightmares were nothing new. The cursed things plagued him most nights. Odd to see Natly in this one, though, rather than Oria stalking him. A facet perhaps of his dramatically changed re
ality—exchanging one fiancée for the other. It appeared that by agreeing to marry Oria, he’d now have Natly haunting his sleep.

  At least no one else had heard him cry out. He had the place to himself on this occasion. Probably the Bárans didn’t bathe in the middle of the day. The baths simply remained filled, awaiting their convenience.

  A shocking waste of water.

  Bero returned, setting down a platter of food and a jug of wine, along with a tray of shining instruments. “Would you like me to shave you before you eat, or after, Your Highness?”

  Reflexively, Lonen clapped a hand over his beard. He had no doubt he looked scruffy from his travels, and in comparison to the Báran men who were all clean shaven that he’d seen, but…

  “Is that another of Princess Oria’s edicts?” He asked, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm.

  Bero ducked his head, clearly chagrined. “I apologize, Your Highness. Please forgive me. I did not mean to offend. When I serve the prince and folcwitas at their baths, they—”

  Lonen held up a hand to stop the increasingly penitential torrent of explanation from the already nervous boy. “No apologies. I am short-tempered.” He rinsed himself one last time, then rose from the water.

  “Your Highness, I did not mean to abbreviate your bath.” Bero sounded even more contrite.

  “You didn’t. I’m clean and I don’t need to lie about, indulging myself.” Especially not while his people could be dying by the Trom’s dragon-breath while he luxuriated in deep water and napped. Oria had said she’d stop the incursions, but she’d also promised him that very thing before this. He had no reason to trust her—and plenty of evidence otherwise. Better to be ready to fight whatever battle presented itself next.

  He dried himself with the cloth Bero handed him. Not the silk of the Báran garments, but likely the same source, woven thicker to be more absorbent. Nothing like the rough cotton towels the Destrye used. Then, draping the cloth around his hips, he sat on the bench next to the platter of food, pouring wine into the delicate goblet—made of glass, Oria had called it, supposedly formed of the endless sands that surrounded Bára—and drank deeply. Not Oria’s sweet juice this time, but a potent dark blend made from fruits of the vine. The sorceress might not be watering her formerly lush rooftop garden any longer, but whatever the reasons for her choice, the rest of Bára didn’t seem to be enduring similar privations. Of course, the fruits fermented for this wine were likely grown years ago. Possibly even before Bára turned her greedy gaze on Dru’s once plentiful lakes.

  “Go ahead and trim my hair and beard, but no shaving,” he told Bero. “That’s an offense against Arill.”

  Bero moved behind him, setting to trimming the curls that tended to spiral wildly when untamed. “Leave it long enough to tie back,” he belatedly thought to tell the boy before he scooped up a chunk of cheese, dipping it in a dish of honey before taking a bite. It drove him crazy when his hair was too short to pull back, falling into his eyes all the time. Arill knew he didn’t need to go any more insane than he already had.

  Probably he’d started coming unhinged during the privations of the Golem wars. Plenty of Destrye warriors had. Fighting a relentless, inhuman enemy that kept coming at you, no matter how many you’d chopped into pieces, gave even the most stalwart man nightmares. Their camps at night had often rung with the shouts of men still fighting in their sleep, causing the lookouts no end of trouble sorting real alarms from phantasms.

  Not every man showed the erosion of sanity immediately. Lonen hadn’t suffered from the plaguing dreams until much later. Not until after he’d lost his father, two brothers, and countless men in the Battles of Bára. Not to mention the last bloodstained fragments of his idealism.

  A wonder, really, that he’d held onto it that long.

  No, for him the nightmares began after he met Oria, with her fragile beauty, demonic lizardling pet, and the ability to read his thoughts more easily than Lonen could decipher his brother’s plans for aqueducts to save the Destrye from starvation.

  Very likely she could do far more than that with her mysterious magic. She might be able to cloud or even direct his mind. That would explain how, though he’d come to Bára to exact revenge and restitution for her crimes against Dru, he’d somehow ended up agreeing to marry the witch.

  As uneasy as it made him, he’d prefer to blame his decision on her magic, rather than contemplate how much of it might spring from his strange obsession with her.

  Even the exotic taste of cheese and honey on his tongue evoked her vividly. The Destrye said that all roads led to Arill’s temple—which, in fact they eventually did. Apparently all of his craziness led straight back to Oria. Back home in Dru, the land of his birth that he’d nearly killed himself to return to, he’d craved that flavor with much the same unreasonable longing he’d somehow attached to the woman who’d introduced him to it.

  Both of which he’d been certain never to encounter again. Wonders never ceased.

  Bero trimmed his beard, then lathered and shaved his neck, throat and surrounding skin. He stepped back, watching anxiously as Lonen rubbed a hand over it. The Báran oils made the hair soft, and Bero’s careful work created crisp demarcations between the hair and his skin. He probably wouldn’t recognize himself reflected in still water.

  “Does it meet with your approval, Your Highness?” Bero asked.

  “Feels great.” He nearly told the boy he didn’t have to use the honorific every time—though he’d nearly gotten to the point of not looking for his late father when people used it—but he probably needed every measure of pomp he could muster among these status-conscious people. “Would you—”

  He broke off at the echo of booted footsteps, and sprang to his feet, iron-headed battle axe leaping to hand. The Báran city guard who approached gave him a strange look—no doubt bemused by a nearly naked Destrye wielding the heavy, unrefined weapon in the sumptuous perfumed baths—but quickly bowed. “King Lonen, the Princess Oria would like to enter and speak with you once you’ve finished bathing and have dressed.”

  Oh sure. Exactly what he’d expected. And why in Arill not receive his erstwhile enemy and future wife in the bathing chambers of Bára?

  “Tell her I’m at her disposal.” At her beck and call, even, which stung his pride more than he liked. After all, he was doing this for his people, as a good king should. If he didn’t find building aqueducts and shoveling manure beneath him, marrying a foreign witch shouldn’t be.

  The man hesitated fractionally—perhaps Lonen had snarled too much—then bowed again and stepped out.

  “Your Highness, fresh clothes for you are—”

  “I saw them. In a minute.” He sat again, handing Bero the leather tie for his hair. His favorite one, in fact, exactly the right length and suppleness. He’d been sorry to realize he’d lost it in Bára, then bemused when Oria handed it back to him. Odd that she’d saved it all that time. The tie might be his preferred one, out of long habit, but it didn’t look like much. Not like the fancy gold cords she wore in her braids. “A bit more oil in my hair, if you will, Bero, then tie it back.”

  He wasn’t putting off dressing only to poke at Oria—or only to test how much she saw through that solid gold metal mask without eyeholes. No, he told himself, he acted out of practicality. There was simply no sense getting oil on the silk shirt, borrowed or not. If the side benefits alleviated his stinging pride, so be it.

  He watched for her through the gloom, catching the exact moment she faltered at the sight of him. She didn’t hesitate long, forging gamely forward, but it gave him a welcome bit of satisfaction that she saw him and that he could give her unease. Anything that awarded him an edge with the canny sorceress would be a welcome weapon.

  She strode towards him in that impetuous way of hers, as if she brimmed with more energy than she could contain, crimson robes swirling about her long legs. The dragonlet, her constant companion, rode her shoulder, scales shining even whiter in contrast to the vividly colored
silk, long tail wound around her arm like a series of decorative bracelets finishing at her wrist. Its green eyes shone in the dimness, as if lit from within.

  Oria stopped her usual decorous and obvious distance from him, which perversely made him want to close the space between them. But he didn’t, forcing himself to stay put. He’d never pressed unwelcome advances on a woman in his life, always careful of his size and strength. With Oria a slender sapling compared to the more robust Destrye women, he’d been particularly observant of her physical fragility and aware of crowding her.

  Not that she credited him with any of that restraint. She wavered, well out of reach and poised to flee, as if he might seize her and tumble her to the floor. The idea had its merits—and were he another kind of man he might act on them—if only to reassure himself that she was still the same person inside. Innumerable sorceresses hid behind those featureless gold masks and the crimson robes of their office, virtually identical from any distance. He recognized Oria by her scent of night-blooming lilies, her low musical voice, and that bright copper hair that shone in the elaborately coiled braids. Also no one else carted about a winged, white dragonlet. But none of that substituted for seeing her.

  When he’d met her before, she hadn’t been a priestess and wore no mask. He missed Oria’s lovely oval face and, most of all, her expressive eyes, so full of life and nearly the same color as her metallic hair. Maybe he’d carried anger for too many things for far too long, but all too familiar rage coiled in his gut that she’d glibly offered him marriage then coolly informed him that their alliance would be in name only, that he’d never share her bed or body.

  Not only would he give up a normal marriage to a woman of his own people, he’d also never satisfy that unreasonable and burning desire to strip Oria naked and feel her slim body beneath his, to touch that fair skin, watch her extraordinary copper eyes darken with pleasure. Surely Arill had devised this torture in punishment for the many profane deeds he’d committed in the name of war, to bind him in marriage with the one woman who’d obsessed him like no other, and simultaneously ensure he’d never taste the single reward that might make tying himself to his foreign enemy bearable.