The Tides of Bára Read online

  The Tides of Bára

  Sorcerous Moons – Book 3

  by

  Jeffe Kennedy

  A Narrow Escape

  With her secrets uncovered and her power-mad brother bent on her execution, Princess Oria has no sanctuary left. Her bid to make herself and her new barbarian husband rulers of walled Bára has failed. She and Lonen have no choice but to flee through the leagues of brutal desert between her home and his—certain death for a sorceress, and only a bit slower than the blade.

  A Race Against Time

  At the mercy of a husband barely more than a stranger, Oria must war with her fears and her desires. Wild desert magic buffets her; her husband’s touch allures and burns. Lonen is pushed to the brink, sure he’s doomed his proud bride and all too aware of the restless, ruthless pursuit that follows…

  A Danger Beyond Death…

  Can Oria trust a savage warrior, now that her strength has vanished? Can Lonen choose her against the future of his people? Alone together in the wastes, Lonen and Oria must forge a bond based on more than lust and power, or neither will survive the test…

  Dedication

  This one is for Carien Ubink, aka Sullivan McPig, aka Voodoo Bride.

  First and best reader, amazing assistant, and without whom I’d be utterly lost.

  (And forget easily half of my obligations.)

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to the wonderful readers who generously—and creatively!—suggested names for Lonen’s warhorse. I loved these:

  Aloeus, from Colleen Champagne;

  Draevvon, from Tommi Crow; and

  Shajae, from Evergreen.

  Ultimately, I went with my assistant Carien’s choice, though she made it half in jest. Once she said it, all the conversations between Lonen and Oria about it jumped to life in my head. After that, no matter how much I loved them, no other name would do. Because Carien ran the contest to pick a name, we decided she couldn’t win a prize and we’d award to the honorable mentions instead.

  All she gets is the above dedication.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer M. 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!

  Credits

  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

  Acknowledgements

  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

  About Jeffe Kennedy

  Titles by Jeffe Kennedy

  ~ 1 ~

  Oria held the barrier against her raging brother.

  At least, she did the best she could with her magic draining by the moment, its potency attenuating with distance and diminishing with the lack of opportunity to replenish her sgath—or to even take a full breath. Of course, her upside-down position, bouncing over Lonen’s shoulder as he ran headlong through the palace, did nothing to make any of it easier.

  “We may be in luck,” Chuffta, her Familiar, reported. “Yar’s magic is running low also. He’s sent for more priestesses to feed him sgath, as Gallia can’t.” He paused to mentally cough at that. Oria’s Familiar had also telepathically received Gallia’s urgent message for them to run. As Yar’s wife—particularly a newlywed in a temple-blessed marriage—only Gallia should be feeding Yar sgath to fight the magical barrier Oria had erected to save herself from execution, and Lonen from retribution. But Gallia had only recently arrived in Bára and, unused to the city’s native magic, so different from her home at Lousá, she had not reached her full power.

  But Gallia was stronger than she’d claimed. As a sister in magic, Oria could judge quite precisely how much Gallia had been capable of channeling. Oria’s new sister had exaggerated her weakness—in a move shockingly disloyal to her new husband and against all expectation—to allow Oria to escape. If all went well, Yar would never discover the deception. Between his unstable temper and Gallia’s status in Bára, that could turn out badly for her sister sorceress. Hopefully, she’d take Oria’s advice and appeal to her and Yar’s mother, the former Queen Rhianna, for assistance.

  “I can’t imagine Priest Vico will allow other priestesses to feed sgath to Yar. It’s against temple law if his ideal wife is alive and well,” she replied to Chuffta.

  “Yes, but it depends on what Vico considers to be ‘well.’”

  She framed a reply—speaking mentally took concentration—then grunted in pain as Lonen ducked around a corner, the sudden shift in direction making his shoulder dig into her belly. It looked so much more romantic in the illustrations. In reality, being carried off over a barbarian’s shoulder left much to be desired.

  “Sorry,” Lonen shot the word out between panting breaths. “Unavoidable.”

  She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. It would be handy if she and Lonen could speak mind-to-mind the way she could with Chuffta—and unexpectedly with Gallia—particularly under circumstances like this. He might not like it, though. At the moment, all of his considerable personal energy was focused away from her, no doubt on fighting them free of Bára. At least that saved her having to screen out his emotions along with everyone else’s.

  “You are correct,” Chuffta reported from his vantage, flying well above Yar’s group. Her Familiar seemed to be enjoying his spy activities. “They are arguing about it. Yar is most put out. He’s losing focus and less able to fight your barrier. Vico is gently suggesting he check his hwil, which has not gone over well.” No, Yar would not do well with the suggestion that he might be showing any loss of the crucial equanimity that allowed the priests and priestesses of Bára to handle their dangerously powerful magic. Loss of hwil could be grounds for the temple taking back the mask that was their badge of office. With no mask, Yar could not be king. Could she somehow use that to her advantage—push Yar into losing hwil entirely?

  “No, Oria.” Chuffta’s mind-voice was both sorrowful and deadly earnest. “Without your mask, you cannot be queen either. And now that they know you can use grien, your life would be forfeit, regardless. It’s not worth the risk.”

  It might be, though. If only to save Bára and Dru both from the devastation that would be Yar’s rule.

  “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself. Neither will Lonen,” Chuffta added.

  “I’m already regretting that I encouraged you two to become friends,” she grumbled. Though it warmed her heart that her two men—albeit one a Destrye barbarian warrior and the other a derkesthai winged lizard—cared so much about her. They were her only allies in this mad escape to nowhere. Where would they go? Anywhere but th
is place, Lonen had said. Which meant leaving Bára and lethal exposure to the wild magic that would kill Oria within hours of leaving the walled city. Unless…

  “Wait!” she shouted, and hammered her fists against Lonen’s muscled back when he didn’t even pause. She might as well be spitting into a sandstorm for all the good it did. She began kicking and wriggling against his powerful grip, which only tightened.

  “Cut… it… out,” he panted in time with his strides. He sent her a fierce mental image of him paddling her backside and dropping her into a chasm. As he happened to be racing toward the bridge over Ing’s Chasm, which divided the palace grounds from Bára proper, he certainly could try. Not that he would. Most likely. The barbarian was hard to predict.

  Not that he’d have a chance in Sgatha against her. She might give him the courtesy of staying out of his head, but she would use her magic against him if she had to. She’d become his wife, not his possession.

  To get through his thick skull—and with Chuffta’s report that Yar was otherwise occupied arguing with the High Priest—she diverted some of her active grien magic into a sharp smack on Lonen’s ass.

  He shouted in surprise, dropped her in an undignified heap on the ground, and whirled on his unseen attacker, brandishing his iron battle-axe in both hands. If she hadn’t been trying to get her breath back, both from the jouncing ride and the fall—and if the circumstances had been less extreme—she’d have laughed at the look on his face.

  With his warrior’s reflexes, his consternation didn’t last long, and he rounded on her with a thunderous expression. “That was you!”

  “Yes, curse you.” She was struggling to her feet, gracelessly tangled in her priestess robes. Despite his annoyance with her, Lonen moved quickly to help with a hand under her elbow, judiciously touching her only over the silk. She appreciated the assist, but quickly stepped out of his reach before he could toss her over his shoulder again. “You weren’t listening to me.”

  “I was busy saving your life if you hadn’t noticed,” he bit out, and reached for her with one hand, holding the heavy axe in his other with easy strength.

  She barely nipped back in time, holding up her palms to fend him off. “Not so fast. I stopped you because I want to go see my mother.”

  He stared at her with almost comical disbelief, the scar that jagged from his forehead and down one cheek ticcing with his ire, the emotion swirling around her now wholly pointed in her direction along with his incredulous attention. “I married a crazy woman,” he said in an almost reflective tone. “Arill has cursed me with an insane wife, because I wasn’t losing my mind fast enough on my own.”

  Oria threw up her hands and moved to go back into the palace. She made it one step before Lonen thrust his bulk between her and the doorway.

  “Don’t try it, Oria,” he warned. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll risk skin contact with you if it means saving your pretty neck from the executioner’s blade.”

  “We don’t have time for this!”

  “Thank Arill—she’s regained her sanity.” Lonen moved to grab her again and she danced back, nearly tripping over the long hem of her formal robes.

  “Listen to me, you thickheaded Destrye barbarian. Chuffta is watching them from above. Yar is out of power for the moment. We have breathing room and I need to see my mother.”

  “We don’t have time for a heartfelt goodbye, you softhearted Báran sorceress,” he snarled.

  “I may be naïve, but I’m not stupid,” she snarled back. “I need her advice if I’m going to find a way to survive outside the walls. Even you have to admit it will do me no good to escape execution only to succumb to the wild magic within hours of leaving the city. There has to be a way to do it because Gallia survived the journey here, but I don’t know the trick. My mother might. Think!”

  “I’m not stupid either. But at the risk of being cruel, I ask you to recall your mother’s state of mind only two days ago.” He took a deep breath, his emotional aura dampening. Something he was rapidly learning to do in being gentle with her. “She’s beyond helping you.”

  “She has good days,” Oria insisted. “And if she’s in a fugue, then I promise we’ll leave immediately with little time lost. It’s worth the risk if you want me to be of any use to the Destrye.”

  Lonen possessed a quick intelligence and an enviable ability to adapt his strategy quickly to changing circumstances, so he didn’t argue further. He also put the welfare of his people above all else. He slid the axe into its sheath on his back and stepped aside. “Walk fast. The moment Chuffta reports any change, you tell me immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” she snapped, moving at a half-run down the grand hall to her mother’s rooms. With his longer stride, Lonen kept up easily.

  “I like the sound of that,” he told her. “Finally, a little respect and humility from my scary sorceress wife.”

  “You wish,” she retorted and he laughed, that big, rich sound. The Destrye king had a remarkable ability to find humor in the most dire circumstances. Perhaps all Destrye were like that, but somehow she didn’t think so.

  “All still okay?” she asked Chuffta, mostly to check on him. Certainly not because Lonen had ordered her to.

  “They’ve gone into the temple and I think it best not to follow. I’ll wait to see if anyone emerges to give the order to stop you.”

  Perhaps Vico planned to delay Yar long enough to let her escape. He’d taken her mask, as temple law compelled him, and she’d distinctly read his shock and revulsion at the discovery that she could wield male grien magic in addition to her appropriately female sgath. But he’d also acted before this to support her claim to the throne of Bára. She might be anathema due to her using male magic, but Yar posed an entirely different kind of threat. Not everyone supported her over Yar, but at least the people she most respected seemed to recognize the danger of his power-mad ways.

  “Your mother refused to see you this morning,” Lonen pointed out. “How will you get in now?”

  “No she didn’t. I never asked her to come to the trial.”

  “What?” Lonen’s anger snapped brisk at her. “You could have used her support—and you lied to me that you sent her a message about it.”

  “I implied,” she answered, refusing to feel guilty about it. “I couldn’t ask her to watch her two remaining children fight over the throne, possibly to the death.”

  “We’re going to have words about this, Oria,” he gritted out.

  “Sure!” she said, with a confidence she didn’t feel. “If I live, we can fight all you like about how I don’t have to do what you tell me to.”

  She was spared his response—a blistering one it would have been, too, by the feel of him—as they arrived at her mother’s chambers to find them barred, and the guards with swords drawn against them.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded, using her best affronted-princess tone. The city and palace guard were on her side in the conflict with Yar. At least, they had been before this.

  Lonen loomed at her back, the shadow cast by the bright sun outside the window revealing that he brandished his axe again. The double-headed blades stood out stark and black against the golden rose stone of the wall. An ill omen.

  “None are to enter the former queen’s chambers,” one of the guards said sternly enough, but the fear and uncertainty she read easily in his mind betrayed him, along with an image of Yar’s face.

  “According to whose orders?”

  The guards exchanged glances. “Ah, King Yar’s orders, Princess Oria,” he answered.

  “He’s not king yet. If he said so, he lied.”

  “No, but… he will be, since you lost the contest. And we have to live here, Princess.”

  She shouldn’t question how they knew the outcome of the magic trial. Vico may have banished the audience, but more sorcerers and sorceresses than she possessed the ability to magically spy on events. Knowledge was gold in Bára and gossip the fastest way to ca
pitalize on it.

  “If they’re incapacitated, they can’t be blamed for dereliction of duty,” Lonen commented, in an eerily even tone. That deep, boiling rage in him fulminated near the surface, and she had no doubt he’d kill them without trouble. Her warrior might not relish killing, but he did it well.

  “Choose, gentlemen,” she ordered, trying to match Lonen’s chill. “Death or unconsciousness—or you can yield and I’ll make sure Captain Ercole knows you acted on my command.” Ercole, at least, would stay loyal to her. The lay folk of Bára wouldn’t care so much about her unseemly magic. She hoped. It wasn’t as if there was historical precedent. No woman could actively wield grien magic, just as men couldn’t passively absorb sgath. That was the natural order of things.

  It just figured that she’d be the unnatural one.

  “Only so far as you know,” Chuffta chided. “Why would the temple have a law against an impossible thing? There must have been those who came before you, to cause such a law to be put into the scrolls.”

  An interesting point. Princess Ponen, the Trom had called her, on two occasions. An old word that meant potential, her mother had explained during one of her more lucid moments. Perhaps Oria’s strange abilities related to that. But then the alien and terrible Trom could hardly be trusted. Summoned by Yar, the monstrous guardians killed with the least touch—any who still defied them after their giant dragon mounts reduced all in their path to ash with their fiery breath. But the Trom had deferred to Oria in an odd way. A profoundly discomfiting way, and their touch had no effect on her. Especially counterintuitive since she couldn’t bear skin-to-skin contact with any but family and those with perfect hwil.

  Someday you will call to us and your understanding will deepen. The memory of the Trom’s words to her was enough to make her shudder, but time enough to deal with the Trom and the ongoing threat they posed after they escaped.

  The guards meanwhile hesitated only a moment longer, eyeing Lonen with trepidation. He’d gained quite the reputation among the soldiers of Bára during the assault of the city. She didn’t care to contemplate how many Bárans he’d killed personally, not to mention all the defenseless priestesses he’d murdered. Her people had slaughtered far more of his. Besides, she and Lonen had agreed to stop apologizing to each other for the transgressions of the past.