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  Oria’s Enchantment

  Sorcerous Moons – Book 5

  by

  Jeffe Kennedy

  The Temptation of Power

  No longer a princess and not yet a queen, the sorceress Oria welcomes the rush of power the ancient mask brings her—though the obsessive connection to it frightens her and alarms her barbarian husband, Lonen. But retreat is not an option. She must wrestle the magic to prevent an annihilating war, even if she must make the ultimate sacrifice.

  A World in Flames

  If Lonen wants to reclaim his throne—and save his people from destruction—he must return by sunset on the seventh day. What he thought would be a short and simple journey, however, leads them deeper into the mountains—and Oria deeper into the thrall of foul magic. Until he must choose between two terrible paths.

  A Heart-Wrenching Choice

  Struggling with conflicting loyalties, Oria and Lonen fight to find a way to be together… lest they be separated forever, and their realms go down in flames with them.

  Dedication

  For Terri Beth Chenault Verrette,

  Who accused me of ending the last book “mid-paragraph,”

  And who became an insistent voice among many that I finish this series.

  Acknowledgements

  Many, many thanks to Nathan Lowell, who asked me every time we talked (and we’re both on the SFWA Board of Directors, so it was often) when I was going to finish this series.

  Huge thanks, too, to all of the readers who emailed, messaged, tweeted, and mentioned how much they wanted the next book. I’m truly chagrined I made you wait two years for this—and also grateful for your “pestering.” Always feel free to do that! Without all of you asking, I might never have made it back around to this tale.

  Merci to Melliane for her work behind the scenes—and for sticking with me.

  A special thank you to Carien, for an early read and excellent feedback. And for everything else, as usual, ad infinitum.

  Very special and heartfelt thanks to Kelly Robson, whose daily presence online carried me through some difficult drafting. You always know what book I’m working on—and you always ask how it’s going. That means more than I can ever say.

  Love—yesterday, today, and always—to David, who shares my days and nights. I wouldn’t change a thing, my dear.

  Copyright © 2019 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

  Line and Copy Editor: Rebecca Cremonese

  Cover Design: Steam Power Studios, www.steampowerstudios.com.au

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  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

  Titles by Jeffe Kennedy

  About Jeffe Kennedy

  ~ 1 ~

  The mask hung in her awareness like a blinding sun, scorching bright and enticingly hot. Not that the wintry mountain air made her all that cold. Her husband, Lonen, had gone to great lengths to make sure she stayed warm. No, this was like a physical craving. Oria thirsted for more of the golden mask’s rich magic, starving for another taste.

  With every stride of Lonen’s warhorse, Buttercup, with every minute since that morning when she’d held the artifact in her hands, swept under by its immense power, she missed it exponentially more.

  Naturally, she wouldn’t tell Lonen.

  It wouldn’t help anything for him to know how deeply the mask affected her. She’d admitted to being frightened by it and that unwise admission had been more than enough. Freshly shaken from the encounter, she’d promised Lonen she wouldn’t use the mask by herself. “Fear,” however, didn’t accurately describe her emotions.

  “Greed” would be a better word—and now she deeply regretted that hasty promise. She wanted the mask with a longing unlike anything she’d felt before, except for perhaps during sexplay with Lonen. He had a way of stoking overpowering need in her. Perhaps if they could have actual intercourse, with skin-to-skin contact, that driving desire might be slaked. As it was, despite his inventive alternatives—or, more likely, entirely as a result of those frustrating games of his—their sexual interludes drove all rational sense from her mind, until she could think of nothing but begging for more and more and more.

  She wanted the mask like that—but no amount of begging Lonen would work in this case. She had to find another way.

  Even now, riding in the cradle of Lonen’s arm, cozy in the shadowcat fur cloak, with the startling peaks of the snow-capped mountains rising against the jewel-bright blue sky, she couldn’t rest content. The mask mentally tugged at her. After the session with it in the chapel, Lonen had taken the mask from her, holding it suspiciously in gloved hands—and keeping it out of hers. All because she’d lost a bit of time while communing with it, and felt a little ill and disoriented afterward. He flatly refused to give it back, too, and she couldn’t match Lonen’s physical strength.

  Fortunately, she’d managed to persuade him that they needed the magical artifact and he’d agreed to bring it with them. She’d know how to handle it better next time.

  There had to be a next time.

  She didn’t know what extremes she might’ve gone to if he’d insisted on leaving it behind. Or worse, if he’d walled it up again in that tomb behind stones too heavy for her to budge. Though, if he had gone to such an extreme, she could perhaps have used magic to change the balance of power between them.

  She’d barely begun to practice magic in active ways before they fled Bára. Leaving her home—and the deep, ancestral well of sgath magic beneath the walled city—had stripped her of her birthright of power along with her crown. Now the short and overwhelming session with the mask had filled her with such immense reservoirs of sgath magic that she bubbled over with it. She had little experience, and no doubt even less dexterity, at converting passive sgath to active grien to use it as a tool, but she possessed plenty of punch.

  Enough to overcome Lonen. Just to take the mask. That’s all.

  The unfamiliar power tingled in her fingertips, begging to be released, to be exploited…

  No. She wouldn’t do that. She’d risk harming Lonen, perhaps permanently. She loved him and would never hurt him. And yet…

  The mask belonged to her. Lonen knew that as well as anyone. He’d taken her to the chapel because he recognized Oria’s resemblance to the ancient sorceress depicted in the retablo paintings. It belonged to Oria and her people, not to the barbarian Destrye who’d stolen her ancestress away. Anyone who came between Oria and that mask would suffer just consequences.

  The mask whispered to her, full of sweet, heady power she could sense, but that only trickl
ed weakly since she couldn’t touch it. Lonen had wrapped the mask in layers of leather, knotted the ties that bound it, and then buried it at the bottom of the saddlebags, which he all but sat on.

  When they stopped to eat, however, he might answer the call of nature. While he was off in the woods, she could extract the mask and drink in its magic. It wanted her to. That morning, Oria had only been able to take in a bit, the mask had sat stagnant so long and her sgath portals had been jammed shut with disuse. Recovering from physical starvation had worked that way, too. Her stomach had shrunk so that when she’d gotten the right food, she’d had to eat slowly, to give her system time to recover. But she’d also eaten frequently. Refilling her empty reserves with sgath again could follow the same pattern.

  Lonen, however, distrusted the mask too much. To be fair, she had lost control during that first session, but she knew better now. If she could get to the mask, even only for a few minutes, she’d prove that to him.

  “I’d help. I could get the mask out faster than you. I have sharp teeth and sharper claws,” Chuffta bragged, not idly.

  Oria glanced up to where her Familiar flew overhead, as dazzlingly white as the snow all around them, but with iridescent rainbow shimmers in his scales. The winged lizard looked surprisingly at home in the wintry landscape, so far from his desert habitat. He cocked his head at her, piercing green gaze meeting hers over the downbeat of his translucent leathery wings.

  “I look like I belong because I match the snow is all. It’s far too cold here. What we need is fire! I could burn the saddlebag and free the mask—it won’t melt.” He breathed a puff of green fire in demonstration.

  “We promised Lonen that neither of us would touch it without him,” she reminded Chuffta silently, aware that she’d been perfectly ready to break that promise only a moment ago.

  “You promised,” he grumbled. “I didn’t promise Lonen anything.”

  “Only because he can’t hear you like I can. He trusts me to speak for you.” And he trusted her to abide by her promise. Her thoughts had gone far down a dark and twisting path. How could she have been plotting to break her word, so soon after giving it?

  “Lonen doesn’t understand how the mask feels,” Chuffta commented, a wistful tone to his mental voice. “He’s only a mind-dead barbarian. He’ll never be able to understand.”

  “Chuffta!” She stifled a physical gasp of reaction at her Familiar’s thoughts, an unpleasant echo of Báran attitudes toward Lonen’s people.

  “You thought the same thing before,” Chuffta complained, but sounded chastened.

  “Before I knew better. Now we both know better.” But Chuffta had a point—that Lonen didn’t understand magic. He couldn’t. It would be up to her to show him. Just a taste of the mask’s power. “All right, let’s do it. I’ll suggest that we stop. But no destroying the saddlebags. There’s stuff in there that we need.”

  “People stuff,” he grumbled. “Derkesthai don’t need so much stuff.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “What are you and Chuffta discussing?” Lonen asked, his deep voice a rumble against her back.

  She jumped inside her skin, but managed to conceal it by turning her startled and guilty jerk into a wriggle. Leaning against him, reminding herself of the protection that his strong body offered—and the affection and trust that came with it—she tipped her head back to look at her husband. Apparently impervious to the cold, he’d thrown back the furry hood of his cloak, so the chill breeze off the mountain peaks tossed his unruly dark curls, the bright sunlight only emphasizing the glossy blue-black of his hair, the ruggedness of his features, and the granite of his gaze. “How do you always know?” she asked.

  He plucked a strand of her long hair that had blown across her face, carefully not touching her skin, and wound it around his finger as he studied her expression. “I don’t always know, do I? Only sometimes do I realize you must be, and mostly from the way he behaves.” Lonen jerked his chin at Chuffta, who’d surged forward to soar along the edge of a precipice, taking advantage of the rising thermals stirred from the valleys by the intense sun. “He looks at you, flies closer, breathes flame sometimes.” Lonen raised his brows in question.

  “He likes to brag,” Oria explained.

  “But you, your expression and manner don’t often reveal much.” His voice lowered, a certain suspicion in it.

  “That was part of my training, as a member of the royal family and the priestess they expected me to become. I worked very hard to learn to compose myself so as not to reveal emotion.”

  “You’re very good at it. Which worries me. You’re acting strangely now.”

  “Now?” She suspected where he was going with this and asked the question more as a delaying tactic. Lonen saw through her far better than he pretended.

  “Since this morning and your encounter with that … thing.”

  His scarred eye twitched, and she lifted a gloved hand to his face, the scarlet velvet a startling contrast to his brown skin, and smoothed the nap over that brow. The newer scar over the old one, both crossing his eye above and below, pulled pink and new, and he sometimes rubbed it as if it pained him, though her barbarian warrior wasn’t one to complain. If only she could truly touch him.

  “I’m still me,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “And I’m feeling so much better now. Especially with the magic from Tania’s mask.” She’d decided to call her unnamed ancestress after a long-lost aunt. If only she could persuade him to let her keep the mask on her person… “I’m excited to try again since the mask will—”

  “Will stay in the saddlebags for now,” he cut her off, narrowing his gaze on her face.

  Annoyed, she turned away so he wouldn’t see it in her, how much she wanted—needed—just another small taste. “I have to learn to work with it if we’re to have a hope of saving Dru from Yar and the Trom.”

  “Yes, well,” he replied, sounding drily amused but also resolved, “winning that war shouldn’t be an issue in the next few hours, and I want you to have some distance from that thing before you go near it again.”

  “It’s mine, Lonen,” she replied tightly, curling her velvet-clad fingers against the urge to claw him. “Your ancestor may have taken Tania captive and bred children on her, but she was of my people, not yours.”

  “Oh?” He replied with lethal softness. “And here I recall a vow when you married me that you’d be my wife and Queen of the Destrye, that you would take Dru as your responsibility and the people as your own.”

  Curse his clever tongue.

  “He does have a point,” Chuffta said, sounding as chastened as she felt.

  “Only partially.” Speaking aloud, she said, “As your brothers and numerous other Destrye, including your Priest of Arill, have noted, I am not Queen of Dru and won’t be unless we’re married according to your goddess.”

  “According to your temple, your ways, and the evidence of my own senses,” he shot back immediately, “the bond between us was magically forged and cannot be broken.”

  She opened her mouth with a vague thought of arguing, but the tightening of his arms around her stopped her words in her throat.

  “Don’t try to deny that, sorceress,” he murmured in her ear, “because even this mind-dead barbarian can sense magic at that level.”

  “I didn’t know you could sense the magic of the marriage bond so strongly,” she said aloud. Had he told her that? She didn’t think so. How odd.

  “You’re like a burning sun inside me, Oria,” he murmured in her ear, his lips so close only the veil of her hair prevented contact.

  With him so near, his emotions flew into her like arrows, and she narrowed her magic portals to control the onslaught. Love, desire, fear, worry… and hope balancing the razor edge of despair. Lonen was a man of passionate feelings, which he projected with the same exuberant force as his personality, and it could be too much for her to bear, on so many levels.

  “It doesn’t matter what my brothers or the
priests say,” he continued with grim resolve, “you’re wedded so tightly to my soul I imagine you’ll be there after this body is gone and blown to ash in the wind.”

  She shivered at the images. Too many of them too similar to her own thoughts.

  “But,” he continued in a more cheerful tone, thankfully giving her a bit more room, “their objections won’t matter much longer because when we return, we’ll be wed under Arill’s hand as well. Then there will be no doubts.”

  “Do you think your mother will be willing to journey back with us and sponsor the marriage?” Oria did have doubts. Many of them.

  “Yes.” He said it with finality, though she wondered how he planned to convince this former queen who lived in some sort of exile or hermitage, far from her family and the forests of Dru. It had never been clear to Oria why his mother lived so far from the center of Destrye government and Lonen had ducked answering her questions. “I wouldn’t be dragging you on this journey otherwise,” he added, after a moment.

  “I thought you brought me along because you wanted to show me Odymesen’s chapel, because you thought the magic there might help me, and it did.” She didn’t need to remind either of them that they’d both feared for her safety in the palace without him there to protect her.

  “True. I hope I don’t regret that.”

  “If you’re that concerned,” she replied, stung, “it seems unwise to marry me any more than you already have.”

  His strong arm slid around her waist, pulling her back against him, though she remained stiff. “I don’t regret finding magic for you, beloved Oria,” he said quietly. “Only that the nature of what we found might jeopardize your wellbeing.”

  “It won’t,” she answered. “You have to trust me there.”

  Making a noncommittal sound, he didn’t offer any guarantee. Silence fell between them, fraught with the argument neither of them wanted to continue.