Oria's Enchantment Read online

  She sighed in her sleep, snuggling against him with all the trust she’d withheld when awake and angry with him. Her lovely profile stood out in pale contrast to the shining copper of her hair, fiery in the sunlight and framed in the dappled shadowcat fur so perfect for showcasing her exotic beauty. In sleep she seemed all soft and fragile woman, with little evidence of the immensely powerful sorcery that burned within her. It consumed her, that magic, like a fever thinning her skin—and affecting her mind with delirium.

  He fervently wished he hadn’t given in to Oria’s wheedling that led to unearthing the mask from the tomb. Perhaps she’d been right to chide him for being superstitious about the old prohibitions against violating tombs, but often those warnings that seemed baseless contained dire truths. If he hadn’t been so afraid for Oria, so worried that she’d die without access to the magic of Odymesen’s sorceress wife, he would’ve been able to resist what he knew was a bad idea. But he’d given in, and the mask did seem to at least provide Oria with the magic she needed to survive. He’d also studied the inscriptions on the tomb of that ancient pair.

  And he hadn’t told Oria all of it.

  Odymesen had loved his sorceress wife, yes, a woman of Oria’s people, captured in war and brought back to the forests of Dru. She’d lived a long life among them—unlike her sister sorceresses who’d languished and died, much as Oria had been on the way to doing—and she’d brought great gifts to the Destrye during that lifetime. But the inscriptions also warned that Odymesen had been pressed to serve as guardian to those gifts, that his sorceress’s magic could turn dark and deadly.

  In the end, he’d killed her with his own hands, to stop her from some terrible, unnamed destruction. Looking at his lovely Oria, sleeping so trustingly in his arms, Lonen couldn’t imagine harming her. And yet…

  And yet he’d felt the magic of that mask in her. It snarled in her voice, like another being entirely, and fueled a fury not native to her gentle nature. For a few moments, at the height of her rage, he’d been afraid of her. Her magic had been a palpable threat, like a coiled serpent poised to strike him down. The mask gave her the fuel for her sorcerous abilities, but it also somehow influenced how she used them. Perhaps even corrupting her will.

  The way she’d looked, collapsed in the snow, clutching that mask even as her blood poured down her unconscious face… He’d remember that gut-watering sight until the day he died.

  Chuffta returned from his forays, swooping and circling overhead. Oria’s Familiar always showed discretion that way, giving them privacy for sexual intimacy—though not for much else. The derkesthai Familiar had helped Oria get the mask, encouraged her somehow, Lonen felt sure. Chuffta gave him a long, almost speculative look as he slowed his circling, his green eyes glittering bright. Not a reassuring expression at all.

  While he and Chuffta had established a friendly relationship, Lonen harbored no illusions that the derkesthai’s loyalty belonged to anyone but Oria. He acted in her best interests, but Chuffta was also young and easily swayed by shiny and interesting things, like fire. Or powerful magical artifacts. Chuffta had been as attracted to the mask as Oria was—which meant Lonen could find himself fighting the pair of them.

  Wonderful. He possessed no magic, had no Familiar of his own, unless you counted Buttercup, which he didn’t. The warhorse, while uncommonly intelligent and certainly powerful, wasn’t a magical companion on par with the derkesthai. He and the horse had only brute strength, stamina, and fighting excellence on their side of the arsenal. Yes, Buttercup understood him with near perfect communication, but not in the same way.

  Not enough to counter sorcery like he’d seen the Báran war mages employ. Hopefully he worried unnecessarily about a battle that would never come to pass.

  Still, no matter that Oria teased him about his sunny optimism, Lonen had a hard time seeing how this would turn out well. For the time being though, he’d do his best to savor the moment. His beautiful—and healing—bride asleep in his arms, the scent of pine forest and fresh snow, the hot glance of the sun on his face.

  All of them safe and well, if only for the space of an afternoon.

  ~ 3 ~

  “Oria.”

  The sound of her name pulled her from deep sleep and strange dreams. Not nightmares for once, but still odd visions of people and lands she didn’t recognize. She’d been dancing around a fire to the throbbing beat of huge copper-clad drums, the hammered metal glinting with rose-gold light. Scantily clad, she’d felt sleek and sinuous, moving her body to the powerful beat while her husband watched, desire and fear in his dark eyes. He’d gripped the arms of his throne with powerful hands as the magic rose in her, a fire in her blood that drowned out all else.

  The crown of Dru rested on his head, the metal leaves of the wreath twined through his thick dark curls, threads of silver at his temples and in his long beard. Her husband. Her king.

  With the wrong face. Not Lonen, but some other Destrye king.

  She blinked at him in drowsy confusion, Lonen’s face like and unlike the man in her dream. The same broad cheekbones, the dark hair and beard, the same powerful mien of the Destrye warriors that even the illustrations back in Bára had shown more or less accurately.

  The eyes, though, they were different. Lonen’s were a deep granite gray, with lush black lashes that would be feminine on a softer visage. They held love without fear—and a delighted sparkle. Above his beard, his mouth curved in a mischievous smile of anticipation.

  She’d fallen in love with him because of his humor. Well, for many reasons, but first for that. Even when the Destrye suffered terrible defeat in Bára, when he’d faced horrors monstrous enough to leave his skin ashen and his eyes dark as pits, he’d been able to laugh—and make her laugh in turn. As always unable to resist that impish charm in him, she smiled back. “What has you looking like the derkesthai that devoured a nest of eggs?”

  “I only did that once,” Chuffta mentally sniffed in offense. “And I was new to Bára.”

  “You ate the high priestess’s clutch of prized songbirds,” she reminded Chuffta aloud, for Lonen’s benefit, keeping the amusement out of her tone though she grinned at Lonen.

  “He did?” Lonen grinned, too, and flicked a glance at the circling Familiar. “Chuffta, man—bad form.”

  “I didn’t know!” he complained, then added, “but they didn’t taste like prized anything. More important, there’s something very exciting just ahead.”

  “Chuffta says there’s something interesting ahead?”

  Lonen scowled. “Did he spoil the surprise?”

  “No. He wouldn’t.” Just to be sure, she mentally reminded Chuffta not to tell her. He sent her a scornful, wordless thought in reply. She levered herself up, her body protesting and unexpectedly stiff. “I must’ve slept a long time,” she noted, realizing she’d slipped down all but horizontal in Lonen’s firm hold.

  “Half the day,” Lonen agreed, nodding his chin at the sun, which now lowered in the sky ahead of them. Afternoon then, and not morning at all anymore. He raised a challenging brow at her exclamation of dismay. “You needed the rest.”

  Apparently, but how thoughtless of her. “But you must be starving, and you haven’t had a break from riding all this time.” Then she caught herself, remembering what happened the last time she encouraged him to take a break.

  He lowered his brows, giving her a patient look. “Oria, my love, I’ve been glued to the saddle without food or rest for far longer than this on campaigns. I hardly noticed.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, relieved that he wasn’t going to castigate her further for what she’d done. “So stalwart and tough, my Destrye warrior.”

  “I’m glad you finally recognize this truth,” he replied solemnly, then grinned when she made a huff of exasperation. “Look.” He pointed. “Watch through those trees there.”

  Peering along the line of his blunt finger, she scanned the forest lining the path. Now that she’d become accustomed to the extraordinary sight of so many trees, tall and dense, covering the landscape in numbers as great as the grains of sand at Bára, she found the forest somewhat frustrating and claustrophobic. You couldn’t see anything but trees. Their ranks of thick trunks bordered the paths, soaring above on all sides and carving the sky into small pieces. Only when they came to one of the great precipices could she see any distance.

  She’d opened her mouth to accuse him of making sport of her when she caught a glimpse of another color between the rows and columns of black trunks and snow-covered ground and branches. There.

  Blue.

  A blue so vast and bright it reflected like another sky full of sunlight. Like nothing she’d ever seen. Straining her eyes, she searched for another glimpse… Then caught her breath with a joyous wrench of utter shock.

  Buttercup had rounded a bend and the vista opened up before them. The forest fell away to either side, the path they followed snaking down a steep hillside, the valley below filled entirely with water.

  More water than she’d ever seen in her entire life. More than she’d been able to imagine existed.

  “Is it the ocean?” she breathed in wonder.

  Lonen laughed, then kissed her hair in apology. “No, my desert lady. It’s but a lake. Lake Scandamalion. Not as large as the ones we once had, but the largest that’s left—that we know of.”

  She set aside the wincing guilt that it had been her people who drained the lakes of Dru dry, sucking away the water through tunnels and over time. Hoarding and squandering it, killing the Destrye by slow degrees. “Can we swim in it?” she asked, remembering how Lonen had promised her that.

  They’d swum in the water at the oasis—well, he’d swum and she’d waded and floated—but that was nothing compared to the vastness of this lake. A vibration of amusement rumbled in him, though Lonen managed not to laugh out loud this time. Wrapping an arm around her waist and snugging her against him, he pointed toward the hills sloping down toward the water, tracing the line for her while Buttercup stood obediently still.

  “See how the snow goes all the way to the water? The lake isn’t frozen, but it is snowmelt water—which means it’s bitterly cold. You could swim in it—and some like to test themselves that way—but I don’t think you would enjoy it.”

  “No,” she agreed fervently, trying to imagine what that might feel like. Back in Bára they’d used ice in drinks, and to freeze fruit sherbets, but it had melted so quickly in the fierce heat that the experience of chill had been fleeting. To immerse in it…

  As they watched, Chuffta’s small white form soared over the brilliant blue of the lake. Then he folded his wings and dove, spearing into the water.

  “Chuffta, no!” she cried.

  “Cold!” he shouted in her mind, his tone exhilarated. “There’s huge fish in here, too.”

  She groaned, shaking her head, and Lonen laughed, urging Buttercup down the switchback path and taking up the reins again. For the most part Buttercup’s thoughts reflected the disciplined stoicism of an impeccably trained warhorse, but just then his mind jumped with excitement at the sight of the lake and the tricky, snow-covered path to it. The horse didn’t articulate his thoughts with the clear intelligence that Chuffta did, but he was smarter than many other animals. It always interested her that Lonen seemed to know when Buttercup needed a guiding hand on the reins and when he could be trusted to behave well.

  Probably a reflection of Lonen’s intuitive nature, which he also employed to gentle her and coax her into behaving well, her body leaping eagerly to his caresses, as well trained as his warhorse and hunting dogs. Thinking of which, she suddenly realized she hadn’t thought about craving contact with the mask since she’d awakened. She couldn’t decide how she felt about that.

  It might be the cowardly choice, but at least for the moment, she decided not to think about it at all.

  Lonen regaled her with tales of expeditions to the lake in his youth—a far more carefree era for Dru—and plans to repair and extend the aqueduct network in spring, to bring water to the fields lower down. Neither of them mentioned what had happened to the previous aqueduct the Destrye had labored so hard to build a few short months before. The burn scars along the lakeshore where the wooden structures had been were clearly visible a short distance away. The Trom had burnt them with vicious thoroughness, a maneuver intended only to harm Dru, as Oria’s brother Yar, Bára, and Bára’s sister cities gained nothing from the move. It wasn’t as if the water the Destrye used came out of Báran mouths.

  Or did it?

  “The tunnels Nolan traveled in, from the lake beneath Bára back to Dru,” she wondered, “could they extend to here?”

  Lonen halted Buttercup at the water’s edge and swung down, holding his arms up for her. “I’ve thought about that,” he replied. Of course he had. Lonen seemed to think of everything far before she did. Bracing herself on his strong forearms, she swung her leg over and he lifted her down as if she weighed nothing. He set her on her feet, but held her there, hands on her waist, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “I don’t think so. Nolan said the tunnels ended north of Arill City, in a region that used to have numerous prairie lakes. For the tunnels to extend all this way, they’d have to travel beneath most of Dru—and go through the granite bedrock of these mountains. Could the Báran sorcerers accomplish such a great feat?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. Her knowledge of what the Báran men, even her own father and brothers, could do with their powerful grien magic was woefully thin and riddled with gaping holes. “I didn’t know about the tunnels to begin with, or the underground lake beneath the city, until Nolan told us. Before that I would’ve said no, it couldn’t be done, but now I’m not so certain…”

  “Could you do it, do you think?” He studied her, asking the question in an almost idle tone, but with a certain intensity beneath.

  “As a woman, I’m not supposed to be able to wield grien magic at all,” she pointed out.

  “But we both know you can. Now that you have a store of sgath again, you can maybe channel it into grien, like you did before.”

  She began to follow his line of thinking. “You want me to bore tunnels through bedrock, to carry water down to the fields. Then the Trom dragons will have nothing to burn.”

  “It’s an ideal solution.” His gaze wandered over her face. “If the cost isn’t too high.”

  “With access to the mask, and practice,” she emphasized, “I should be able to filter the wild magic indefinitely, ordering it into sgath. After that, it would only take time to gradually wear away the rock, I’d think.”

  He nodded, more confirming something to himself. “Something to consider.”

  “No sense considering it if you won’t let me have the mask.” She raised her brows at him, giving him a cold look to make certain he knew she hadn’t forgiven him taking control of that.

  “I did say we’d have to factor the cost.” His hands tightened on her waist, the scar over his eye twisting with a slight tic. “It’s not worth your life. Or sanity.”

  Arrested, she stared at him a moment. “I doubt the stakes are so high. I feel fine.”

  “I don’t know about that.” He let her go and turned to survey the lake. “Next summer, when the weather warms, we can come back and you can swim to your heart’s content.”

  “That won’t happen if Nolan kills you in a duel for the throne.”

  “Then I’ll have to win.”

  “And even then, it won’t happen unless we can defeat Yar.”

  “Then we’ll do that, too.”

  “You’re so bloody optimistic,” she grumbled.

  “A good balance for my pretty pessimist.” He grinned at her. “See what a great team we make?”

  “I see that you deliberately changed the subject.”

  “Absolutely. Look—Chuffta caught a fish.”

  “Oh no—Chuffta, let the poor thing go!”

  “A big fish! I caught it myself. It’s very heavy though.” Even his thoughts sounded labored as he flew low over the water toward them, the silvery fish twice the size of Chuffta’s body dangling—and flapping, and writhing—in his talons. “It wants to get away, but it won’t. Mine.”

  “Let it go. It’ll die out of water,” she called.

  “Yes, it will,” Lonen agreed, clapping his hands together. “And will make for fine eating. Good work, Chuffta man.”

  Chuffta made it to shore and landed heavily, pinning the fish with talons and spread wings, while Lonen grabbed a fist-sized rock and dispatched the fish. Gorge rising, Oria turned away, focusing on the deceptively peaceful and lovely scenery.

  “We have food,” she pointed out, not looking, though the predatory glee of Chuffta’s thoughts and the pleased anticipation of Lonen’s kept her apprised of their actions. Both meat-eaters, the pair of them at least shared that hunter’s excitement in the catch. At least the fish didn’t have emotions, not that she could sense. This was, no doubt, why the magic-users of Bára had been vegetarians for generations. Though her brother Yar had killed human beings without seeming at all affected by it.

  “We have some food, yes, but we don’t have a fresh stardew,” Lonen replied. “Here Chuffta, keep your snout clear of my knife or I’ll nick you. The entrails are all yours once I get them out. More important,” he said to Oria, “this will make a fine gift for my mother, and should go a long way toward putting her in the right frame of mind.”

  “And what is the right frame of mind?” Oria muttered the question mostly to herself.

  “Generous,” Lonen answered, in the same tone.

  She wandered along the lakeshore, moving away from the impromptu slaughter—and Chuffta’s carnivorous satisfaction. Of course she’d always fed him meat of various kinds, as that was his nature, but in Bára his meals had been delivered in innocuous bites arranged on platters. He’d only started killing for food since they left Bára, with the exception of his occasional youthful lapse. It shouldn’t bother her, as she’d been the one to put him in this position. But the predatory glee in him felt something like the vicious killing rages of the Trom dragons.