you.”
“You said skin to skin—this is skin to hair.
They’re different.”
“Lonen.” She put her hands on her hips,
bristling with exasperation.
“Just try,” he coaxed. “You said your
mother’s good opinion and support are important.”
“You don’t know that,” she said in a sharp
tone.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you.” She waved a hand to erase the
words. “I’m sorry. I was replying to Chuffta. It’s not always easy
with both of you talking at me at once.”
He and the derkesthai exchanged rueful looks,
an odd brotherhood. “He thinks you can try?”
“Yes.” She sighed her exasperation. “Fine.
But don’t move.”
He could swear her Familiar gave him a
knowing nod of complicity before leaning his cheek against the
smooth skin under Oria’s ear. She relaxed at the contact—deriving
some kind of stability or comfort from it—and stepped closer to
him. With slowly tentative fingers, she reached up, caught the
escaped curls, and tucked them back in with deft skill.
That close, her heady scent of lilies wafted
over him and he imagined her face intent as she took care not to
touch him. “Are you all right?” he asked her quietly and she
stilled, her copper eyes perhaps flying to his.
“So far,” she breathed, the outline of her
exquisite breasts rising and falling under the silk. Though he’d
called the robe shapeless and ugly, in truth it clung in exactly
the right places, even if it did cover up too much. She stepped
back abruptly, erecting that chill barrier between them again. “No
more delays. And let me do the talking.”
Happy enough with the results of that test,
he bowed and gestured for her to precede him, though he reserved
the right to speak up if necessary. She pivoted, her tiny behind
twitching as she stalked away into a set of rooms that exceeded
even his imaginings for the former queen of Bára. Sculptures made
of more glass twined in shades of ice-white, gold, and rose,
scattered about the room. The floor of mosaicked tiles reflected
light like the treacherous ice cliffs in the sea off Dru. All of it
had a cooling effect—soothing in the desert climate, perhaps—but he
found he preferred Oria’s sunny and lush rooftop terrace, with the
vivid sails of silk catching the breezes and her fire table of
violet flames.
Elegant even by Báran standards, the lavishly
furnished and decorated chambers looked out through grand arched
windows to the city wall just below—though across the deep chasm
that divided the palace grounds from the city proper—and then to
the wide, desolate plain and distant hills beyond. When he wasn’t
baking in the landscape, Lonen could appreciate its austere appeal,
the clean, simple lines and radiant colors reminding him of
Oria.
All thoughts led back to Oria. His particular
goddess and doom.
This, then, was the window he’d glimpsed her
in that night, as he’d run along that very wall. Now, as then, her
Familiar took a perch upon the sill, green eyes knowing.
A woman rose from a chair by that window,
dressed more richly than the common women who strolled the paths of
Bára, but not in the crimson priestess robes or even as grandly as
Oria had for state occasions on his previous visit. She also wore
no mask, her eyes a deep enough brown to contrast with her golden
hair, but neither as spectacular a color as Oria’s. Their kinship
shone clear, however, in the widely set eyes framed by delicate
brows and arched cheekbones, fine lines accenting her fair skin,
and in her slight, willowy build. She looked as his wife would
decades from now, a strange glimpse of the future. If he ever saw
Oria’s face again.
The intensity of her gaze had Lonen forcing
himself to continue forward, despite the uncanny prickling of his
scalp. Had his neck not been freshly shaved, those hairs would be
standing up, too.
“What is this about, Oria?” The woman’s eyes
flashed with hatred that seemed to crawl across his skin like
fireants, but she drew her
“You said skin to skin—this is skin to hair.
They’re different.”
“Lonen.” She put her hands on her hips,
bristling with exasperation.
“Just try,” he coaxed. “You said your
mother’s good opinion and support are important.”
“You don’t know that,” she said in a sharp
tone.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you.” She waved a hand to erase the
words. “I’m sorry. I was replying to Chuffta. It’s not always easy
with both of you talking at me at once.”
He and the derkesthai exchanged rueful looks,
an odd brotherhood. “He thinks you can try?”
“Yes.” She sighed her exasperation. “Fine.
But don’t move.”
He could swear her Familiar gave him a
knowing nod of complicity before leaning his cheek against the
smooth skin under Oria’s ear. She relaxed at the contact—deriving
some kind of stability or comfort from it—and stepped closer to
him. With slowly tentative fingers, she reached up, caught the
escaped curls, and tucked them back in with deft skill.
That close, her heady scent of lilies wafted
over him and he imagined her face intent as she took care not to
touch him. “Are you all right?” he asked her quietly and she
stilled, her copper eyes perhaps flying to his.
“So far,” she breathed, the outline of her
exquisite breasts rising and falling under the silk. Though he’d
called the robe shapeless and ugly, in truth it clung in exactly
the right places, even if it did cover up too much. She stepped
back abruptly, erecting that chill barrier between them again. “No
more delays. And let me do the talking.”
Happy enough with the results of that test,
he bowed and gestured for her to precede him, though he reserved
the right to speak up if necessary. She pivoted, her tiny behind
twitching as she stalked away into a set of rooms that exceeded
even his imaginings for the former queen of Bára. Sculptures made
of more glass twined in shades of ice-white, gold, and rose,
scattered about the room. The floor of mosaicked tiles reflected
light like the treacherous ice cliffs in the sea off Dru. All of it
had a cooling effect—soothing in the desert climate, perhaps—but he
found he preferred Oria’s sunny and lush rooftop terrace, with the
vivid sails of silk catching the breezes and her fire table of
violet flames.
Elegant even by Báran standards, the lavishly
furnished and decorated chambers looked out through grand arched
windows to the city wall just below—though across the deep chasm
that divided the palace grounds from the city proper—and then to
the wide, desolate plain and distant hills beyond. When he wasn’t
baking in the landscape, Lonen could appreciate its austere appeal,
the clean, simple lines and radiant colors reminding him of
Oria.
All thoughts led back to Oria. His particular
goddess and doom.
This, then, was the window he’d glimpsed her
in that night, as he’d run along that very wall. Now, as then, her
Familiar took a perch upon the sill, green eyes knowing.
A woman rose from a chair by that window,
dressed more richly than the common women who strolled the paths of
Bára, but not in the crimson priestess robes or even as grandly as
Oria had for state occasions on his previous visit. She also wore
no mask, her eyes a deep enough brown to contrast with her golden
hair, but neither as spectacular a color as Oria’s. Their kinship
shone clear, however, in the widely set eyes framed by delicate
brows and arched cheekbones, fine lines accenting her fair skin,
and in her slight, willowy build. She looked as his wife would
decades from now, a strange glimpse of the future. If he ever saw
Oria’s face again.
The intensity of her gaze had Lonen forcing
himself to continue forward, despite the uncanny prickling of his
scalp. Had his neck not been freshly shaved, those hairs would be
standing up, too.
“What is this about, Oria?” The woman’s eyes
flashed with hatred that seemed to crawl across his skin like
fireants, but she drew her
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