THE FORESTS OF DRU is book 4 in The
Sorcerous
Moons fantasy series by author Jeffe Kennedy. This is a
series best appreciated by reading in order. The first three
books did the heavy lifting in terms of world building, but
now we get to see what life is like in Dru, Lonen's kingdom.
Dru is more of a barbarian sort of society, more agrarian
than the rigid magical culture of Bára.
Lonen is hereditary king of the Destrye now that his
father and several brothers were killed in the Destryen
attack on Bára in book 1. Oria was a princess of Bára, now
titular queen of the Destrye after her precipitous political
marriage to Lonen. As a sorceress, Oria is cut off from the
wellspring of her power now that she is no longer in a Báran
city. Oria and Lonen had to flee Bára after an unsuccessful
bid for rule, and now have to face Lonen's brothers at home,
who think that Oria has ensorcelled and enslaved Lonen.
There is more introspection in THE FORESTS OF DRU, as
Lonen struggles with his feeling of inadequacy for
leadership and Oria grapples with how to survive when her
connection to the life-supporting magic is severed. I
approve of how the couple takes turns supporting the other-
this is becoming a marriage in more than name, and it's just
beautiful to see.
I also adore how Lonen is learning how to work around
Oria's inability to tolerate direct skin-to-skin contact,
due to her magical susceptibility to others' life energies.
His creative bedplay is quite arousing! Having Oria unable
to consummate her marriage (yet, I presume!) has made this a
slow burn romance, which is very titillating.
I'm excited to hear that there will probably be several
more books in this series. The characters keep evolving and
maturing, and I love not only who they were but also who
they are becoming. Both Oria and Lonen have many fine
qualities, and I love how they are turning so much effort to
helping each other and to helping their two kingdoms. They
have their foibles as well, which makes them fully fleshed
out and realized characters, all the more engrossing for
their imperfections. Brava to Kennedy for another fine
addition to this wonderful fantasy series, THE FORESTS OF
DRU is all that I would hope for Lonen and Oria's initial
time in Lonen's kingdom.
An Enemy Land
Once Princess Oria spun wicked daydreams from the legends
of
sorceresses kidnapped by the barbarian Destrye. Now,
though
she’s come willingly, she finds herself in a mirror of
the
old tales: the king’s foreign trophy of war, starved of
magic, surrounded by snowy forest and hostile strangers.
But
this place has secrets, too—and Oria must learn them
quickly
if she is to survive.
A Treacherous Court
Instead of the refuge he sought, King Lonen finds his
homeland desperate and angry, simmering with distrust of
his
wife. With open challenge to his rule, he knows he and
Oria—the warrior wounded and weak, the sorceress wrung
dry
of power—must somehow make a display of might. And
despite
the desire that threatens to undo them both, he still
cannot
so much as brush her skin.
A Fight for the Future
With war looming and nowhere left to run, Lonen and Oria
must use every intrigue and instinct they can devise: to
plumb Dru’s mysteries, to protect their peop
Excerpt
“We won the war and this is still the best the king’s
table can command?”
olan poked at the meat with a sour scowl, and Arnon
clapped him on the shoulder. “Not much of a homecoming,
huh? You could have brought us game from the far forests
and done better.”
“I brought the King of the Destrye instead.” Nolan
shrugged him off. “That seemed more useful at the time.”
Lonen, that selfsame King of the Destrye, didn’t adjust
his position to ease his aching side, lest his brother
misinterpret that as a sign of discomfort with the topic
of conversation. Nor did he miss the sidelong glance from
Nolan that suggested he might be reconsidering Lonen’s
inherent usefulness. Not that Lonen could argue much
otherwise. Being laid up in bed recuperating for more
than a week didn’t lend itself to high-profile—or even
marginally effective—rule. Nevertheless, some remnant of
his youthful self cringed, wishing he could do something
to earn his older brother’s approval rather than his
scorn.
Mostly, though, he longed to be back in that bed, under
the furs with Oria, sharing her warmth, basking in the
surety that she slept beside him. To be there when the
strange dreams woke her.
Oria hadn’t wanted him to be up and about yet, but Nolan—
believed lost in battle, now miraculously returned and
restless with unsatisfied expectations—had decided he’d
waited long enough for explanations. Rather than risk
having Nolan barge into his bedchamber and interrogate
Oria, Lonen had conceded to the lesser of the evils and
gotten himself to this private dinner with his two
remaining brothers. The last three of Archimago’s line,
sadly diminished in robustness of every kind.
But three was one more than they’d thought they had.
That had to be a good thing. A blessing from Arill
herself. Somehow, though, under the sharp scrutiny of
Nolan’s piercing blue stare, Lonen nursed a few doubts.
He gave in and shifted, easing the pinch in his gut. The
infection no longer poisoned him, but the massive tissue
damage had yet to replace itself—however much ever would—
despite Oria’s foolhardy attempt to give her life to heal
him. That side of his body sagged inward, as if part of
him had been carved out.
Which, come to think of it, it pretty much had.
With a grimace for that, he forced himself to finish the
slice of stringy roast on his plate, then picked up his
warmed wine and drank, hoping to mute some of the ache.
“It’s not good for you to be upright in a chair like
this,” Arnon said, frowning at him. “I can see it pains
you.”
“Father would say a warrior can suffer far more than a
bit of pain, especially in the service of Dru,” Nolan
replied, gaze never wavering from Lonen. “He would have
expected his successor to be sitting the throne and
handling the pressing issues of the Destrye, not lying
abed with a foreign mistress.”
“You mean Her Highness, Oria, Queen of the Destrye?”
Lonen didn’t raise his voice, but his tone carried all
the iron resolve of his battle-axe. Enough that Nolan sat
back slightly, a hint of surprise flickering through his
eyes before they sharpened again. That’s right. I am not
the same little brother you knew before the war. He might
not be ruling impressively, but neither was he a
pushover. Not anymore.
“She is Báran,” Nolan said flatly, tempting Lonen to
remark on his brother’s powers of observation. But this
was no time for levity. This conversation had been a long
time coming and Nolan clearly intended to have it out
now. So be it—and Arill hold him in her hand for this
battle.
“I’m fully aware of that, Nolan, as I met her in Bára,
where she is in fact, a princess and should be queen of
her people by her own right.”
“What exactly happened there?” Arnon put in, full of
curiosity. “What?” He gave Nolan’s frown a scowl of his
own. “You’re not the only one who’s been sitting on
questions while Lonen concentrated on not dying,” he
added pointedly. “You’ve dragged him out of bed for this,
so we might as well get the whole story.”
“I’m not interested in this Báran princess’s story,”
Nolan snapped. “What I want is to break this foul spell
she’s employed to ensorcell our brother and king. We
needed to get him away from her devious influence if
we’re to have a hope of that. Stories can wait.”
“I am not ensorcelled.”
“She’s a witch, Lonen—you know this.”
“A sorceress, actually.” Surreptitiously, Lonen scanned
the shadows near the ceiling. Sure enough, the emerald
gleam of Chuffta’s eyes shone back from a high perch, his
iridescent white body stretched into a low profile along
the upper curve of a ceiling beam. Oria had sent her
Familiar to spy on the conversation, even though Lonen
had asked her to keep her friend and guardian close. He
didn’t like her to be alone. Not after what had happened
to her without his protection when they’d arrived in Dru.
“You call it a pine, I call it an evergreen,” Nolan
replied. “It’s the same Arill-cursed tree.”
Lonen regarded his brother calmly. One benefit of
battling hordes of golems, running out of water in the
desert, and countless other ways he’d nearly died
horrifically—it had become abundantly clear to him that
arguments over minor details like semantics paled
significantly as anything to get excited about. He’d have
thought Nolan would have learned that lesson, too, during
his trials and journeys.
“Trees are sacred to Arill,” Arnon put in, ever the
pedant, “so it’s not technically correct to call it an
‘Arill-cursed’ tree.”
Nolan turned on Arnon with a snarl, proving that
temperance had not been one of the lessons he’d learned.
Ironic, as Nolan had been the dreamer and thinker before
the Golem Wars. Whereas Lonen, solidly third in line for
a throne he’d thought he’d never have to sit, had been
the irresponsible, playful one their father had despaired
of teaching discipline to. Perhaps tragedy and the
horrors of war worked to change people. Fire tempered
some weapons to greater strength and destroyed others.
“Queen Oria is a sorceress, yes,” Lonen said before his
brothers could come to blows. “She wields powerful magic,
but she does so with heart and conscience.” He eyed
Chuffta in the shadows, certain her spy would be
faithfully relaying the conversation, and chose his words
carefully for both audiences. “Instead of staying in Bára
as their queen, Her Highness married me and journeyed
here at great risk to herself, sacrificing her own throne
out of a sense of responsibility to the Destrye, in order
to help us.” And to keep a personal vow to him, but that
should remain exactly that—personal. He held her promises
to him close to his heart, treasuring them alongside her
confession that she loved him. Precious gifts from a
prickly and dangerous woman. They did not need to be
scrutinized by others.
Particularly those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand
what lay between him and the foreign bride who’d brought
a bright face to the terrible magics wreaked in the wars,
and light into his own darkened heart. She might have
made the difference in him becoming the tempered weapon,
rather than the warped one.
Nolan sighed heavily. Pushing his plate aside and leaning
elbows on the table, he laced his fingers together except
for the index fingers, which he pointed at Lonen. “Your
obvious sentiment aside, let’s discuss the legality of
this marriage.”
“It’s a legal marriage, Nolan.”
He waved that off. “Only according to Báran law, which is
not ours. We do not recognize it.”
“I recognize it, and I was there.” The onerous ritual had
nearly knocked him unconscious and had left Oria in a
dead faint. The magic connection hummed between them,
Oria a warm flame inside him. The only time since their
marriage that he hadn’t felt it was when they’d been
separated, both near death. Something he never intended
to endure again—and something else he wouldn’t attempt to
explain. Before he’d experienced it for himself, he
wouldn’t have understood it either. Nolan opened his
mouth and Lonen held up a hand. “A moot point anyway, as
I intend to rectify any lingering legal qualms by
marrying Oria in Arill’s Temple, just as soon as we can
both stand upright for the entire ceremony.” And dance
afterwards, he promised himself. Oria would see how a
wedding—and wedding night—should be properly celebrated.
He flicked a glance at Chuffta, hoping Oria had gotten
that particular message. She could be stubborn, but he’d
have his way in this.
“Well, let’s discuss that,” Nolan said.
“No.”
Nolan made an impatient sound. “I want you to hear me out
on this.”
“No.”
“There is no need for you to marry her, Lonen! Keep her
as a trophy of war, if you must. Our warriors have a
history of that. It’s somewhat outdated, but the
tradition is an old and stirring one that celebrates
Destrye victory. We can play it to the people that way
and they’ll see you as all the stronger and more vital
for it. Don’t ask them to accept a foreigner—the enemy!—
as their queen. There’s no reason to do so and it makes
you look weak. Your people deserve a Destrye woman as
their queen.”
Lonen shrugged. “They won’t get one.”
“Can she even quicken with your seed? We have no way of
knowing if Destrye can breed with her kind. She could
leave you without heirs.”
“There are Ion’s sons, if so.”
“It’s one thing for that to be a last resort, another for
you to go in knowing she won’t give you heirs.”
“What man knows such things for certain when he marries?”
“What about Natly?”
Lonen tightened his jaw. “She’s irrelevant to this
conversation.”
“Hardly. She waited for you to return, believing the two
of you to be engaged. She could still be your queen.”
At Nolan’s suggestion, Arnon dropped his face into his
hands. He and Lonen had spoken about Natly before, with
Arnon arguing strongly against Natly as an appropriate
queen.
“It seems to me,” Lonen said slowly, measuring Nolan,
“that you, yourself, rejected Natly as a suitable queen.”
His elder brother had the grace to wince. “Yes, well. It
need not be Natly, but—”
“It’s a moot point. I’ve made vows and I intend to keep
them. Would our people want a king who breaks his vows?”
“You mean like your betrothal to Natly?” Nolan shot back.
Lonen clenched his teeth against returning the bite. “I
never promised. She assumed.”
“Perhaps you are becoming the politician, parsing terms
and dividing rope fibers.”
“Perhaps so,” Lonen returned, ignoring the sneer in
Nolan’s voice. The accusation was a fair one. “But I am
king. I realize I shouldn’t be. Arill knows our father
died too young and this crown should be his.” Lonen waved
a hand at the wreath of hammered metal leaves he’d worn
to the dinner. He didn’t much care for it, and he’d worn
it mainly as a reminder of his authority to his elder
brother. At least it was light, even if he felt vaguely
like an imposter wearing the thing. “Ion should have
lived to succeed him, as we all believed he would. And
yes, Nolan—you should have been king in his stead. Would
have been, had we but known you lived.”
Nolan’s jaw flexed and he sat back, crossing his arms.
“It wasn’t as if I had a way to send a message. It took
us weeks to find our way out of those caverns. If not for
the underground lake that cushioned our fall, we would
have died of thirst.” He shook his head, a ghost of his
old smile crossing his mouth behind the neat beard. “I
tell you, it pissed me off mightily that I might die of
drowning of all things.”
“What did you do for food?” Lonen asked.
“You haven’t gotten to hear this tale.” Arnon poured them
all more wine, clearly cheered by the turn in
conversation. “It deserves to be set down as an epic
ballad of its own.”
“You tell it.” Nolan took his cup, staring into it. “I’m
weary of it, myself.”
Arnon, who never met a topic that wearied him, grinned
with enthusiasm. “So, there they were, Nolan and his
regiment, on the north flank of the city. Fireballs
hurtling through the air, golems everywhere, whirlwinds
whipping through the center of the battlefield, while
lightning forked overhead.”
Lonen adjusted his position, sitting back to enjoy his
brother’s tale—and not bothering to point out that he’d
been there, too. No sense interrupting the story’s
rhythm. He kept an eye on Nolan, however, darkly brooding
over his wine.
“Then crack!” Arnon slapped his hands together, making
both of his brothers jump and grinning at it, Arill take
him. “The ground shook and opened up. Nolan and his men
raced away from the edges, but no man can outrun the
earth itself. The ground disappeared beneath their feet,
and they fell, plummeting to certain death.”
Nolan wiped a hand over his forehead and Lonen nearly
called a halt to the story, but Nolan caught him looking
and pierced him with a stare so challenging he knew it
would only give insult. Instead he silently toasted his
brother’s bravery. After a slight hesitation, Nolan
dipped his chin.
Oblivious to the exchange, Arnon continued. “Our hero,
Prince Nolan, managed to grab a handhold and cling to it,
as did a few other men. But the ground continued to
shake, crumbling beneath their hands, while horses,
supplies, even golems rained around them. They fell, too,
sending a prayer to Arill to guide their steps to the
Hall of Warriors.”
“My prayer was nothing so coherent,” Nolan interrupted.
“Shut up, this is my tale now,” Arnon replied easily. He
was doing this on purpose then. Telling the elaborate
story to defuse tensions. Good on him. “But instead of
waking in the Hall of Warriors, our hero plunged into icy
water, cold and black as the sea. He drove for the
surface, hampered by the rocks, men, horses, and supplies
also teeming in the water.”
“Grim,” Lonen said, and Nolan raised his brows in
acknowledgment of the observation. There. A bit of
connection. Lonen would have to tell his brother the
story of swimming through the bore tides of the Bay of
Bára, carrying an unconscious Oria, nearly drowning all
of them.
Or perhaps better not to.
“No light penetrated so deep in the earth,” Arnon
described with ghoulish glee, “but Arill held our hero in
her hand, guiding him to swim to an unseeable shore.”
“I mainly tried to swim away from flailing hooves and
falling rocks,” Nolan pointed out acerbically.
“Do you want to tell the story after all?” Arnon rounded
on him.
“No, no—you go ahead. Never mind the fact checking.”
“Thank you. Prince Nolan, chilled to the bone, exhausted
and aching from the fall, at last dragged himself onto a
dry shelf of stone. A few other men made it also, along
with several horses—still with their packs, thank Arill.”
“How many men?” Lonen asked out of habit before he caught
himself. “Never mind, it—”
“About three dozen survived the fall,” Nolan answered,
gaze glittering. Out of a regiment of more than a
thousand warriors. Horrifying indeed. Of course, they’d
thought none had survived the chasm at all, so there was
that. “Ten of those didn’t survive the first few hours,
and we lost three more on the journey to Dru. I brought
fewer than two dozen home.”
Lonen closed his eyes and sent a prayer to Arill to fete
the lost soldiers well in the Hall of Warriors—and to
forgive him that he felt some relief at the smaller
number of bodies to feed and keep warm through the
winter.
“You’re jumping the story,” Arnon accused.
“Apologies, brother.” Nolan at least sounded less dour.
Arnon grunted, but continued. “Only three dozen men
survived the fall,” he intoned, “and ten of those didn’t
survive the first few hours.”
Lonen passed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.
“In the blackness of the caves, they might have been lost
had Prince Nolan not been an educated man, as well as an
experienced woodsman and hunter. Discovering that a
phosphorescent fungus grew on the rocks, he reasoned
that, like the moss on trees in the forests of Dru, it
might grow more densely on the north face, and he
navigated accordingly.”
Lonen whistled, impressed, and Nolan refilled his goblet,
shaking his head slightly, but not interrupting.
“As they continued, they discovered a well-worn passage.
One that led more or less directly to Dru, and in fact
emerged into a dry lake bed somewhat north of us.” Arnon
waited, expression expectant.
The wine evaporated on his tongue and Lonen found himself
sitting upright, the pain in his side a minor
consideration. “Wait—an underground passage from Bára to
Dru?”
Nolan gave him a long look. “At least to the region north
of Dru, but it appears so.”
“That’s how their golems traveled here. And how they
drained the lakes so quickly before we became aware,
sending the water back to Bára.”
“The passage might have acted like an aqueduct, an
underground river carrying water from our lakes to theirs
until it had drained completely. They might have made
others over however many years, with many routes to the
surface, which would explain how the golems managed to
pop up so unexpectedly and disappear again,” Arnon
agreed.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Lonen
demanded. So many possibilities. How could they use this
to their advantage? Of course, they’d thought the golems
had been eliminated following the fall of Bára and that
their major problem now lay in incursions by the even
more deadly Trom, who needed no underground passages,
instead flying in on their enormous dragons that scorched
crops and Destrye alike. But he had nearly died under the
fangs and claws of a band of golems he and Oria had
encountered on their journey. “If we could—”
“Why didn’t we tell you?” Nolan interrupted in a tone as
scathing as dragon fire. “There was the small problem of
an enemy princess in your bed. She of the people who sent
the cursed goblins. We could hardly discuss such
sensitive matters in her hearing. Arill only knows what
her plans are or what information she’d send back to—”
“Oria is a not a spy.” Lonen set his teeth against saying
more. Steeled himself not to look up at her actual spy,
concealed in the beams above.
“How do you know that?” Nolan demanded, angry and
bewildered. “Think, man! You acknowledge she’s a powerful
sorceress. She could easily work magics to cloud your
mind. She could be here to finally and completely
undermine Dru. What better way than to capture the
attention—and, incredibly enough, the hand in marriage—of
our king? How is it possible this has not occurred to
you?”
“Because I know her,” he snapped. And he knew the many
reasons she’d fought against him bringing her to Dru.
Ones not at all politic to divulge. “I know what goes on
in her heart and mind.”
Nolan threw up his hands. “No man knows what goes on in
the heart and mind of a woman, and that’s if she’s
Destrye and not a foul Báran sorceress.”
“Be mindful how you speak of your queen.”
“I have pledged that woman no fealty.”
“You will,” Lonen replied evenly, putting the weight of
command behind it. “Or do you mean to challenge me as
king?”
“And bring civil war to Dru, on top of everything else?
Oh, that’s a grand idea.”
“Are you asking me to abdicate in your favor?”
Nolan’s face was perfectly neutral, an impenetrable mask.
“Are you offering?”
“It’s been suggested that I should abdicate in favor of
Ion’s son, Mago. His claim takes precedence, even over
yours.”
“That was before the Trom attacked,” Arnon cautioned. “We
discussed it as a peacetime proposition because we
believed the war had ended—and because Salaya campaigned
for it. I never thought it was a good idea, even if it
might ease her widow’s grief, and would not support that
measure now. We are as much at war as ever and Mago is
too young to bear such a heavy responsibility. In times
of war, a warrior must lead.”
“I am a warrior, and not too young.” Nolan gave them both
long and pointed stares. If all had gone as it should, he
would have been crowned king. It never should have been
Lonen and they all knew it.
“By Destrye law, I became king the moment my father and
older brothers died,” Lonen spoke slowly, feeling the
weight of it himself. “I believed you dead and grieved
your loss, brother, with never a thought that you might
have survived.” Not exactly true, but the haunting terror
that his brother might be trapped beneath the earth,
broken, bleeding, and slowly dying without succor wasn’t
worth plaguing them with. “I took the sword of the
Destrye from my father’s dead hand. A hand that had been
turned to jellied flesh by a monster so heinous it
dropped my father and his heir with a touch, reducing
every bone in their bodies to pulp. I had to wipe the
hilt clean of unnameable substances just to keep my
grip.”
He paused to gather himself, his brothers watching with
ill-disguised horror.
“I didn’t want it, never sought to be king, but I took
that responsibility,” Lonen told Nolan. “I assumed the
weight of it over their dead bodies, as my heritage
demanded I do, and I negotiated our truce with the
Bárans.” He put down the wine goblet with a thump when
Nolan opened his mouth. “It doesn’t matter that the truce
was violated by some of their people. I did my best by
the Destrye, as our father would have wanted. We came
home to a decimated people, but I kept going. It was on
me to find a way to save us and by Arill, I have tried.”
“You’ve done more than most men could have,” Arnon said.
“The aqueducts. Planting the late crops. Rationing food
and water. Planning for winter. Nolan, he nearly killed
himself, and this after a long and exhausting campaign.”
“I don’t question any of that,” Nolan replied.
“But you question my competency now.”
“I think you should consider that you might be
compromised.”
Silence fell among them, sharp-spined and treacherous to
navigate.
“And you, Arnon—what do you think?” Lonen asked his
younger brother.
“We don’t know her,” Arnon said quietly. “You ran off to
Bára to demand answers, to hold this princess to her vow
that they would observe the peace and no longer attack
us, steal our water, burn our crops. I looked at that
sword every cursed day and made myself consider that you
would likely never return for it. Every time I made a
decision in your name, I dreaded the day we’d reconcile
ourselves to your death, and I’d have to hold the throne
for Mago. If the Destrye survived long enough to for him
to grow up.
“And then you returned—more than half-dead and apparently
married to this Báran sorceress—who for all we know sent
those attacks, who has swayed your heart and mind to the
point that you snarl at us for asking the simplest of
questions. We try to give you space to recover without
her influence, and you barge into the ward for Arill’s
Blessings—the women’s ward, even, where men are expressly
forbidden to enter—you terrify our head healer, roar
orders in all directions, install the sorceress in your
bed, and refuse to admit anyone but a few servants. If
not for them we’d wonder if the sorceress yet lived. You
won’t even admit our healers to tend you, though you need
it badly.”
“That was you who ordered Oria sent to that charity ward,
who kept her from me?” Lonen gripped the arms of his
chair, rather than strangle Arnon.
“We decided together,” Nolan said, jaw tight.
“You had no right to—”
“This is the first time since you’ve returned that we’ve
been able to talk to you.” Arnon thumped a fist on the
table in a rare show of frustrated temper. “What in Arill
do you expect of us, Lonen?”
“I expect you to believe in and support me. If not
because I’m your brother, then because I am your rightful
king, whether any of us are happy about that situation or
not.”
“It’s not that, Lonen, dammit.” Arnon raked his hands
through his already messy brown curls. “If it were one of
us, you would do the same. If you believed we’d been
captured and controlled by a sorcerer—and up until
recently, you agreed their magic was an abomination
against Arill, too—then you would fight to help us also.”
“And I’m telling you that I am not controlled and I don’t
need your help. Oria is here to help us, to protect us
from the Trom. You’ll see.”
“See what?” Nolan spread his hands wide. “They’re gone
and the damage has been done. You lost most of the
unharvested crops. We have no nearby fresh water supplies
for all these people hunkered down for the winter under
the wings of Arill’s Temple. You’ve made little progress
in shoring up what was supposed to be emergency
construction and not long-term housing. And there’s no
indication these ‘Trom’ and their ‘dragons’ will return.
We have nothing left worth taking.”
“Any number of people can bear witness to what the Trom
and their dragons did,” Lonen said. “Don’t try to make it
sound like a child’s tale.”
“My point is that we have bigger problems than you
dreaming up some implausible cause for your sorceress
wife. If I were king, I—”
“But you’re not.” Lonen cut him off and Nolan’s piercing
gaze flashed with anger before he directed it ferociously
at his wine. Lonen choked back the temper and sighed.
“We’re all stuck with me being king, like it or not.”
“There is legal precedent,” Nolan said, not looking up,
but staring into his cup, “for a king to be deposed by
another with an equivalent or more potent claim to the
throne.”
“That civil war you mentioned?” Lonen tried to keep it
light, but the implicit betrayal stung.
Nolan flicked a sharp glance at him. “Nothing so large
scale or destructive. A duel would allow Arill to select
her champion, according to the old ways.”
Arnon drew a sharp breath. “Lonen is barely out of his
sickbed. He cannot duel with you, even if Arill’s
priestesses agree to such an archaic ritual.”
“If you wanted me murdered, brother,” Lonen replied,
holding Nolan’s gaze, “you would have done better to
leave me at the spring. I could have died in peace and
you would not have had to sully your hands with my
blood.”
“I’ve thought back to that day.” Nolan’s eyes were dark.
“And sometimes regretted my part in it. Particularly that
I brought that viper of a sorceress here instead of
leaving her there to fertilize the forest as I should
have.”
“I would have killed you for abandoning her.”
“A dying man held no threat to me.”
“I’m not dying now.”
“And you may yet get the opportunity to try to kill me,”
Nolan replied, with no apparent emotion.
“Brothers—” Arnon began.
“I’ve had enough.” Lonen cut him off. He drained his mug
and eased to his feet, no longer bothering to hide the
wince of pain. “Such a heartening interlude this has
been. So worth leaving my sickbed for.”
“Go back to her then,” Nolan called after him. “She is
pretty enough to distract you for a while. But you have
to get out of bed sometime.”
“Lonen.” Arnon caught up to him, expression earnest, eyes
grave. “Let the healers tend you. Give us that much.”
“Not Talya,” he growled. If he saw the woman, he might
strangle her.
Arnon held up his hands. “Fine. Not Talya. Who?”
A fine question. “Baeltya.”
“Isn’t she a junior healer?”
“Yes. And she tended me when I was but a junior prince.
She has a good manner.” A quiet one that might not
disturb Oria too greatly. “Send her.”
“I will.” Arnon gripped his shoulder. “We’re on your
side, brother.”
“Then show it.” He shrugged out of Arnon’s grasp and
strode away.
Alby, Lonen’s lieutenant, met him outside the doors. He
made no comment, but stayed closer than usual. Perhaps he
thought he needed to be ready to catch Lonen if he fell,
which meant he must look nearly as bad as he felt. Lonen
would not let himself fall, however. They walked slowly
down the long hall, as Chuffta slipped in through a crack
in the ceiling and winged his silent way ahead of them.
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