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My gaze flashes to catch hers. “Nothing.”

“And why is that?” She takes a step toward me. Her hips sway, and the clinging fabric of her chemise moves with her body enticingly. But her eyes are too bright, almost dangerous, lancing into mine. “You chose me—remember? You bought me, claimed me, dragged me before your priest, and bound me to you with solemn vows. You took me to your bed and strippedme bare and bade me trust you utterly. You shed another man’s blood for me.”

She’s close now, only a few steps away. With a single lunge I could take her in my arms, rip that damp gown from her frame, and tumble her right here in the muddy grass. Her eyes widen as though reading the impulse in my face, and her teeth flash in something between a smile and a snarl. “And yet,” she continues, “you insist you have nothing to offer. Why is that, warlord? Can you explain it to me?”

I knot my fists hard against my thighs. “Because you are a stranger. Because I do not know your name or your people or anything about you, and because you do not choose to share those secrets with me. Because I cannot trust you, and you cannot trust me. Not wholly, not completely. And because . . . because . . .”

She winces as though each word I’ve spoken is a blow. But when I hesitate, she lifts her chin and says, “Go on. Say it.”

“Because my people would never accept you.”

There: the crux of the issue at last, the truth which I cannot avoid. No matter what I might feel for this woman, no matter what thevelrabond may be convincing me to think and say and do . . . she can never be my wife. She can never be mymaelar. The people of Licorna would scorn her for the very blood in her veins—and they would scorn me for choosing such a bride to become their queen. Whatever tentative trust I have earned from the surviving tribes would be broken forever, and all my hopes of leading them in a final assault against the Miphates dashed.

I have already paid too steep a price for this warbride of mine. I cannot afford to pay any more.

Ilsevel watches me through darkly slitted eyes. I feel as though she’s stripping away my flesh down to the bone. Finally,in a soft voice that belies all venom, she says, “What were the other vows you spoke?”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You keep saying you vowed to protect me,” she continues. “I suppose I must take your word for it, as I didn’t understand any of that damnable ceremony. But what else did you vow? What else have you sworn to do for me so long as our lives are bound?”

I cannot answer; I dare not. Thevelrais already too hot and too tight around my wrist, dragging me toward her with such relentless force. The space between us is far too small.

“My own people make vows too, you know,” she continues. “To give over possession of all worldly goods to each other. To comfort and keep in times of distress. But most of all, a wife must vow to give her body utterly and completely unto her husband’s keeping, from which he may take his pleasure and know relief from the torments of temptation.” Her mouth curves at the corner. “I made no such vow at our wedding ceremony, warlord. I made no vows at all. But you did.”

I did. And they come back to me now, echoing inside my head.

With my arms will I shelter you.

With my heart will I warm you.

“Tell me,” she urges. “What else am I owed as your wife? For I am your wife, am I not? Until your precious Onor Gantarith says otherwise.”

My mouth, my lips, my tongue, my every waking breath, are dedicated to your pleasure and delight.

Longing like sickness burns in my gut, spreads through my veins. For a moment longer I resist, my very soul dragging against the force of thevelra, fighting with everything I have.

A curse growling in my chest, I lunge a step forward. My hand shoots out, grabs the hair at the back of her head, and yanks roughly. I stare down into those midnight eyes of hers, which gaze back up at me, heavy-lidded and brimming with fire.Her breath ratchets in her throat, and her lips part, so soft, so treacherous.

“You are deadly, littlezylnala,” I whisper, my voice raw, my mouth so near hers I can almost taste her. “But I’ve faced my share of deadly foes in this lifetime and have yet to be undone. You’ll find I am not easy prey.”

With those words I push her from me so that she staggers several paces. Without waiting to catch the vicious look she shoots my way, I turn from her to collect the saddlebags. “Get dressed,” I toss over my shoulder. “We ride within the half-hour.”

And in a lower voice, ground between my teeth: “We’ll reach Elanlein tonight, or may the gods help us both.”

19

ILSEVEL

Elydark’s hoofbeats, galloping in thunderous rhythm, fill my ears with their percussion. If I let myself, I could sink into that rhythm, allow it to drive all other awareness from me. It’s a tempting prospect. The last thing I want right now is either to think or to feel. Numbness is the only protection left for me as I sit astride this beast, wrapped in the arms of this man whom I want to hate with every fiber of my being.

But I can’t hate him—and I won’t love him.

So I must feel nothing. If I don’t, I’ll fall to pieces.

That pounding pulse of hooves against turf is like a song, unmelodic but rhythmic. My heart can find a counter beat, blending into the whole, becoming one with it. Miles pass beneath us—wild terrain without any sign of civilization, either past or present. Great outcroppings of stone, tangles of wild, empty forest, lifeless stretches of grasslands without bird or animal to break up the monotony of silence which holds this whole world captive. And still Elydark’s hooves sing out their lonely song, as his muscular neck stretches out before me, and his horned head points ever on to the western horizon. I don’t know how many hours have passed since dawn, cannot guess how many hours more lie ahead before we may reach our destination. Time has lost meaning.

Every so often my mind tries to reach back—to search for those hours of darkness not too far gone. To recall the heat of tandem breaths and open mouths, the tangle of limbs and the explosions of sensation flooding every nerve. Are thosememories even real? Or are they all part of some feverish dream, born of lonely desperation? Surely I wasn’t mad enough to offer myself up like that . . .