Page 1 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

ILSEVEL

I wake to the awareness of cold waiting for me just on the other side of the cocoon in which I lie. Frost crunches when I stir, and the air creeping through the few small cracks in my defenses bites straight to the bone. But here, wrapped in the cloak of a Licornyn warlord, I am protected from the elements.

It smells strongly of him—Taar. The man who has inexplicably become my husband.

It’s not an unpleasant scent: leather and sweat and mystery, a heady combination. Part of me doesn’t like how safe I feel, how warm and comforted. But I can’t help it. If I could, I would stay here, with my knees curled up to my chest, my head tucked in, this cloak and this scent wrapped over every inch of me, and simply let the world and all its troubles pass me by. Perhaps the grass will grow over me, and I’ll be nothing more than a little mound by the side of this river in a forgotten corner of Gavaria.

I squeeze my eyes shut and curl a little tighter, as though to force myself back to sleep. Last night I was so overcome with sudden exhaustion, I simply collapsed on my side, still staring at the fire, a half-eaten travel cake gripped in one hand. When Taar approached, I didn’t have the energy to flinch away from him. He merely crouched, however, and draped a rough blanket over me, taking care to tuck in my feet and draw the heavy hood of my cloak over my head.

I watched him through cracked eyelids as he returned to his side of our little camp, his broad back to me. Firelight played across battle-scarred, suntanned skin and chiseled muscles, all prominently displayed. How did he expect to pass the night without a covering, his bare torso exposed to the frigid elements? I should have protested and made him take the blanket back; I already had his cloak after all. But before I could shape a single word, sleep claimed me.

Now, waking slowly, my nose filled with his scent, I find myself wishing I might reach for him. Wishing he lay here under this cloak and blanket beside me, that muscled torso warm and solid at my back. The thought, hazy though it is, fills my body with ideas of its own. My loins heat, deliciously uncomfortable. I squeeze my thighs, hips subtly moving, my semi-conscious self desperate for some relief.

I know now who could give me that relief.

My eyes flair wide. There’s nothing but thick fabric before my vision and a glimmer of pale light shining through the crack near the frosted ground. I breathe in a ragged gasp, the warlord’s name trying to form on my tongue. What would happen if I called out to him? If I begged him to go down on his knees here and now? Temptation rises with sudden warmth inside me, a burning need coursing through my veins. I remember the sensation of his hands on my body, the taste of his lips, the dancing delight of his tongue awakening me to sensations I’d never before known.

But memory is not enough. Not when the man himself is so near, and his scent is filling my head.

“Warlord,” I whisper, shifting my hips again, seeking friction against the heat pooling inside me. “Taar . . .”

Before I can utter another sound, an image flashes across my mind’s eye: a swath of flattened tents. Blood-soaked ground. A pyre of mutilated corpses and a charred prayer veil.

Cold floods my limbs, effectively dousing the throbbing furnace in my center. I see once more my sister’s face as it was in the last glimpse I had of her in life. Her terrified eyes so wide, her hands reaching for me even as she was dragged out of the prison cart. Dragged away to that auction block and there sold to a fae monster. Oh, Aurae! My darling, my sister. How frightened she must have been. When that hideous creature carried her into his tent and then, when her gods-gift finally revealed itself in full . . .

A shudder ripples through my soul. The War Gift is the rarest and most coveted of all gods-gifts. Father would be bitterly disappointed if he knew it had fallen on sweet Aurae. Especially now that she has been taken from him. Before he could make use of her.

And it was my fault. Entirely my fault. She would be alive right now if I hadn’t been so desperate to escape my arranged marriage to the Shadow King. If I hadn’t written to Artoris Kelfaren, still believing in the so-called love we once shared. If I hadn’t brought those damned fae straight to the temple gates.

My stomach knots. I don’t know if I want to weep or scream. Neither will give me the relief I need, not from this agony of guilt and rage and hurt and lust all roiling together in my gut. And what about this tightness wrapped around my forearm? I feel it, sharp and present if invisible. The velra , or so the warlord called it. Our marriage cord. According to him the bond may only be severed in a month’s time, on the night of the new moon. That is when, by the wedding traditions of his people, a couple decides whether to continue their marriage or part forever. If either party deems the other an unworthy match, the velra may be safely broken, and the unbound couple may go their separate ways.

As though in resistance to this idea, the cord tightens again, sharper than before. I wince. The pain is bad enough, but worse still is that sense of drawing. That undeniable, nearly irresistible pull toward him. This husband I never chose. This enemy, who took me captive and threw me in a prison cart, only to buy me at auction a short while later. Not a man with whom I could ever dream of sharing a lifetime.

No, I must be rid of him as soon as possible, mystical bindings be damned. I must survive until the bond can be severed and return to my own world. Then I must do what I should have done from the beginning: marry the Shadow King. Marry him and lie in his bed and let myself be ravaged by him according to law, sealing his contract with my father. When that is done—when I have sacrificed my body on the altar of marital duty—my monstrous husband and his horde will turn on my father’s enemies, slaughtering them in droves on the field of battle.

Thus will I pay penance for Aurae’s death . . . and have my vengeance as well.

A sudden flare and the sound of firewood collapsing is followed by a waft of smoke, which creeps into my nostrils, momentarily driving out the warlord’s scent. I pull back a fold of cloak to watch Taar add fuel to the campfire. He doesn’t seem any the worse for wear after his night of exposure. I watch him secretly for some moments. Indeed it’s almost impossible not to watch him.

For all he claims not to be fae, I don’t know what other explanation there is for such godlike beauty. He moves with a wildcat’s elegance, crouching and arranging the wood he has gathered, performing some sort of incantation to dry it out before adding each piece to the flames. He fetches a small kettle from his saddlebags and fills it from one of his waterskins. He adds to this some dried leaves from a silken pouch, then nestles the kettle in raked coals. All so precise, so graceful. He’s as natural at performing these homely arts as he is brutal on the battlefield. How can one man contain so many contradictions? Every move he makes seems to emphasize the latent power of his musculature. I find my eyes drawn to corded forearms and those strong, long-fingered hands. Brutal hands which I’ve seen covered in blood; tender hands which have molded my body with a fiery touch until I felt, for the first time in my life, fully alive.

My throat is suddenly very dry. Around my wrist, the velra cord tightens almost imperceptibly. I must be careful. There’s no point in denying the attraction I feel, but I cannot let it rule me. Taar has already lost warriors attempting to thwart the Shadow King’s marriage to King Larongar’s daughter. If he ever finds out I am that daughter, my life won’t be worth a snap of my fingers, marriage bond or no marriage bond. I must remain above suspicion. Open, artless, and, most of all, innocent. A tricky business. But if I’ve learned anything in my father’s court, it is how to perform in the charade of life.

Taar uses a stick to lift the lid of his kettle and check the contents. Settling the lid back into place, he sits on his heels and frowns down at his arm and the fresh stitches I gave him while he was unconscious last night.

“How does it feel?”

He startles at the sound of my sleep-thickened voice and shifts his black eyes to look at me. “So. You are awake, Ilsevel.”

He speaks my name with a strange inflection, not quite how I’m used to hearing it. I like the cadence of his rough voice, however. Somehow he makes my name sound, not strange, but . . . sacred.

I sit up, pushing back the hood of my cloak. Gods, I must look an absolute sight! What with all the sobbing and racing through forests in semi-darkness, not to mention sleeping on the ground in the frosty cold. But I won’t let myself care what Taar thinks of my appearance.

A lilt of song carries on the breeze, and I look over my shoulder to glimpse the nearly-invisible form of Elydark, the warlord’s unicorn companion, standing watch a few yards away. My eyes cannot fully discern him, but my spirit feels the song that makes up his essential essence. He seems to be standing with his head upraised, gazing east toward the as-yet unrisen sun, unaware of my scrutiny or simply uncaring. I watch—or rather, listen to—him for some moments. My breaths ease in and out in time to his resonance.

Then, pushing a shock of wild hair back from my face, I turn to Taar again and indicate his arm with a jut of my chin. “Does it bother you?”

He looks down at the wound. “The stitches itch, but it seems to be healing well.”

“Shall I have a look?”

At the warlord’s grunt and half-shrug, I get up, brush out my skirts, leave the blanket in a pile, and cross to his side of the fire. Taar turns to offer me a view of his arm, his own gaze fixed on the dancing flames. I inspect my handiwork. To my surprise the flesh knitted well overnight, leaving only a pale scar. Perhaps the song I sang last night, when my voice joined with the profound magic of his unicorn, healed more than just the poison in this man’s veins.

“I’m no expert,” I say musingly, “but I think it should be safe enough to remove these stitches.”

I look up to find his face suddenly so very near, I can count the squint lines framing his eyes and see the way his lashes curl, thick and dark. If I lean closer, I might just be able to discern the difference between his pupils and his impossibly dark irises.

“Go ahead then.”

I catch my breath and pull back slightly. “Wh-what?” My voice is a little puff of frosty air from my lips.

He shrugs and nods to his arm. “Remove the stitches if you’ve a mind to. I’d as soon not be itchy throughout the day ahead.”

I bite my lip then nod. “Have you tools to remove them?”

“You’ve still got my knife on you, haven’t you?”

I do, and I find the razor-sharp tip more than adequate to the task. It’s oddly satisfying to see those stitches come loose and the puckered flesh relax into its new shape around the scar. All the while Taar keeps his eyes fixed on the fire, never once flinching, though I spot gooseflesh rising on his skin where my fingertips brush.

“So,” I ask, as I pull the last of the threads free, “what happens next?”

He glances sidelong at me.

“Today, I mean. Do we travel to your country?”

“Cruor is not my country. The Licornyn dwell on the edge of the land of Cruor, but it is not our home.”

“Sure.” I back up a step or two as he moves his arm experimentally. “But that is our destination, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how long is the journey exactly?”

Satisfied with his scar and his range of movement, Taar settles his elbows on his knees, his huge back slightly hunched as he sits before the fire. “I hope to meet my people on the borders of Cruor by sunset.”

“Sunset?” I blink. “Are we really so near as all that?” Looking around at the cold landscape, there’s nothing but wild forest surrounding us on all sides.

Taar chuckles softly at my confusion. “No, indeed. We are far from Cruor, farther than you can imagine. But we will venture back into Wanfriel and take one of its paths to the gate.”

“And what does that mean, warlord?”

Another one of those sidelong glances. “Ah! I forget sometimes that humans have forgotten the Ways of the Wood.” He picks up the stick he’d used earlier and lifts the lid from his kettle to peer inside. A delicious aroma rises from within. Grunting, he sets the lid back in place and plucks the kettle from the coals. “Wanfriel,” he says, “is the common Eledrian name for the Wood Between Worlds. It is the very forest we traveled through yesterday, which exists in a thin place between veils of reality and can, for those brave enough to dare its depths, lead to innumerable realms. Including Cruor. It was by traveling through Wanfriel that we journeyed so swiftly from the temple to the Grimspire and the encampment of Prince Ruvaen’s host.”

I’d wondered about that. Though I was unconscious for most of the journey, it had seemed like no more than a day. Surely word would have spread throughout the region of such a large fae host encamped so near one of our centers of worship. Yet not even a whisper of rumor had reached my father’s ear, leading him to believe I would be safe enough to embark on my Maiden’s Journey. More fool him. More fool all of us.

Shaking these darker thoughts away before they can overpower me, I ask, “How do we enter this Wanfriel?”

“Through the same gate we used yesterday.” Taar pours steaming hot liquid into a wooden travel cup. “If it is still intact, that is, for it was already beginning to collapse. Otherwise, we will have to journey across the country in search of another point of entrance.”

“You’re telling me there are gates to and from this miraculous forest—gates that lead to other worlds—spread across Gavaria?”

He grunts and hands me a cup. I accept it, turn it round in my hands, and inhale the steam. It’s a floral scent, one I don’t recognize. Though I am usually more inclined to strong black brews, I’m too parched this morning to be picky. I take a tentative sip and relish the warmth and sweetness that slides down the back of my throat.

“If what you’re telling me is true,” I ask after a few swallows, “why is it that my own people—humans that is—aren’t aware of these gates? I’ve only ever heard of one portal to and from the fae worlds. It appeared in our world five hundred years ago, initiating our interactions with the fae.”

“That gate was created by a fae king of ages past in a tremendous act of power.” Taar pours himself his own brew. “It leads not only to this world, but potentially to all worlds. But humans have interacted with the fae since time immemorial.” He takes a swallow, heedless of the heat, and swirls his warm cup so that steam curls around his face. “All those tales of poor souls lost in fairy woods are testimony to the history your kind has simply forgotten. Even now humans may stumble upon a lesser gate by mistake and find themselves wandering through Wanfriel. Few return home again to tell their tales, and those who do are often mistaken for madmen.”

We sip our drinks in silence, while my mind whirls with this wealth of new information. I had always known the worlds were larger, more varied, more fascinating than the narrow existence I lived in Beldroth Castle. I’d simply never realized how near all those worlds were. Or how terrifying.

Taar drains his cup then stands and begins to kick dirt over the remnants of the fire. “Come, zylnala, ” he says, and something warms in my chest at the sound of the pet name lilting from his tongue. “I bade my people wait for me one night only. This extra night has set me back, and if I’m to meet them at the Luin Stone, we must set off at once.”

I shudder, remembering the furious faces of the other unicorn riders, who stood by as witnesses to my strange wedding ceremony. One face in particular had looked as though he would disembowel me the minute Taar’s back was turned.

Rising, I help Taar kick out the fire and begin packing up the saddlebags. “How will your people react to your bringing me with you?” I ask somewhat tentatively.

Taar’s brow darkens. “Don’t expect a warm welcome.”