Page 13 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

ILSEVEL

Days pass. One after another. Each chased by a long, dark, exhaustion-filled night.

I begin to forget what life was like before Cruor—before these endless hours of galloping, before these new horizons sought, found, and left behind in dust. Even the occasional spread of black lightning across the sky ceases to surprise me, though it remains as great a horror as ever. It is simply part of this new existence in which I have found myself, along with Elydark’s song and Taar’s broad presence at my back.

I lose all track of how long this journey has lasted. Each day is so much like the last, time measured in hoofbeats rather than seconds. Taar makes a point to stop by some water source at midday each day, purifies the water, and sees that I refresh myself. Sometimes he hunts, but never with any luck. While he claims it is not impossible to find prey out here in the wild country, farther from Evisar and the epicenter of the Rift, I’ve yet to see any evidence of life. What could possibly bear to live out here, among these ghostly ruins and this hell-plagued atmosphere?

So we subsist on a diet of ume cakes, which do not grow more toothsome with familiarity. I’d almost prefer to starve than gnaw my way through one more of those damnable rocks! But every night, Taar urges me to eat, his tone carefully balanced between concern and command so that I do not quite dare rebel.

And every night, I lie down on my side of our camp, aching in every bone, feeling the wind trying to make its way through the folds of my cloak . . . and wonder what would happen if I dared creep to the other side of the fire. If I dared curl up against that forbidding wall of Taar’s back, drawing warmth from his presence. Would he react? Would he bark sharply at me to get away? Would he remind me all over again how important it is that we do nothing to strengthen the velra bond, which already puts him at such risk?

Or would he roll over in the dark, covering me with his cloak and his body. Let the scent of his musk fill my nostrils even as the warmth of his hands molded my flesh, pressing me against him. Would we rediscover those glories we knew so briefly . . . how many nights ago? I’ve long since lost count. But I’ve certainly not forgotten the experience. My body burns to relive it, to know what new wonders may yet be discovered between us.

Each night, I bite down hard on my lower lip, squeeze my eyes tight—and suddenly memory of a pyre fills my head. Aurae’s pyre, along with the corpses of those she had slain. My darling sister, so sweet, so innocent . . .

Then I roll over in the darkness, curl into a tight ball, and silently cry myself to sleep.

At dawn we rise to do it all again. Taar stokes up the fire, brews his tea, which he shares with me, then packs the saddlebags with swift efficiency. We mount; we ride. We cover as much territory as possible. Not once do we see any sign of his people, not since the corpse on the battlefield. Nor do we glimpse the hearttorn unicorn, though I find myself watching for her and for Mahra and the wild herd, my gods-gift straining for the faintest echo of that broken chorus. All is silent in Cruor, however. All songs have been swallowed up in the un-song of the vardimnar.

One day, late in the afternoon, Elydark crests a rise above a valley which once belonged to a prosperous lord of Licorna. I can still see evidence of fields so laboriously carved out of the wild land, the stone walls, the storage buildings, half-fallen under the weight of overgrowth, eaten away by decay. The house itself is stone: a fine, golden-faced building, with empty windows that gives off the feeling of a soul long-since fled.

“There’s a storm rolling in,”

Taar says, his voice deep and rough, close to my ear. I startle a little, unused to any break in the long silence of our travel days. When he lifts his arm, I look where he indicates and see darkness gathering on the southern horizon, clouds mounding on each other as though competing to see who can reach this little valley first.

“It’s not the vardimnar, is it?”

I ask uncertainly, even as a burst of lightning flashes in that churning mass.

“No,”

Taar responds, “just a storm, but those can be fierce enough in Cruor this time of year. We’d be wise to take shelter. Rothiliar House lies yonder. Perhaps we should—”

“No!”

The word jumps from my lips before I can stop it. I cover my mouth with my hand, embarrassed by my own vehemence. “Please,”

I continue, turning to look up at Taar. “It’s so . . . so . . .”

I don’t know how to express it, the revulsion I feel at the prospect of entering that once-beautiful abode, now hollowed out, the spirit dragged unwillingly from its heart. It would feel like a sort of desecration.

Taar looks down at me, his expression solemn. Then he nods. “There is an old shepherd’s hut not far from here,”

he says. “Let us see what comforts it offers.”

Elydark hastens into the valley, racing against the storm. We gallop through air so tense and still, it almost hurts the skin to pass through it. When the first raindrops begin to fall, it’s a relief just to feel some of that tension break. But then thunder rumbles, loud as a giant’s roar, and lightning bursts from the sky, striking a tree not half a mile from our current position. I scream and clap my hands over my ears, but Taar never wavers. His arm slips around me, a comfort he does not often offer these days. He holds me close against him so that his cloak protects me from the worst of the rain. “Almost there, zylnala,”

he says, shouting to be heard above the downpour.

Something in me warms at the sound of that pet name. It’s been so long since I’ve heard him say it, I’d almost forgotten the odd little trill it makes of his rough-and-ready voice. I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.

Elydark pulls to a stop before a hillock, atop which stands a great, crooked, claw-rooted tree. It takes a moment before I notice the doorway dug straight into the side of the mound, between two massive roots. A few planks of petrified wood line the front, holding strong against the elements. An odd combination of natural and manmade, it isn’t the most inviting place. But just now, under this torrent, it might be a king’s palace.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait out the storm in the house?”

Taar asks, his words almost lost in another crack and roll of thunder.

I shake my head. Humble though it may be, there’s no sense of emptiness emanating from this dwelling, making it much preferable to those echoing halls. “This will do fine,”

I shout, rain pouring down my face, into my mouth.

Taar dismounts. After a short exchange of song with Elydark, he ducks his head under the low lintel and peers into the gloom inside. I hope his half-fae eyes can make something of those shadows; mine certainly could not. He looks back out over his shoulder. “It’s empty. You should be safe enough.”

I nod shortly and swing down the long drop from Elydark’s back to the ground, the bones of my feet jarring somewhat from impact. Wrapping my sodden cloak around me, I hasten to the door. A strong smell wafts out to greet me—earthiness, damp, and decay. Nothing dangerous, nothing that sets my teeth on edge. It’s very cold but dry.

I step inside. No need for me to duck—that doorway was built for much taller people than I. It’s so dark, I stumble after a mere three steps, then stand stock still, afraid to venture farther. “Are you coming?”

I cast back over my shoulder, teeth chattering.

“Elydark and I will keep watch out here tonight.”

“What?”

I whirl on heel, stagger back to the doorway, and grip the post with one hand.

Taar is little more than a rain-spattered silhouette looming before me. “If the vardimnar comes, I should have plenty of time to call you out to us,”

he says, not quite looking at me. “And I’ll fetch you what supplies you need from the bags, of course.”

I gape at him, momentarily wordless. Then I snarl, “I’m sure as hells not spending the night in this hole by myself!”

He glances at me, eyes agleam. “It is . . . quite close quarters in there.”

“So? I don’t take up much room.”

I draw myself a little straighter. “Or does it go against your kingly delicacy to share a roof with me once more?”

“Ilsevel—”

“Fine! Have it your way.”

Gripping folds of cloak with both hands, I stomp back out into the rain, gasping as a fresh sheet of icy wetness pummels my shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

Taar’s voice is a bark, but another growl of thunder softens its harshness.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

I tilt my chin, trying not to care as rain splashes and runs like tears down my cheeks. “If you’re determined to drown yourself out here all night like an idiot, I might as well drown with you. Isn’t that what marriage is all about? For better or for gods-damned worse?”

Though I can’t discern much of his face, I can feel his gaze fixed upon me. I try to meet it, though it’s difficult with water pelting my eyes. I’m obliged to blink and blink and blink to keep from being blinded.

“I could force you back inside, you know.”

“Yes,”

I reply, “and then what? Will you bind my hands and feet to make me stay? Because otherwise . . .”

A roll of thunder drowns out his curse. But I see the way his shoulders sag suddenly and know I’ve won. “Get inside,”

he growls. “I’ll get the saddlebags.”

I stand a moment longer to make certain he’s true to his word. Elydark seems to have partially faded out of this reality, a natural defense against the elements, I suspect, but his saddle and gear are all still solid enough. Taar grabs the bags and slings them over his shoulder before turning and scowling at me, his face severe in a flash of lightning.

I smile triumphantly, despite the water dripping off my chin, and turn to reenter the hovel. It’s so painfully dark inside, I cannot decide whether to step to the right or the left to make room for Taar. Instead I simply stand still until he crowds the doorway behind me. One firm hand takes hold of my shoulder, deliciously warm through the sodden folds of my cloak, and firmly pushes me to the right.

For a moment he seems to absolutely fill the space, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake demanding he share this hovel with me. But then, somehow, he folds himself into more manageable proportions. I cannot see him, but I feel the space in front of me alter somehow. He mutters an incantation, one I’ve heard him speak before: “Rhuenar tor-vel.”

The air tenses, and I’m almost certain I feel Elydark’s voice singing back to him, sharing power through their connection. There’s a noise of stone-on-stone.

A spark flares. I put up a hand to shield my gaze, then peer through my fingers to watch my warlord husband set light to a bundle of kindling in a small clay pot with an open front. There’s a crooked flue of sorts, winding its way up the root-wrapped wall, presumably to carry smoke out into the storm. It looks as though we won’t have to spend the night in pitch dark after all.

Taar looks absolutely massive in this cramped space, hunched over that little clay fireplace. And yet he is graceful as ever when he settles on his haunches and casts me a quick look over his arm. “Make yourself comfortable. If you can.”

There’s nowhere to sit save beside him. My head grazes the twining roots dangling from the ceiling, causing showers of dust to fall if I don’t duck. But the floor is padded with several layers of something soft and springy—fleeces, I think, a little smelly but mostly protected from decay. They crunch when I step, giving off faint hints of a lavender-like perfume. I wonder if the shepherds sprinkled dried plants underneath the layers of old fleeces to help with the smell.

“You seem familiar with this place,”

I say, easing to the ground beside Taar.

He grunts. “I have traveled across Cruor on my own before. Elydark and I have discovered any number of bolt holes to be used in emergencies.”

“Will Elydark be safe out there?”

Even as I ask, the wind picks up outside, an awful wailing that makes the tree atop this mound groan. Despite myself, I press against Taar’s warm side.

Taar chuckles. “He would be delighted to know you asked such a question. But not to worry—Elydark is unaffected by the storms of this world.”

Be that as it may, I don’t like thinking of the beautiful unicorn out there in that lashing wind. I almost feel guilty for abandoning him to it, though what good I would do by standing out there with him, I can’t imagine.

Taar reaches into one of the bags and pulls out another blighted ume cake. I can’t help the sigh that whispers like a curse from my lips when he hands it to me. He chuckles softly, and I feel the vibration of it rumble through the arm I’m pressed up against. “Has time and familiarity not endeared you to Licornyn faire?”

“If these are a good representation of your people’s culinary prowess, I’m sorry to inform you, but you are woefully behind all other worlds and realms.”

At that Taar throws back his head and seems to just bite back a bark of laughter. He merely smiles instead, looking up at the firelight playing among the dangling root ends. “You reveal your own lack of experience with such words, I’m afraid. You have certainly never encountered the Noxaurian xyrharoac.”

I grimace. The very name sounds revolting. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyway. It’s a scorpion prevalent in the Forests of Xyre. It is seared briefly in oil and served still alive and, as you can imagine, raging. It is the responsibility of the intrepid diner to deal a final death blow and disarm the poisoned stinger before digging in.”

He glances down, taking in my horrified expression. “I hear it’s delectable with a cream sauce.”

I make a face. Trust the Noxaurians to serve a meal that wants to kill you back. Staring down at the ume cake, I turn it slowly in my hand. “I’m not sure even cream sauce could save these abominations.”

To my surprise, Taar takes the cake from my hands. “Perhaps it is time I shared this little secret,”

he says and opens another sack. From its depths he removes something wrapped in paper-like leaves. He hands it to me, and I blink with surprise at the stickiness oozing right through the wrapping. “Go on,”

he says. “Open it.”

I peel back a leaf to reveal a strange brown substance. Were it not for the way the firelight makes it glisten, I’d almost mistake it for leather.

“Taste it,”

Taar says. When I look at him askance, his teeth flash in the fire’s glow. “I swear on all Nornala’s holy children, you won’t regret it.”

Not entirely convinced, I nibble at a corner of the sticky stuff. Immediately sweetness explodes across my tongue, a revelation after days and days of nothing but dust-dry cakes. I take a larger bite, my teeth sticking so hard, I fear for a moment they won’t come apart. A little piece breaks off in my mouth. I roll it around my tongue until it finally softens enough to swallow. It’s delicious. A sweetness like honey, but with a slight sourness that only increases the overall experience. I want to eat more, my appetite suddenly awakened. But half-remembered tales of faerie fruit and the dangers they pose to humans make me hesitate.

“What is it?”

I ask, turning the rest of the dark lump over in my hand.

“It’s called leolii,”

Taar says. “Or, in your own tongue perhaps—sweet leather. It’s made from the liluth fruit, which grows in abundance in the hinterlands. It is inedible in its fresh form, poisonous. But prolonged exposure of the flesh to sunlight neutralizes the toxins, so my people eat it in this dried form. Take care though,”

he adds as I go to take another bite, “it will go to your head.”

He’s not wrong. A second bite, and I feel a warm blurring around the edges of my brain, not unlike a heady wine. Hungry as I am, I cannot resist taking a third small nibble before Taar takes the leolii from my hand and wraps it back in its leaves. “Will you not have some?”

I ask, my voice rather more slurred than I like.

He shakes his head, mouth quirked. “One of us, at least, should keep his wits about him tonight.”

He takes a bite of ume cake, his teeth breaking through the outer crust with apparent ease.

Thus do we share a meal, meager though it may be. Afterwards we sit for some while. I’m suddenly very warm, despite my rain-drenched clothes, and resist the urge to shed some layers. I slip my cloak from my shoulders and only just restrain myself from unfastening the front of my bodice. My fingers touch the front laces before I stop and clench my hands tight in my lap. Taar doesn’t move. He seems to be made of rock, his only sign of life his slow inhale and exhale of breath and the intense focus of his eyes on the dancing flames.

I should curl up and try to sleep. It will be another bone-bruising ride tomorrow, no doubt. But I find I don’t want to waste this time. All our other nights together have been so cold, so distant, always with the campfire between us. All save that one night . . . that one I dare not think about too closely.

Only now I’m thinking about it again. Thinking about it while that lovely, hazy blur moves through my senses, softening all my sharp edges. I’m suddenly so aware of the heat of Taar’s arm, pressed against mine. Every muscle is shaped as though hewn from solid marble, and all the various scars lining its contours only add to the overall impression of barely-contained power. The man is magnificent. Terrible and mighty, and no amount of proximity has in any way accustomed me to the dangerous thrill his presence inspires in my gut. And now, with the warmth of the intoxicating liluth fruit bubbling in my veins, I wonder . . .

“How much farther to your city?”

I ask abruptly, more to drown out my own traitorous thoughts than anything. My voice seems somewhat smothered in this close atmosphere. I wonder if Taar even heard me, he is silent such a long while.

“I expect to reach the hinterlands tomorrow afternoon,”

he says at last. “With any luck, we’ll cross the Morrona River before sundown and reach Elanlein, the last Holy House, by moonrise.”

So soon? I frown into the fire. I’d thought we had more time. More time for what, I cannot say. More time for exhausting gallops across endless, empty landscapes? More time for hard cakes and sticky dried fruit? More time for silent campfires under the watchful eyes of distant stars? No, not that.

More time to spend in his atmosphere. Breathing his air. Feeling the safety of his arms on either side of me, the bigness of his frame at my back. Knowing that, even though he loathes everything my people represent, he will protect me. At whatever cost to himself.

When this bond of ours is broken, what’s to become of me then? This protection I enjoy under Taar’s mantel is false, I know, but it’s the most secure I’ve ever felt. When that is gone, I will be adrift in a world far bigger, far wilder, far more dangerous and terrible than I ever imagined from behind the walls of Beldroth Castle, back in the days when I thought I craved adventure and freedom. What I wouldn’t give for a taste of that ignorance once more! For a chance to be the thoughtless child who believed she knew who she was and what she wanted from life. For a chance to do it all over.

“Will your priest be able to break this do you think?”

I ask, holding up my arm and turning my wrist. I can neither see nor feel any sign of the velra tonight. But I do not doubt its presence.

“I don’t know,”

Taar replies, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Are you afraid you’ll be stuck with me through the rest of the month?”

He glances my way, the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly. “It would not be . . . ideal.”

Maybe it’s just the fuzziness of the leolii playing with my perceptions. But there’s something in his gaze that makes molten liquid trickle down my spine and pool in my gut. I find my eyes dropping momentarily to his lips, but hastily force them back up again, hoping he didn’t notice. Something tells me he did.

He looks away again. Picking up a stick from his supply of kindling, he prods our little fire in the clay pot. “So tell me,”

he says, his tone shifting to something more distant than it was a moment before, “where do you want me to take you once you are free?”

That warm liquid in my gut hardens to stone. He’s only voicing the very question I’ve asked myself again and again, but how am I to answer? I know what I must do—return to Beldroth and let my father know I’m alive, safe, and ready to marry the Shadow King, if he’ll still have me. But I can’t very well ask Taar to drop me off at the doorstep of his enemy. A border town like the one near Lamruil’s Temple is probably my safest bet. But how can I prove to the people there my identity? I have nothing on me to verify such a wild claim, no token or sigil, not even a convenient birthmark.

Taar is still waiting for an answer. I shrug lightly. “I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve been so focused on simply getting through each day. I still have a little time to decide, don’t I?”

He grunts. I can’t tell if it’s in agreement or otherwise. After another silence he says, “Where did Mage Artoris intend to take you?”

I catch my breath. Gods-damn me black and blue, I’d almost forgotten that I’d been foolish enough to tell him about Artoris, about that stupid letter. He’s not mentioned it since that night, and part of me hoped I’d simply dreamt that whole encounter.

“Evisar,”

I say at long last.

Taar is suddenly tense beside me. Though the fire continues to flicker, and his presence is so huge and warm, I feel cold. Chilled right to the bone. “Why would a necroliphon mage want to take you to Evisar?” he asks.

I look up to find his dark eyes staring so hard into mine. “I don’t know,”

I answer truthfully. “I . . . I don’t know.”

His jaw works. He seems to be thinking through and discarding any number of harsh words, either demands or accusations. I try to keep my face as open as I dare, to give the appearance of honesty, even when we both know I’m holding onto more secrets than either of us dares acknowledge.

“You did not want to go with him,”

Taar says at last, slowly. As though he’s trying to make sense of the words he’s saying. “You resisted. I saw you.”

I nod.

“Then why . . .”

He stops and once more carefully reshapes his words. “You told me you asked him to come. To run away with you.”

I look down at my hands, empty in my lap. They look like such lifeless, useless things, and yet only a short time ago I believed I could clench and shake them against the whole mad world!

“He did not want to take my sister. When the attack came.”

I stare into the fire again, seeing once more the licking flames burning across the rooftops of the temple buildings. The screams of the dying priests echo in my ears, along with the savage roars of the virulium-maddened Noxaurians. “He would have left her to die, and I . . . I learned what kind of man he really was.”

There’s nothing but silence between us for some while. I can almost hear my words grinding through Taar’s brain as he seeks to make sense of them, to make sense of me. I know it doesn’t all add up, but even now he doesn’t press me for answers I’m unwilling to give. I am, as I have always been, utterly at his mercy. And yet he remains merciful.

“So,”

Taar says after what feels like hours, “you do not care for him anymore.”

My lip curls, undecided whether it wants to smile or sneer. “I don’t think I ever really did.”

Taar takes this in without comment. The fire crackles in its pot, casting an eerie red glow about this small chamber. A far cry from the tapestry-lined room of stone and brocade in which I lived my coddled life up to now. Even the stark quarters at Lamruil’s temple were luxurious by comparison. But I do not wish to be back in either of those rooms with all their easy comforts close at hand. What prisoner would long for her prison, even a prison of silk and lace?

“I’m tired,”

I say suddenly. Taar offers no reaction, so I add, “I will sleep now. Good night, warlord.”

There is little enough room to lie down, but I turn away from him, curl on my side in my sodden clothes and damp cloak, shivering with both cold and exhaustion. Sleep is far from me, however. Instead I find myself straining to listen through the howling wind and rain outside for some far-off song. A broken song, full of guilt and loss and pain. A song which, I’m almost certain, might be made whole, if only I could hear the right harmony to sing into its brokenness.

“Good night, zylnala,”

Taar says softly after what feels like a long, long while.