Page 14 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

My gaze travels to her small form, curled up on her side on the shepherd’s fleeces. Even through the wet folds of her cloak, I can see the shivers that quake through her every so often and wish I might warm her properly. This small fire radiates precious little heat, not enough to dry our clothes. Wearing little as I am, my skin is already dry, and other than the damp locks of hair hanging over my shoulders, one couldn’t tell I’d just stood out in a thunderous downpour. But she might catch a chill. Humans are such frail creatures.

Only I can’t say she’s given me an impression of frailty over these last seven days of our acquaintance. Indeed, she’s proven unexpectedly resilient, facing each new challenge with a mingling of stubbornness and pride that makes for quite a convincing facsimile of courage.

A smile pulls at my mouth as I remember the way she stood there in the storm, scowling up at me even as pelting rain all but blinded her. Gods spare me, she would rather drown standing upright than let me care for or coddle her in any way!

My smile slips away, replaced by a frown. Who is she? The question plagues me even as it has since the beginning. Ilsevel . . . Mage Artoris’s intended lover. A gods-gifted pilgrim, a worshipper of Lamruil. A bereft sister. Such is the sum of my knowledge of this woman. Every new piece I’ve added to the puzzle has only served to increase both my confusion and curiosity. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to grab her by the shoulders and demand explanations. Her full name to start with. And what in the sight of all the gods she was actually doing at that temple with Artoris that night.

With a sigh I turn my gaze down to my own forearm. Firelight plays across my skin, highlighting various scars from many years of violent campaigns. But my mind seems determined to play tricks on me. I believe I see the winding coils of velra, wrapping as tight as when the young priest bound us on our wedding night. In my head I hear my own voice speaking the sacred vows of bonding: “With my faith will I honor you. With my body will I protect you. With my arms will I shelter you. With my heart will I warm you.”

I had not meant them. Not truly. But there must have been some power in those words so thoughtlessly spoken, some force beyond my simple intention of saving her life and abandoning her immediately thereafter. With every passing hour I’ve found myself more and more determined to uphold what I vowed that night. To protect her. To shield her from the darkness of this world and all others.

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

I breathe out slowly, careful not to let my gaze turn to her shivering form once again. My veins are warmer than they were before, and that warmth seems to pool in the pit of my gut. Gods! I should have known better than to let her talk me into entering this confined space with her. It’s one thing to put from my mind the shape and softness of her body when she’s lying on the other side of a crackling campfire. It’s another altogether when she’s beside me, the generous curve of her hip unhidden beneath the folds of that wet cloak. Days of riding with her nestled between my legs have done nothing to blur the memory of our night together. Of her soft lips, trembling gently under mine. Of her smooth skin, prickling with awareness at the molding of my hands. Of those delicate, melodic whimpers and moans coaxed from her slender throat. And the taste of her, that warm sweetness, so eager under my tongue.

I rub a hand viciously down my face and give my head a swift shake. The last thing I need right now is to become distracted. Ashika’s death still weighs heavily on me, along with fear for the rest of my people, still missing. And what of the Hidden City? Without the Licornyn Riders to protect it, my people are vulnerable.

Shanaera is out there. She knows all the secret ways across Cruor. Even unmounted she is dangerous, and something tells me she and the undead following her are not without means of swift travel. I don’t like to imagine what sort of steeds the Miphates will have provided them with, but knowing the necroliphon . . .

I must get home. I must see Tassa and all the great dakath tents with their patterned walls, stretched across the green country of the hinterlands, beyond reach of the vardimnar. I must know they are safe and whole. Then I will begin the great labor of gathering the tribes once more in preparation for an assault on Evisar. Any day now word may come from Prince Ruvaen that he’s unlocked the secret of Mage Artoris’s talisman. The warriors of Licorna must be prepared to ride across the devastated fields of Agandaur one last time.

But before any of this may be accomplished, I must rid myself of this bride.

The heat in my veins doused once more, I allow a last glance down at her form. Though she still shivers, I believe she sleeps at last. Her breathing has changed, slow and even. She’s so small, so slight, her little human frame utterly unsuited to this world in which she now finds herself. If the call from Ruvaen comes before silmael, what will I do? Ride with her before me in the saddle to face the Miphates and whatever defenses they have gathered around their citadel? No. She is no warrior. And her presence will make me far too vulnerable.

We must break this bond. Tomorrow night, if I push Elydark to the limits of his strength, we can be in Elanlein. Onor Gantarith must know how to free me, to free us. And we’ve been so careful all these nights, allowing neither word nor deed to strengthen the bond.

One more night. One more ride.

I can do this.

I must.

A sigh on my lips, I lie down in the small space still available on my side of the hovel. Dried umedi crunches beneath the old fleece, filling my nostrils with a sweet, familiar scent. Long ago my mother used to place sachets of umedi blossoms under my pillow every night, a ward against bad dreams. I do not expect to dream fitfully tonight. Now that I am reclining, exhaustion radiates through my limbs.

Still, part of me resists sleep; something in me, down in my center, feels tense. As though some unseen threat lurks in this space, hiding in the shadows just beyond the firelight. But there’s nothing there, certainly nothing I need fear. And Elydark stands guard outside the door, prepared to sing his song of protection should the vardimnar fall.

So I close my eyes and, with the practice born of many a long campaign, drop off almost at once into dreamless sleep.