Page 18 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)
TAAR
I duck under the low lintel and step into the rain-soaked coolness of a world on the brink of morning.
Elydark stands some yards off, facing the eastern horizon and the shimmer of pink light just beginning to stain the darkness. He’s aware of me—I can tell by the set of his ears, the flick of his tail. But he doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge me in any way. Our soul-connection is silent, without the faintest trace of song. But he knows what I did last night. He knows.
I breathe out slowly and turn away from him to look out across the dark landscape. The sound of running water tickles my ear. A stream runs down one side of the hillock, swollen from the storm, and gushes into a rocky pool. The sight of that pool and that cool, fresh water, as yet untainted by the poison of the vardimnar, attracts me. In a matter of moments I’ve stripped my garments and plunged in up to my chest. It’s like ice against my skin, but I don’t care. I submerge, holding my breath for as long as I can. As though somehow this plunge can cleanse the stain of passion from my body and the stain of guilt from my soul.
But when I rise again, my head breaking the surface of the water in a splash of foam, I find myself unchanged. I am still the same man I was in those hours hidden in the dark of the hovel while the storm lashed overhead. The man who gave in. Who succumbed to temptation. Not once, not twice.
Five times did I make her sing. And three of those times, I could not help but sing with her, a crude harmony of lust, longing, and release.
“Shakh,”
I hiss and swipe droplets from my face in a swift gesture. Even now heat warms through my loins, heedless of the icy water in which I sit. Every part of my body seems aware of the open doorway of the hovel. Of the dark interior where even now my bride lies naked on a bed of fleece and dried umedi blossoms.
“Shakh!”
I growl again and lift my arm from the water. The velra cord is invisible in the predawn gloom, but I feel it nonetheless. It’s like a snake, wrapped from wrist to elbow, tighter than ever. After all these days of careful abstinence, of making certain I do nothing to strengthen the bond, one moment of impulse was all it took to unleash the hunger inside me.
I climb out of the water and sit dripping on the edge of the pool, little caring how the morning wind chills my wet skin. Lifting my gaze, I look to the still-dark western horizon. There lies our destination, only a hard day’s ride before us. Tonight, if all goes well, we will stand before Onor Gantarith and have our bond severed.
Only now the prospect feels like asking to have a limb hewn.
Closing my eyes, I struggle to still my labored breath, to ease the tension from my inflamed body. Gods on high, but I long to reenter that cave! I want to crawl on top of her sleeping body, to breathe in the musky scent of her hair and skin. I want to run my hands down her smooth contours, bury my face between her legs, and wake her with ecstasy. My very soul cries out for that song of hers—that sweet song of bliss which she sings only for me.
Where did my resolve go? Vanished, along with any wisdom and reason. I feel like a lost soul, cut off from all that I know, all that makes me who I am. My kingdom, my people, this endless war, and the innumerable responsibilities which I must always keep in such careful balance . . . all of them seem to burn away in the furnace of this madness which grips me. This desire, this need for a woman who is wrong for me in every way.
I can’t do this. Clenching my fist, I turn my wrist as though I could even now snap the binding cord. But it clings, stronger than ever thanks to one night of weakness. How much have I already given up for the sake of this impulsive marriage? Ashika is dead; Nyathri hearttorn. My other brave warriors might be lost as well, and the whole of the Hidden City left vulnerable to attack.
Will all Licorna pay the price for Ilsevel’s life and my unchecked lust?
She is standing in the doorway when I return from the pool, like a pale phantom in the morning mist. Clad in her torn chemise, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, she watches me with wide, solemn eyes, her brow set in that knot which has become so familiar over the last week of our acquaintance.
“Warlord,”
she says cooly as I approach. Last night she’d sung my name, an ecstatic melody that filled my soul. Had I only imagined it? Dreamed it in the heat of those stolen hours between us?
I nod. She takes in my dripping frame slowly, then lifts her gaze to mine, one eyebrow slightly lifted. “There is a pool,”
I say with a toss of my head. “Over yonder. The rain is fresh from the heavens. Untainted. Safe to bathe in, if you wish.”
She blinks. We both know the mess we made of each other on that tumble of fleeces. A faint flush tinges her cheeks, but she makes a little grunt of acknowledgement. “A moment,”
I say and step into the hovel to grab the saddlebags. I try not to look at the indentations on the floor left by our coupled bodies and hasten back out into the budding sunlight. “Here.”
I take a blanket from one of the bags and offer it to her. “To dry yourself. It is cold this morning.”
Ilsevel accepts the offering with all the hauteur of a queen. Without a word she leaves me in the doorway, stepping around to the far side of the hill, following the sound of the rushing stream. I remain where I am, hands clenched into fists, determinedly looking in the opposite direction. Elydark steps into my line of view. His eyes catch mine across the little distance. His song remains silent in my head, but I can feel the condemnation emanating from his soul.
“Shakh,”
I curse again for the third time this day and run a hand down my face.
“Warlord?”
I half-turn my head at the sound of Ilsevel’s voice, calling from the far side of the hill, just audible above the stream’s surging. “Yes?”
I answer roughly.
“Will you pass me the blanket, please? I cannot reach it.”
I hesitate. Something tells me I should not venture anywhere near her and that pool. War rages in my chest for a count of ten heartbeats. But then I turn, stride swiftly around the side of the hill.
I come to an abrupt stop, heart leaping to my throat.
Ilsevel stands in the shallow part of the pool, up to her waist, shivering a little in the cold. Wet locks of hair hang over her shoulders, across her bare breasts. Droplets run in rivulets down her cheeks, her neck, the hollows of her collarbone, her navel.
But it’s her eyes which capture me. Those dark eyes of hers, fixed on my face with absolute intensity, watching for whatever I might reveal, for any sign of weakness. There is defiance in that gaze, but also a strange vulnerability that scarcely seems to fit in those proud features of hers. Most of all there’s heat—the fiery heat of a song waiting to be sung once again, needing only the right spark to set it ablaze.
I want her. Gods spare me, but I want her. Some part of me had hoped that to give in to temptation for one night would mean satiation. Surely now that the tension in my loins has known relief, I can suppress any unwanted feelings and focus on the task at hand. It’s just a simple matter of physical bodies and physical needs after all. Once the meal is devoured, hunger must abate.
But no. Here in the cold light of the dawning day, I cannot deny the truth: I want her. More than ever. I want her with a gnawing starvation that hollows me out from the inside, turning all reason to madness.
And here she stands before me, offering herself. Her chest rises and falls in quick panting breaths, and her flesh trembles with cold. But her eyes hold mine fiercely, as though she’s waiting for her life’s sentence to be pronounced.
My feet move, heavy as iron blocks. I make my way down to the pool’s edge, kneel, and take the folded blanket in my hand. Slowly, without breaking her gaze, I extend it to her.
Her eyes lower, dropping to look at the blanket. I watch her nostrils flare as she draws a little breath. Then her lashes rise, and she meets my gaze again. Fury blazes in the dark centers of her pupils. She snatches the blanket from my grasp, little caring how the edge falls in the water.
Rising, I turn swiftly and march back to the other side of the hillock. My breath comes heavily in my tight chest. The sun crests the horizon now. We must ride soon if we are to make it to Elanlein by moonrise. And we must. Gods spare me, we must! I can’t take any more of this.
I hear her footsteps approaching, hear the chatter of her teeth. She stands behind me by several paces. I cannot bring myself to turn and face her. “Dress quickly,”
I say without looking around. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”
She draws in a sharp breath. Then, in a voice of ice: “So that’s it then?”
My throat thickens. I drop my head, stare at the ground between my feet. For some moments, I cannot speak. Whatever I say will be wrong. But I must say something. I owe her that much.
“What happened last night”—the words are heavy, but I force them out, hard and clear—“that cannot happen again.”
Slowly I turn to face her, taking care to steel my expression, to reveal nothing she does not need to see. “It was a mistake, Ilsevel. I hope not a dire one.”
She stands before me, clad once more in that torn chemise, which clings to her still-damp skin. It falls from one shoulder, and I’m reminded keenly of the moment when, unable to restrain myself, I’d ripped it away from her body. Her wet hair hangs down her back, and her jaw is clenched as though to keep her teeth from chattering with cold.
“I’m sorry.”
I hate how weak I sound but am uncertain what else to offer. “I should have . . . I should never have . . .”
I stop and turn my face away, unable to continue meeting that furious stare. “I vowed to protect you. I will continue to do just that. I will set you free and return you to your people as agreed.”
My heart constricts. I breathe hard, trying to loosen it, but it won’t relent. “I can offer nothing more.”
“Nothing?”
Her voice is low, soft, but there’s a knife’s edge in her tone.
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 stripped me 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 the velra bond may be convincing me to think and say and do . . . she can never be my wife. She can never be my maelar. 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. The velra is 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 the velra, 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, little zylnala,”
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.”