Page 22 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

“So where is the human creature?”

I look up from the small fire I’ve built in the circle of stones outside Halamar’s dakath. I’d risen before the sun to gather kindling, eager to be done with the long night. It wasn’t sleeping on hard ground beneath the cold sky which bothered me; I’ve lived rough most of my life and have little need for creature comforts. Like any warrior, I can sleep well and deeply wherever I happen to lie down.

But I struggled to close my eyes last night. Not with the hides of the dakath wall separating me from Ilsevel.

The physical distance was not great, but that barrier felt like a yawning chasm. The velra around my arm burned painfully as I fought the urge to throw back the entrance flap and plunge into the shadowy space where she lay. But I know what I would have done had I given in. I would have crawled atop her, ripped away the covering blankets, and plunged my hand under her skirts. My mouth would seek hers in the darkness, forgetting all Gantarith’s warnings. I would kiss her until she moaned, pleasure her until she sang, and to hell with all consequences.

Only Elydark’s presence kept me sane. My licorneir positioned himself in the space between me and the dakath, like a living wall. Fully aware of the turmoil in my soul, he did not speak to me, did not try to argue me out of any foolish impulses. He simply stood, silent and solid, until I rolled onto my side, my back to him, and closed my eyes tight. The hours crept by slowly, one after the other. When I rose at last, I felt haggard as though I’d spent the night in combat, and my forearm hurt like the damned.

It still hurts now as I lift my gaze from my small fire to watch the dawn mist part and my sister step through into Halamar’s home clearing. A large woven basket rests on her hip, a fold of pale khiir fabric draping out of one side. She’s come prepared for her morning work, as we agreed upon last night.

Tassa scowls at me where I crouch at the fire, her question hanging in the smokey air between us. “Grace to you this fine morning, dear sister,”

I say dryly, sitting back on my heels. “Of all homely comforts, I’ve missed the dulcet sounds of your voice the most.”

A growl in her throat, Tassa stomps across the flattened grass, sets down her basket, and kneels across the fire from me. My travel kettle, propped on coals, is just beginning to belch steam. She glances at it before turning her gaze to the dakath door flap. “Is she still asleep?”

I grunt.

“And you spent the night out here, did you?”

I don’t answer. Using a long stick, I hook the kettle handle and lift it from the fire. I have only two cups on hand; I fill them both, straining the larger jyre tea leaves as I pour. One cup I offer across the flickering fire. Tassa stares at me a moment before taking it. Her eyes never leave mine as she lifts the brew, takes a slow sip.

Then, shaking her head, she lowers the cup to her lap. “Gods, you shakhed her, didn’t you.”

I swirl the contents of my own cup, watching remnant jyre leaves whirl. “Truly, sister, your speech grows more refined by the day. Such eloquence from the last princess of Licorna.”

“Gods-damn you, Taar.”

She flashes her teeth like a wildcat. “She’s human. How could you bear to touch her?”

“I didn’t. I slept out here last night. Elydark will vouch for me.”

She glances at my licorneir, who stands on the edge of the clearing and pretends to ignore us both. Her eyes swivel back to me. The lines around her mouth harden. “And what about the night before?”

I don’t answer. Neither can I hold her gaze. I take a gulp from my cup, the too-hot liquid scalding as it pours down my throat. Tassa curses again and tosses the contents of her cup into the fire, which sizzles and sends up a cloud of dark smoke. Rising, she gathers her basket and turns as though to leave.

“Tassa, wait,”

I call after her.

“Wait? Wait? What have I ever done but wait?”

She whirls to face me, her long silver earrings clattering softly as they swing back and forth over her shoulders. Her face is vicious, and her hands grip the handles of her basket white-knuckled. “I’m always the one who waits, Taar, while you ride off to adventure in far worlds. I’m here, scrubbing soiled small clothes, curing smelly hides, spinning khiir into thread, and grinding aymar roots for the cookpot. I’m here waiting. Trusting, believing. Praying that someday, somehow, we will reclaim the world that once was ours, and I’ll see my home again.”

She shifts her basket to her hip, then tosses her free hand to indicate Halamar’s dakath. “I’m waiting for warriors to ride home, either in victory or defeat. Waiting for wounds to heal which never do, waiting for those I love to return to me, whether broken or whole, I cannot know. Always, always I am waiting, Taar.”

Her eyes hold mine across the clearing, simmering with barely suppressed wrath. I feel the heat of her pain and frustration. Life has not been kind to any of us in the years since the Rift. But I have Elydark. That licorneir bond has been my sustaining force, even through the loss of Shanaera. But Tassa has had to face each shock alone.

Slowly I get to my feet. Her eyes flash as I approach her, but she does not resist when I reach out and take her hand. “Tassa—” I begin.

“Don’t,”

she snaps, dropping her gaze from mine. She lets a long breath out through clenched teeth. We stand like so for some moments, and I don’t know what to say to break this silence. I know how dearly my sister wished to one day be a rider like our mother. But there are so few licorneir left in the world, and bonds are rare. She never found a pairing; instead she was forced to watch while I, Shanaera, Kildorath, and Halamar all rode out from the Hidden City and left her behind.

“I’m sorry, Tassa,”

I say at last, my voice low. “Truly.”

“Sorry for shakhing a human?”

I squeeze her hand. “Sorry for disappointing you.”

“I’m not disappointed.”

She tilts her head back, scowling up at me. “I’m disgusted.”

I meet her gaze levelly. “You weren’t there.”

“Damn right, I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t see her.”

I grimace as memory flashes through my mind. “You didn’t see how valiantly she fought to protect her sister. Against impossible odds, unarmed, ravening Noxaurians closing in, and still she would not back down.”

Tassa sneers. “Even a rat will fight when it’s cornered.”

A sudden swell of rage bellows up from deep inside me. Part of me is shocked—I’ve never felt this way, not toward my sister. For a split second I try to calm myself, to remember that I have voiced similar and worse opinions about humans many times in my life.

But then my voice emerges in a growl so deep, I hardly recognize it: “You will not speak of her in that way again. Not to me.”

Tassa’s eyes flare. She wrenches her hand from mine and staggers two steps back. She looks at me like I’m some stranger. “Is that how it is then? Have you forgotten everything you are, everything those Miphates forced you to become? Has she so easily seduced you?”

My jaw clenches. “Ilsevel is guilty of no wrongdoing. She is neither a Miphata nor a warrior, but an innocent pilgrim. It was my fault she was endangered. I did what I had to do to save her life.”

My sister’s lip curls. “You’re keeping something from me.”

The moment she says it, I hear Ilsevel’s voice again, soft in my head: “Mage Artoris would not have been at the Temple of Lamruil were it not for me.”

Even now thought of their connection brings bile to my throat. And how deep did that connection run? How deep may it run still, despite her declarations to the contrary?

“There are some things, sister,”

I say, turning away from Tassa’s studying gaze, “which are not yours to know.”

“What about Shanaera?”

A stone seems to strike my sternum, break through bones, and lodge in my chest. Shanaera was Tassa’s dear friend. It was Shanaera and Kildorath’s father, Markildor, chieftain of the Rocaryn Tribe, who took me and my sister in when we were discovered alone together on the banks of the Morrona River. Markildor heard our story and, when presented with the proof of Queen Ashtalora’s ring, believed we were who we claimed to be—the surviving prince and princess of ruined Licorna. He took us under his protection, raised us alongside his own two children. Tassa, Shanaera, Kildorath, and I were as close as siblings, closer even—bonded through suffering and survival.

Shanaera’s death affected Tassa deeply. I’ve not had the heart to tell her of the necroliphon magic and the undead I faced during this recent campaign. If I could, I would spare her that knowledge forever.

“I have not forgotten Shanaera,”

I say quietly. “I never will.”

“You shame her memory, taking this woman as your bride.”

Guilt twists my gut. I push it down firmly. “I vowed to save Ilsevel’s life, and that is what I intend to do. Then she will be returned to her people, and we will not speak of her again.”

I take a step toward Tassa, once more reaching for her hand. She turns away from me. “I swear it, Tassa. It will be like none of this ever happened.”

Her lips move, forming what looks like another curse. Before she can speak, however, movement across the clearing draws both our gazes. The door flap of Halamar’s dakath ripples, and Ilsevel emerges. She’s clad still in the same rough Licornyn gown she’s worn this past week, shabby and stained with hard travel. Her hair is pulled loose from its braids and hangs in snarls past her shoulders. She looks exhausted, hollow-eyed, and much too thin . . . and yet . . .

My heart leaps at the sight of her, thudding first in my throat before plummeting to my gut where it churns in molten heat. Gods-damn this velra bond! A separation of mere hours with only the hides of the dakath between us, and a mere glimpse of her sleep-puffy face is like the rising of the sun over the wintery darkness of my soul. I cannot let myself forget that these feelings are false. But how will I keep my heart in check to the month’s end?

Of course the elders might declare a simple solution by the edge of Gantarith’s ceremonial blade. My teeth grind together. So help me, if the old priest goes anywhere near her with that knife, I’ll gut him on the spot!

Ilsevel catches my eyes across the clearing. At sight of my grim expression, she draws back a step, as though prepared to duck back into the dakath. Hastily I shake the violence from my head and call out to her in what I hope is a mild tone: “Good morrow, Ilsevel. Are you thirsty?”

She doesn’t answer, merely stands in that opening, one hand still gripping the hide flap. Her gaze flicks from me to Tassa, uncertain which of us to fear more. I leave my sister’s side and retrieve the cup of jyre tea I’d left behind me on the fire stones. It’s still steaming, so I offer it to Ilsevel. “Here. Drink. It’s a chilly morning.”

“Yes,”

she says, her voice like frost, “I’d noticed.”

She accepts the cup and lifts it to her lips. Her gaze shifts from me to Tassa. Swallowing a mouthful of tea, she lowers the cup again and murmurs, “Someone looks delighted to see me.”

I glance back over my shoulder. Tassa’s stare could skin alive a zhor wolf, and it’s fixed with absolute intensity on my bride. I hate this, feeling so torn between the sister I love and the woman I can’t seem to get rid of.

“Don’t worry about her,”

I say softly. “She will help you prepare for the meeting with the elders.”

Saying as much reminds me. I turn back to Tassa and call out in Licornyn tongue: “Did you speak to Elder Halaema last night?”

“Yes,”

Tassa replies. “The meeting has been called and the elders summoned from their beds and breakfasts. They know only that their luinar has returned and that he requires council immediately.”

She narrows her eyes. “I did not mention your warbride. You can explain that on your own.”

I suppress a sigh. “And did Halamar summon Onor Gantarith as I requested?”

“I did.”

We all turn as Halamar steps into the clearing, appearing a few paces behind Tassa. My sister startles at his arrival and hastily moves to one side. Her scowl deepens when he offers her a solemn nod. One would never guess by the cool look on his face that there had ever been anything between them. How Ilsevel picked up on the truth in a single meeting without even understanding the language they spoke is beyond comprehension.

Halamar salutes me after the Licornyn fashion, pressing his fist to his heart. “Gantarith will be present for the meeting and has agreed to testify as to the strange nature of your velra bond.”

“And when will the meeting take place?”

“Within the hour.”

“In that case,”

I say, turning to Tassa, “you had best make Ilsevel ready at once.”

She gives me a last long look, protests brimming in her eyes. At last, however, she shakes her head and says only, “You owe me, brother.”

“Whatever you desire, sister mine, including my kingdom, if you ask it.”

“Nobody wants your damned kingdom.”

Leaving Halamar’s side, Tassa stalks across the clearing, making for the other side of the dakath where the stream flows. “Come then, bride of my brother,”

she calls over her shoulder in human tongue. “Let’s see what we can make of you.”

Ilsevel, still standing in the dakath doorway, shoots me an uneasy look. “Go on,”

I say and nod my head after Tassa. “She won’t bite.”

Ilsevel looks unconvinced but silently follows Tassa. The moment she disappears on the far side of the dakath, I feel a nearly irresistible urge to follow. My feet take three steps after her before I realize what I’m doing and force myself to stop. Weakness trembles in my limbs, and I roll my neck uncomfortably. It’s not as bad here, beyond the influence of Cruor and the vardimnar. On this side of the Morrona there’s no dark magic in the atmosphere to take advantage of my vulnerability. But I feel the separation even so. And I don’t like it.

Halamar watches me. I meet his too-knowing gaze and struggle to keep my face as carefully blank as his own. “Do you have anything other than ume cakes to eat in this place?”

I ask rather ungraciously.

His eyebrow tips. To my relief, he says nothing, but enters the dakath and comes back with a fatty cut of leokas meat and day-old flat bread. Quietly he sets to work frying the meat on the hot cooking stone. I watch him but scarcely see anything he does. My attention is distracted by the sound of voices and splashing coming from the stream.

“What are the chances Tassa won’t attempt to drown my bride before the morning is through?”

I ask, taking a seat opposite Halamar at the fire.

He chuckles, though his mouth remains in its solemn line. “From what I’ve seen of your warbride, she can handle herself, even against a force like Talanashta. Did she not tame our erstwhile untamable luinar?”

“It wasn’t like that,”

I growl. But as I don’t feel like explaining myself all over again, I switch topics. “Have you seen any sign of Kildorath and the others?”

Halamar looks up from the cooking stone. “We’d hoped you would have news of them.”

I shake my head grimly. “I sent them on ahead when events transpired to keep me longer at the Grimspire. I didn’t want the Hidden City to be unguarded longer than necessary.”

The instant the words pass my lips, I regret them. Halamar himself stood guard over the city while the Licornyn riders were away. Though suffering from velrhoar, he is a warrior still, valiant and strong. But he is nothing like he was when bonded to his licorneir. “Half a man”—that’s what he called himself when he broke his promise to Tassa. It is painful enough never to have known a licorneir bond; far worse to have known such a bond and lost it.

Halamar doesn’t react to my words. He continues in that same even tone: “We have seen nothing of them. You are the first to return.”

My gut knots. Ashika’s face appears in my mind, her head half-severed from her body as she lay in the dirt of Agandaur. And Nyathri . . . her licorneir is still out there somewhere, hearttorn and suffering. Did the same fate befall all my brave Licornyn? Did Shanaera and her crimson-cloaked followers decimate them out in the wilds of Cruor? I must find them. As soon as matters are arranged here, I must resupply and set out across the river, but . . .

“Shakh,”

I whisper. If I go, I will have to take Ilsevel with me. Even if the elders agree to let her stay until silmael, I will be vulnerable if parted from her. But what can I do? Set her before me on Elydark’s saddle and ride with her back into that hell-stricken land? Or wait here alongside Tassa and the old folk and the velrhoar? Helpless, useless.

Halamar abruptly sits up a little straighter, his eyes widening. Curious, I twist my torso to look behind me and discover what he has seen. My traitorous heart turns over. Slowly I rise to my feet, lips parting with a gust of escaped breath.

Ilsevel stands before me, clad in a traditional woven khiir gown. The waistband sits in a low V at her hips, pale rouched fabric emphasizing every curve, while a long slit up each side reveals flashing glimpses of shapely legs decorated in silver anklets and delicate cords. Her midriff is exposed, but Tassa has taken the time to paint the traditional sun-and-moon motif of a bride around her navel with the stain of crushed ilsevel blossoms. Soft leokas hide wraps her breast, leaving her shoulders and arms bare save for wide silver armbands which grip her wrists and upper arms—Tassa’s ornaments, intended for her own wedding but never used. Until today.

My sister has accomplished much in a short period. She’s washed and brushed her charge’s chestnut hair until it shines, then caught it up in small, complicated braids that crown her head while leaving long locks to flow down her back. To finish the look, she’s tucked a single purple ilsevel blossom behind her ear.

I feel hollowed out. Empty of all thought, all reason. For a space of ten breaths, I cannot recall the elders or the meeting, cannot even sense the presence of my sister and friend observing me far too closely. I see nothing but her. Ilsevel, my bride. This stranger who, in the course of a mere week, has thrown my life into utter turmoil and set my heart ablaze.

A throb of lust jolts through my loins, but I’m scarcely aware of it. This is more than mere lust burning inside me. It’s desire. For her. All of her: heart, mind, body, and soul. I want her with the desperate wanting a drowning man wants air.

I drag my gaze from her bare feet, taking in the gentle folds of khiir skirt, the tantalizing shape of her legs, the lovely indentation of her navel surrounded by ilsevel stain. Her chest rises and falls quickly, the folds of deer hide emphasizing the delicious shape. I could swear I can see the pulse beating in her slender throat.

Finally my scrutiny reaches her dark eyes. I find them fixed on me with an intent expression, as though, in that moment, I hold her life in my hands.

“Well?”

Her voice breaks the spell of the moment. “Is it that bad?”

She wraps her arms around her bare skin, shivering. “I feel ridiculous. And exposed. This doesn’t seem like appropriate attire for meeting with elders.”

“It’s bridal raiment,”

Tassa says shortly and inspects her work with a critical eye. “It makes you look more Licornyn.”

I blink, suddenly reminded of my sister’s presence, not to mention Halamar and Elydark, all standing by and watching me. It’s just as well—for in another moment, I would have lunged across the little space between me and Ilsevel and taken her in my arms. Even now the velra sears into my flesh like a tongue of fire, urging me to give in, to drag her into the dakath, throw her down upon the piled skins, hike up those delicate white skirts, and bury my head between her thighs.

“It will have to do,”

I say instead, my voice emerging in a rough bark. With a wrench of sheer will, I turn away and march across the clearing. Blood roars in my ears. “It’s time to go,”

I call over my shoulder. “We cannot be late for this meeting.”

“What about breakfast?”

Halamar asks, a note of wryness in his voice. “Are you not hungry after all, luinar?”

I am hungry. Ravenous. But not for the hot leokas meat sizzling on his stone.

And something tells me he knows it.