Page 30 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

Elder Halaema’s eyes are fixed on me as I pace back and forth across the dirt floor of my dakath. She sits cross-legged on a matt by the central fire, her pose serene but her gaze shrewd.

The main chamber of my home feels crowded just now, with Onor Gantarith seated to one side of the elder, and Tassa keeping to the shadows but observing all. Halamar stands still before the others. Firelight plays across his face.

“And you’re sure of what you saw?”

I demand, my voice limned with pain. Though the initial stabbing of the velra at my bride’s sudden departure has dulled somewhat, it continues to throb every so often. I hate how weak I feel, my legs trembling with the effort to keep my body upright. Yet I cannot bear to sit. Nervous energy bubbles in my veins.

“I’m not sure I saw anything,”

Halamar says gravely, his face forward, but his eyes following me. “I heard something—the human’s voice. She cried out in a strange way. One might almost say she sang. There came something like a vibration in the air, and both Birenthor and Vomyar dropped like straw dolls.”

“Magic,”

Elder Halaema growls. “This proves she is a Miphata. Sent by her kind to spy on the Hidden City, to weaken us from within.”

She eyes me narrowly. “She must have used enchantments to ensnare you. That’s why you didn’t see it right away.”

Part of me believes her. Part of me feels that only sorcery could have driven me to take leave of my senses the way I have over this woman. It’s the only explanation for the rage even now churning in my gut.

“That’s impossible,”

I say, careful to keep my tone level, to betray nothing of the murder straining against my better instincts. “I’ve never once detected the faintest hint of Miphates magic on her. She is gods-gifted; she informed me of that herself.”

“And you didn’t stop to question whether or not she lied?”

Halaema raises a hand as I begin to protest. “It doesn’t matter. Whether it’s gods-gifting, Miphates magic, or some dark new form of necrolipha, she revealed her powers and used them to attack our people.”

“I would like to point out,”

Halamar rumbles, his head inclined respectfully, “that neither Birenthor nor Vomyar was hurt. They were but momentarily stunned. After the fact Vomyar complained of a slight headache, nothing worse.”

“And Vomyar will lament over a hangnail,”

Tassa mutters from her corner of the room.

Elder Halaema shoots her a warning glance before turning her attention back to Halamar. “What does it matter? Who knows what worse she might have done to them if you weren’t there, good Halamar?”

He tilts his head slightly. “But I wasn’t influenced by her power. If it was a spell she cast, it did not touch me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she used licorneir magic.”

“What?”

I’m not sure who barks the question first. We all stare at Halamar, shocked at the mere suggestion.

He continues calmly. “The vibration in the air reminded me of the velra bond—of the power passing from one soul to another. And just before Birenthor and Vomyar fell, both their licorneir suddenly dropped their heads, horns pointed at them.”

“You’re saying she turned the licorneir on their own riders?”

Onor Gantarith says, horrified.

“I’m saying that she—a human—influenced them.”

“But that’s impossible!”

Gantarith shakes his head vehemently and turns to the elder. “The licorneir bond is sacred to Nornala, bestowed by her grace only on the people of Licorna. That bond is far too pure to be corrupted by human influence.”

Even as the priest protests, however, I remember another time when Ilsevel joined with a licorneir in an act of power. I would not be here today if Elydark had not found her, and if she had not used her profound gift, mingling her voice with his to draw me back from the darkness of virulium.

“She is gods-gifted,”

I say again, and catch Onor Gantarith’s eye. “You know this. You heard her singing in the Moon Chamber. I told you then that she can hear the songs of the licorneir.”

“And I told you,”

he responds sharply, “that such songs were not meant for human ears. I never dreamt that, along with hearing them, she might somehow manipulate their song.”

With an effort of supreme will, I keep the swelling rage in my breast in check. “She was afraid for her life. She acted out of self-defense.”

“And she might have killed our people in the process,”

Elder Halaema inserts. “The next time, she very well might.”

I turn to her, but she holds up a silencing hand. “I know you want to believe your warbride, luinar. You’ve grown attached—few men wouldn’t, bound by the velra as you are. But there’s no way of knowing if these powers of hers are truly a gods-gift or something else. Some new, darker power of the Miphates, drawn from the Rift and warped to their purpose.”

“She’s not like that,”

I say. But even as the words leave my mouth, I remember that confession, tumbling from her lips.

“Mage Artoris would not have been at the Temple of Lamruil were it not to me.”

“I loved him.”

The first time I saw Ilsevel, she was with that man. Who’s to say they weren’t colluding from the very beginning? She might have been plotting to entrap me from the moment I first set eyes on her, all in a bid to get closer to our most secret and sacred places. And was I so easily duped? Did my hunger for her make me such a ready mark? Even that moment when I saw her fighting him could have been part of the scheme, intended to arouse my sympathy for a lovely, helpless maid.

It comes to me suddenly that she did enspell me that night. Briefly, or so I thought. When I sought to take her captive, she opened her mouth and began to sing, momentarily freezing me in place. Could it be that she affixed a deeper spell at that time? One I could not so easily shake as the temporary stupor? One that drove me compulsively to fight for her, to lust for her, to bind myself to her despite every rational thought?

“Taarthalor.”

Halaema’s voice brings me back, my gaze locking with her. She’s used my name rather than my title, reminding me suddenly of the boy I once was, trailing after her and her mighty licorneir, hoping for even a glance of her favor. “Taar, remember, the velra clouds your thoughts. You cannot be blamed for not seeing the truth sooner. Even now you desire to protect her. Your noble spirit does you credit.”

She leans a little forward, her old skeleton crackling. “But even if you believe her powers are from the gods, she broke Licornyn law. She turned loose a hearttorn licorneir, damning her to endless separation from Nornala. If this does not prove to you the evil of her very nature, the worthlessness of her heart, I don’t know what will.”

More protests leap to my tongue. I cannot bear to hear Ilsevel described in these terms. Did she act rashly, foolishly even? Yes, but not out of any evil intent. She truly believed she could help Nyathri. “She . . .”

I clear my throat painfully. “She did not understand.”

“And does the sacredness of our laws depend only on the understanding of those who keep or break them?”

Onor Gantarith rumbles. “The law is the law.”

I turn on the priest, fists knotting. “So you will kill her?”

I force the words through my teeth.

“Yes,”

he replies. “Human though she is, it gives me no pleasure. But it must be done. We must punish the crime she has committed and, more importantly, free our luinar from her thrall.”

I take an aggressive step toward him. Only Halamar’s hand, appearing suddenly on my shoulder, keeps me in check. Gantarith sees the truth in my furious eyes and flinches. But he does not break my gaze.

“Yes, yes.”

Halaema reaches out to pat the priest’s hand with her wrinkled old fingers. “This is what must be done. Our luinar is suffering even under this small separation. He must be free of her.”

My breath is tight, and the velra around my arm screams with pain. “When will this take place?” I demand.

“The appropriate time,”

Gantarith answers, “is the turning point of one day to the next. Let the evil be ended and the new day greeted in purity. So midnight tonight.”

My gaze flashes to the curtained door and the late-afternoon light splashed across the floor. How many hours until midnight? How many hours more will I know this bond to her, this connection of souls which I never sought but which I now find myself so loathe to break? It feels as though the very seconds are racing by, faster than I can count them.

Halaema rises, slowly and with much creaking and groaning, assisted by the priest. Then she totters toward me, unintimidated by the fury so obviously brimming in my soul. “Do not fret, luinar,”

she says and pats my cheek with her withered hand. “The velra is confusing your mind. You will feel much better once the bond is severed. In the meanwhile you must do us all a favor and stay here. Away from the human, away from the ceremony. You will feel sick, I know. But it will pass. Tassa here will look after you. She’s a good girl, loyal to her brother.”

I struggle to draw breath. “You mean to make Ilsevel march to her death alone?”

The elder shrugs. “You may choose to bear witness, if you believe it the right thing. But the velra may make things . . . difficult. You could end up acting in a way that you will regret come dawn.”

She looks into my eyes, the wrinkles on her forehead mounding. “For the safety of everyone, it would be better if you stayed away. But the choice is yours, dear boy.”

She turns then and totters for the door, leaning heavily on Onor Gantarith’s supporting arm as she goes. “I’m sorry for what has happened,”

she calls back over her shoulder just as she reaches the entrance curtain. “I believe you meant well when you chose to rescue that creature. But humans cannot help being the monsters they are. Her true nature was always going to reveal itself. We must be thankful she caused no greater harm than she did.”

With that she releases her grip on Gantarith and steps through the curtain on her own, leaving it to swing shut behind her.

The priest turns to me. There’s something uneasy in his eyes, something raw. “It is for the best, luinar,”

he says. But this time he sounds as though he’s convincing himself.

“Have you done this before?”

I ask, my voice low.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand me. He holds my gaze for a count of ten breaths before lowering his lashes and shaking his head.

“But you will do it tonight? You will slit her throat. Spill her blood. Under the watching eye of Nornala.”

“It is what the law and the elders demand,”

he answers. “She has betrayed Licorna in the bitterest way, damning one of our own licorneir to eternal torment.”

He lifts his eyes to mine again, and firelight gleams off what one might mistake for a sheen of tears. Damn him. Damn him and all his remorseful nobility.

I put my back to him, pace to the far side of the dakath chamber, where the shadows are deepest. Behind me, I hear the curtain move as Gantarith departs, leaving me with Halamar and Tassa. I can feel the two of them exchanging glances, silently asking each other how best to comfort me. But I don’t want comfort. The pain searing up my arm and churning in my gut is the only thing keeping me steady.

“Go,”

I say, my voice a low growl.

Silence answers. Then, ever faithful and obedient, Halamar moves. I listen to his heavy footsteps as he exits the dakath. No doubt he will take up position just outside, weapon at the ready. Whether guarding or imprisoning me, I cannot say.

Tassa remains where she’s seated on a cushion near the south tent wall. She pretends to be working on a tablet-weaving, her fingers nimble and quick with the long-practiced movements. But though her eyes remain fixed on her task, her attention is entirely on me.

“You should leave as well,”

I say at long last and heave a great breath. “There’s nothing for you here. I don’t care for company just now.”

Her face uncharacteristically mild, Tassa carefully condenses the three small square tablets that make up her handloom and coils the woven length she has already produced so that it will not snarl. This task complete, she sets the whole to one side and lifts her eyes to meet mine. “What are you going to do?”

I don’t speak. I can’t. I stalk to the fire and stare into it, wishing I could cast myself into the blaze. Perhaps the heat of real fire could distract from this burning pain in my arm and make me forget my crippling weakness.

“Gods above,”

my sister curses softly and rises, silver earrings hitting her shoulders as they settle. She comes toward me, her stride slow but purposeful, as though approaching a wild animal that might lash out at any moment. “Taar,”

she says sternly, “we both know you’re not going to let them kill that girl.”

I grip my forearm, squeezing hard. It feels as though the coil has wrapped around my heart now, that same searing burn blazing in my chest. Anger threatens to consume me: anger at Ilsevel for doing what she did. Why could she not listen to me? Why could she not leave well enough alone? An image flashes through my mind . . . Ilsevel, kneeling beside me on the bank of that river in the human realm. Using the tip of a knife to cut out stitches she’d given the day before. She hadn’t left well enough alone then, had she? We were done—parted. She was free to return to her own people, her path set toward a bright future without the warlord husband she’d never asked for.

But she’d returned. She’d hunted me down in my virulium-maddened state. She’d risked her life, many times over, refusing to leave me to my fate. It simply wasn’t in her nature to give up on me, to let me die. She pursued me relentlessly, with no regard for her own safety. She saved my life.

I’ve known my fair share of courageous women. Warriors and leaders, who face the brutalities of this life with clear eyes and set jaws. Ilsevel is no warrior. She is soft and delicate and spoiled, a far cry from the women of Licorna. But there’s something about Ilsevel’s stubborn determination that moves me. It’s one thing to be brave in the face of danger you’ve been trained since birth to fight. As far as I can tell, nothing about Ilsevel’s life has prepared her for the perils she’s encountered every moment since our first meeting. Yet, no matter the blows, no matter the unspeakable odds, she never backs down.

And how did I reward her courage? By dragging her across worlds into the hell-stricken nightmare of Cruor, to hand her over to the clutches of a people who hate her mere existence.

Now she will die. In just a few short hours.

“Taar.”

I startle at Tassa’s voice. Lost in revery, I’d almost forgotten she’s here. She comes to stand at my elbow. Tall even for a Licornyn woman, she looks me almost directly in the eye, her gaze frank. She studies me by the firelight, searching the lines of my face for something she doesn’t find. At last she sighs and turns away. Her features, usually so stern and hard, soften unexpectedly.

“I’m glad,”

she says, more to herself than to me, “that I had the chance. Even if it didn’t work out in the end. I’m glad I attempted the bond with Nyathri. I think Ashika would have appreciated it. And I can’t help wondering, if I’d tried a slightly different approach, could I have done it?”

“It doesn’t matter,”

I answer curtly. “She’s gone now. Fled to Cruor where her velrhoar will be made complete. She’ll be damned like Mahra and all the others.”

“I know that.”

Tassa bites her lip as though holding back a much sharper retort. When she continues, it’s in that gentle, soothing tone once more. “It would have been better for her to die than to end up like Mahra. And yet there’s a part of me, blasphemous though it may be, that is glad to think of Nyathri out there, running free.”

“She’s not free. Already the madness consumes her. There’s nothing of Nyathri left. Only her rage, her pain. Only her eternal sundering.”

The words tumble from my lips quickly, as though trying to outrace my own doubts. Because, if I’m honest, I too had wondered if perhaps there was . . . something. Something still alive in Nyathri’s broken soul. Something I could not perceive, but which perhaps gods-gifted senses might. But what is the use of such utterly unproveable speculation?

Tassa sighs again and pats my arm. “I’m stepping out,”

she says. “I need to gather some of my own things, if I’m to keep watch over you tonight. Try not to do yourself a harm while I’m gone.”

So saying, she moves toward the door. Just as her hand touches the curtain, however, she pauses, looking back. “Taar, you know if you rescue your bride, they will no longer accept you as luinar. The unification you worked so hard for among the tribes will all come apart.”

“I know,”

I answer roughly. “I know better than anyone.”

“All right.”

She breathes out slowly then shrugs. “I just wanted to be sure you remembered.”

She pulls the curtain back, begins to step out, then pauses once more. “I hope you’re happy,”

she says without looking my way. “Whatever choice you make.”

With that she’s gone. The curtain swings shut, and silence envelops the dakath. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I am alone.

“Shakh,”

I whisper. Then I grip my skull, fingers digging into my scalp. If I could, I would wrench my own head from my neck and dash it into the fire. “Shakh-damn me, there is no choice! Not now.”

I was lucky to convince the elders not to kill Ilsevel this morning, to give her a chance. Only for her to go and destroy that chance the very second opportunity presented itself. How could I have been such an idiot to think I could keep her safe here for an entire month?

I look down at my wrist, half-expecting to see blackened and burned flesh. Smooth, tanned skin meets my gaze, despite the pain. It will hurt when they kill her—no doubt, her death will be the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. But then it will be over. This bond, this false, foolish mistake of a marriage will be made as though it never was. Soon I’ll forget the face of the stranger who was, for a brief time, my wife. Except . . .

“It’s a lie,”

I snarl. “It’s a damned, shakhing lie.”

Am I brave enough to face the truth? To admit I cannot bear the prospect of her death? Even if she is not meant to be mine forever, how can I endure her being sundered from this existence entirely? Perhaps ours was not meant to be a lasting bond, but I want to know she’s out there, somewhere in the worlds, alive and well.

Vellar, are you there?

My spirit shivers at the sudden interruption of Elydark’s voice, singing into my head. Go away, I answer roughly.

In response my licorneir prods open the curtain door with his horn and thrusts his head into the shadows of the dakath. He never comes inside, not even in the worst weather, and looks strangely incongruous standing there. I will not go away, Vellar, he says in a tone of finality. You’re going to need me.

Need you for what?

To help you rescue your bride, of course.

I curse again and turn away from him to stalk across the dakath. “I don’t intend to rescue my bride,”

I say out loud.

This may have been my mistake. Elydark knows why I did not sing the words into his head. He knows I cannot lie via our soul-connection as easily as I can with my tongue. He makes a chuckling sound, musical and liquid to my ears. Then he tears a small trench in the dirt of my floor with one powerful hoof.

Very amusing, Vellar. Now shall we get on with our rescue attempt without further delay?