Page 40 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

Larongar Cyhorn leans back in his chair, the contents of his desk spread across every available surface. Several important documents lie pinned beneath a tankard of ale, but one sits before him, crisp and clean as the day it was signed. He studies it now: his own signature and the strange, illegible scrawl beside it: the Shadow King’s mark.

The contract is infused with tremendous magic, pored over many times by the most decorated mages in his court. Were it truly and incomparably broken, the spellwork would have disintegrated the paper, rendering the agreement between Gavaria and the Shadow King’s realm null and void. Yet it remains intact. Even his eye, unsuited to detecting magic influence, catches a gleam of power running between his scrawled name and the Shadow King’s symbol.

Slowly Larongar lifts his gaze to the figure standing on the far side of his desk. Mage Artoris—he remembers the boy he once was, a gawky, arrogant lad, who thought himself above the will of kings because of his close association with that decrepit Miphato, Morthiel. Larongar had taught him a different lesson; one which stuck through the years, judging by the young mage’s nervous twitching.

Larongar’s lip curls faintly. “And you’re quite sure of this?” he says. “She is dead?”

Artoris swallows with some difficulty. He did not want to be the bearer of these tidings. Only desperation could have driven him to his sovereign’s presence once again. “It is certain,” he says. “No one survived the sack of the temple. The fae left none alive.”

Larongar’s throat tightens. While he prides himself on mastering his emotions, on never letting sentimentality or attachment get in the way of the many responsibilities he must fulfill as king . . . this news hurts.

Ilsevel. Ferocious little Ilsevel—his own spitting image, were she lucky enough to have been born a man. Her gods-gifted voice often soothed him in times of distress, and her fiery spirit amused him when it did not drive him to tear out his hair in sheer frustration. Of all his children, she was the one in whom he could take real pride, a bright reflection on the House of Cyhorn.

The Shadow King had seemed quite taken with her when he came to pay his court. He agreed to the marriage and gave surprisingly little pushback on some of the more pertinent aspects of the alliance contract. Larongar had always known a daughter like Ilsevel would serve him well, but he’d never dreamed she would capture the heart of a man so powerful!

And what might Larongar have done in a few short weeks, when the marriage took place? The entire troll army would have been at his disposal, according to the terms of that contract. Now . . .

He frowns, his gaze turning back to the document before him. The spellwork simmers against his fingertips but shows no sign of decay. Strange. Ilsevel’s death should have been enough to bring this alliance to an abrupt end. There must be something else, something Larongar doesn’t yet see. An angle to be exploited.

“Your Majesty.” Artoris’s voice trembles slightly. Larongar growls, irritated, and flashes a one-eyed glare at the bearded little bastard. “With the talisman fallen into Ruvaen’s hands, it’s only a matter of time before the fae break through the obscuris and attack Evisar Citadel. All Morthiel’s work—everything you and he have labored to accomplish over so many years—will be lost.”

“You have defenses of your own at Evisar,” Larongar says, drumming his fingers on the desk.

The mage’s face is pale in the candlelight. “Much of Morthiel’s magic is channeled into the Rift. There’s little enough remaining for defensive spells.”

“What about those undead ghouls of yours? Surely you’ve built up enough stock to hold out for a season or two.”

“Not enough to defend against both Noxaur and the Licornyn King.”

“The Licornyn?” Larongar snorts. “There’s not enough of those damnable half-breeds left to cause more than a mild irritation.”

Artoris’s jaw hardens. “We must have reinforcements, Your Majesty. If you believe in Morthiel’s work, you must find a way to salvage the alliance with the Shadow King.” He leans over the desk then, planting his palms. “You have other daughters.”

Larongar looks at the mage’s hands pointedly. Artoris removes them, folds his arms into the sleeves of his robe, and steps back. With a sigh, Larongar shakes his head. “The contract specifically names Ilsevel . I cannot simply substitute one daughter for another.”

Artoris hesitates. Then, dropping his voice to a low murmur, as though afraid of being overheard. “There might be a way.”

“Is that so?” Larongar rests an elbow on the arm of his chair and tilts his head with mild interest. “I’m listening.”

TO BE CONTINUED