Chapter 2 #2
Though she had not been eager to leave our bed only minutes ago, now Ilsevel steps away from my side, hastening down the front steps and across the yard on quick feet.
Diira similarly pulls away from Elydark and trots to meet her, neck arched, ears forward, long tail high and rippling like water in her wake.
She bows her head and stretches out her nose to Ilsevel’s uplifted hands.
The sight of them together—the young woman and the licorneir mare—strikes my heart with sheer beauty.
Though I cannot hear their private song, I feel the loveliness of it, the newness, the strangeness.
Surely the elders will accept her when they see the reality of this bond.
When they hear of all she risked, all she suffered to protect Nyathri and to learn that new name given to her alone.
Surely they must admit what I have suspected for some time now—the gods themselves brought her here, to be my wife, my queen. My Ilsevel.
I breathe out a long sigh, seeking to ease the tension in my chest. It’s a pretty dream, but I know the truth.
The reason why I was so reluctant to leave the bedchamber this morning, why even now I must fight the urge to catch her up in my arms and carry her away, back into secluded intimacy.
There is little chance—no chance, if I’m honest with myself—the elders will see Ilsevel as anything less than an intruder.
At best they may permit her to live. To be their queen? It simply cannot be.
So where does that leave me?
Elydark appears at my shoulder. He nudges me gently, his proud head bent, his horn gleaming in the sunlight. Vellar, he sings with some concern, you look . . . unrested.
Is that sarcasm I hear in his tone? I cast him a half-glance, hesitating over my answer. I am refreshed, I offer at last.
Elydark snorts and twitches his ears. Your bond to your bride shines brighter today.
It does indeed. Though in direct sunlight it fades back to near invisibility, I find I am constantly aware of its presence.
A shimmer, a hum, a simple presence of brightness, linking my heart to hers.
Will others be able to sense it back home in the Hidden City?
If so, will it help or hurt our cause to realize how strong the velra has become?
Despite the softness of daylight and the joy experienced throughout the night, my face settles into grim lines.
“Ilsevel,” I call out. She turns to look at me, her face close to Diira’s cheek.
At sight of my expression, the smile on her face slips away, replaced with nervous tension. “We must go,” I say.
She nods. “Where to?”
The dreaded question, one to which I have no ready answer. “Water first,” I tell her, rather than make a decision. “I have dried ilsevel in my saddle bags. We must find a water source, purify it, and drink. Plans will come after.”
She accepts this. Before leaving the courtyard of Rothiliar House, we explore the stables and find an old Licornyn saddle to fit Diira.
Though she rode bareback just yesterday, I see no reason not to make both of them more comfortable for the next leg of our journey.
I help Ilsevel mount, then swing myself up onto Elydark’s back, and sing of water to my licorneir.
He sets off on his own, following his nose.
We ride silently together, each lost in thought.
I find my mind inexorably drawn back to Shanaera: to the foul words she spoke and her fouler deeds.
That she should join with the Miphates, even with the intent of manipulating them to her own purposes .
. . the very idea sickens me. And when I consider that field of dead licorneir, pinned beneath chaeora nets, I feel as though a darkness has settled into my soul which not even Ilsevel’s gods-gift might sing away.
Oh, gods empower me! I must drive these Miphates from our land, must reclaim Evisar Citadel and purge the evil before it takes too deep a hold!
But how can I do this when my own people perceive me as a traitor?
How can I lead them back to the very battlefield where they suffered such terrible losses once before under my banner?
How can I restore trust in the hearts of those whom I have failed at every turn, ever since Ilsevel came into my life?
Especially knowing that I would do nothing differently now.
Not if it meant risking losing Ilsevel herself.
“This feels familiar,” Ilsevel says suddenly, drawing my thoughts from dark spaces back into her presence. I look up and see a low hill beneath a great, root-twining oak tree. There’s a pond of murky water off to one side of it, still brimming from the heavy shower of four nights ago.
I glance at Ilsevel, transported back to that hot and passionate night.
How different it was from the night we have just shared.
Then, every moment we stole was illicit, tasting of sin.
Last night, however, I claimed my bride in wholeness and truth.
Everything we did to each other, every touch, every caress, was a holy act, the gasps from our lips like prayers, sacred in the eyes of heaven.
Her eyelids lower for a moment, then flash to meet mine.
Something silent and sweet passes between us, along the gold cord connecting our hearts.
Without a word, I dismount and go to assist her from her saddle.
She slides down into my arms and, when her feet touch the ground, she tucks herself against my heart, resting there for a few breaths.
Then, wordless, I gather supplies from my saddle bags, take her hand, and we approach the pond.
Not the freshest water, perhaps, but that is what the ilsevel is for.
I scoop a cupful, sprinkle in a dusting of dried petals, and swirl the liquid.
When it settles, I offer the cup to my wife.
She takes a long draught, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and gives the cup back to me.
A single gulp of ilsevel-blessed waters is more than enough to satisfy even a thirst like ours.
“So, warlord,” she says when I lower the cup from my lips, “what happens next?” We sit together on the bank of the pond, her cross-legged beneath her long skirt, I with one knee up, elbow propped.
One might think we were revelers on a countryside holiday, so peaceful is the scene around us.
But we both know how presently hell lurks, just on the other side of reality’s thin veil.
“When we left the Hidden City,” I say at last, “I had thought to take you to the Tarh Plains and beg shelter from Lathaira. She is chieftain of the Tarhyn Tribe and owes me a life debt.”
“And you think she would play host to a human guest?”
I don’t. It was never a good plan—merely the best I could come up with in the desperation of the moment, with Ilsevel’s life in the balance, and my own people in hot pursuit at our heels.
When I give no immediate answer, Ilsevel persists. “And what of you? Would you stay with me and the Tarhyn Tribe?”
I shake my head. “I would return to the Hidden City. Speak to Elder Halaema and the others, explain to them what has happened.”
She frowns. “What about the velra?”
I glance down at the winding cord, which shimmers in the tall grass between us.
We both know that any degree of separation from my bride causes me incapacitating pain.
Until the night of silmael, and the confirmation of our marriage bond, it will be thus.
“Our . . . activities of last night will make the velra more lax than it was,” I point out.
“Lax enough that you may ride several days away from me without making yourself vulnerable to dark magic?”
“No,” I admit. “Not that lax.”
Her jaw tightens. “There would seem to be a problem with your plan then, warlord.”
A little growl rumbles in my throat, and my fingers tighten around the travel cup, swirling the remaining water and ilsevel residue. “I cannot risk taking you with me back to the Hidden City.”
“You’d rather risk leaving me with strangers while you put yourself in harm’s way?” I bite my tongue, but silence doesn’t satisfy her. She snatches the cup from my hands and takes another gulp before pointing a finger at me. “Don’t have an answer for that one, do you!”
“Careful,” I say, reclaiming the cup. “You shouldn’t drink too much.”
Ilsevel shrugs. “It feels different now. Warming, invigorating, but not quite so . . . overwhelming. Does that make sense?”
I don’t know if it makes sense. Nothing about her does. “Perhaps your bond to Diira influences your body’s reactions,” I suggest. “I cannot say for certain. No human has ever bonded to a licorneir. Not truly bonded, that is.”
Her brow puckers. “Have humans tried to form the bond?”
A shadow falls across my soul. “Miphates have wrought dark spellwork. Drothlar, we call it—cursebound. It can look very similar to the velra, only twisted. Wrong in its very essence. It never lasts and always ends in disaster for both parties involved. But for a short while, the bond can seem profound indeed. I’ve seen it attempted once or twice—always female Miphates, young women who have not yet lost their ability to perceive the licorneir with their own eyes.
” I hesitate before clarifying: “Virgins.”
Ilsevel considers this, frowning down at her own hands, folded demurely in her lap. After a while, she speaks out loud the thought we both share: “Your people are going to believe I have cursebound Diira.”
I hate to say it, but there can be no benefit in withholding the truth from her now. “They already believe you have cursebound me.”
She lifts her head, her gaze following after Diira.
Her licorneir and mine have wandered together along the banks of the pond, their heads close as though in private conference with one another.
Elydark was always drawn to Nyathri, and that does not seem to have changed with her becoming Diira.
They are a sight indeed, two majestic beings, who do not truly belong in a world like this and yet are the only thing which can make this world right and whole.
“I am no virgin anymore,” Ilsevel says abruptly. She turns back to me. “Is that not an argument in my favor? I am no virgin, yet I can see the unicorn and bond to her. How could that be if not for the velra?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, my love, you still fit the definition of virgin.”
She stares at me. I can almost see the images playing out behind her eyes, memories of all we have done to and for each other over the last few hours. Then she laughs and tosses her hands. “That’s ridiculous!”
“And yet.”
“So, until you—how is it you so delicately put it?—until you shakh me, I am still considered pure and maidenly in the eyes of your people?”
“I didn’t say that. But officially—”
“Well then, get on with it!” She leans toward me, planting her hands in the grass, her eyes bright with inner fire.
“Take my maidenhead here and now. Would that not solve one problem for us at least? Would they not then see my bond to Diira is true and not the result of some Miphates’ manipulation? ”
Despite all the exertions of last night, I find myself unexpectedly aroused by her fury.
The wind picks up, tossing her wild hair, drawing her scent into my nostrils, and I am hot and swollen in an instant, half-convinced this is the very solution we need.
Damn the woman for getting under my skin like this!
My hand snakes out, grabs her by the back of her head, and drags her to me.
I kiss her fiercely, viciously, without a trace of gentleness, and feel in my blood the burning drive of a warlord, a conqueror.
But she is no foe to be easily subdued; she is my match in every way.
She kisses me back, her fingers gripping my cheeks, my hair, my neck, her mouth hungry and hard.
But when she reaches for the belt of my trousers, I push her back from me.
We stare at one another, breathing roughly, our gazes like warring blades sparking against each other.
I shake my head. “No, zylnala,” I say, my breath hot against her lips. “When I take you like that, it will be because we are both aching with such desire, we cannot help ourselves. Not for any other purpose. I won’t let anyone steal that pleasure from me.”
She bares her teeth. “You are impossible.”
I tip my chin slightly, looking at her from under the ledge of my brow.
“You do realize I’m not going to stay with the Tarhyn Tribe.”
“I suspected not.”
“If you leave me there, I will escape and follow after you like a stray puppy, yapping at your heels all the way home.”
I breathe a heavy sigh. Chief Lathaira will not accept Ilsevel and Diira in any case. Even if she did, how could I leave my bride behind? I could not bear it.
And what will I do when Ruvaen inevitably calls for my aid in the coming assault on Evisar? Will I ride into battle with my untrained wife at my side? Will I put a blade in her hand, bid her stay close to me, and somehow protect her against impossible odds?
Ilsevel’s gaze roves over my face. “What are you thinking, warlord?”
I shake my head, unwilling to speak my true thoughts out loud. “I think we must return to the Hidden City.”
“There’s no other way?”
“None that I can see.”
“Do you think they’ll kill us both for what we have done?” She asks it so casually, like asking if I foresee coming rain.
“I hope your bond to Diira will change their minds. Licorneir are sacred and rarer than ever these days. Killing you would send Diira back into the velrhoar state, beyond all hope of recovery. To suffer being hearttorn twice over in such quick succession . . . I don’t know what it would do to her soul.
If nothing else, the elders will be motivated to protect Diira. ”
“If they can be convinced I’ve not cursebound her. Or you.”
I nod.
“And how do we convince them?”
I press my lips together, breathing out slowly through my nostrils. “There might be a way,” I say at last. “But it won’t be easy.”
She blinks slowly, dropping her head in slight acknowledgement. “In that case, don’t tell me yet.” Her eyes flare open, catching mine again. “I want to enjoy whatever is left of today.”
I wait for no other invitation. She’s already in my arms once more, and I lay her down in the thick grass while the licorneir take themselves to a discreet distance, keeping an eye on the treacherous sky.