Chapter 4
TAAR
They make her dismount. Kildorath stuffs a rag in my wife’s mouth before binding her jaw with a strip of leokas leather. This accomplished, they tie her hands before her, securing the knots tight enough that she winces.
“Enough,” I growl, one hand resting on the hilt of my weapon.
Kildorath flashes me a short look, wondering, perhaps, if he should have required my binding as well.
But while he may have lost all esteem for me over these last few days, I am still his luinar; he cannot wholly disrespect my position.
Without a word, he takes hold of Ilsevel’s bent elbow and turns her toward Miramenor, his licorneir.
“What are you doing?” I demand, my voice sharper than before.
Kildorath looks back at me, but my gaze fixes on Ilsevel’s face, on her dark eyes so wide above that awful gag. “She will ride with me,” Kildorath says.
Wrath boils in my veins. “Let her ride her own mount.”
His face, already grim, sinks into darker, sterner lines. “It is blasphemy for a human to touch one of our licorneir.”
“Do you not see?” Elydark stirs beneath me, his powerful hooves shifting on the ground.
“Do you not understand what has happened?” I wave a hand to indicate the slender, blue-black licorneir, who stands watching Kildorath through flame-ringed eyes.
“This is Nyathri, renewed. She has given her name to this woman, and their bond is true.”
Kildorath shoots the beast a terrible look.
“Drothlar,” he snarls, his grip around my wife’s elbow tightening enough to make her wince.
Red light seems to explode in my head, and my sword is partially drawn, my intent unthought but entirely bloody, when something stirs along the golden thread between me and Ilsevel.
Taar, no.
It’s akin to the song-connection shared with my licorneir. No words needed, only music, complex and vibrant with meaning, shared from soul-to-soul.
Please, Taar.
I blink through the red haze, pulse throbbing like thunder in my ears.
Diira shakes her head. Fire coils around her horn as she stamps and half-rears.
I suspect she had similar ideas of violence and, like me, is even now checked by that voice, that song.
She snorts fire, but settles back on all four hooves, obedient to her mistress’s wishes.
I cannot quite bring myself to the same submission.
Kildorath eyes me, his mouth twisted in an expression of disgust. “Does my luinar mean to strike me down where I stand?”
My lip curls, teeth flashing. “If you harm my wife—”
“Wife!” Kildorath spits the word like a curse and shakes his head furiously. “How can you be so blind, Taar? She has overcome you with her sorcery. Shakh, man, I never thought it of you.”
Please, Taar.
Her voice again in my head, a mere thread holding me back from the brink over which I long to hurl myself.
It occurs to me suddenly how useless that binding on her mouth truly is.
Her power, her song, is not channeled merely through throat and tongue and lips.
The connection she shares with both Diira and myself is far more profound.
Only Kildorath doesn’t know it . . . and that ignorance might be the only advantage we have in the present moment.
I look into her eyes, so earnest with entreaty.
Does she not believe I could slaughter these three and wrench her from their hands?
Perhaps she does. And she fears that is exactly what I will do, destroying forever any chance of reconciliation with my own people.
I am vulnerable here, not wholly lucid under the intensity of my feeling for her, exasperated, perhaps, by the quickening of our velra bond last night.
But deep down, underneath that instinct to defend her against all foes, I am not ready to foreswear all other oaths and loyalties. Not yet at least.
Shaking my head, I shove my sword back into its sheath. “Take us to the elders,” I say grimly. “Let Halaema and the others bestow their judgment.”
“I will honor our agreement,” Kildorath growls. “But I will not let this woman desecrate one of our licorneir, however convincing you may find her spellwork.”
I release a tight breath through my teeth. “I will give up my weapons if you will let her ride with me.”
Kildorath considers me closely, his gaze flicking to my sheathed sword.
“I will dismount Elydark,” I persist, sweetening the deal, “and ride Diira instead.”
His brow tightens. “Diira?”
“Nyathri.” I nod my head to indicate the blue-black licorneir. “And Elydark . . .” I hesitate, not liking the shape of the words even now forming on my tongue. “Elydark will submit to being bound with chaeora rope.”
A snarl of angry song reverberates along my connection to Elydark. But though he rages at the indignity of what I have proposed, he does not protest. He understands what I am doing.
“You know I will not leave Elydark,” I persist, my gaze never leaving Kildorath’s, “any more than you would abandon Miramenor. Lead my licorneir by the chaeora rope, and I will ride with my wife. Thus will we journey together to the Hidden City. And,” I add, tilting my head forward with the force of my next words “she will not be bound.”
Kildorath turns his head slightly, the muscle of his cheek jumping with tension. “I will do all but that last,” he says carefully. “She remains bound and gagged. I cannot risk her using that ensorcelling voice of hers.”
Yet again fury threatens to burst in my veins.
But I catch Ilsevel’s eye. She gives her head a quick shake, her gaze compelling me to accept the terms. I would do anything for her sake, but acquiescing to this cruel treatment of her is a hard ask.
We both know, however, how few our choices are.
When we committed to this love, we committed as well to facing the consequences together.
Without a word, I dismount and offer my weapons to Kildorath.
He gives me a long look as he accepts my sword in its sheath along with my dagger, the mate of which he has already confiscated from Ilsevel’s belt.
In his eyes, I see great turmoil. He loathes to do this.
He never sought to stand against his own luinar and oldest friend, after so many years of faithful service.
Despite the heat in my veins, I cannot hate him.
And there’s Shanaera to consider. Kildorath’s beloved sister, whom he once believed—as did I—would be my queen one day.
He watched our love blossom over the course of years and fall apart again over years more.
How must it seem to him, watching me fall so completely for a woman I’ve known not even a fortnight?
When put in that light, I cannot blame him for suspecting sorcery.
Given all perceivable evidence, it is the only logical explanation.
And Kildorath doesn’t know the whole truth. He doesn’t know about Ilsevel’s association with Mage Artoris. He doesn’t know who her father is.
I turn from him, unwilling to argue further. Instead I go to Ilsevel. She stares up at me with fear-widened eyes. Not fear for herself, I realize, but for me. Fear that I will do or say something to bring harm to myself. My face must look like a demon’s mask, so hot is the rage roiling in my gut.
I do not speak. I merely incline my head to Diira.
Ilsevel nods and steps toward her licorneir, their soul-song unhindered by the gag in her mouth.
Diira shakes her head in response to whatever Ilsevel urges, her anger a match for my own.
I assist Ilsevel onto her licorneir’s back then mount behind her.
Without a look at Kildorath, I urge the beast forward.
Thuridar and Alluirnath, the other two riders, both old war-companions of mine, tense in their saddles.
At a short word from Kildorath, however, they allow us to pass between them.
We set our faces west once more, for the unseen river and the Hidden City beyond it. I allow myself to take small comfort in the nearness of Ilsevel, pressed against my chest. There’s a sense of rightness in this proximity, and the velra wraps around us, a warming presence.
But it cannot last. One way or the other, the time of our parting is coming.
We ride through the night.
Exhaustion burns through every part of my being, and separation from Elydark only makes it worse.
I cannot draw upon my licorneir’s strength as I ordinarily would while riding.
Ilsevel’s proximity helps; I feel the goodness of our bond pouring into me through our velra.
It is this alone, I suspect, which keeps me upright in the saddle.
The sky overhead is singularly quiet. No return of the black lightning impedes our progress as we cross the lonely, featureless countryside and approach the Morrona River.
We are a silent party, even as we ford the river, foamy water up to our beasts’ chests.
Thuridar and Alluirnath flank Diira, while Kildorath rides behind, leading Elydark.
I refuse to so much as glance at any of them, keeping my gaze firmly fixed forward.
As much as possible, I lean into the sensation of Ilsevel, wrapped in my arms. She shivers as the cold night air blows against her river-dampened frame.
I hold her close, trying to impart as much of my body heat into her as I may.
This might be our last ride together. I am a fool, no doubt, but I am glad we did not hasten from Rothiliar this morning, glad we prolonged our night of passion late into the day.
My only regret is that I did not give in and fully consummate our bond.
I wish I’d sunk deep down into her, known the fullness of that unique physical joining between man and woman, husband and wife.