Chapter 10 TAAR #2
My bride could bear to rest for no more than a single day following her ordeal.
By dawn of the second day, she woke at first light, found Diira, and slipped away from the dakaths of the Hidden City out into the open country on the far side of the holy mountain.
Diira knows the territory hereabouts as well as any licorneir and is more than capable of finding safe places for the two of them to develop their bond undisturbed.
For two days now they’ve ridden and sung together, drinking from fresh streams and eating ume cakes packed in a satchel, all under the shadow of Elanlein.
I’ve had little enough time to spare for her, certainly no opportunity to fulfill the promise I made. But I am determined to fulfill it. Ruvaen’s summons will come any day now, and my bride must be prepared for what is coming.
Silencing the voices in my head which try to whisper of other claims upon my time, I ride out from the Hidden City, follow the narrow trails of the surrounding forest, and emerge at last into the sweeping grasslands where the khiir sheep graze, tended by their watchful shepherds.
Beyond these fields is the wide plain between the Rocaryn Mountains and the Morrona, where Ilsevel and Diira gallop with wild abandon.
They are a sight—that small human form, clinging to the back of the blue-black licorneir mare, surrounded by her pale soulfire.
They move together with a grace I would never expect to witness in such a newly-formed bond.
None of the trainees I just observed sing with such a blaze of soulfire and possibly never will.
Velarin bonds are not all equal; I have rarely encountered any this strong.
It must be her gods-gift, I consider, watching them gallop in that fluid harmony beneath the wide blue sky.
Her divine affinity for music enables her to comprehend the song of the licorneir in a way even my own people do not fully grasp.
That’s why they’re able to move together like that, demonstrating understanding of each other akin to a bond many decades in the making.
I’d be jealous were it not such a glorious sight.
“Here for the performance, are you?”
I wrench my gaze away from the vision of my wife and her licorneir, turning instead to a shadowy figure lurking on horseback among the trees on my left.
Tassa guides her bay gelding out from the foliage into the sunlight.
She looks bored. I asked her days ago to keep an eye on Ilsevel when I could not, for I do not yet believe she is safe here, despite the official proclamation Halaema made the night following her ordeal.
Though Tassa protested that she had better things to do with her time, in the end she agreed.
Only in secret, however. Ilsevel, I know, would not appreciate a caretaker.
I trust my sister to remain unobserved, for she has a gift for blending into shadows when she so desires—a talent that would have been welcome out on campaign, had circumstances been different.
Had she successfully formed a velarin bond.
“How is she doing?” I ask, nodding in the direction of my wife. Diira performs a smooth rollback, rider and mount synchronized through the lead-change and pivot. It’s impressive riding, far more than I would expect from a human.
“As you see,” Tassa says, the words spoken with some bitterness. She adds, “Nyathri was always a smooth ride.”
I cast her a short look. “Ilsevel’s form is excellent, and the blend of her soul with Diira’s incomparable.”
“Oh, don’t think I intend any oblique criticism of your precious bride,” my sister growls, hunching her shoulders and leaning over the pommel of her saddle.
“If I choose to criticize, I’ll do so overtly.
You know me that well at least.” Then she straightens in the saddle once more, her eyes narrowing at me.
“Do you truly intend to train her for battle?”
I grimace. “If the call from Ruvaen comes after silmael, I will leave her here. Otherwise she must ride with me.”
Even as I say it, I feel the tug of the velra bond, urging me to dig my heels into Elydark’s flanks and send him charging out into the open country in pursuit of those two.
My energy revives at the mere sight of her, but it only makes me crave her presence more.
How in the shakhing hells I’m supposed to lead the charge against Evisar while so handicapped, I cannot imagine.
“There is no alternative,” I finish heavily.
Tassa curses softly. “You’d better get on with it then, hadn’t you?”
I nod. “Have you your varitar on you?”
Tassa doesn’t speak for a moment, even as her hand moves to the hilt of the sword strapped to her saddle.
She knows I do not ask it of her lightly, but it is hard.
In the end she unstraps it and hands it to me, scabbard and all.
“Get your wife her own sword before Ruvaen calls,” she growls, and turns her gelding’s head about, disappearing into the trees.
She doesn’t go far; she wouldn’t willingly leave her varitar behind.
I ride out into the open countryside. Elydark sends up a call of greeting, his voice rolling on the wind.
Diira pivots and pricks up her ears before sending an answering song.
Then she and her rider streak toward us, and soon I hear the sound of Ilsevel’s laughter.
What a music it is! And when combined with the great joy I see radiating from her face, it could stop my heart.
I have seen her so stern, so tense and frightened, so angry.
On rare, beautiful occasions, I’ve seen her lost in the bliss of passion.
But this natural, mirthful face of hers might be my favorite yet.
“I’m not certain which of us is more delighted at your arrival,” she cries as Diira pulls up alongside Elydark. “My licorneir seems to have a soft spot for yours.”
I could have told her that. But I like watching her discover for herself new things about her mount. “The two of you look good out there,” I say instead. “Strong. Well-matched.”
Her smile flashes again. “I feel as though I’m flying! Riding a licorneir isn’t much like riding a horse, is it?”
This might be the understatement of the age. “You are a natural,” I reply.
Ilsevel pats Diira’s shoulder affectionately. “I have a good instructor.”
“While on the subject of instructors . . .” I hold up the sword and scabbard Tassa loaned me.
At sight of it, Ilsevel’s face goes solemn. “I’d half-wondered if you’d forgotten your promise.”
“Did you hope I had?”
She grimaces. “Part of me did, perhaps. Part of me wishes there wasn’t a need for it. But there is. So I want to learn. Whatever I can between now and . . .” Her voice trails off, unable to finish what neither of us knows for certain.
“There is a great deal of information to cover,” I tell her, “and far more training we must somehow work into your muscles and bones. But I promise to be patient with you, if you will be patient with me in turn.”
Her eyebrow crooks. “Patience is not my chief virtue.”
“So I’ve noticed.” I grin and extend the sword and scabbard to her again. “But you will try?”
“For your sake, warlord, yes. And I will try my utmost not to be distracted by the kissable shape of your mouth while you’re speaking.”
Something hot stirs low in my gut. I swallow hard. “Ilsevel—”
“I’m sorry!” She laughs again and takes the weapon from me. “I promise I’ll be good. Go on, warlord. Teach me.”
There is much to be understood about Licornyn swordship while one’s feet are planted firmly on the ground, before one can safely wield it from the back of a licorneir.
Ilsevel, dismounted and appearing that much smaller and frailer as a result, looks strange to my eye as she tests the balance of my sister’s blade.
“It is called the varitar,” I explain, demonstrating to her how it is to be held. “That would translate to ‘hand and a half’ in your tongue. It is meant to be borne one-handed, but with length enough in the hilt for a double grip should need arise.”
She tests her own hands on the leather-wrapped hilt, making an awkward, experimental swing. “Something tells me your big paws wouldn’t both fit.”
“No,” I acknowledge, “but that sword was made for my sister and should suit you well enough.”
“This is your sister’s sword?”
“Yes.”
“Gods spare me, Taar, don’t you think she hates me enough as it is?”
“I will see to it that you’re outfitted with your own weapon before we ride from the Hidden City,” I assure her, and go on to show her the correct stance.
We find the percussion point of her blade, and I demonstrate how best to angle her stroke with that point in mind so as to cause the least reverberation through her arm. Then we begin a series of attacks.
“Tomorrow, I’ll provide a dummy,” I tell her as she goes through the rhythm, her muscles unaccustomed to the motion and strain. “You’ll need to get used to the feeling of contact.”
She flashes me a quick glance. I can see the unspoken question in her eye: will she be expected to hack at an enemy as she even now hacks at thin air? I hope the answer is no—but she needs to be prepared, nonetheless.
Diira and Elydark wander off together while Ilsevel continues the forms. The sun is high, and though the air is cool enough, the exertion causes sweat to break out across her forehead.
Soon her Licornyn garments begin to cling in interesting places, and I find myself more and more distracted, the velra glowing brighter, and that warm lump in the pit of my gut churning hotter.
She finishes a series of strokes, turns, and catches me staring. Her eyes brighten. She points the varitar at me, staring along the length of the blade. “How now, warlord?” she asks, panting slightly. “Am I going to have to fend you off at sword-point?”
A dark laugh rumbles in my throat. “You could never.”
She waggles the blade slightly. “Want to find out?”
I don’t even draw my own sword. I step swiftly toward her, and her eyes widen. She backs away awkwardly. “Use what you’ve learned,” I growl.
She adjusts her two-handed grip and widens her stance.
When I take another step, she moves into first form, swinging her blade at my neck.
The bracer on my forearm is more than adequate to deflect the sharp edge.
My eyes don’t shift from hers. She firms her jaw, takes another swing, which I deflect with equal ease.
“This is hardly encouraging,” she mutters, backing away once more.
“Do it again,” I say.
We go through every form she’s learned, one after the other in quick succession.
I catch each blow with my bracer, but she is getting faster already, more sure of her strokes.
What might she have been if she’d begun training early, like a Licornyn child?
Might a formidable warrior have been carved from that petite frame of hers?
As it is, when I consider what it will mean to bring her with me into the hell that must take place around the citadel, my blood runs cold.
She goes for a lunge—not a Licornyn move and not in keeping with the angle and rhythm I have taught her, but quick enough she manages to tap the flat of her blade against my hip.
I look down in some surprise then slowly drag my gaze along the length of her blade back to her face. I raise my eyebrows.
She grins. “I was given some rudimentary training alongside my brother when I was small,” she says. “Until Mother put a stop to it.”
I grunt in acknowledgement. Then, quicker than thought, I knock her sword to one side, step forward, and grab her by the back of her head, drawing her roughly toward me. I look down into her eyes, breathing hard. “Will you ever cease to surprise me?” I ask, my voice a low rumble.
“I should hope not.” She smiles, and her gaze drops to my lips. “I surprise myself often enough.”
I can taste her—the sweetness of her, right there on my lips, on the tip of my tongue. A great, gnawing hunger opens inside me, and for a moment, I am so ravenous, I could forget even the burning cut on my palm from that blood-oath I swore with Halaema. I want to forget. So badly.
“Go on, warlord,” Ilsevel whispers. “My defenses are down. You’ve earned your prize, haven’t you? Take it.”
The blood in my loins surges deliciously. I need her, right here, right now, beneath the watching eye of the sun. But some small, desperate voice of reason claws at the back of my brain. “If the elders find out . . .”
“How would they?” She rises on her toes, closing the distance between our mouths. “Who’s going to tell them? Not Elydark. Not Diira. There’s no one else to see us, not for miles.”
Even as she says it, however, I become painfully aware of another pair of eyes. Eyes I myself put on watch, lurking in the trees.
A growl in my throat, I let go of Ilsevel and step back, turning to look up into the forest gathered around the lower slopes of the holy mountain.
Ilsevel looks too, her brow puckered. Then she curses and whirls to glare up at me furiously.
“Did you set your sister to spy me? Like some errant little child?”
I don’t have to answer. Tassa herself appears in that same moment, riding her gelding out from among the trees. Another rider remains in the shadows behind her, and though the distance is too great to see his face, I’m almost certain I recognize the figure of Halamar.
“Taar,” Tassa calls, her voice cold as ice. “The quartermaster is asking for you. He has questions concerning recent requisitions.”
I nod. My chest relaxes somewhat, allowing my tensed heart to beat once more. For a moment I’d thought it would be news from Ruvaen. I don’t know if I’m relieved that it is not.
“I must go,” I say, turning to Ilsevel.
“Of course. Go on then.” She lowers her sword, her sweat-streaked face making no effort to hide her disappointment.
“Be the king you must be.” At the look I send her, she rolls her eyes.
“I’ll be fine, Taar. You didn’t kiss me, remember?
So I’m not about to be executed for treason or any such nonsense.
” She brandishes the varitar once more. “I’ll practice my forms like a good little warrior and see you whenever you happen to ride by. ”
“Ilsevel—”
But she cuts me off. “Go,” she insists. “I understand. I promise.”
Turning from her reluctantly, I call to Elydark. My licorneir hastens to my side, looking sadly back after Diira even as I mount. We’re a couple of hopeless fools, I fear.
With a last glance from my wife, I turn my beast’s head back toward the city. As we pass close to Tassa, I call out, “Help her. Please.”
Tassa salutes, but her expression is hostile. “Your wish is my command, luinar.”
With a heavy sigh, I sing to Elydark, and we race together back to the Hidden City.