Chapter 16 #3
I stare into her eyes, searching for some sign of falsehood. Surely she must be bluffing. “I need not remind you,” I say in a low voice, “that your licorneir depend on the supply of ilsevel blossoms which bloom from Elanlein.”
Lathaira grins like a wolf. “And I need not remind you, luinar, that Rocaryn Tribe is sorely lacking in Licornyn riders. I’d like to know what you would do if I and my Licornyn simply entered the Holy House and . . . took it?”
I’m unprepared for her to voice such aggression out loud, even in the form of inquiry.
The rage inside me threatens to burst, and little spurts of flame flicker along the line of Elydark’s neck.
But now is not the time for us to make war among ourselves.
Not when we are so close to breaking through the obscuris and putting everything to rights.
“We have a common enemy which must be dealt with, Lathaira,” I remind her firmly, choosing not to let her see me rise to the bait.
“Remember, until the Miphates are driven from Cruor, none of us is safe. We must restore Licorna if there is to be any hope for us and the licorneir.” I set my jaw and sit up straighter in the saddle, straddling the fine line between commanding and threatening.
“Come—let us be friends as we have always been. My people have harvested a bountiful supply of ilsevels for you and your tribe as a symbol of our ongoing unity.”
Lathaira narrows her gaze, her eyes two sparks framed in that black band of warpaint. “I will accept your gesture of friendship, Taarthalor. But first you must demonstrate your loyalty to the cause of Licorna.”
Warning drums seem to beat in my ears. But I’m too deeply committed now to back out. “Go on,” I say.
Lathaira draws her sword and points it one-armed at Ilsevel. “You must give her up,” she declares.
My hand swiftly moves to my own blade, gripping the hilt but not yet drawing it. “I will lay down my life for Ilsevel,” I say, the words savage in my throat. “Choose any of your champions, Lathaira. I will prove with my own blood that she is here by the will of the gods.”
At this the chieftain tosses back her head and utters a guttural laugh. “And what use is there in you fighting for her life? If the gods truly will her to be among us, surely they will grant her the victory.”
For a moment, I do not understand. Lathaira’s words echo hollowly inside my skull. Then very softly I breathe out a single word: “No.”
But Lathaira swings her sword arm, indicating Sylcatha.
“Here is my daughter,” she says in a voice loud enough to be heard by all present.
“She is the bravest of all Tarhyn Tribe’s warriors.
If your warbride can defeat her in varitan combat, then Tarhyn will accept her as one of us, a true Licornyn.
If not”—she looks straight at me—“you will have to accept that it simply wasn’t the will of the gods. ”
I urge Elydark forward, only just restraining him from bursting into battle flame. “I will not send a lamb to the slaughter,” I snarl through clenched teeth.
“But if the lamb is protected by divine will, there can be no slaughter. Is that not so?”
I am on the verge of drawing my sword and initiating battle here and now.
Lathaira knows it and adjusts her grip on her own varitar, her eagerness for blood palpable.
Before I can take the next irreversible step, however, Ilsevel drives Diira forward between me and the Tarhyn chieftain.
She turns away from Lathaira, focusing her attention entirely on me.
“Taar,” she says, speaking in her own language, “you can’t do this. It’s my decision, is it not?”
I stare into her face, momentarily confused. She could not have understood the conversation which took place between me and Lathaira entirely in Licornyn tongue. But then she is bonded to Diira now—her licorneir could easily translate the essence of what was said.
“It’s not possible, Ilsevel,” I reply harshly. “I will not let it happen.”
Ilsevel looks back over her shoulder at Lathaira, who grins with bloodthirsty malice.
She turns then, casting her gaze over Kildorath and the other warriors, then beyond them to the Rocaryn Tribe.
All those faces, filled with hatred for her and everything she represents.
She is nearly friendless in this world, which longs so desperately for her ultimate ruin.
Yet she turns to me, her face strangely serene. “You will never succeed in this venture to Evisar if your people don’t believe in you. And they won’t believe in you, Taar, if they don’t believe in me.”
“It’s not your responsibility to make them believe,” I bite back firmly.
She draws a shuddering breath. Though she wears a brave mask, there’s fear in her eyes, but she answers with quiet confidence, “I think it is.”
I grip a handful of Elydark’s mane, as though I can somehow take hold of this situation and wrench it back under my control. “You’ve proven yourself already in the Unformed Lands.”
Ilsevel nods slightly. “Which is why you must allow me to prove myself again. Once and for all.”
But that’s what I’m afraid of—that it will be once and for all.
Because if Ilsevel rides against Sylcatha in varitan combat, she will be slaughtered.
This contest won’t come down to the strength of the bond shared between her and her licorneir.
That bond won’t make any difference, not against pure muscle and steel and the vicious training of many violent years.
Ilsevel, however, holds my gaze firmly. “You cannot keep protecting me, Taar. If it is the will of the gods that I should ride with your people, the gods themselves will grant me victory.”
Bold words. But foolish, so hopelessly foolish.
“Please, zylnala,” I say, stretching out my hand to her. “Don’t do this.”
She sets her jaw firmly, her nose upraised in that queenly bearing I’ve come to know so well. “My mind is made up, warlord.”
With that she turns Diira’s head about and faces Lathaira’s burning gaze.
For a moment the two women simply look at one another, and I half-expect the air between them to ignite.
Then Ilsevel declares in a loud voice, clear and bright and reverberating with her gods-gifted power so that all in that vicinity might hear: “Send forth your champion. I am ready to fight.”