Chapter 17
ILSEVEL
Taar had the forethought to pack a set of adolescent Licornyn armor for me on the chance that I would be required to ride into battle.
I don’t think either of us truly expected it would happen.
Certainly not this early on in the campaign and facing a Licornyn Rider.
The armor feels so uncomfortable on my body, I would almost prefer Taar’s style of riding into combat nearly naked and unhampered.
But when I dare suggest that perhaps I’d be better off without armor, as I am so unused to it, the look of panic which flashes across my husband’s face is so stark, I instantly retract my words.
“Varitan combat is unlike anything you’ve learned,” he tells me, his voice lower than usual, as though to disguise the tension which vibrates through every thread of his being.
“Tassa and I did not think to train you in its forms as we did not expect you to face mounted opponents. It’s not unlike the style of battle I used against Lurodos, but it will be different, of course, because Sylcatha is riding a licorneir, not a reptant. ”
I wish he would stop talking. He wants to cram as much information into my head as possible, even though he knows it’s hopeless. Truly hopeless.
“There are three basic attacks in the varitan forms,” he continues relentlessly.
“In the initial charge, Sylcatha will likely go on the offensive immediately and lead with one of these three. You will recognize the first attack by the way she sits in the saddle, with a distinct righthand lean, her sword angled back from the body for a scything stroke—”
I turn abruptly and put a hand over his mouth.
We are inside a hastily constructed travel dakath, shielded from immediate view of his people, and I am grateful for this last small privacy.
These are likely my final living moments, and I’m glad I can spend them in his presence, without hate-filled eyes bearing down on me from all sides.
“Please, Taar,” I say softly, gazing up into his black eyes.
“It’s no use. You cannot force your knowledge into my head, your instinct into my limbs. ”
He breathes hard against my hand, then pulls it away from his mouth. “Diira,” he rumbles. “Diira will know. She has performed varitan duels many times, with many riders.”
I nod, exhaling slowly. Sickness churns in my gut. “She will help me.”
But we both know the truth: no matter how profound the bond Diira and I share, it cannot make up for the ignorance of such an inexperienced rider.
Taar stares down at me, drinking in the sight of my face.
I can feel the wild frenzy inside him which he only just holds in check.
“Sylcatha is renowned for her prowess in the varitan forms,” he says.
Then he shakes his head. “I will contest the matter with Lathaira. I will demand some other champion be chosen, one of their younger riders. It’s unreasonable for them to require you to prove your worth in so uneven a competition. ”
I could almost laugh. “Taar, it wouldn’t matter if Tarhyn Tribe had brought along a ten-year-old trainee on a pony. I, with my four days of practice, will still be outmatched. There’s nothing to be done about it.”
“Ilsevel.” He grabs my upper arms and speaks with terrible desperation. “You don’t have to do this.”
I meet his gaze steadily, unflinching. He could keep me here by force if he wished to.
If he refuses to let me walk out of this tent here and now, what could I possibly do to prevent him?
But, if I understood the meeting which took place between him and the Tarhyn chieftain accurately, it would spell disaster for all Licorna.
“What else can I do?” I answer softly. “Try to escape on my own? Ride with Diira into the depths of Cruor and live like an outlaw in this blighted world until I inevitably starve or perish for lack of purified water?”
“You could . . . return to your own world.” The words sound as though they’ve been ripped from some deep place inside him, causing internal bleeding as they come.
“Taar—”
“There is a Between Gate. Not one of our own—one the humans use to travel directly from their world to this, bypassing Wanfriel entirely.” Bitterness coats his tongue at the mere mention of this portal.
But he finishes earnestly, gazing deep into my eyes.
“Diira will carry you to it if you ask her, and you can leave.”
“But . . .” I drop my gaze to that place above his heart where the ruehnar sigil gleams bright beneath his skin. “But you will remain.”
The sigil flares, and I sense the pain in his soul rippling through our velra connection as though it were my own. “I cannot go with you,” he growls, speaking with sorrow, not anger.
“I know.” I place my hand above his heart, above the pulsing ruehnar.
“You must stay. You must see this through, oust the Miphates from the citadel and reclaim your world. And you cannot do that if I am gone from you, if our bond is strained by the distance of worlds. It will cripple you.” My gaze rises slowly but firmly, meeting his once more. “So. I will stay.”
“Ilsevel—”
“What will happen if I am killed in this battle?”
He closes his mouth tight, unwilling to answer.
“Please, tell me, Taar. I need to know the truth.”
When his face goes hard with refusal, I turn from him.
He tries to hold onto me, and for a moment I feel how great his strength truly is, how impossible it would be for me to break his hold if he did not allow it to happen.
At my resistance, however, he releases his grip, calling, “Ilsevel!” sharply after me as I march from the dakath.
Halamar stands on watch just outside, and I go straight to him. “What will happen if I am killed in the upcoming duel?”
His gaze shoots to Taar, who bursts from the dakath behind me.
“Don’t look at him,” I snap, and Halamar turns back to me sharply.
I draw myself up straight. Only yesterday, this man named me maelar.
I want him to recall that now, to look at me and see his queen.
“Answer me truthfully, Halamar. What becomes of the velra bond between us should I perish today?”
His throat tightens uncomfortably. “I do not know,” he admits.
“Give me your best guess.”
Another flashing glance at Taar, before he trains his focus back on me. “Husbands and wives die in battle. It happens; it is a tragedy.”
“But you have not seen a bereft husband succumb to velrhoar, have you? Taar will not be broken by my death?”
Halamar looks deeply uneasy. “I do not know,” he says again. “But I suspect it would be the same as though . . . as though . . .”
“As though your Onor Gantarith had slit my throat with a ceremonial blade, thus ending our untimely marriage weeks ago?”
Taar growls threateningly, but Halamar nods. “That would be my guess. Your husband will suffer pain. It will not likely leave any lasting effects.”
I note the use of the word will. Halamar, at least, is not fooling himself about the outcome of today’s match. But I set my chin and turn to Taar once more. “You see? If I die today, the worst that will happen is you will be set free of this bond, and—”
Taar moves quickly, gripping my arm tight and dragging me close to him. “The worst that will happen,” he snarls, “is my heart will be ripped from my chest. Still alive, still beating. And I will suffer agonies no man should be made to bear.”
I look into his eyes, forcing my voice to be steady and firm, despite how desperately I want to give way to the trembling terror working its way up from my core.
“Even the best marriages end with death, Taar,” I say softly.
“Sooner or later. Until then we both have a purpose to fulfill. Your purpose lies at the gates of Evisar. Mine . . .” I swallow with some difficulty and ease out a tense breath. “Mine may very well end here. Today.”
“No.”
“If what I am called to do is set you free so that you may in turn free your people, who am I to question the gods?”
Taar searches my face intently, reading thoughts I’d rather he didn’t. The velra pulses between us, almost painful in its heat. “Ilsevel,” he says, my name rough on his tongue, “I cannot do this. Not without you.”
I toss my head, forcing a saucy smile. “I’m not dead yet, am I?
” Reaching up, I cup his bearded cheek with one hand, savoring the rough texture which has become so strangely familiar over the last few weeks.
“How many miracles have already taken place to bring me this far? What’s one more to the gods, when they have already been so generous? ”
Taar opens his mouth to speak again, but Halamar’s voice interrupts, dragging our attention his way. “Lathaira is ready. Her people are gathering at the field.”
Together we turn to look out at the grassy plain below Tarh Tower, where a battlefield has been hastily staked out in readiness for the coming duel.
On the far side Lathaira and her proud Licornyn riders line up.
Among them is her daughter—the most enormously powerful and muscular woman I’ve ever set eyes upon.
She might have been sculpted from a block of marble, so pronounced is every line of her face and body.
She rides her equally enormous licorneir with a grim confidence that turns my stomach to liquid terror at the mere sight.
But Diira draws in close behind me, her song thrumming through and around me. I am here, Vellara. I am with you.
Rocaryn riders are forming up as well, lining the near side of the battlefield.
Only three of them—the rest have been positioned around the main bulk of the fighting force, ready in case the vardimnar should strike, as it may at any moment.
No doubt Lathaira has similarly protected her own force, bringing with her only a small contingent for this little display.