Chapter 20 #2
She draws a shuddering breath and casts me a short glance.
“I’m fine,” she insists, but I hear the tremor in her voice.
She hates Ruvaen with a bitterness that rivals even the Licornyn hatred of humans.
Her father’s kingdom has been in conflict with the Noxaurian prince for some years now, and they are a ruthless enemy.
The carnage wrought by Lurodos and his people at the Temple of Lamruil was only a taste of the bloodshed Ilsevel’s people have experienced from the savage raiding parties over the years.
I don’t know what need has driven Ruvaen to go to war with humans, but I know him well enough to guess how relentlessly he will use whatever blunt instruments are at his disposal.
Yes, Ilsevel has every right to hate my ally. But that doesn’t make me need him any less.
The air under the gate-arch shimmers, and a strange, high-pitched hum pinches our ears painfully.
We all turn just in time to see Ruvaen manifest out of thin air, cool and easy, as though he walks through the voids between worlds every day.
Not a strand of his waist-length silvery hair is out of place, and his pale robes float behind him as though stirred by a gentle breeze.
His face is heartbreakingly beautiful, of course, swathed in many layers of glamour.
My ibrildian eyes are not strong enough to pierce those glamours and see what lies behind, only strong enough to recognize a mask when I see one.
Ruvaen’s gaze latches onto mine immediately. He holds open his arms, his long sleeves fluttering like wings in an expansive gesture. “Taar!” he cries, his face splitting in a blade’s-edge grin. “My friend!”
I dismount and move to clasp hands with the prince. “Welcome to Cruor, Ruvaen,” I say with no little irony.
He tips a silvery brow and takes a look around.
From this vantage we command a view of the valley across which stands the Luin Stone.
The golden glow of sunset casts it in jewel-tone shades, emphasizing the lush greenery and the bright curve of the river.
“My, my,” he says, his tone musing. “So this is the hellscape everyone speaks of in such hushed, foreboding tones?” He turns to me again, his gaze too incisive for comfort. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
My welcoming smile turns to a grimace. “You’ve not seen the real Cruor yet. That will come. Sooner, perhaps, than you will like.”
The prince feigns a shudder. “I shall await the experience with bated breath. But first—I have a gift for you, dear king.” With that he reaches into the front of his robes and withdraws a strange talisman of human make.
It is the size of a large man’s palm, a triangle of dark gold containing a rotating sphere.
Miphates’ spell-writing etches that sphere.
Even now, while it lies in stasis, the spell inactive, I can feel the pulse of mortal enchantment.
I know what it is; I fetched it off Mage Artoris myself in my last campaign into the mortal world.
“There you are,” Ruvaen says, plunking the evil object into my hand. “One functioning obscuris-breaking talisman.”
I take it, turn the object around. It is still as incomprehensible to me as it was when I first saw it. I glance up, catch Ruvaen’s eye. “You have a Miphato? To work the counter spell?”
“Better than that,” he replies, and takes the talisman back, hefting it in one hand. “I’ve got a fellow who will bring the entire obscuris tumbling down. It’s amazing what wonders the human mages can work if one can only find their pressure points.”
There’s something altogether wolfish in his smile. I don’t want to know what pressure he applied to his human captive to learn the talisman’s secrets. While I have no love in my heart for the Miphates, I am all too familiar with Noxaurian forms of persuasion.
Ruvaen’s gaze shifts suddenly away from mine, and his pale brows draw together in a frown. “Well now,” he says, “I thought I felt a pair of eye-daggers trying to gouge my heart out from a distance. I did not expect them to be those particular eyes, however!”
He looks directly at Ilsevel. A sudden laugh, bright as shattering stars, erupts from his glamoured lips.
He turns to me again, shaking his head in wonder.
“So you couldn’t get rid of her after all!
Who would have thought the proud Licornyn king had a taste for human flesh?
I did wonder if there was a little something special between the two of you, when you spilled my Lord Lurodos’s guts on that arena floor for daring to say boo to the lady.
” He surveys Ilsevel again, taking in the mount on which she sits.
“And you’ve given her one of your precious unicorns?
What other wonders has the power of love wrought upon your heart, dear Taarthalor? ”
“Ilsevel is velarin-bound to a licorneir,” I snarl, wishing I could wrench the prince away and force him not to so much as glance my bride’s way. “She is one of our own now.”
“Is that so?” Ruvaen turns to survey the other Licornyn riders, including Kildorath, who has followed him out through the gate.
His gaze lingers longest on that warrior’s stern face, though it would take keen insight indeed to read anything in Kildorath’s stony features.
“By the looks of things, not all your people share this sentiment.”
“And are all your people in accord with every decision you make or command you give?” I ask.
Ruvaen laughs again, a wolf’s bark of sound. “Why, of course they are! They know I’ll crucify them slowly over a pit of flames if they don’t. Amazing what harmony can be wrought with just a little threat of violence along the way.”
I know better than to believe his blithe words.
Ruvaen is a prince of Noxaur only, not a king.
He does not hold absolute sway over his subjects, despite all his posturing, and is obliged to play intricate games to maintain the illusion of control.
I’ve seen enough to know the truth and been dragged into some of those games myself.
“So,” Ruvaen says, turning to me once more and rubbing his hands with unsuppressed delight, “are you committed to this assault on the citadel then?”
“I am.” I lower my head, looking at Ruvaen hard from under the ledge of my brow. “And I would remind you, Prince, of your solemn vow to remove your forces from Cruor directly following the fall of Evisar.”
“Oh, naturally, naturally.” Ruvaen flicks a dismissive wrist. “I have no interest in your country, good king. I want only the spellbook.”
“And you shall have it, Prince. In exchange for breaking down Evisar’s gates and slaughtering any Miphates inside, you shall have your reward.”
“Good.” Ruvaen’s eyes flash with a haunted sort of look, one I cannot quite decipher. It’s there and gone again in a blink, hidden behind glamour and smiles. “Let us bring my warriors through then, shall we?”