Chapter 18 TAAR
TAAR
She opens her eyes. Eyes clear as a cloudless sky, the storms of pain driven at last over the horizon. Eyes which gaze up at me with only momentary confusion, but which, after a blink or two, melt into recognition.
“Ilsevel?” I say, my voice tremulous with hope. “Ilsevel, do you know me?”
Her arms shift. Relax again, exhausted. Then, slowly, her hands reach out, quivering as they grip my shoulders, slip around my neck. Pulling me to her.
With a strangled cry, I catch her up in my embrace, pull her into my lap, and simply sit, holding her.
Beneath the trees, beneath the stars. In some remote part of the mortal countryside, far too close to my enemy’s doorstep for comfort, our skin chilled in cold, unforgiving wind.
I hold my wife, feel the life in her body, feel the way she clings to me.
And I believe that, whatever else may come, whatever struggles we must face, whatever horrors we will endure, it will all be worth it. Just for this moment.
We seem to have found a little timeless slice of eternity, sitting there together in the moonlight, beneath the sleeping trees of the mortal world. I hold my wife. I breathe in tandem with her breaths. What more could I ask for? What more could I need?
Slowly, however, I come to some sense of awareness of the world around us.
We seem to be tucked away on the edge of a copse of trees bordering a fallow field.
In the distance, I can see the great silhouette of Beldroth, dark against the starry sky, and I vaguely recognize this as the place where I left Elydark, yesterday at dawn.
So that path of Lyria’s had indeed spilled us out exactly where we needed to go.
An incredible feat of magic, one I should like to consider more closely, when I have opportunity.
For now I am more concerned with our proximity to my enemy’s stronghold.
Though we are many miles away, I half-imagine I hear merry music drifting on the breeze to my ear.
All seems very peaceful from this distance.
It won’t be long, however, before Larongar rises with a great knot on his head and his son-in-law’s slain body lying crumpled beside him.
It won’t be long before search parties are sent out across this whole countryside.
While I don’t doubt Elydark’s ability to outrun any mortal horse, I don’t relish the idea of fleeing with hounds nipping at our heels.
After what may be hours of silence—or perhaps only a few perfectly timeless minutes—I rumble in my wife’s ear: “How do you feel?”
She tilts her head on my shoulder, considering. “I suppose rather like a woman who’s nearly died and suddenly found she hasn’t.” There’s a grimace in her voice. “It’s a feeling I’m becoming more familiar with than I like. I’d prefer not to experience it again, if it’s all the same to you.”
I chuckle deep in my throat. Then, reluctantly, I set her back from me so that I can look into her eyes once more.
Her arms cling in resistance for just a moment before she relents, but one arm remains draped around my shoulder.
I scan her quickly, my eyes lingering a moment on the front of her gown, the ripped gold bodice and broken corset.
Only a thin chemise protects her from the cold night air, and her exposed skin prickles at each gusting breeze.
“May I?” I ask, indicating the chemise and her abdomen.
Her eyes catch mine, uncertain what I intend.
But she nods. I carefully lift the edge of the chemise to inspect her wound.
A wide, thick, red scar meets my gaze, crooked and ugly, but fully healed.
No trace of swelling, no infection, nor any blood.
Elydark’s power worked wonders this night, far more than I ever could have believed possible here in the mortal world.
Something else must have influenced his song, something of which I wasn’t aware, focused as I was on the task at hand.
I run my fingertip over the puckered ridge. “Does it hurt?”
Ilsevel frowns, looking down at herself. “No, it doesn’t hurt. I don’t seem to have any feeling there at all. Just . . . pressure.”
I nod. Then I move my finger to the soft skin around the scar. She sucks in a little breath. “Do you feel that?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her voice is a little tight. “Yes, I feel that well enough.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
My gaze shifts from her abdomen, sliding up to her chest, which rises and falls swiftly with her quickened breaths.
In this half-light, I cannot see the ruehnar over her heart; it is not as clear as it once was, not the shining, gold brilliance that was never visible to the naked eye, but to the eyes of my spirit.
But it’s present—I’m sure of it. I can feel the renewed strength of the magic, not wholly healed, perhaps, but no longer so severely broken.
Slowly, reverently, I lift my hand, trace my fingertips down her sternum to rest against her heart and that upper swell of her bosom.
“Taar,” she gasps.
My eyes flick to meet hers. I see fire in her gaze, fire such as I never thought I would see again. Not since our disastrous silmael night. Not since I ordered her carried away from my world. Not since . . . Evisar . . .
Heat erupts in my gut, flowing down lower, enflaming my body. I long to draw her to me, to cover her mouth with mine once more. But I dare not. Not yet.
“We need to get away from here,” I say, my voice rough but firm.
She nods. Frowns. “Everything is . . . blurry in my mind,” she says with a little shake of her head. “There’s so much fog.”
“You are getting over a memory-block spell. It might leave some aftershock influence on you for a little while.”
She accepts this with a pout. Then her eyes catch mine again. “Lyria?” she asks.
At the sound of that name, I remember suddenly the final words Ilsevel’s half-sister hissed into my ear before sending me down the tunnel path.
Should I tell Ilsevel now of Lyria’s suspicions, of her hopes?
But no . . . we need to remove ourselves from our proximity to Beldroth, find some measure of safety. Then I will reveal all.
“Lyria helped me,” I say instead. “We met in the gardens, and I told her who I am and some pieces of our history. She helped me form a plan for your rescue. I’m not sure how I would have managed it without her.
” Ilsevel looks at me curiously, but again, we haven’t time for details.
Instead I turn, recalling something I’d all but forgotten.
“She sent this. Necessities, she claimed.”
I grab the satchel strap and drag it over, handing it to Ilsevel.
Curious, she reaches inside and withdraws a handful of sturdy-looking gray cloth.
“A gown,” she says, glancing up at my puzzled face.
A small laugh blows through her lips. “I suppose she didn’t think I’d like fleeing through the night in this gold monstrosity! ”
She climbs up off my lap, a bit awkward. Though she winces, I don’t see evidence of any severe pain, just stiffness. “Will you help me?” she asks, plucking at the sagging gold bodice and broken boning of the corset she still wears.
Bodice and corset are easily discarded, and the massive skirts, petticoats, and structuring underthings follow after.
Soon she wears nothing but that thin chemise and some delicate, gauzy drawers, the sight of which stirs a strong reaction in my body.
Not the time, I remind myself, firmly. Not the time . . . yet.
Ilsevel catches my hungry gaze. Her mouth quirks to one side. “You’re embarrassing Elydark, warlord.”
I cast a short glance my licorneir’s way. Elydark stands at a little distance, looking entirely disinterested in our doings. Ilsevel laughs at me, and the sound goes straight to my heart. I never thought I’d hear it again, never thought I’d find myself on the receiving end of her biting humor.
“Get dressed, quickly,” I growl, but with a smile in my own voice, “before I’m compelled to do things that will make Elydark flee for the hills.”
A daring light flashes in her eyes. She looks as though she’s considering provoking me further. Before either of us succumb to temptation, however, I toss the travel gown her way. “Hurry up, woman, before you’re the death of us both!”
She catches the mounds of gray fabric in her arms, laughing again, a vibrant peal of sound.
I would very much like to assist her as she dons overskirt and bodice, her nimble fingers swiftly tying the front laces.
But I keep my hands to myself, only permitting my eyes to drink up the sight of her.
My zylnala, my Ilsevel, whom I’d thought was dead.
Whom I’d thought I’d slain . . . instead very much alive.
And still mine. By some miraculous twist of the gods’ own grace, still mine!
I press a hand to my chest, feel the warmth of the velra anchored there. It’s not as strong as it once was, perhaps. But it is still present. With time surely it can be strengthened.
The moon flies high overhead, watching our progress across the night-bound Gavarian countryside.
All feels right with the world, with existence, now that I find myself back in the saddle with my wife before me, wrapped in my arms where she belongs.
I breathe in the scent of her hair, breathe in her presence, feeling the living warmth of her pressed against my chest.
Elydark avoids all human habitation as his cloven hooves eat up the miles.
After some hours of progress, however, I sing to him, urging him to draw near to a small village I glimpse, wreathed in pre-dawn mist. There is no sign of life as of yet, and I think we may safely draw near.
While Elydark remains on the outskirts, Ilsevel and I venture to the village center so that I may draw water from the well for her to refresh herself.
We don’t speak; we both know intrinsically the need for silence and secrecy.
But she casts me a grateful look as she drinks deeply from the dipper.