“You know I will not leave Elydark,” I persist, my gaze never leaving Kildorath’s, “any more than you would abandon Miramenor. Lead my licorneir by the chaeora rope, and I will ride with my wife. Thus will we journey together to the Hidden City. And,” I add, tilting my head forward with the force of my next words “she will not be bound.”
Kildorath turns his head slightly, the muscle of his cheek jumping with tension. “I will do all but that last,” he says carefully. “She remains bound and gagged. I cannot risk her using that ensorcelling voice of hers.”
Yet again fury threatens to burst in my veins. But I catch Ilsevel’s eye. She gives her head a quick shake, her gaze compelling me to accept the terms. I would do anything for her sake, but acquiescing to this cruel treatment of her is a hard ask. We both know, however, how few our choices are. When we committed to this love, we committed as well to facing the consequences together.
Without a word, I dismount and offer my weapons to Kildorath. He gives me a long look as he accepts my sword in its sheath along with my dagger, the mate of which he has already confiscated from Ilsevel’s belt. In his eyes, I see great turmoil. He loathes to do this. He never sought to stand against his ownluinarand oldest friend, after so many years of faithful service. Despite the heat in my veins, I cannot hate him.
And there’s Shanaera to consider. Kildorath’s beloved sister, whom he once believed—as did I—would be my queen one day. He watched our love blossom over the course of years and fall apart again over years more. How must it seem to him, watching me fall so completely for a woman I’ve known not even a fortnight? When put in that light, I cannot blame him for suspecting sorcery. Given all perceivable evidence, it is the only logical explanation.
And Kildorath doesn’t know the whole truth. He doesn’t know about Ilsevel’s association with Mage Artoris. He doesn’t knowwho her father is.
I turn from him, unwilling to argue further. Instead I go to Ilsevel. She stares up at me with fear-widened eyes. Not fear for herself, I realize, but for me. Fear that I will do or say something to bring harm to myself. My face must look like a demon’s mask, so hot is the rage roiling in my gut.
I do not speak. I merely incline my head to Diira. Ilsevel nods and steps toward her licorneir, their soul-song unhindered by the gag in her mouth. Diira shakes her head in response to whatever Ilsevel urges, her anger a match for my own. I assist Ilsevel onto her licorneir’s back then mount behind her. Without a look at Kildorath, I urge the beast forward. Thuridar and Alluirnath, the other two riders, both old war-companions of mine, tense in their saddles. At a short word from Kildorath, however, they allow us to pass between them.
We set our faces west once more, for the unseen river and the Hidden City beyond it. I allow myself to take small comfort in the nearness of Ilsevel, pressed against my chest. There’s a sense of rightness in this proximity, and thevelrawraps around us, a warming presence.
But it cannot last. One way or the other, the time of our parting is coming.
We ride through the night.
Exhaustion burns through every part of my being, and separation from Elydark only makes it worse. I cannot draw upon my licorneir’s strength as I ordinarily would while riding. Ilsevel’s proximity helps; I feel the goodness of our bond pouring into me through ourvelra.It is this alone, I suspect, which keeps me upright in the saddle.
The sky overhead is singularly quiet. No return of the black lightning impedes our progress as we cross the lonely, featureless countryside and approach the Morrona River. We are a silent party, even as we ford the river, foamy water up to our beasts’ chests. Thuridar and Alluirnath flank Diira, while Kildorath rides behind, leading Elydark. I refuse to so much as glance at any of them, keeping my gaze firmly fixed forward.
As much as possible, I lean into the sensation of Ilsevel, wrapped in my arms. She shivers as the cold night air blows against her river-dampened frame. I hold her close, trying to impart as much of my body heat into her as I may. This might be our last ride together. I am a fool, no doubt, but I am glad we did not hasten from Rothiliar this morning, glad we prolonged our night of passion late into the day. My only regret is that I did not give in and fully consummate our bond. I wish I’d sunk deep down into her, known the fullness of that unique physical joining between man and woman, husband and wife.
The moon is already beginning to wane when we come within sight of Elanlein, the last Holy House of Licorna. The graceful stone structure dominates the landscape from its hilltop, whitestone shining bright even in the darkness before dawn. Though it has always been a beacon of welcome as I returned from many arduous campaigns, I look upon it now with dread. But Ilsevel, who had slumped with weariness back against my chest, suddenly straightens up, a new alertness in her soul. Can her gods-gift perceive the song of the ilsevel blossoms which surround the temple, even from this distance?
We ride on. The sun rises and has well begun its progress into the sky when we come at last to the Hidden City. Part of me had hoped we would make better time and slip in under cover of darkness, unseen by the denizens. Instead it seems as though every soul in the Rocaryn Tribe stands in the front yards of thedakathsto stare at their king as he rides through their midst, escorted by three proud warriors. Most of their stares, however, are saved for Ilsevel. I see the looks of dismay, disdain, and even outright disgust wash over all those upturned faces. Children heft rotten fruit in their hands, filled with bitter intent even as they lack the courage to send it hurtling.
Drothlar.
The word whispers here, there, and everywhere. Like crickets in tall grass, singing from safe obscurity.
Drothlar.
Drothlar.
She has ensorcelled our king.
Witch.
Sorceress.
Cursebound.
I hope Ilsevel doesn’t understand what they’re saying. Judging by the way she stiffens in my arms, it is a forlorn hope.
We come to the city center at last, where the two largestdakathsstand opposite each other across a swath of green. My owndakath,of kingly proportions, is nearest. Across the way is the Meeting House where the elders gather, and solemn councils are held. Kildorath takes the lead, riding toward the farther structure, Elydark following at the heels of his golden licorneir.
Just then my eye is caught when the front flap of my owndakathis suddenly thrown back, and a familiar figure steps out. Tassa—my sister. Her dark-tanned skin is paler than usual from lack of sleep, and hollows ring her eyes. She wears akhiirwool shawl wrapped tightly around her rod-straight body. She looks hard at me as I pass by astride Diira, my wife held in my arms. For a brief moment, I glimpse gladness in her eyes, but that gladness is swiftly clouded by confusion. She observes Ilsevel, with her gag, then seems to take in Diira for the first time. Diira, whom she had last seen lost to the devastations ofvelrhoar,bound in chaeora rope, ready to mutilate and kill all who dared draw near to her.
Tassa’s eyes widen into huge black disks. Then she blinks, shakes her head, and looks again, unbelieving. I cannot blame her; I would not believe it myself without the testimony of my own eyes.
As though gathering her courage, my sister leaves the shelter ofthedakathand hastens toward me. “Talanashta!” Kildorath barks spying her approach. “Stay back!”
She shoots him a scathing look, but waits until we draw near to the Meeting House. Then she darts closer to me as I dismount. “Taar!” she gasps, reaching out to touch my arm. “Thank the gods. I’ve heard such wild accounts and didn’t know what to think. They say you were trapped in enchantment and spirited away to Evisar as a Miphates’ slave.”
