“Do you . . .” I hesitate, uncertain if I want to make the offer. “Do you need me to tell you what I saw? In the Unformed Lands?” Even as I ask, confused visions flash before my eyes. Strange things I cannot explain—Aurae’s prayer veil, Faraine’s two-colored eyes. And Lyria. I see my half-sister’s face, framed by the porcelain edges of a scrying bowl. Why in the gods’ names wouldshemanifest in my mind at such a time?
Frowning, I close my eyes. “Never mind,” I say, not waiting for his answer. “Maybe someday. Not yet.”
Taar grunts a soft affirmation.
“What about the elders?” I ask suddenly, peering up at him again through one eye. “Are they still clamoring for my blood, or have I convinced them yet that I am not some evil sorceress?” A pained expression crosses his face. My stomach knots. “What is it?”
“Later,” he says gently. “When you are more rested.”
“No.” I push upright, bracing myself against the way the chamber twirls on its axis once more. “I need to know,” I say through gritted teeth. “Do you think I’m going to relax while you’re being all close-lipped and enigmatic?”
Taar bows his head. “You won’t rest any better when I tell you what the elders have decided.”
“Are they planning to gut me on the spot the instant I show my face outside?”
“No—”
“Then I can handle it. Tell me.”
He does. And I listen with growing horror as he spreads before me the details of the elders’ requirements. Of the choice he must make on the night ofsilmael. Of the other choices which are taken from both of us.
“So,” I whisper when he is through. “So I am to be your wife. But not your queen.”
Taar shakes his head.
“Not the mother of your heirs.”
“Ilsevel—”
“No, no.” I hold up my hands. “No, don’t tryto soothe me. Please. Let me settle in my own head how I feel about this.” I close my eyes, search inside for a place of calm. Taking hold of Diira’s song, I wrap it around myself, using its power to hold all my fury and frustration together, though in reality all I want to do is throw my head back and scream.
But why? Why does this disturb me so much? I must try to be reasonable about this. After all I never wanted to be some king’s breeder, useful only for the children I produced. I never wanted children at all, at least not in any conscious way. They were always part of whatever destiny my father and some stranger planned for me, more links in a binding chain that would anchor me to a life I never sought.
Why should it matter if I bear Taar’s heirs or not? He loves me; I love him. We should be enough for each other. Only . . . I’d never considered what it might be like to have children with a man I loved. Somehow it’s different. My heart seems to open up with new longing, new desire I never thought I could feel, only to have it all stripped away in a moment.
We could still choose to have children, of course. But what sort of life would they know in a world that hated them simply for existing? How selfish would I have to be to bring an innocent child into such a world? And what about Taar? Would I ask him to watch his line die out? To let his kingdom fracture and descend into squabbles among the tribes? No. No, I love him too much to require that of him.
But could I bear to step aside for a queen?
Oh gods. It was all so much simpler when all that mattered was what I felt for Taar and what he felt for me. The longing, the desire, the new-blooming love shared between us. But we are not free to nurture our love in isolation. He is a king, and I—though no one besides Taar himself knows it—a princess. Nothing about our personal feelings matters compared to the needs of kingdoms and worlds.
“Untilsilmael,” I murmur at last, then flick a glance at Taar from under my lowered brow. “How long is that?”
He grimaces. “A few weeks yet.”
“That is . . . a long time.”
It’s not. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. But considering how desperately I crave his touch, his kiss, his very scent, it feels like eternity. An impulse comes over me to reach out, grab him by the shoulders, and pull him down on top of me then and there. Thevelracord flashes, tugging at my heart. Taar’s head comes up sharply, his expression filled with sudden heat.
“Ilsevel,” he breathes tensely, “I’m begging you . . .”
“Oh, go jump in a cold puddle somewhere, warlord!” I growl. “I won’t compromise your vows to your elders. Though I do think I might have been consulted before you went cutting your hand and all that nonsense.” I bury my face in my hands and shake my head, then peer at him sadly over my fingertips. “And onsilmaelnight? What happens then?”
“That choice,” he says, “we will make together.”
I chew my lower lip. Something tells me when that night finallyarrives, I won’t be thinking about queens or heirs or kingdoms as much as I should. Not with this great, beautiful man looking at me with those black eyes of his. Not after weeks of resisting thisvelradraw, knowing vividly exactly what it is I resist. Taar’s hand moves as though to take mine, but he stops himself. I don’t blame him—even a chaste brush of fingers might be enough to ignite a fire neither of us is prepared to douse. I fold my own hands tight. Part of me wishes he would go; it would be easier if he wasn’t right in front of me.
“There’s something else,” he says at length.
