Her smile grows, momentarily blinding me to all other sources of light and song. But Tassa growls and throws up her hands. “This is ridiculous!” she declares. “It’s time she learned to fight a moving target.” She turns in her saddle toward me. “Are you going to hop down and help her, or do you prefer to sit there like a lump and watch?”
“I am more than ready to assist,” I reply. “But first . . .” With a flick of my wrist, I pull back a fold of embroideredkhiirwool to reveal a scabbard secured to my saddle. “Why don’t you give my sister back her sword?”
Ilsevel gasps as I draw forth the sword and scabbard and offer them to her. Hands trembling, she unsheathes it, holding the blade up to the light, marveling at its honed edge and craftsmanship. She does not know what a gift it is, however. The water-powered blast furnaces which once produced this unique variety ofvirmaersteel were all lost in the Rift. This sword is one of many recovered by Licornyn riders, who ventured into Cruor, risking their lives to reclaim our kingdom’s treasures. A sword of this size would have belonged to some adolescent in training, but the steel is no less true. I’ve had the hilt wrapped in new leather and adorned with a swath of tablet weaving in shades of blue and purple. At mybehest, our swordsmith etched a pattern of ilsevel blossoms down the center of the blade, a not unfamiliar detail to be found among Licornyn weaponry, but singularly appropriate in this instance. More to the point, it is a smaller, lighter weapon, better suited to her arm than the one she has been using.
“Oh, Taar,” Ilsevel says, looking up at me with shining eyes. She doesn’t say anything more; she doesn’t have to. The song of her joy ripples through ourvelra,and I’m nearly overcome with the desire to lean from my saddle, catch her face with my hand, and kiss her. It’s just as well Elydark shifts beneath me, murmuring a subtle warning into my mind. One of us, at least, must not lose his head.
“I hate to interrupt such a touching moment,” Tassa says, inflection belying her words. She swings down from her saddle and marches to Ilsevel’s side, holding out a hand. “But now you have your own weapon, I’d like mine back.”
Ilsevel hands over my sister’s sword, and Tassa gives it a few experimental swipes. “Ah!” she sighs. “That is better.” Then she stalks off among the dummy posts, aggressively kicks one over and stands in its place. “Are you coming, Taar?” she demands.
I give her a look, but dismount as well, and go to stand among the dummies, though I don’t topple one over but simply position myself a few yards from the others, offering room for maneuvers.
“Go on then,” Tassa barks to my wife. “It’s time you learned to face a moving target. Show me what you can do!”
Casting me a last wary glance, Ilsevel circles the makeshiftpractice field. Diira tosses her head even as she begins to collect her body into charging form. Ilsevel frowns. “I feel terribly advantaged.”
“You’re not,” Tassa barks.
I ready my stance. “Do not pull your blows,” I call out to her. “Your enemy will not pull theirs.”
With a short nod, Ilsevel lines up at the top of the field. An unseen exchange passes between her and her licorneir, who bursts into a gallop. Not the long stride of pure speed, but a carefully collected gait, her neck arched. Little flickers of flame lick from her eyes, but she does not give way to it fully, not here, not in training. Submitting to her rider’s guidance, she rounds the first three dummies, and Ilsevel strikes out as she passes. She’s rather too close to the first one, her elbow tucked in awkwardly at her side. With the second she overcompensates, elongating her arm too far for an effective blow. The third she hits squarely on the percussion point of the blade; I hear and recognize the sound.
Then she bears down on Tassa.
My sister shifts from one foot to the next, darting first here, then there. Ilsevel, uncertain where to send her mount, pulls up slightly, but Diira, experienced as she is, makes a prediction and drives to the left of her opponent. Tassa is forced to dive out of the way of flying hooves, and she lets out a blood-curdling shriek. Ilsevel, thrown by both the noise and the jerking movements, strikes out ineffectively, missing her target. Tassa slashes, pulling her blow at the last instant so as not to harm Diira. But the intent isthere. I can almost see the imaginary gash of silver blood opening along the licorneir’s hind flank.
But Diira, untouched, carries her rider on to the next target. Rattled by her brief flurry with Tassa, Ilsevel only manages to tap the head of the dummy, and her seat is compromised with a too aggressive lean. She recovers herself and manages to strike the next dummy a sound blow.
Diira changes lead, alters direction. Now they face me.
There are few sights more intimidating than staring into the eyes of a charging war licorneir. Even I, brought up among licorneir as I have been, am not immune. Diira is neither a large example of her kind, nor is she in full battle flame. Nonetheless a jolt of adrenaline shoots through my limbs. It is a grim pleasure to consider thatthisis the sight my enemies will see. Perhaps the shock they experience in that moment will make up for Ilsevel’s lack of experience.
I don’t bother with the antics Tassa displayed; I have no desire to discomfit my wife. When Diira charges, I glide smoothly to the side and raise my sword in a simple block defense. Our blades make contact with more force than I initially intended.
Still I am taken utterly aback when my wife abruptly slides from the saddle and tumbles to the ground. I stare in horror as she rolls several times and comes to a stop, her eyes closed, though her hand still grips the hilt of her sword.
“Ilsevel?” For a moment my mind simply won’t catch up. It’s inconceivable that Diira would let her rider tumble off her backover such a small impact. Did I mistake my own strength? “Ilsevel!” I cry and leap toward her, blood throbbing in my ears. She lies flat and still, and I cannot for the moment tell if she is breathing.
Just as I move to kneel beside her, however, her eyes flare open. I’m shocked enough to freeze—then shocked again when one booted foot lashes out, hooking me unexpectedly around the ankle. Unbalanced already, I tumble to the ground, as peels of laugher erupt in my ears.
The next moment Ilsevel straddles my body holding the edge of her sword against my throat. I stare up into her wickedly grinning face. Her eyes dance with mirth, even as her teeth flash in a vicious grin of triumph.
“Didn’t see that one coming, did you, warlord?” she asks in a low voice.
Something dark and hot moves inside me, shooting through my veins, straight to my loins. Thevelraburns like red fire in my spirit-vision, winding around her and me, drawing us together tighter.
“Little fool,” I grind furiously through my teeth. “If you tried that trick in a melee, you’d be trampled under the hooves of your fellow licorneir, if you didn’t break your neck in the fall!”
She leans in closer. “But we’re not in a melee, are we?”
It is the work of an instant to grip her arms, roll my body, and pin her underneath me. She drops her sword. Both her small hands grip helplessly at my elbows. She is utterly in my power, and she knows it. And yet that grin of hers will not relent.
Suddenly I don’t care that Tassa is watching. I am aware of nothing save that mischievous face below me, that treacherous mouth. I feel the yawning ache inside, which has only become more distracting over the days of our forced separation. I crave her. I crave her mouth under mine, crave her skin beneath my palms. I crave her hot, quivering center and the song of her bliss in my ears.
Her grin fades. She blinks, and when her lashes rise again, the mischief is gone from her face, replaced with a fire I know. It is the reflection of my own, that furnace burning deep inside, hollowing me out with need.
“How many nights untilsilmael?” she asks softly. Her voice seems to simmer the air before her lips.
