She nods, her eyes skittering away from mine in a vain attempt to hide a sudden spark of tears. Then, impulsively, she puts her arms around me in an embrace. It lasts no more than a heartbeat—but in that brief contact, I feel the truth of the bond we’ve shared since that dreadful flight on Mahra’s back across our rift-torn world.
Backing away quickly, Tassa sniffs and pats me one last time on the shoulder. “Your wife,” she says suddenly, then stops and clears her throat. “She was a good student. I . . . I don’t know that I will ever fully understand what you’ve done. What motivated you to takea human bride.” She shakes her head, grimacing ruefully, then tilts her head and looks up at me, her expression softened. “But I think, in the end, I caught a . . . a glimpse, perhaps. Of what you see in her.”
From Tassa this is a major concession. I accept it in the spirit in which it was meant, nodding solemnly. “I cannot thank you enough for training Ilsevel as well as you did.”
Tassa snorts. “You do realize how unprepared she is for battle? If you want her to survive, you’d best find a way to spare her from the worst of it.”
She’s not wrong. And yet . . . “There’s more to Ilsevel than you see. She has survived terrors you cannot imagine and saved my life on more than one occasion. I believe she will surprise us both in the end.”
Tassa chooses not to argue. Instead she offers me a solemn salute, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Luinar,” she says. “I bid you good night. If we do not speak again before your departure, may Nornala’s grace shine upon you.”
She turns to go then, but pauses when I call after her: “Tassa.” She looks back.
I hesitate, uncertain how to say what is on my heart. The words are too feeble, but I hope she will understand: “Alahir i dorlar orira a-nala.
It is a small part of a long prayer, spoken over a Licornyn rider who has successfully formed a bond. A prayer which should have been said over Tassa long ago. I will never understand why the gods did not see fit to grant her that blessing.
Tassa’s cheek tightens. She offers a short nod and opens her mouth. In the end, however, she closes her lips again and, choosing to leave her words unsaid, leaves me in silence.
I remain outside for a while longer after her departure. Though the sky is heavy with darkness, I can smell dawn coming on swiftly now. Part of me wonders if I should venture out, walk through the supply wagons, speak to my quartermaster, and begin all those last-minute preparations before the coming ride. But I don’t want Ilsevel to wake with me gone. And as I seem to have my body back under control . . .
I step back into thedakath. Ilsevel is already sitting up, prodding the fire back to life with a long stick. Her face is puffy, her hair rumpled, but my gaze fixes on the sleeve of her gown, which has slid down, revealing one soft shoulder. My stomach tightens; I almost flee back outside. She looks up, tossing hair back from her face, and blinks her sleep-bleary eyes at me. “Is it time to ride?”
I could almost laugh at the jolt of pure desire that passes through me at the mere sound of her voice. What a lusty fool I’ve become in these few short weeks! Even the smallest lapse of self-control, and I’d fall upon her like a hungry wolf. But I master myself.
“No,zylnala,”I say and fetch the clay pot, fill it with water from the basin, and nestle it on the coals. “You can sleep longer if you wish.”
“I’m not tired,” she speaks through a contradictory yawn. Then she shakes her head sharply, blinking hard. “Was that Tassa I heard outside?”
I grunt acknowledgement.
“I thought I recognized her voice, though I couldn’t understand what you said.” Ilsevel rubs her upper arms and watches flames flicker back to life in the stone circle. “Is Tassa riding with us?”
“No, she will remain here. Someone has to care for the Rocaryn Tribe in my absence.”
Ilsevel maintains her silence as I prepare a cup of tea and hand it to her. She turns the cup around in her hands, watching the steam rise, but her thoughts seem to be a thousand miles away. Finally she looks up at me, catching my gaze. “What will happen if the licorneir are . . . gone?” she asks. “Will thevardimnarspread across the Morrona River?”
A shadow falls across my soul. But I won’t try to hide the ugly truth. Not from her. “Without the licorneir to protect the land, the darkness of the Rift will spread swiftly, engulfing everything.”
“And what about your—” Ilsevel stops. I watch as a series of questions tumble through her brain. She’s wondering why we march on the citadel at all, risking what remains of Licorna on this hopeless endeavor. She wants me to circle the licorneir and protect the Hidden City, protect the last of the ilsevel blossoms and our way of life.
But she knows the truth. It’s only a matter of time before the ilsevel supply dwindles away to nothing. Already our licorneir have ceased reproducing, and though they do not die naturally, their numbers dwindle fast. Unless we do something to reverse our fortunes, it’s only a matter of time before the end. At least this way we choose the time and the manner in which we meet our destiny.
So rather than ask her questions, Ilsevel stares down at the cup in her hand, swirling the dark tea. Then she stretches out her arm toward me, extending the cup. “Here’s to ousting those gods-damned Miphates from Evisar. Once and for all.”
I smile and touch my own cup to hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
15
ILSEVEL
Taar assigns Halamar as my personal nursemaid.
I don’t enjoy being treated like a troublesome child in need of a caretaker. But neither can I complain. Considering the hostility simmering in the eyes of each and every warrior in that mounted company whenever I chance to come in sight, it’s probably safest if I remain out of everyone’s way. Taar, of course, is needed up front where he can be seen, noble leader that he is.
While I am relegated to the back, behind even the supply wagons. Just me, Diira, and Halamar on his roan mare. Dust in our eyes, grit in our teeth, and all adventurous spirit well and truly doused.
The size of the fighting force is greater than I anticipated. Though there are no more than ten or twelve licorneir, excluding Taar and myself, I calculate close to two hundred horses and armored riders. The Licornyn riders, of course, favor the light stylearmor I’ve become used to—which is hardly armor at all, merely some protective pauldrons and a lot of intimidating bare flesh. Among the horsemen and women, however, I see examples of heavier leather armor and even some plating, which I suspect has been foraged from Cruor, for I saw no evidence of a smithy in the Hidden City capable of such complex craftsmanship. Though the horses cannot help paling in comparison to the magnificence of the licorneir, they are nonetheless an impressive sight. Breastplates and helmets flash in the early morning light as we cross the fields beyond Elanlein and ride for the Morrona.
