Baring my teeth, I give in to the pull. Her eyes widen slightly at the expression on my face, and she lets out a little yelping laugh just before I fall upon her like a wild animal, smothering her in kisses, little caring how my teeth scrape against her skin. She moans, whimpers, her small hands clawing at my skin, and how she can be so hungry for me still after the night we’ve had, I cannot guess. Perhaps it’s the newness of the licorneir song burning in her soul, or the intensity of thevelrabond, brought back to life after being strained so nearly to the breaking point. It doesn’t matter, for I feel it too—and cannot, in this moment, recall a single reason why I should resist.
The sun is high in the sky by the time the two of us finally emergefrom Rothiliar House, both starved and parched. I am rather more weak in the knees than I care to admit, and Ilsevel is moving stiffly as well, her young body not yet used to the enthusiastic treatment of a lover.
Though I did, regretfully, restrain myself from the last act of joining. As much as I hate to admit it, my life is not entirely my own. I amluinarof the Licornyn, a broken, scattered people, held together by a thread. That thread is me. I am the only tie which binds the remnant tribes and keeps what remains of my father’s kingdom united. The woman I take to wife will bemaelar,queen of the Licornyn. My choice of bride will affect every living soul over whom I rule. Therefore I cannot officially make that choice without the approval of the elders.
And the elders have demanded Ilsevel’s death.
This thought swiftly brings my soaring heart crashing back down from the heights of heaven to which it flew last night. I’ve tried not to think about it, but the time has come to face the truth. The elders will never approve of me taking a human wife. And not just any human! Though they do not know it, I must grapple with the revelations sprung upon me only yesterday. Ilsevel is more than just some mortal woman I picked up on my travels. She is Larongar’s daughter—princess of the very nation which brought about the ruin of mine. If the elders called for her death simply for daring to interfere with a hearttorn licorneir, how much more violent will their vengeance be if they learn the truth of her birth?
No, that truth must remain secret. While I hate to withhold from my own elders, my priorities have shifted. I must and will protect Ilsevel, give her time to prove herself in their eyes and win their regard. I don’t doubt she will succeed in the end. Her bond with a licorneir must carry in her favor.
She and I stop together on the front steps of Rothiliar, blinking in the sunlight as we gaze across the yard. Strange that only yesterday, this was a site of such horror and death. Not ordinary death either, but death forced to rise and walk in the land of the living once more. I see again their faces—Nuviar, Minuvae, Jomar, Kydroth. Nineteen in total, companions from my past, believed slain and lost. To see them again in this world was a horror for which I was unprepared.
They are gone now. My sword was swift to decapitate their rotting corpses, breaking thenecroliphonspell which animated them and setting them free. All but Shanaera.
I shake these grim thoughts from my head and search for Elydark. He waits in a patch of grass beneath a shady tree, his red hide blazing like living fire in the sunlight. Nyathri stands close beside him. No . . . she is Nyathri no more. What was the name Ilsevel told me yesterday, the secret name this wonderous beast shared with her new heartbound rider?Diira.A lovely name, but one that will take some getting used to. I knew Nyathri well when she was bonded to my friend and fellow rider, Ashika. It is strange now to observe her reborn in this new guise—still herself but,somehow,morethan she once was.
Both licorneir raise their heads and look toward us, their riders. A trill of wordless song ripples out from Elydark in greeting. I don’t doubt that Diira sings a similar melody, though it is for Ilsevel’s heart alone. Beside me, Ilsevel catches her breath, still unused to the beauty of the connection she now shares with the licorneir. It’s as startling in its own way as thevelrawhich binds the two of us.
Though she had not been eager to leave our bed only minutes ago, now Ilsevel steps away from my side, hastening down the front steps and across the yard on quick feet. Diira similarly pulls away from Elydark and trots to meet her, neck arched, ears forward, long tail high and rippling like water in her wake. She bows her head and stretches out her nose to Ilsevel’s uplifted hands. The sight of them together—the young woman and the licorneir mare—strikes my heart with sheer beauty. Though I cannot hear their private song, I feel the loveliness of it, the newness, the strangeness. Surely the elders will accept her when they see the reality of this bond. When they hear of all she risked, all she suffered to protect Nyathri and to learn that new name given to her alone. Surely they must admit what I have suspected for some time now—the gods themselves brought her here, to be my wife, my queen. My Ilsevel.
I breathe out a long sigh, seeking to ease the tension in my chest. It’s a pretty dream, but I know the truth. The reason why I was so reluctant to leave the bedchamber this morning, why even now I must fight the urge to catch her up in my arms and carryher away, back into secluded intimacy. There is little chance—no chance, if I’m honest with myself—the elders will see Ilsevel as anything less than an intruder. At best they may permit her to live. To be their queen? It simply cannot be.
So where does that leave me?
Elydark appears at my shoulder. He nudges me gently, his proud head bent, his horn gleaming in the sunlight.Vellar,hesings with some concern,you look . . . unrested.
Is that sarcasm I hear in his tone? I cast him a half-glance, hesitating over my answer.I am refreshed,I offer at last.
Elydark snorts and twitches his ears.Your bond to your bride shines brighter today.
It does indeed. Though in direct sunlight it fades back to near invisibility, I find I am constantly aware of its presence. A shimmer, a hum, a simple presence of brightness, linking my heart to hers. Will others be able to sense it back home in the Hidden City? If so, will it help or hurt our cause to realize how strong thevelrahas become?
Despite the softness of daylight and the joy experienced throughout the night, my face settles into grim lines. “Ilsevel,” I call out. She turns to look at me, her face close to Diira’s cheek. At sight of my expression, the smile on her face slips away, replaced with nervous tension. “We must go,” I say.
She nods. “Where to?”
The dreaded question, one to which I have no ready answer. “Water first,” I tell her, rather than make a decision. “I have driedilsevel in my saddle bags. We must find a water source, purify it, and drink. Plans will come after.”
She accepts this. Before leaving the courtyard of Rothiliar House, we explore the stables and find an old Licornyn saddle to fit Diira. Though she rode bareback just yesterday, I see no reason not to make both of them more comfortable for the next leg of our journey. I help Ilsevel mount, then swing myself up onto Elydark’s back, and sing of water to my licorneir. He sets off on his own, following his nose.
We ride silently together, each lost in thought. I find my mind inexorably drawn back to Shanaera: to the foul words she spoke and her fouler deeds. That she should join with the Miphates, even with the intent of manipulating them to her own purposes . . . the very idea sickens me. And when I consider that field of dead licorneir, pinned beneath chaeora nets, I feel as though a darkness has settled into my soul which not even Ilsevel’s gods-gift might sing away. Oh, gods empower me! I must drive these Miphates from our land, must reclaim Evisar Citadel and purge the evil before it takes too deep a hold!
But how can I do this when my own people perceive me as a traitor? How can I lead them back to the very battlefield where they suffered such terrible losses once before under my banner? How can I restore trust in the hearts of those whom I have failed at every turn, ever since Ilsevel came into my life? Especially knowing that I would do nothing differently now. Not if it meant risking losing Ilsevel herself.
“This feels familiar,” Ilsevel says suddenly, drawing my thoughts from dark spaces back into her presence. I look up and see a low hill beneath a great, root-twining oak tree. There’s a pond of murky water off to one side of it, still brimming from the heavy shower of four nights ago.
I glance at Ilsevel, transported back to that hot and passionate night. How different it was from the night we have just shared. Then, every moment we stole was illicit, tasting of sin. Last night, however, I claimed my bride in wholeness and truth. Everything we did to each other, every touch, every caress, was a holy act, the gasps from our lips like prayers, sacred in the eyes of heaven.
Her eyelids lower for a moment, then flash to meet mine. Something silent and sweet passes between us, along the gold cord connecting our hearts. Without a word, I dismount and go to assist her from her saddle. She slides down into my arms and, when her feet touch the ground, she tucks herself against my heart, resting there for a few breaths.
Then, wordless, I gather supplies from my saddle bags, take her hand, and we approach the pond. Not the freshest water, perhaps, but that is what the ilsevel is for. I scoop a cupful, sprinkle in a dusting of dried petals, and swirl the liquid. When it settles, I offer the cup to my wife. She takes a long draught, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and gives the cup back to me. A single gulp of ilsevel-blessed waters is more than enough to satisfy even a thirst like ours.
“So, warlord,” she says when I lower the cup from my lips, “whathappens next?” We sit together on the bank of the pond, her cross-legged beneath her long skirt, I with one knee up, elbow propped. One might think we were revelers on a countryside holiday, so peaceful is the scene around us. But we both know how presently hell lurks, just on the other side of reality’s thin veil.
“When we left the Hidden City,” I say at last, “I had thought to take you to the Tarh Plains and beg shelter from Lathaira. She is chieftain of the Tarhyn Tribe and owes me a life debt.”
“And you think she would play host to a human guest?”
