“Easy now,luinar,” the chieftain says, motioning gently with one hand. “You’ve had a bad spell. You’re through the worst of it; the fever has broken.”
“Ilsevel . . .” I whisper.
She nods. “She’s in the nextdakathover. My daughter watches over her even now.”
I start to rise, but Lathaira’s large hands clasp my shoulders,pushing me back. “Stop. You need to recover yourself.”
I don’t want to heed her, but my body simply refuses to cooperate with the urgency in my soul. I fold up on myself, hating this weakness with every fiber of my being. It will be better though, if I can just get to Ilsevel. Surely that proximity will strengthen me, even as it has done before.
But somehow I know it isn’t the strainedvelrawhich weakens me now. It’s more than that. Something much worse.
“What’s happened?” I ask, my voice rough and dry. “Since I’ve been . . . out?”
“You mean with the siege?” Lathaira chuckles darkly. “Prince Ruvaen has no patience with you and your fainting spells, I fear. He’s been giving orders, readying the next assault. Whatever hobgoblins you didn’t personally rip to shreds last night did at last make their way to the city ruins. By dawn this morning, there were some gory trophies displayed from the ramparts, according to my scout riders.”
She doesn’t elaborate, for which I am grateful. In the virulium madness, I would have reveled in such gruesome details; today, with the darkness mostly purged from my blood, it only makes me sick.
“Once the city is secured,” Lathaira continues, “Ruvaen intends to make another push to the citadel. But he needs you, of course. The Licornyn need you. There’s tension in the ranks, unrest. Unless I am much mistaken, those Noxaurians have been passing virulium around to our people.”
My gut tightens. My people know they are forbidden to take theblack demon’s blood. But why should they obey such a command when their ownluinarbroke faith with his vows just last night?
I hang my head, my mind fuzzy; I can’t seem to pull thoughts together. I keep seeing flashes—gory images of hobgoblins ripped to pieces. And that last dreadful image of a licorneir crumpled in a pool of her own blood, her body ripped to pieces.
Diira.
Ilsevel.
I surge to my feet. Everything Lathaira is trying to tell me—about Ruvaen and his plans, about the arrangement of troops, about the coming march—none of it makes any sense to my brain. “I must go to her,” I say raggedly. It’s the only thing that matters.
Ignoring Lathaira’s protests, I push my way out of thedakathand into the too-bright afternoon sunlight. People have gathered outside, so many anxious faces, awaiting news of theirluinar.I’m only vaguely aware of them, of their eager voices calling out to me, of the joy caused by my emergence. My gaze fixes on a nearbydakath,and thevelrapulls me toward it. I stagger that way like a drunken man.
But then I catch sight of a face from the tail of my eye. Kildorath. Standing close, watching me.
Something inside snaps.
Turning abruptly, I stumble, find my balance, then lurch at the warrior. My hands catch him by the throat, backing him up hard against a support beam. Kildorath cries out,“Luinar!”just before his breath is choked off. He grips my hands but is unable to breakmy hold, despite how weakened I am.
“You let her ride into danger!” I snarl in his face. “You saw where she rode, and you did not stop her!”
Kildorath shakes his head. He tries to speak, but my grip is too tight. Lathaira appears at my shoulder, grabs me by the arms. “Let go of him,” she snarls. “Shakhinghell, you don’t want to go committing murder here before all these witnesses!”
I won’t release my grip. Not until Halamar looms beside me, takes hold of my other arm, and pulls me back. Only then do I relent, and Kildorath falls to his knees, choking, gagging.
“You wanted her to die!” I scream at him, my face close to his despite the arms pulling me back. “You knew the hobgoblins were out there, and you let her go!”
Kildorath turns his head, rubbing his neck as he grimaces up at me. “I saw her ride out, yes,” he admits. “But it looked to me as though she meant to ride to the citadel. I’ve warned you all along, Taar—she’s one of them.”
“Liar!”
All the blood drains from his face. Kildorath holds up both hands, ready to fend off further attack. “I may have been mistaken,” he admits. “I know only what I saw: your warbride, riding as hard and fast as she could straight toward the enemy line. I called out to her, but she did not turn. And now the licorneir is dead. Dead, Taar.”
He speaks the harsh words as though in accusation. As though Diira’s death is Ilsevel’s doing. But how can it be? I cannot imagineIlsevel would ride out into that dangerous territory on purpose. Kildorath’s implication that she might try to rejoin her own kind I dismiss out of hand. It isn’t the truth—I know it as surely as I know the sun will set and night will fall. Ilsevel is my wife, my heartbound, my true song. Kildorath may want me to believe her false, but he will never convince me with such a feeble story.
“Come,luinar,” Halamar says, drawing me away from the kneeling warrior. “Come, she needs you now. Leave him. He can wait.”
I allow myself to be led away. Halamar supports me, and Lathaira follows close behind. In a daze of sorrow and anger and fear, I’m brought to thedakath,a little smaller than my own. I duck inside. Before me lies a small pallet piled with soft blankets and hides. Sylcatha crouches on the far side of it. She holds a bowl of water in her lap and gently bathes the face of the pale woman lying before her. She looks up at my entrance. Silently she sets both bowl and cloth aside, rises, bows, and steps back. But not far.
I stare down at Ilsevel.
