“I have no excuse.” My head hangs heavily, long strands of hair falling over my shoulders. “It was the heat of battle.I was out of my mind.” I look up again, meet her hate-filled gaze. “If I could die in her place, I would gladly do so, a thousand times over.”
“Fine words,” she spits.
“By Nornala’s light, I swear I will do anything to prove it. I will lay down my life for her here and now, if you can see some way it will do her any good. If not, I will keep on living and striving with all that is in my power to see she is safe and whole and happy.”
“With you?”
“With me, without me . . . it makes no difference. All that matters is Ilsevel’s wellbeing.”
“And what if her happiness is now tied to Mage Artoris?”
My pulse thrums painfully. “You do not believe that.”
It’s true. I can see it in her eyes; she hates Artoris, not quite as intensely as I do, but with a fervor that only grows with each passing hour. She doesn’t have to speak. The short exhale of her breath is more eloquent than words.
“I will save her from him.” I utter the promise with conviction, taking a heavy step down the stairwell toward her. “I will stop this wedding and carry her away from this place. And if she wants nothing to do with me after the fact, I will deliver her wherever she desires and never look upon her again. If she bids me draw my own knife and drive it into my gut to make recompence for the wound I dealt her, it will be my honor to oblige.”
Lyria’s lip curls. “Are all Licornyn warriors quite this dramatic?”
“Perhaps not.” My brow tips. “But none of them have dared lovea woman like Ilsevel Cyhorn. Since meeting her, I hardly know myself anymore. Every choice I’ve made from the moment I set eyes upon her has been more insane than the last, and yet . . . and yet, looking back, I would not unmake any of them.”
“Except the choice to run her through, I trust.”
I breathe out slowly through my nostrils. “That was no choice; it was impulse.”
“Oh, that makes it so much better!”
My hands curl into fists, not of threat but of restraint. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“No.” She points a finger at my nose, her face fierce in the gloom. “Youare going to helpme.I vowed I would get my sister out of this marriage, but I cannot do so without compromising her life. If Artoris removes his spell—which he can do at any time he chooses—she will die. There’s nothing I can do about it. But you . . .” She chews her lower lip, considering. “Are the legends true? Do unicorns possess healing powers?”
“Yes.”
“And you have access to these powers? As a unicorn rider?”
A cold flood of memory washes over me. I see myself kneeling in the dirt, cradling Ilsevel’s body in my arms as I struggle to channel Elydark’s power through my voice, to heal her seared flesh. Though my bond to my licorneir is great, it was not sufficient in the end to save her. Only her own miraculous bond to Diira had brought her back. But Diira is gone, and Ilsevel ishearttorn. Can I summon something more than I gave before?
But I won’t let these fears color my answer. I meet Lyria’s gaze and say firmly, “Yes.”
She narrows her eyes.
“I believe so.”
“And you expect me to risk Ilsevel’s life on this belief?”
I set my jaw. “If I thought even for a moment that Ilsevel trulywantedto marry the wretched mage, I would walk away now and never disturb her peace again. But something tells me her life will be made a living hell if she goes through with this marriage. Would not the Ilsevel you know take any risk for the sake of freedom if the chance were offered to her?”
Lyria does not answer right away, but I can see I’ve made my point. She doesn’t like it; she can’t deny it either.
“I can save her,” I continue, urgency underscoring my every word. “I can restore what was broken between us, I can channel my licorneir’s power to heal her wounds. If I fail—”
“She dies,” Lyria finishes sharply.
I shake my head. “I won’t let her die.”
“You might not have a great deal of choice in the matter.”
A desperate fury struggles in my breast, eager for some vent. I turn away from her, march up the stone steps, and push my way through the ivy back out into the garden. There I breathe in great gulps of air, struggling to calm the rage. Not at her, nor even at Artoris. At myself. At my own damnable futility. How could the gods have blessed mewith such strength, such firmness of purpose and resolve, and the courage to see through even the bitterest, most hopeless of campaigns, and yet . . . and yet even now leave me helpless? Helpless in the face of what I myself have brought to pass by failing to protect Ilsevel. From the hobgoblins. From the agony ofvelrhoar. From my own virulium-fueled madness. And now from this man, who is my enemy, and who seeks to lay claim to her very life and soul.
