Ilsevel catches my hungry gaze. Her mouth quirks to one side. “You’re embarrassing Elydark, warlord.”
I cast a short glance my licorneir’s way. Elydark stands at a little distance, looking entirely disinterested in our doings. Ilsevel laughs at me, and the sound goes straight to my heart. I never thought I’d hear it again, never thought I’d find myself on the receiving end of her biting humor.
“Get dressed, quickly,” I growl, but with a smile in my own voice, “before I’m compelled to do things that will make Elydark flee for the hills.”
A daring light flashes in her eyes. She looks as though she’s considering provoking me further. Before either of us succumb to temptation, however, I toss the travel gown her way. “Hurry up, woman, before you’re the death of us both!”
She catches the mounds of gray fabric in her arms, laughingagain, a vibrant peal of sound. I would very much like to assist her as she dons overskirt and bodice, her nimble fingers swiftly tying the front laces. But I keep my hands to myself, only permitting my eyes to drink up the sight of her. Myzylnala,my Ilsevel, whom I’d thought was dead. Whom I’d thought I’d slain . . . instead very much alive. And still mine. By some miraculous twist of the gods’ own grace, still mine!
I press a hand to my chest, feel the warmth of thevelraanchored there. It’s not as strong as it once was, perhaps. But it is still present. With time surely it can be strengthened.
The moon flies high overhead, watching our progress across the night-bound Gavarian countryside. All feels right with the world, with existence, now that I find myself back in the saddle with my wife before me, wrapped in my arms where she belongs. I breathe in the scent of her hair, breathe in her presence, feeling the living warmth of her pressed against my chest.
Elydark avoids all human habitation as his cloven hooves eat up the miles. After some hours of progress, however, I sing to him, urging him to draw near to a small village I glimpse, wreathed in pre-dawn mist. There is no sign of life as of yet, and I think we may safely draw near. While Elydark remains on the outskirts, Ilsevel and I venture to the village center so that I may draw waterfrom the well for her to refresh herself. We don’t speak; we both know intrinsically the need for silence and secrecy. But she casts me a grateful look as she drinks deeply from the dipper.
Then we steal like phantoms back out into the darkness where Elydark waits. I assist Ilsevel back into the saddle, mount up behind her, and we continue on our way.
Many days of hard riding stretch before us until we will reach the nearest Between Gate. Now and then I ask Elydark if he senses any pursuit at our heels, but he doesn’t. The licorneir leaves no trail that mortal trackers may follow, but a mage might be able to discern his unusual magic presence. Lyria could, I’m almost certain. Will Larongar force his bastard daughter into the role of hound? I hope not.
Dawn begins to paint the eastern horizon, and I urge Elydark to find us shelter. While the two of us could continue through the day without rest, Ilsevel wilts in my arms. She needs a soft bed and a place to sleep, to recover her energy.
Elydark changes course, passing down a narrow dirt track which emerges through trees into a sudden valley. Before us lie the ruins of an abandoned village. It’s a desolate spot, haunting in that predawn light. Though whatever tragedy took place here happened long ago, I can still smell the stench of destructive fires mingled with terror. Is this one of the many towns ravaged by fae raiders over the last several years? Ruvaen has sent various parties into the mortal world, searching for something he’s neveryet revealed to me. I doubt very much he gave orders for his troops to destroy peaceful villages such as this one, but Ruvaen wields little control over the savage Noxaurian warriors.
“Do we have to go in there?” Ilsevel asks quietly, breaking the long silence between us.
I exhale a cold breath. “Some of those structures took less damage than others. One or two might be habitable.” I look down at the top of her head as she shrinks back against me. “We need shelter, my love. You need rest.”
“It feels . . . invasive,” she answers softly. “Like we’re walking into someone else’s life and memories.”
She’s not wrong. But our options are few. “Just a few hours,” I assure her. “You must sleep. You’ve just survived a terrible ordeal.”
She holds her tongue and nods. I urge Elydark forward. We enter the village ruins, sizing up several of the more likely buildings. Elydark stops before the most stable-looking structure which, though stained black with smoke, still sports a roof and all four walls. It takes a bit of effort to break the door in, but I manage it in the end. A quick inspection of the premises reveals a very cold, dusty, and smoke-stained abode, with bits and pieces of the previous inhabitants’ lives strewn hither and yon. A set of leatherworking tools here, a stack of wooden bowls there. A pair of very small shoes. Heartbreaking—but safe.
Ilsevel flatly refuses to make use of the bedroom, declaring it a sacrilege against the dead. I don’t try to argue, but make a bedof sorts for her in the main room, close to the stone fireplace. The primary cushioning is the remnants of her wedding gown, brought with us in our flight rather than left behind to mark our trail. I add to this my own stolen cloak and a travel blanket from Elydark’s saddle bags. It’s certainly makeshift, but better than nothing.
“Lie down now,” I tell Ilsevel, patting the pile of cloth.
She eyes it uncertainly. Then, with a little shrug, she curls up with her head on her arm. “Will you lie with me?” she asks, tilting her face toward me.
“No,” I answer, despite the ache gnawing at my gut. “I will find you food and water for when you wake. And I will stand guard.”
She makes a face. “You’re not fae, remember? You cannot run for days on end without sleep.”
“I will sleep,” I promise with a smile. “But for now, all I need is to know that you are safe and resting.”
She is too tired to protest. Her eyelids already begin to droop. I lean forward, kiss her forehead softly, and think I hear her catch her breath. I half-hope she’ll reach out and grab me, pull me down with her, but instead, I hear a small snore. I grin, disappointed and relieved in equal measure. I remain kneeling beside her for some moments, watching her still face, reminding myself again and again that she is alive and only sleeping, resisting the urge to wake her, just to see the flash of her eyes once more.
Finally I rise and leave the house.
Leaving Elydark to stand watch, I spend a successful morninghunting down a pheasant, which I pluck and butcher before bringing it back to the abandoned town. Gathering a few supplies from my saddle bags, I return to the house in which my wife sleeps, and go about quietly building up a fire on the hearth, spitting the bird, and setting it to slowly roast. Ilsevel sleeps on soundly, and doesn’t awaken until savory aromas fill the room, banishing even the stench of old smoke. I look over just in time to see her eyelids blink open.
She looks directly at me. Panic flashes across her face. Then she seems to remember . . . and a flood of emotion passes through her eyes.
“Zylnala,”I say quietly.
“Warlord,” she answers with a faint smile.
She sits up, and I proceed to feed her pheasant and ply her with water. Ilsevel eats and drinks in silence, and I believe both of us feel the weight of words that must be spoken between us sooner rather than later. But just now, that is a colossus neither of us can face.
