Page 11 of WarBride

“Oh, Ilsie!” she says, her voice rattling strangely. “I feared you wouldn’t wake!”

I reach for her, gripping her hands tight, and try to sit up. Lights seem to burst in my head. I grimace. The last thing I remember is that fae man with the dark band of warpaint streaked across his eyes, bowing over me where I fell. His face, all hard, ferocious edges, was highlighted by the strange fire emanating from the horned beast at his side. The unicorn.

Another groan vibrates in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to drive that image from my mind. Then, setting myteeth, I try again to push myself upright, this time succeeding with Aurae’s help. Her hands flutter like little birds. “Where are we?” I ask. My mouth feels as though it’s stuffed with rags, and my voice sounds thick and heavy.

“I’m not sure,” Aurae says. “A cage.”

Even as she speaks, there’s a tremendous jolt, and we fall into each other. Moans fill the darkness around us, punctuated by whispered snippets of prayer. We’re in a cart of some sort—a cage on wheels, rattling over rough terrain. Heavy animal hides cover the bars, allowing in only brief cracks of eerie red light. By this glow I’m able to discern something of our fellow captives: priests and novitiates, all unfamiliar to my eyes. No sign of Captain Wulfram or his men. But then, they’re all dead. Lying with their throats cut in the front hall of the guest house. Slain by Artoris’s people.

I shudder, pressing my shoulder against Aurae’s. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have trusted that man? I’ve held the memory of him in my heart for so long, I never stopped to question the accuracy of that memory. To ask myself what sort of man Artoris really is. I always dreamed he would one day ride back to rescue me: from my father, from my life, from my future. For a moment it had seemed as though that dream was truly about to come to pass, complete with the hero astride his dashing white stallion.

Almost unconsciously I rub my cheek, bruised from the blow he’d dealt me. Nausea churns in my gut. But I can’t be sick, I won’t allow it. This little cage stinks so horribly as it is, and I will not add to it. Swallowing back acid, I sit a little straighter, and ask in a clearer voice than before, “How long have I been unconscious?”

Aurae shakes her head. A flash of red light lances between the bars, briefly lighting up her tear-filmed eyes. “I’m not sure. It’s been hours. They stopped twice, once to pass food in throughthe bars. Bread and a little water. I tried to give you some, but you choked, so I gave it to a priest, who was badly wounded. He’s dead now.” Her voice breaks, but she takes a deep breath and presses on bravely. “They stopped a second time to drag his body out. I don’t know what they did with it. We’ve not stopped since then. I . . . I think it might have been a full day.” She stops again, struggling some moments before she can continue. “Oh, Ilsie! I feared they would stop again and pull your body out. I thought . . . I thought . . .”

She begins to weep. Gently I pull her head down to my shoulder, offering her what little shelter I can behind a veil of my own snarled hair. Her body heaves, and occasionally she draws a ragged breath, but otherwise her tears fall in silence. Gods, what am I supposed to do? I’m the older sister, after all. Older, stronger, braver. Whatever strange image of violence I’d thought I’d glimpsed in the mayhem last night—that deft snatching of my dagger, that perfectly performed pirouette, that gush of blood—it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Aurae is delicate as a fawn, innocent as a dove. And she must be protected at all costs. How, I’m not sure; but it’s up to me to find a way.

I look around at the faces of our fellow prisoners. Some of them glance our way, but most keep their heads bowed, their hands pressed together in attitudes of prayer. Do they think Lamruil will help us? I certainly don’t. If the gods had meant to help us, they would have gifted me with something useful, something I might use to burst this cage and smite our enemies with divine fire. They gave me a pretty voice instead. That’s on them.

So I offer no prayers of my own. Instead I try to wrap my mind around what happened. I had assumed the attack was due to my presence at the temple, that my father’s enemy, Prince Ruvaen, sent his men to take me prisoner or kill me. But the fae had seemed far more intent on Artoris than me, as though he wastheir target all along. It’s possible they don’t know who my sister and I really are. Why else would they throw us in with the rest of the prisoners? This secret might be our only advantage. Not much of an advantage, to be sure. But at least it’s something.

Aurae is quiet now. I hope she’s fallen asleep. I wish I could slip back into unconsciousness. Oblivion was certainly preferable to this stink, this fear, this cramped and claustrophobic darkness. I strain my ears for some sound from outside our little cage, but the heavy hides block voices, and the rumble and jolt of the wheels make it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Ilsie,” Aurae says suddenly, lifting her head from my shoulder. “Ilsie, will you sing?”

My stomach knots. I don’t sing. Not unless I’m forced to. Other than last night, I haven’t sung since Father commanded me to perform for the Shadow King. When I set out on my Maiden’s Journey, I vowed that I would never sing again, a vow I’ve broken only once.

I grimace, remembering the moment of sheer desperation when I opened my mouth and sang at that fae warrior. What possessed me to try such a ridiculous thing? Though I must admit, it did work . . . momentarily at least. My voice always has a profound effect on those who hear it. I’m told it sends them back to places of happy memory and fills them with the comfort of home. Not exactly a deadly weapon, but it had certainly stopped that fae in his tracks.

In the end it was useless, however. A useless ploy, a useless gift.

I breathe out a sigh and press my face into the palms of my hands. “I can’t sing,” I whisper, fairly certain it’s true. My throat is raw and parched, in desperate need of water, and fear tightens my vocal cords. I doubt I could utter more than a pathetic croak.

But Aurae presses into my shoulder. “Please,” she begs. “Please, what else can we do? What else can we give them?”

Them? I blink in surprise. Even now my sister is more concerned about the well-being of her fellow prisoners than her own plight. She looks at me with such entreaty. Sweet Aurae. She shouldn’t be here. It’s my fault she is in this situation. If I’d not left her behind, if I’d been with her when the attack began, then maybe . . .

A lump forms in my throat. Not exactly conducive to singing, but I nod. “All right. I’ll try.”

Dropping my gaze to my own bound hands, I seek to summon up something, anything, from deep inside. Some spark of that divine fire which the gods, in their capriciousness, poured upon me in a flood of power entirely unasked for. I feel nothing. But Aurae is watching me. While I doubt very much that the priests will care for this spontaneous concert, I can’t disappoint her.

So I begin to hum, then to softly croon the words of the first song which comes to mind:

“When the nightingale sings,

The wood waxens green,

Leaf and grass and blossoms spring

In the morning of the year serene.”

My gods-gift begins to glow in the hollow of my chest, warming each word as it rises to my tongue and tumbles free. I feel the difference in the cage around me as the familiar tune of the old lullaby wraps around each suffering soul. I might hate this gift—but I cannot deny its power.

“And love is to my spirit gone

With one spear’s thrust so keen.

Night and day my soul rejoices

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