Page 12 of WarBride

In the one my heart hath seen.”

One by one, all those fearful faces turn toward me, some in shock, some in surprise. A few flash angry grimaces. But as the words emerge haltingly from my throat, those expressions melt away into the same relaxed, far-seeing calm I’ve witnessed many times on the faces of my listeners. Each man slips away to some place of peace and comfort deep in his memory. Even Aurae utters a little sigh and rests her head once more on my shoulder. I close my eyes and lean my cheek against the top of her head, still singing. This might well be my last song. Let it be a good one, the best I have to offer.

Images appear in my own mind—my sisters and I in the springtime gardens of Beldroth. Elegant and reserved Faraine, the eldest, always watchful over the rest of us. Gentle and fawnlike Aurae, kneeling to nurture new blossoms or to assist a fallen fledgling. And me—the ill-fitted, in-between sister, who scrambled up trees to lob pinecones at our infuriated nursemaids, and climbed the garden wall just to feel the thrill of that ten foot drop below, to glimpse the wild hope of open spaces beyond. Open spaces I could never quite reach, because I lacked the courage to leap . . .

A terrible jolt, and I nearly swallow my own tongue. All my rapt listeners gasp as though in pain at the song so abruptly ended. One elderly priest curses, his eyes glaring at me in the dark. “Are we not in peril enough, witch, without you casting evil spells upon us?”

I open my mouth to offer a sharp retort, but suddenly many voices erupt outside. Harsh voices, speaking in a language entirely lacking in any songlike cadence. My stomach knots at the sound, but I pull free of Aurae’s grasping fingers, turn in place, and fit my hands awkwardly through the cage bars to grip a flap of the animal hide covering. Pulling it back, I peer out into the shadow-filled world beyond.

We seem to have reached some sort of encampment. I can’t make much sense of it. There are fires, and figures surrounding these, and peaked shapes that might be tents. We seem to be stopped close to some large stone building, but whether it is a castle, a tower, or merely a big barn, I cannot tell from this angle. There are too many bodies, too many voices, and occasional glimpses of big, hunch-shouldered beasts for which I have no name.

And yet, somehow, my gaze is drawn straight through this confusion to a single point—a platform, crudely constructed, with eight crooked steps leading up to it. My stomach drops. Though I see no sign of pillory or block or hangman’s noose, it looks too much like an execution scaffold to be anything else.

I drop the flap and pull my hands back into the cart, heart thudding against my breastbone. “What is it?” Aurae demands, her voice trembling. “What did you see?”

My mouth moves, but no answer will come. I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want her to know. I find her cold hands with mine, grip her fingers hard. “Aurae—” I begin, uncertain what lie I’m going to tell.

Suddenly the flap at the back of the cage is yanked aside. Three terrifying faces peer through the bars, features marred with black streaks, like old tears. Their eyes are no longer rage-filled pits of inky darkness, however. They are clear, shining, and strangely catlike, all greens and shimmering golds. Under other circumstances, I might say they were beautiful; but their beauty only makes them more horrible.

They fling open the back of the cage. Long arms reach in, catching hold of the nearest priest. He utters a piercing shriek before he is dragged out. A few of his fellows try to hold on to him, futile efforts to prevent their brother from being taken, but the fae beat them back. All sparks of courage extinguished, theyhuddle into the far end of the cage, pressing against each other to get away from that opening.

The flap of hide drops once more. After that flash of light from outside, the sudden return of shadow is nearly blinding. Aurae weeps softly, clinging to me. “What’s happening?” she asks. “What are they going to do to him?”

I can’t begin to answer. Will they execute the man in front of that horde of witnesses? But why? He is certainly no valuable prisoner, and his execution will mean nothing. If they were going to kill him, why go through the trouble of tossing him in this cage and carting him across the countryside? Unless . . . unless . . . Sounds of a goat’s final bleating struggle fill my head. I see again that trickle of blood slithering across the altar stone, pooling in the gutter below. They say the fae still practice the old ways of worshipping the gods, sacrificing prisoners of war in their honor. Is that why we’ve been brought here? Fodder for some dark, religious ritual?

I wrap my arms around Aurae and hold on to her. Leaning in, I whisper, “Close your eyes. Listen to my voice.” I begin to sing again then, softly, just for her ears.

“Shut up!” the priest crowded nearest to us growls. “Now is the time for prayer, not song.” I shoot him a glare and continue singing, trying to drown out the bark of voices outside our cage, trying to drown out my own terror. One voice rises above the others, such a hideous snarl. I close my ears to it, focus on my own melody. It’s the only comfort I can offer Aurae in what may be our final moments. She is still shivering, but her open weeping has ceased for the moment.

A sudden eruption of sound, like a cheer, makes me choke. The next moment the flap is lifted again, and the cage door is flung wide. More reaching arms, more beautiful, black-stained faces. Another priest, a young novitiate, is dragged forth, screaming. Barks of what must be laughter drown out his cries.

Aurae is whispering prayers now, a steady stream of supplication to Nornala, Goddess of Unity. Of all the deities she might pick! If I were to pray, I would call upon Tanatar, God of War, to rain hellfire down on these fiends. I try to keep singing, but my throat simply closes up. Instead I listen intently to the rise and fall of those awful voices, the cruel laughter, the jeers, the shouts. Once I think I hear the young novitiate’s voice cry out, but I don’t understand his words. He's drowned out almost immediately in another explosion of cheers. Is he dead? Was it quick?

The flap opens. Arms reach in.

Only this time, the priests scramble and push, jostling me and my sister. I lose my grip on her, and she tumbles forward, and those reaching hands grasp her by her hair.

“Ilsevel!”she screams as they haul her out. Out of the cage. Out of my reach.

“No! No, Aurae,no!”I fling myself forward, scratching, scrabbling, desperate and wild. I grip the bars at the cage opening, blinking against the red glare, trying to see her, trying to make sense of the mayhem.

A beautiful face looms before me and smiles. Then a hand catches me around the throat. “Not your turn yet, pretty one,” a silken voice slips through those bared teeth. “You’re next. And you can be sure I’ll try for you myself!”

A vicious shove, and I fall backwards, landing hard on the cart floor, struggling to catch a breath. By the time I’ve managed to scramble upright, the cage door is slammed shut. I throw myself at it, trying to get my hands through the bars, to rip aside the heavy hide flap. I scream my sister’s name over and over again. Once I think I hear her calling back to me, but the roar of a thousand fae voices drowns her out. No matter how I strain, I cannot hear Aurae anymore.

She’s gone.

Gone.

6

TAAR

The Grimspire stands tall upon the horizon, a shining beacon rising from the mist-wrapped shadows of Wanfriel Forest. It is a great tower, a wonder to behold—tall and thin as a needle. One might almost imagine it pierced heaven itself.

Ruvaen had the spire constructed in the early days of his campaign into the human world, as a means to channel magic from Noxaur. Otherwise the atmosphere of the human realm is too magic-deprived to support fae life, and his warriors would fade and shrivel. To leave the vicinity of the spire for any great length of time will cause lasting damage, which is why, after every venture, his men must return here to replenish their supply.

Elydark lifts his head and trills a glad song from deep in his chest, as I and my company emerge through the trees and come within sight of the Grimspire. The licorneir are beings of pure magic and delight in the proximity to the fae spires. I don’t like it. Our bond is more than enough to sustain him, and the last thing I need is for any of our licorneir to become dependent on the fae.

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