Page 14 of WarBride

“I would rather die than taste that evil brew again,” I declare now, my voice a low growl.

“You certainly will die then,” Lurodos replies. “You and all your kind, as Morthiel captures you, one by one, and drags you into his hidden fortress. Who will care for your virtuous abstinence then? Not I. I’ll laugh and cheer the gods-damned mortal mages on in their endeavors!”

“Enough, Lurodos,” Ruvaen says, his voice soft but quick as a knife. The Noxaurian lord shuts his mouth, though his eyes continue to burn into mine, full of resentful hatred. “Why don’t you go see to the auction and pick yourself a likely slave to cheer your spirits?”

Lurodos shrugs. “I have slaves enough.”

“Then tend your wounded, count your earnings, or file your reptant’s bloody nails for all I care. Just remove yourself from my sight and be quick about it.”

The Noxaurian warlord’s lip curls, but he holds out his hand and accepts the sack of silver offered by Ruvaen’s slave. Half of the sum agreed upon should we successfully bring Mage Artoris in alive—still a generous payment for a mission gone sodisastrously awry. Lurodos hefts the sack once, then bows and exits the room, tossing back over his shoulder, “I’m off to count the heads of the priests I collected last night. I’ll pick a choice one for you to remember me by, King Half-Breed. Consider it a gift.”

I make no response but breathe a little easier when the man is gone. I meet the prince’s eye, and he motions with one hand. “Send your people out, Taar. I would have words with you in private.”

Kildorath and Ashika turn to me, unwilling to take orders from a Noxaurian. I nod, and they step from the room, silent and wary. They will wait just outside the door, ready to come at my shout. But I am safe enough with the Prince of Night.

The moment my Licornyn are gone, and the slave has shut the door behind them and himself, Ruvaen utters a foul curse and runs a hand down his face. “I swear, Taar, that Lurodos is a fiend incarnate. I’d rather hoped he’d get his soul dragged from his body by that death mage—but men like him are hard to put down.”

I offer no response. I have often wondered over the years why Ruvaen doesn’t cut Lurodos loose. The man has committed war crimes enough to turn the stomach of even the staunchest human-hater. Time and again he’s proven impossible to control. But he’s powerfully connected in Noxaur. Even Ruvaen, ruling prince that he is, must watch his step. A prince is not a king, after all.

Ruvaen steps back into the chamber and drops into a chair before an ornate, silver table. There is food and drink aplenty, and he waves a hand in silent invitation to me. I shake my head, and he proceeds to pour himself a glass of sparklingqeise. “All right, Taar, my friend,” he says, swirling the glass idly and watching how the bubbles dance. “Tell me in your own wordswhat took place. How did the death mage slip through your grasp?”

For the space of a single heartbeat, I’m back in that shadowed room, face-to-face with the apparition of Shanaera, pinned against the wall behind our crossed blades. But that is not a story I care to tell or try to explain, even to myself. I say only, “Lurodos could not maintain control over his horde. A death mage like Artoris Kelfaren will be caught with intelligence, not brute force.”

Ruvaen sighs and takes a long pull ofqeise. “One man,” he says, more to himself than to me. “One man against fifty Noxaurian raveners and twenty Licornyn riders. The most ferocious forces seen across the worlds. And yet he got away. One man.”

“He was not alone,” I admit somewhat reluctantly. “He had ten men with him.”

“More death mages?”

I shake my head. Whatever those crimson cloaks were, they weren’t Miphates. I don’t think they were even human. A terrible suspicion has been growing in my mind in the long hours of our journey to the Grimspire. But I’m not ready to share just yet. I need time and evidence. Besides, part of me still hopes I’m wrong. “I don’t know what they were,” I admit. “They were skilled in battle and did not seem to be susceptible to our weapons. That is all I can say.”

“Shakh,” Ruvaen groans and leans back in his chair, staring up at theincantisorb shimmering overhead. “Do you know, I’d almost believed Evisar Citadel was within our grasp? After all these years.”

Silently I study the prince. Sitting there, sprawled in his chair, glass in hand, the front of his robe partially undone, to all appearances, he would seem the picture of the indolent fae lord,careless and cruel, without a worry in the worlds. But this is not the Ruvaen I know.

He has never shared with me why he longs to breach the barriers of Evisar. I myself have reason enough—the simple drive to return to the city of my birth, to reclaim the ancient capitol of my kingdom, to restore Licorna to the glory it knew in the days of my father and grandfather and great-grandfather, back as far as memory can recall and farther. That glory should have continued undimmed for generations to come . . . save that my father foolishly allied himself with humans and permitted Miphates to enter his domain.

Oh yes, I have reasons aplenty to seek the reclamation of my city, my citadel. But Ruvaen’s motives remain a mystery.

“All is not entirely lost,” I say after a time. Reaching into the pouch at my belt, I withdraw the talisman hidden there—the triangle of dark gold containing the rotating sphere, etched all over with Miphates spell-writing. “I managed to retrieve this off the mage’s neck.”

Ruvaen holds out his hand to accept the trophy I offer. His eyes flare in theincantislight, leaping to meet mine. “Is this what I think it is?”

“The key through theobscurisspell surrounding Evisar,” I say. “Unfortunately I could not apprehend the mage himself to work the spell, but if you can find yourself another Miphato with the necessary spell-craft . . .”

“Say no more.” The prince leaps to his feet, clutching the talisman in his fist, his face alight with ferocious excitement. “I have Miphates prisoners aplenty—surely one of them is still intact enough to chant a spell or two. Do you realize what this means, Taar?”

I do. It means we are closer than we ever have been to recovering the kingdom I once knew, to purging the land of the dark infestation that has so poisoned it since the final days of myfather’s rule. “You will muster your forces for an attack on the citadel then?” I ask, trying to keep my own eagerness in check.

“I will,” Ruvaen agrees. “It will take some doing. And, of course, we must find a way to work the talisman first. But the time is finally right, my friend. I will honor the oath I made to you on our first meeting. Together, you and I shall drive those Miphates bastards from your realm and reestablish your city under Licornyn rule.” He extends his hand, and I do not hesitate to grasp it. “Prepare your warriors to ride when I send the word.”

“With pleasure, Prince,” I respond.

In that moment a burst of raucous cheering erupts from beyond the window, rising from the gathered crowd. The noise has rumbled in the background of my awareness throughout this interview, though I hardly marked it before this moment. Ruvaen releases my hand and glides to the window to look out on the goings on below. “Ah!” he says, gazing out. “The bidding is well underway, I see. What a sorry specimen that is. It’s a wonder any will part with hard-earned silver for him.”

Curious, I move to the window and stand at his shoulder. Down below, a ragged priest is dragged up onto a platform surrounded by greedy Noxaurian faces. “What is this?” I ask, my brow furrowing.

Ruvaen shrugs. “The humans Lurodos says you insisted on not killing in cold blood.” He casts me a sidelong glance. “It is tradition among Noxaurians to sell off prisoners to the highest bidder.”

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