Page 27 of WarBride

She snorts. “See? Youarefae. Everyone knows that particular trick.You may call meis not the same asmy name is.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “My name is Taarthalor Ragnataarthane.” She blinks as the syllables, spoken in a strong Licornyn accent, spill smoothly from my lips. It mustsound strange to her human ear. “But,” I add, “you may call me Taar.”

Pursing her lips, she looks down at the bread on the plate, resting in her lap. As though suddenly decided that it probably is neither poisoned nor enchanted, she takes a bite. I wait until she has chewed and swallowed before asking, “And you? What may I call you?”

She glances up at me. I can see the calculation in her eyes. “Lyria,” she says.

“But that is not your name, is it?”

Her expression tightens. She unconsciously squeezes the bread in her fingers.

“You may tell me the truth,” I continue. “As I said, I am not fae. I cannot use your name to manipulate or control you.”

She nods, looks down at her mangled piece of bread. Takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Then: “I do not want to tell you.”

That’s honest at least. I nod. “Very well. I shall continue to call youzylnala.It suits you well enough.”

“And what does . . . what doeszyl-nalamean?”

“Songbird.”

To my surprise, her eyes flash as though I’ve just said something deeply offensive. She pushes the plate of bread aside, heedless of how it knocks over her cup of water, and gets to her feet. Once more I’m faced with all her flesh displayed through the folds of that nothing gown. Heat pools in my gut. I turn away sharply, even as she marches to the far side of the tent. There’s an opening in one of the upper pavilion panels which offers a glimpse of the night sky. From the tail of my eye, I see her standing with her head tilted back.

Once I am sure I have my body under control, I allow myself to glance her way once more. She gazes out at the stars high above. There’s a look of such intense longing in her eyes—soft and gentle on her fierce little face. A sad expression which movesmy heart unexpectedly. I find myself wishing that I could do something about that sadness. That I might somehow satisfy her longing, at least in part.

But I am not that man. I am a stranger, her captor. Her enemy.

“Why did you do it?”

Her voice is so soft, I almost miss it. Then I frown. Does she mean the auction? Does she want to know why I paid that ridiculous sum to save her? I’m not sure how to explain it, not sure if I can. Even to myself.

But she turns to me again, her arms defensively wrapped across her breast. A little shiver ripples down her spine. “Why did you attack Ashryn Shrine?”

Ah. A good question, and one that must weigh heavily on her mind. Not exactly conducive to a night of passion. Still, if these are the answers she needs from me, I owe her the truth. “You mean, why did I lead a violent assault on a temple full of elderly priests?” I grimace. “My men were under strict orders not to harm the denizens of the shrine. We were there to find someone.”

Her eyes narrow. “Who?”

Does she think we went through all that trouble to capture her? I suppose it’s not an outlandish suspicion. She and her sister are obviously highborn ladies. Perhaps they would be worth some ransom; perhaps that’s why she will not tell me her name.

“Mage Artoris Kelfaren,” I answer without hesitation. After all, if this little conversation is about earning trust, my best course is to be as truthful as possible.

Her features tighten subtly. She lifts her chin. “I see.”

It comes to me then that I saw her in company with the death mage twice: first on the field outside the temple grounds, then again in the building where all the dead men lay. The magehad seemed determined to hold on to her, even against her will. There’s something there. Something she’s not telling me.

“You know him,” I say. Not a question.

She swallows and looks down at her feet. Then: “I thought I did.”

Something knots in my gut; something fiery and twisted that I will not name. But my next words come out a little darker than I intend: “Are you and he . . . ?”

“What?” The girl’s head shoots up, eyes wide. “No! That is . . . no.” She licks her lips as though trying to decide what to say next. “I knew him when he was an apprentice mage visiting my father’s household. We met again by . . . by chance. At the temple.”

Lies. Human lies, exhaled from her lips as naturally as breath. I saw the way he gripped her arm. I remember as well seeing her among the Miphates who rode out from the temple. Her sister was not with her at that time. Which means either the Miphates were taking her by force, or she was running away with them. Withhim.

Every instinct urges me to press her for information. But what good will that do either of us just now? The moments are slipping away, leading us ever nearer to dawn. I must focus on the task at hand. On earning her trust. On saving her life. I can question her later, but only if I keep her from Lurodos’s clutches.

So I nod as though accepting her story. “I see.” Slowly, careful not to startle her, I approach the fire and take a seat in one of the two chairs, then wave a hand to indicate the other. She stands her ground, arms still folded tight. Stretching my feet out toward the blaze, I assume a more relaxed, unthreatening pose. “We received word that Mage Artoris was seen entering the temple grounds. We have been hunting him for some time now. He was in possession of a certain talisman vital to our efforts.”

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