Page 28 of WarBride

“Your efforts to subdue all Gavaria under fae rule?” she asks darkly.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you believe?”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

I interlace my fingers, regarding her for a long, silent moment. Then: “While I cannot speak for the fae, that is certainly notmygoal.”

Her eyes burn with suspicion. Not exactly conducive to either trust or intimacy. I sigh and choose honesty. After all, what do I have to lose? “This talisman is wrought with magic spells that can open the secret paths to the Citadel of Evisar, where certain of my people have been taken captive.”

She tilts her head slightly. “And it required an entire ravening horde of berserker fae to take ononeMiphato and steal this talisman?”

I smile grimly. “But this man is not just any Miphato. He is anecroliphon—a death mage. He wields magic far more terrible than anything known to the fae. And he is but a student of those dark arts. His master, Morthiel, is more powerful by far. It is believed he has delved into the Rift to summon magic directly from Ashtarath herself.”

That name—that demonic utterance, never intended to be spoken, but meant to be felt like a shadow, a shiver of dread in the darkest corners of the soul—seems to dim the fire and darken the whole chamber. Suddenly this little sphere of life in which I and the girl exist feels as though it’s cut off from the rest of the living worlds and sits poised on the brink of doom. One wrong breath will send us pitching into darkness unending.

The moment passes. Whether real or imagined, the fire brightens once more, and the shadows retreat to the deepest corners of the room. I blink mildly at the girl, who stares at me with a mixture of horror and confusion. Gods above, this is not exactly wooing language! The incongruity of our situationis almost laughable: her in that gown, in this room, with the incense of seduction burning in our nostrils—while I sit here rattling on about necromancy and demon magic. But how do I prove myself worthy of her trust if I do not speak plainly and answer her questions with truth?

We are silent for some while. I watch the dancing flames, ensorcelled, naturally, to last the whole night through. But my attention is entirely focused on her, still standing across the pavilion under that open sky-flap. I feel her gaze upon me, her scrutiny intense enough to burn.

Finally she moves. I don’t look up as she crosses the pavilion and takes a seat in the chair across from me. She perches there, very upright and proper despite the indecency of her gown. Her water is spilled, but she picks up the cup of fae wine I’d given her earlier and takes a sip. Immediately she coughs and sputters.

“Here,” I say, rising and stepping around the fire. She flinches away from me, but I pretend not to notice and simply fetch the spilled water cup. I return to Ruvaen’s cabinet, refill the cup with fresh water, which I offer to her. She accepts without a word.

I take my seat again. The fire crackles between us, the only sound in an atmosphere suddenly heavy with unspoken tension. Will this night ever end? The truth is, every time I’m near her, the desire grows to touch her, to hold her. To taste her. She’s like a note of discord in the song of my soul, driving me wild in both mind and body. I can withstand this temptation. I will not touch her without permission, but . . . I don’t know if I can bear to turn her over to Lurodos in the morning.

“Do you serve Prince Ruvaen?”

Her question is abrupt and a little unnerving. I’m forced to look at her again, to study that stern line of her brow as she watches me intently, awaiting my answer. “I have sworn allegiance to the prince under certain conditions,” I answer carefully. “Should those conditions fail to be met, we will partways. Until then we share a common goal. Not,” I add with emphasis, “the subjugation of Gavaria.”

“And the burned villages of my people? The razed towns, the decimated crops?”

“I am unaware of such things.”

“Oh, really? And what about my—what about Princess Faraine’s convoy? That was you, wasn’t it? They say she was journeying from the convent in the Ettrian Mountains when a party of riders on flaming unicorns attacked their company.”

Her eyes blaze with such indignation, I have to wonder why she should care so much about the human princess. Perhaps they know one another—it would not surprise me to learn this girl had spent time at the court of King Larongar.

I reach out, take the scarcely touched cup of wine from the table, swirl it, and sip. Honesty. I must give her honesty—though it may not be convenient just now. “My people were sent to take the princess hostage,” I say, watching the way the wine moves in a small maelstrom within the cup. “Rumor reached us that King Larongar intends to form an alliance with the Shadow King of Mythanar, an alliance we very much wished to prevent. But the Shadow King himself showed up to defend the princess.” Though the fire dances brightly, my own vision seems to darken. “We lost good riders and licorneir that night.”

I see their faces—each of the brave riders and steeds who rode out on the mission and never returned. I was not with them; I’d argued against sending them at all. Ruvaen insisted, however, and I was compelled by the allegiance I’d sworn to honor his wishes. I sigh and take another draught from the cup. It is a perilous business, going to war with humans. Though physically weaker, they have devised such methods for war as would make my forefathers shake their heads in dismay. And allied with trolls? I don’t like to think of what consequences that will bring.

“War is not a pretty thing,” I speak into the silence at last. “But sometimes it is a necessary evil.”

She sniffs and flashes me a bitter glance. “An easy answer for a warlord such as yourself.”

“I did not choose the life of warlord. My people were thrust into this conflict when I was still a child. If I had not grown into the warrior they needed, the Licornyn would have been wiped out long ago. Ours is a perilous existence.” Looking up, I find the girl studying me intently. “I will always speak truth to you,zylnala,” I say, my fingers tight around the silver cup. “That doesn’t mean I will sit here and justify the choices I’ve been forced to make for the last many long years. You know nothing of my people, nothing of my world, nothing of my life or the necessities which drive me.”

Leaning forward, I set the cup back down again then remain with my elbows resting on my knees, my head inclined toward hers across the dancing flames. “But I swear to you, had I my way, the Licornyn would live in peace from this day forth. We would erect ourdakath, and they would take root and flourish into cities once more. The rivers would run free, and the wild creatures would drink from their waters and not be corrupted. Theoriqirelwould fill the skies with their colors, while the licorneir raced freely across the open plains, their song echoing in the hearts of every man, woman, and child. Licorna would be as it once was in the days of my grandfathers.”

She holds her tongue while I speak. I do not know if she hears me, if she cares for anything I say. Her gaze is fixed on the flames, her expression far-off and contemplative. Time is slipping away from us. For a few hours our separate stories have been drawn strangely together; how long now before the dawn that inevitably rips us apart? How long before she must enter into the fate Lurodos plans for her? Perhaps it would have been kinder for me to let the raveners kill her in the first place.

Breathing a sigh, I lean back in my chair and lay my arms along the rests. I tilt my head back, close my eyes. I’m so tired suddenly. Tired of always trying to achieve the impossible—to save my people, to break the dark hold the Miphates wield on our land. And now this girl. Somehow, foolishly, I’ve assumed responsibility for her life. As though I needed one more burden weighing on my shoulders! I was a fool to make that bid; I’m a fool to sit here with her now.

So I don’t. I send my mind as far away as I can—back to those images of childhood which the girl’s singing had awakened in me last night. I see myself astride my father’s great licorneir, Onoril the Black. His flowing mane whips in my face, and his powerful song reverberates in my soul. I am one with him and the open sky above us and the great stretch of land before us. Together we ride for the City of Spires, and the citadel gleams like a beacon, guiding us home—

“Stop that.”

I tip my head and open one eye. The girl sits with hands clenched, scowling at me. “Stop what?”

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