Page 29 of WarBride

“That song. Stop humming it. Please.”

I blink. Only then do I realize that I’ve been softly humming some remnant of the tune she’d sung last night. “Is it not your own song, littlezylnala?”

She presses her lips together. Then: “I am no songbird.”

“I would beg to differ. Even in the midst of battle, your voice stopped me in my tracks. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought it magic.” I tip my head, looking at her from under my brows. “Is it magic?”

She shrugs, but otherwise, does not answer. The silver knife with which she’d tried to cut my throat in bed lies on the table beside her. She picks it up, toying with it absently.

“I’ll take that as a yes. And are you a Miphata then?”

“No!” Her protest is sharp. “I am no part of the Miphates order. Not now. Not ever.”

I nod slowly. I believe her. Though there was power in her song, it was nothing like the written spells of the Miphates which I have encountered many times over the years. There’s a certain acrid aftershock to those bursts of stolen magic. Everything about this girl’s voice was natural and sweet, utterly unforced. “I have never heard such music from the lips of man or woman,” I muse, more to myself than to her. “Though it is strange to say it, the nearest likeness I have ever heard is the song of the licorneir.”

“What does that mean?”

I cross my feet at the ankles, adjusting my seat to a more comfortable angle. “The licorneir are said to be the children of the Goddess of Unity. They sing the unifying song of the stars. Legend has it that, if they so chose, they could join their voices into one great song of absolute beauty and destruction.” I shrug. “I have never witnessed this. Licorneir sing together only for holy ceremonies, and then only a few at a time. Otherwise they join their songs with those of their heart-bound riders. Each song is unique and only shared between rider and beast.”

The girl frowns. Something I’ve said has confused her. But she asks no questions, so I continue: “Your voice made me think of that legend: a song, multitudinous even in wholeness. I’ve never heard anything like it, certainly not from the mouth of a woman.” I eye her. “Will you tell me about it? This talent of yours?”

“There’s nothing to tell.” She looks down at the knife in her hand, turning it around and rubbing the end of the silver hilt. “I can sing; I choose not to.”

“So if I ask, you would not sing for me now?”

“Gods, no!”

I’m more disappointed than I like to admit. Part of me had hoped music might be a way through to her. I’m starting to think there isn’t any route past her prickling defenses. She is so frightened, and her walls are so high. And there simply isn’t time.

The girl gasps suddenly, dropping the knife she’s been toying with. I turn my head sharply and, in the same instant, smell blood. Red, human blood which wells from a cut along the fleshy part of her palm and drips in her lap.

Instantly I leap to my feet and hasten to the bed. Without regard for Ruvaen’s finery, I whip out a knife, cut a swath off the soft silk canopy, and return to the girl’s side. She’s grasping her wounded hand, shuddering with shock as she stares at the oozing red drip down her wrist. “Allow me,” I say, kneeling before her.

Though reluctant, she permits me to take her hand. I’m suddenly aware, as I wasn’t before, how soft her skin is. I’d already assumed she was a highborn lady based on her air and manner of speaking. These soft hands only confirm that belief—the hands of a woman who has never pursued hard labor in her life. Her fingers try to curl, as though to clench down on the pain. “No, no,” I say softly, and smooth them open, heedless of the dripping blood. “Like this.” Turning her hand, I inspect the slice. It’s thin but surprisingly deep—Lurodos’s blade boasts a deadly bite. Carefully I press the torn flesh back together, even as more blood wells. She sucks in a sharp breath at the pain. “Easy,” I whisper. “It will be over soon.”

Then I begin to sing.

It’s an ancient song, wordless—sound full of meaning more profound than language. It begins soft and low, a rumble in the back of my throat. As the first few low notes vibrate in the air, I feel my connection to Elydark awaken. My licorneir, somewhere out there in the night, away from the main encampment,remains nonetheless bound to me, soul entwined with soul. My song calls to him, and he responds, sending a pulse of song back to me. It fills my chest, deepens my voice. I draw on the pure, raw magic of the licorneir as I sing, and a soft glow—not seen so much as felt—suffuses the air around her hand resting in mine.

The cut begins to knit. The blood-flow staunches, the flesh draws back together, becoming as it wishes to be: whole and healed.

The girl stares, her mouth open, her eyes wide. She doesn’t seem to draw breath until I use the cut silk to mop up the remaining blood, revealing a small white scar beneath the stain. “How . . . how did you do that?” she manages at last.

“My people aren’t just warriors,” I reply, the last reverberations of Elydark’s song still in the back of my throat. “We used to be singers, artisans, craftsmen. But above all, we were healers.” I turn her hand gently around, inspecting my work. The fire’s glow plays across her skin, the elegant bones of her wrist and long, tapered fingers. I run a thumb along that new pale scar. She shivers, her breath catching. “The Goddess of Unity is alive in the song of the licorneir. That song, when channeled correctly, may remind split flesh what it means to be whole. It takes years to master, and in truth,” I admit with a sigh, “we do not sing as we once did. Not since the Rift.”

The girl’s eyes are fastened on me. I become aware suddenly of how close we are, of how her tight breath brushes against my skin. Though kneeling, I am taller than her when seated. She is obliged to look up into my face. I cannot bring myself to look anywhere but at her hand . . . and even that is a great temptation, so delicate, so finely made. I want to raise those fingers to my lips, to kiss them, to gently bite them, to . . .

“You have a lovely voice.”

Heat steals unexpectedly up my cheeks. I let go of her hand, rise, and back away to my side of the fire. “Coming from you,zylnala,” I say, “that is a great compliment.”

Gods, what is wrong with me? I thought I’d mastered the worst of my urges but, here I am, fighting the same battle all over again—fighting to keep myself from grabbing her arms, yanking her from that chair, and burying my face in the curve of her neck and shoulder. From losing myself beneath the waves of her soft, scented hair. I take a seat across from her and stare into the fire. Neither of us speaks for some while, with nothing but the crackle and snap of embers to punctuate the silence. Finally I run a hand down my face. My breath is coming hard and fast, and I know we cannot go on like this for much longer.

“I do not wish to frighten you,” I say after what feels like hours, “but you must know our time is slipping away. If I am to help you, if I am to save you, a choice must be made.”

“Choice.” She whispers the word bitterly.

“There are more choices than one here,” I continue as though I did not hear her. “I swore to protect you. If you ask it of me, I will take you from this encampment now. I will summon my licorneir, put you on his back, and we will ride out together, facing whatever foes stand in our way.”

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