Page 48 of WarBride

“Another deathmatch?” I guess, despair welling up in my throat. I cannot ask Taar to risk his life in yet another battle.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledges. “But more likely an exchange.”

All the blood seems to rush from my cheeks. Of course. What do I have to offer for my sister’s life other than my own? And, considering it’s my fault that she’s in the situation to begin with, how can I not make the offer?

“Don’t do it,zylnala,” Taar urges, his voice low and a little rough. “Don’t go after her. Think of your sister as dead—a casualty of the battle.”

Fire sparks in my breast. I look up at him, and, if I were armed in this moment, I would lash out without hesitation. “The battleyouled,” I spit.

“Yes,” he replies.

How I hate him just now. Hate that coldness, hate that calm. Hate the casual way he speaks of my sister’s probable fate. I hate myself as well for letting myself be even temporarily seduced by such a man. Such a monster.

“But there’s a good chance she isn’t dead,” I persist. “As long as that chance remains, I’m not going to leave her.” Dropping my gaze to the floor, I study my own feet peeking out beneath the hem of this black silk gown. “If I have to exchange my freedom for hers, so be it.”

He feels so large and seems to expand still more as he draws a deep breath into his chest. “Whatever happened last night has already happened. Throwing your life away will not undo it.”

“Are you going back on your word?” I yank my head up, tossing hair from my eyes and glaring fiercely at him. “Are you saying you won’t help me find her after all?”

His face is quiet, solemn. Once more I feel as though I can hear a hum of song pitched too low for human ears. A deep, reverberating note, full of both darkness and truth. I’m not sure if it’s my gods-gift at play or merely my own desperation. “Have I honored my word to you thus far?” he asks quietly.

He has. Damn him, he has. Even to the point of death.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to suppress the shivers suddenly quaking my limbs. Hopelessness threatens to overwhelm me. I want someone to lash out against, someone to fight. But I’m outmatched at every turn. Gods, if only my mother had allowed me to study weaponry alongside my elder brother! I was given basic instruction when I was small, but after my gift manifested, I was strictly forbidden to touch anything sharper than a pair of sewing shears. Maybe if I’d not been forcibly warped into this useless shape, I could actually do something to save my sister and myself.

“Give me the knife,” I say suddenly, holding out one hand.

Taar blinks at me.

“Please,” I continue, struggling to soften my tone somewhat. “Let me have the knife. I’ll go on my own. I’ll find her. I’ll trade myself for her, and then I’ll . . .” My voice trails off.

The warlord drops his hand to the two sheaths at his belt. He draws forth one of the knives then takes hold of my outstretched hand and presses the hilt into my fingers. A spark of fire seems to shoot up my arm where his skin comes into contact with mine.

“Keep the knife,zylnala,” he says. “It is yours. Consider it a gift. But . . .” He releases his hold on me and takes a step back. The distance between us feels like a chasm. “I will go with you. And I will not allow you to make such a trade.”

I stare down at the weapon in my grip. “You can’t stop me,” I whisper.

“Oh, but I can. Because, until we part ways, you are still mine, warbride. Sealed with Lurodos’s deathblood. I am not giving you up to either man or monster.”

I cannot speak. My heart lodges in my throat, stifling any protests I might make. I turn the knife over slowly, watching how the firelight glints off its edge. Then, with an effort, I swallow and force myself to look at him once more.

“Very well, warlord,” I say. “Have it your way. For now.”

16

TAAR

My first task is to find her a more practical gown to wear. Ruvaen’s tastes may flatter her figure in ways I scarcely dare acknowledge, but that silk ensemble certainly won’t stand up to any strenuous travel.

Ruvaen responds to my request by sending a Licornyn style gown of sturdyquilencloth dyed blue, with a split skirt and trousers underneath, fit for riding. She’ll look like a proper Licornyn in no time. A fine joke—Ruvaen knows perfectly well no human bride of mine will ever be accepted by my people. Which wasn’t the point of this marriage to begin with.

I stand outside the pavilion while she changes. Part of me wonders if she’ll need help getting out of that ornate silk gown, but I’m not about to volunteer my services. Instead I cross my arms and simply wait, wondering all the while how I ended up in this ridiculous situation. I don’t regret it. Not exactly. If nothing else, I’m glad Lurodos is dead. That man was trouble, and his ruthlessness brought about the deaths of not only my own people but many innocents as well. He needed to be put down.

Still there’s a wrongness to it all—the fact that I spilled blood to earn a warbride whom I intend to abandon at the next opportunity.

Not abandon,I remind myself firmly.Set free.

Is that the truth, though? I don’t know who she is or who her people are. I don’t even know her name. So why can I not shake the feeling that she belongs with me? Tucked safely under the sheltering curve of my arm . . .

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