Page 51 of WarBride

“Zylnala!Stop!”I cry and charge after her. I fear she will cast herself into the remaining flames, determined to join her sister in death. I catch her just as she reaches the hideous pile and, wrapping my arms around her waist, haul her kicking and screaming back. I press her to my chest, murmuring in her ear like she’s some crazed animal. “She’s gone,zylnala.She’s gone. Her pain is over. Let her go. Let her go.”

The girl pounds at my chest, tears at my face with fingers curled like claws. But I do not release her. I hold her as she screams, and her pain batters my heart like a war hammer. I don’t know how long we sit like that, before that hideous mound of death, surrounded by the watching eyes of Lunulyrian warriors. After some time I realize she is clutching something in her hand, something she’d dragged out of the fire. A bit of cloth, burned and stained almost beyond recognition.

“It’s hers,” the girl sobs, clutching that cloth to her breast as I hold her. “It’s her prayer veil. She was wearing it when . . . when . . .” She cannot finish. She buries her face in that scrap, and I press her to my chest, my arms enfolding her.

Lord Dormaris approaches, his gaze wary. “She was gods-gifted,” he says, addressing himself to me. “The War Gift. I’ve heard stories of the phenomenon but never seen anything like this.”

I nod, comprehension slowly dawning. My bride did tell me last night that she was possessed of magic. A gods-gift would explain it. And though such gifts are rare, when they do occur, they often run in families. I had glimpsed the younger sisterduring the temple attack, lying unconscious. She had seemed small, delicate, and very young. Not at all a deadly instrument of war. But the gods are like that sometimes—bestowing gifts where least expected, all for their own ultimate and inexplicable purpose.

That purpose has come to an abrupt conclusion here, in a pile of smoking corpses.

“Is this your warbride?” Dormaris asks, nodding to the girl in my arms. “Are you interested in selling? I will pay you handsomely. After all, if she is another gods-gifted—”

“She isn’t for sale,” I growl.

The Lunulyrian lord holds up both hands and takes a step back. “Ah, well . . . they say the War Gift only manifests once in a generation anyway. A pity.”

I don’t wait to hear more. Scooping the girl up in my arms, I cradle her close and carry her away from that scene of horror and all those wide-eyed and fearful warriors. I carry her out of the encampment entirely, into the encircling wood, beyond the range of the spire’s influence, to where the shadows are deep and cool and sheltering.

17

ILSEVEL

The pattern of beaded embroidery is still visible. Through the blood. Through the ash. Delicate starbursts and flowers, each shining bead placed with such care. Aurae wore it often, devout in her prayers as I never was. Of the two of us, one might think she better deserved the protection of the gods she so loved.

Aurae.Aurae . . .

It simply cannot be true. That site of destruction, of bloodshed, of horror. How could any of it be my sister’s doing? I still remember the day her gift manifested. We all waited in terrible suspense. After what happened to Faraine, well . . . one never knows what gift the gods will choose to bestow on those they’ve touched with their power.

But Aurae’s manifestation was something special. At first nothing happened. She simply sat quietly in a pool of sunlight in the center of the sacred Hall of Gods, her head bent beneath the very prayer veil I even now hold in my hand. Then, as though hearing some song none of the rest of us could, she rose and began to move. She was always a graceful creature, even as a little child, but these movements were something else: absolute control harmonized with absolute release of inhibition. Every part of her body synchronized, from the top of her head, to the tips of her fingers, to the soles of her feet. She was light dancing on running water, she was leaves caught in an autumn breeze, swift and shining.

Though no music played, I began to vocalize, catching the spirit of her movement and giving it voice. My own gift hadalready manifested years before, and my song blended with her dance so perfectly, it was like we were made to exist together. Though she was five years my junior and my opposite in temperament, we felt a wholeness in each other’s company. Music and dance. Rhythm and song. Sisters in heart and soul.

Father was disappointed, of course, but he’d long ago given up expecting the gods to bless his children with gifts he could sink his teeth into. So he cursed the priests and kicked over an incense brazier, but when he was through, declared that at least Aurae was a pretty enough little thing, and he’d find some use for her eventually.

Aurae herself lived to spread sweetness and light wherever she went. She was much like Faraine in her earnestness but, unburdened by Faraine’s particular gift, she was able to live a more carefree existence. She assumed the role of caretaker of her own volition, offering me comfort during the Shadow King’s courtship, and volunteering to ride with me on my Maiden’s Journey. She was always more concerned with the needs of others than herself. Even last night, even when faced with the prospect of imminent death, did she not urge me to sing for our fellow prisoners?

It's simply not possible Aurae bore the War Gift. I cannot believe it. I won’t believe it. That fae . . . perhaps he could not lie outright, but he’s playing some game, of that I’m certain. Could it be he tricked me into believing Aurae is dead? I did not rifle through that pile of burned bodies to find her. I saw that charred hand clutching the scrap of veil, but what if . . . what if . . . ?

I jerk my head upright, pulling my awareness back to the present. Where am I? There are trees all around me, dark and deeply shadowed, with only occasional splashes of sunlight making their way through thickly-laced branches and leaves. Heavy, rhythmic hoofbeats rock the earth underneath me, and Irealize I’m on the broad, red back of a unicorn. Taar’s unicorn. And these are Taar’s arms wrapped securely around me.

Guilt floods my veins like fire. It’s such a terrible rush, I fear I will simply combust then and there. Why? Why, why, why did I end up here in his arms? Why did he choose to bid on me, to save me from degradation and death? To give me pleasures beyond anything I’ve ever known . . . all while my sister was brutally murdered in a bloodbath, her body broken and desecrated in flame. I cannot comprehend it.

“Take me back.” The sound whispers from my lips, cracked and broken.

Taar does not respond. I’m not sure he heard me.

“Take me back,” I say again, this time with force, though the words sound more like dull grunts without articulation. “Take me back, take me back, take me . . .”

Suddenly along with the guilt comes a raw spark of hatred for this man. This man who holds me, who made vows of protection over me, who fought for me, bled for me. And all for what? No reason. None at all. Pure, random chance landed me with him. I didn’t deserve this. If it was to be either of us, it should have been Aurae, sweet, gentle Aurae. He should have seen her, been moved to compassion for her, and let me go to the monsters. The fact that he didn’t makes him a monster too, worse than any of the rest . . . or so my crazed soul insists in that moment. Some small part of me knows I’m not thinking rationally anymore. I don’t care.

Whipping the knife he gave me from its sheath, I slash it across his arm, right in that soft place above his bracer. It doesn’t bite deep, but the shock brings a roar of surprise bursting from his lips. He yanks his arm back, and his unicorn utters a terrible, rumbling bellow, rearing up on its hind legs.

I don’t wait for a second chance. Freed momentarily from his grip, I slip from the saddle, hit the ground hard, and lie stunnedfor a moment. I hear him shouting: “Zylnala!”and the word seems to galvanize my limbs.

Pulling myself upright, I stagger, stumble. Then I run. Blindly. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. I know only that somehow I’ve got to get back to that encampment, got to find Aurae. Because she’s not dead. She cannot be dead.I will not allow her to be dead.

Branches slash at my face. Still gripping the knife in one hand, I hack them away, pressing and pushing through the dense undergrowth. My soft boots pound on uneven ground, and tree roots seem almost to rise up, attempting to trip me as I go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this forest was sentient. I could almost swear I hear laughter whispering through the leaves and crackling in the branches.

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