Page 64 of WarBride

She nods.

“And . . . in your language, what does it mean?”

Her head tips to one side. “I don’t know. My father told me it was a kind of wildflower he saw once when traveling in a strange land. He liked it and carried the name back with him.”

I blink, uncertain what to say, uncertain what to think. Because I know that name. And I know its meaning. It is a Licornyn word that translates quite simply to:soulflower.

Suddenly my body is warm, flushed.Ilsevelblossoms are as vital to our daily existence in Cruor as air and water and flame. I tear my gaze away from her, afraid she will see something in my eyes which I’m not certain should be seen at all. Because a strange and utterly unexpected sensation has bloomed in my chest: hope. Hope that none of this—my encounter with this girl, her captivity, the auction, our wedding night, Lurodos’s spilled blood—happened by chance. Perhaps there are more powerful forces at work here.

Perhaps the gods themselves ordained our meeting.

25

ILSEVEL

It’s hard to fathom that only two evenings ago, almost exactly, I was kneeling at the altar of Lamruil, desperately praying with my whole heart to escape the life which lay before me.

What is it they say? Be careful what you pray for; the gods might actually be listening.

I huddle into my cloak against the chill wintry wind, watching our small campfire dance across the spell-dried wood. The events of the last few hours seem to play before my eyes, confused and twisted. One moment I see myself with Aurae, rattling along in that cage wagon, clinging to each other with our trembling hands. The next I’m riding on a unicorn, cradled in Taar’s arms as we progress through a strange forest of shifting shadows that I suspect is not part of the world I know. A blink, and I’m back on that enormous bed in the dimly lit pavilion, my wrists bound, awaiting the arrival of my stranger bridegroom.

The bridegroom who sits across from me now. Still a stranger and yet, inexplicably . . . not.

I flick a covert gaze over the flames, studying the face of the man with whose life I’ve become curiously entangled. The revelation of my name shocked him into silence; he’s not spoken a word since then but seemed utterly intent upon his own study of the fire. I cannot blame him. I was shocked myself when the wordilsevelissued from his lips during the handfasting ceremony. He’d said the very cord which was used to bind our hands together was woven from the stems of ilsevel blossoms. The same blossoms, no doubt, which my father took a fancy towhen he traveled long ago into the land of Cruor—or Licorna, as it must have been back then. Back before the war began. Back before Taar and I were enemies by necessity.

I study him now from beneath my lashes. This stranger, this husband. This monster, who very nearly ripped me apart. Possibly the only man in my life who has ever sought to prove himself worthy of my trust.

My stomach knots at that thought. Am I really such a fool as to give my trust so easily to a man I don’t know? I’ve been deceived before. I’ve loved where I shouldn’t, devoted all the energy of my heart to an idea I had invented about a man who was, I know now, entirely unworthy. I won’t be so quick to give my heart away again, and yet . . .

And yet Taar would die for me. He’s proven as much already. Surely that must count for something.

With a little shake of my head, I turn my gaze away from him, looking instead into the looming trees nearby where his unicorn stands, shimmering, almost translucent. A ghostly image, but so heartbreakingly beautiful. Even from a distance, I could swear I hear him singing. My heart stirs, remembering what it felt like to have that song burning through me, body and soul. It was like . . . I don’t know how to describe it. It was like being deaf and having my ears miraculously opened to hear music for the very first time. A revelation. An awakening. I cannot help but be glad to have experienced it.

I suck in my lower lip, biting down hard. How can I indulge in such thoughts? Aurae died; am I glad of that? Is her life worth the trade for these new experiences of mine? Certainly not. And this excitement burning in my veins at the prospect of traveling with Taar into his strange realm, of spending more time in company with the proud warlord . . . these feelings must be suppressed. Whatever his intensions were or are, this man is responsible for the death of my sister.

And if he knew who I really am . . .

I shudder, pulling my cloak a little tighter across my shoulders. Whatever happens next, I must guard that secret. I must never let him know whose daughter I am or what part I’m meant to play in this war between our peoples. And, as soon as the bond between us is broken, I will return to my father’s house, wed the Shadow King, and do my part to bring an end to this war once and for all. Surely this is the only way to honor Aurae’s memory.

Two hot tears race down my cheeks, one on each side. I dash them away swiftly, ashamed. Because I lived, and my sister did not. Because my foolish bid for freedom led to such destruction and death. Because . . . because . . .

Because I’m glad this marriage cord prevents me from parting with Taar. Because here I am, bought and sold, bound in magical chains, and yet . . . the hope of freedom burns brighter in my breast than it ever has before.

“Gods-damn it,” I whisper so low that the crackle of the fire devours any sound. My gaze flicks once more to the face of my husband, all those sharp, chiseled plains edged in red glow. “I’m not going to fall in love with him. I swear it.”

EPILOGUE

She stands on the brink of the cliff, right at that last pivotal edge before the drop. Some small part of her—a part that still feels anything at all—searches for that old sensation. What was it called? Fear. The dread of the plunge and the prospect of pain, all underscored by that horror of the unknowable existence in the dark beyond the end. A simple set of emotions, but so infinitely varied in their subtleties and hues.

She feels none of that now. No dread, no horror, not even the faintest unease. Even if she should cast herself over this brink, even if she should shatter every bone on the stones far below, there would be no end for her. Not yet, in any case.

Behind her, huddled close to the fire, the mage continues his endless lament. “I cannot return to Evisar!” he declares, spitting the words through clenched teeth. “Not without the princess. I am Morthiel’s last hope, and to return empty-handed? It’s not to be borne.”

She doesn’t answer. She stands up on her toes, leaning out a little farther into that void. Daring her old body to react. Perhaps there’s still some instinctual urge for survival lying latent down inside. But nothing. No thrill, no terror, not even a little vertigo. She sinks back onto her heels. She would sigh if she had breath with which to do so, but her ragged lungs hang limp in her breast.

“Besides,” the mage continues, running his fingers through his pale hair, “that gods-damned half-breed took the talisman. It would be suicide to try to reach Evisar without it, and it will take months to write another. Meanwhile what if the fae workout how to use the spell? They will lay siege to the citadel with everything they’ve got. It will require all the magic my people have amassed for decades to ward them off. And what will that mean for Morthiel?”

She rolls her eyes heavenward, idly studying the stars in their distant dance above. She doesn’t care about any of the mage’s petty little plans. Yes, the loss of the gods-gifted princess is a blow . . . but she doesn’t think it’s a mortal blow. While Mage Artoris assumes the girl died in the battle, she suspects otherwise. After all she knows Taar. She knows how her beloved thinks. He would not leave a damsel in distress to perish at the hands of monsters. No, no. He probably rescued the girl, took her captive. Her lips quirk in a vicious smile. He always did have a dangerously self-destructive need to protect the small and the weak. It is his one great vice.

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