Page 3 of WarBride

The foremost of the hooded figures bows its head, wordless.

“Excellent. Now we must find the princess, and—” He breaks off when the crimson cloak raises a gauntleted hand and points. Directly at me.

Artoris turns in his saddle, eyes flashing.

For a moment the air goes still. It’s as though the whole world has inhaled sharply. I’m caught in his stare, in that space of existence between us which seems to stretch across the long, lonely years. Years during which I’ve had nothing to hold on to but a few secret letters and my own determination to thwart my father’s control. Years in which this man before me has been little more than an idea in my mind, not a living, breathing person.

He’s aged since last I saw him. His face, still square and handsome, has acquired a new sternness that doesn’t fit on the remembered face of the young man I knew. Seven years makes a difference. I suppose it has in both of us.

“The beard is new.”

The words are out, hanging in the air between us, before I can think better of them. My voice seems much too loud, echoing against the solemn stone buildings. Gods, was that really the best I could come up with? The first words spoken to the man I’ve cherished in my most forbidden dreams these seven long years? Too late to take them back now.

I motion to my own face, tracing a line around my mouth and chin. “You look very . . . mage-like.”

Artoris blinks. His stallion paces uneasily beneath him.

“It’s not bad,” I hasten to add. “I’ve never been kissed by a man with a beard.” I smile and tilt my head a little to one side. “I might let you give it a try.”

His lips part. No sound emerges, just a little stream of cold air. Then suddenly he dismounts in a whirl of heavy mage’s robes and strides across the courtyard. He seems much bigger, much older, and I take an uncertain step back. Before I can take another, his arms are around me, crushing me to him. “Ilsevel!” his voice is rough, speaking into my hair as his hand presses my head against his chest. “At last!”

The relief in his voice is enough to make my own stiffened limbs relax a little. I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe him in. I used to love the smell of him, that combination of balsam and cinnamon. After he was sent in disgrace from my father’s house, I found an old handkerchief of his and kept it under my pillow for years, pulling it out every now and then to catch trace remnants of his scent.

A different aroma fills my nostrils now: something cold and a little bit sulfurous. Almost . . . rotten. It’s unpleasant enough to make me want to jerk back. But I don’t. I used to feel safe in his arms, protected. I lean in now, eager to reclaim that feeling, and refuse to acknowledge the way his grip feels more like a cage.

Finally he pushes me from him just enough to look down into my face. Close up, with the last of the sunset glow bathing his features, I can see something of the young man I once knew. His deep-set eyes are the same mix of brown and green, framed in dark lashes. His features are even, his jaw square and strong, emphasized now by the addition of that beard. He’s built like a warrior, though he spends his days bowed over great tomes of magic, studying the secret lore of the Miphates. An atmosphereof mystery always surrounded him, which I, as a young girl, found utterly irresistible.

He was six years my senior back when I fell for him. I was just fifteen, and my gods-gift had newly manifested. I don’t remember anything of that time. They tell me I experienced a severe reaction to the sudden outpouring of power and collapsed unconscious. When my father’s court mages were unable to revive me, he sent for Mage Morthiel, the most powerful Miphato of our time.

Morthiel brought with him a promising acolyte, young Artoris Kelfaren.

I don’t know what magic Morthiel used on me. My memories of the aged Miphato consist of cold hands, wrinkled skin, and an unsettlingly deep voice. But Artoris—he was by my side when I first woke from my long sleep. There he remained in the weeks that followed, as my strength slowly returned. And I loved him. Oh, how I loved him! My first love, my only love. He was so wise, so handsome, so dangerous, and so . . . forbidden. I would have given him everything he asked of me.

It was some weeks after my recovery that we were discovered entangled together in my bed, my clothing all in disarray. Father had Artoris dragged out into the yard and bound to a pillory. I begged. I pleaded. I protested that nothing had happened, nothing thatmatteredinsofar as the king’s ultimate plans for me. Father merely laughed and said he would cut off Artoris’s manhood and give it to me as a keepsake. He would have done it too, were it not for Mage Morthiel.

As it was, Morthiel convinced Larongar to give the young man a lashing, then turn him back over to the Miphates. That he succeeded is testimony to the aged Miphato’s power and influence with the king. Artoris was given twelve lashes. I was forced to stand and watch each blow as it was delivered, to listen to each cry as it ripped from my lover’s lips.

Morthiel left with his acolyte the very next day, never to return. My last glimpse of Artoris was from my bedchamber window where I leaned out as far as I dared, watching as his pain-hunched figure rode out from Beldroth Castle. I hoped he would look back at me just once. He never did.

Since then we’ve exchanged in secret no more than a handful of letters. Each time Artoris’s ink-scrawled words assured me of his ongoing and ardent devotion. With those words, I fed my flame of passion, determined not to let it dim with either time or distance. I would show my father that he couldn’t break my spirit, neither with laughter nor with lashes.

Looking up into Artoris’s handsome face now, I try to recall some of that burning feeling which had raged so hot in my veins. I know it’s him and yet . . . he feels like such a stranger.

“Gods!” he exclaims, his eyes roving over my face. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.” He grabs my hand and draws it reverently to his lips. A shiver runs up my arm, but I don’t pull away. “When I received your letter, I set out from the citadel at once to meet you here. Nothing could keep me back.”

A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “And what did your master think of that?”

He frowns. “My master?”

“Morthiel. Mage Morthiel.”

A shadow seems to pass over his face, darkening his eyes. “I am my own man and make my own choices. When I heard of your impending marriage to the Shadow King, I knew what I must do. I knew I could not leave you to be sold off to a monster.”

Still smiling, I glance beyond his shoulder. There the crimson-cloaked figures stand in a row, hands folded, heads bowed. There are so many of them. Surely they could not have ridden from the citadel without Mage Morthiel’s knowledge. I look up at Artoris again, my lips parting to question him further.

But suddenly his mouth is on mine. Hard hands grip my upper arms, pulling me to him, then one of his hands slips behind my head, fingers digging in, pulling my prayer veil askew. Shock races through me, but I shake it off, try to lose myself in his kiss like I once did. Something isn’t right. His lips are too demanding, too hungry, and his tongue presses between my teeth, filling up my mouth. This feels more like an attack than an embrace.

I push away, gasping for breath, and quickly slip my fingers over his mouth to keep him from lunging at me again. “Careful!” I say with another laugh that doesn’t sound like me at all. “Captain Wulfram will see.” Where is the captain anyway? He and his whole company of armed men should not be ignoring the sudden arrival of Miphates on the temple grounds. Isn’t it their job to protect me?

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