Page 4 of WarBride

A deep chuckle rumbles in Artoris’s chest. “Not to worry, sweet princess. No one is going to stop us now.” With those words, he turns and beckons. One of the crimson cloaks strides forward, leading a chestnut mare. “Quickly now,” Artoris says, taking the reins and turning to me. “We ride for Evisar at once.”

“Evisar?” I blink, surprised. When I’d dreamed of Artoris coming to whisk me away, I’d certainly not envisioned us returning to the citadel. The Miphates never welcome outsiders into their secret spaces. “Won’t Morthiel send me straight back to my father?”

Artoris grins. It’s a subtle, rather sly expression, both like and unlike the devilish smile of the young man in my memory. “Morthiel doesn’t answer to the king.” Before I can parse through this enigmatic statement, he presses a hand to the small of my back, guiding me toward the mare. “We must hurry. I have many enemies, and word of my arrival in these parts will travel quickly. The sooner we are away from here the better.”

I’m just opening my mouth to protest, to remind him that I have personal belongings I must gather, to question the wisdom of this plan, which suddenly feels too rushed, too forced.

Before I can utter a sound, however, a voice rings from above: “Ilsie!”

I whirl on heel. My sister descends the shrinehouse stairs. Behind her, priests of Lamruil gather around the dark opening to the chapel. It’s too dark by now to see their faces, but I can feel their unwillingness to venture out, to draw any nearer to the mysterious cloaked figures below. Aurae, by contrast, hurries in a billow of white veils, looking ghostly in the light of the pale lanterns hung from poles to light her way. “Ilsie, wait!” she cries.

I pull away from Artoris, trying not to notice the way his hands snatch after me. Hurrying toward my sister, I arrive at the base of the stairs just in time for her to throw herself into my arms. She’s trembling, frightened, her gentle eyes wide and fearful. “Ilsevel, what’s going on?” She gazes over my shoulder at the cloaked figures, now mounted and waiting. “Who are these people?”

Aurae was only ten years old when Artoris visited Beldroth. She didn’t know anything about our relationship at the time, and I never shared with her the secret letters I received or revealed my feelings for the handsome mage. I hardly know how to explain now, especially not with Artoris’s eyes burning into the back of my head.

“Aurae,” I say instead, taking her hand and squeezing it hard. “You know I can’t marry the Shadow King. I just can’t.”

She glances at Artoris, waiting beside the mare. “What are you saying?” Her voice is tight and low. “Ilsie, you’re not . . . you’re not leaving with this man, are you?”

I smile. If it’s a little forced, I tell myself it’s simply because I hate to hurt my sister, hate to leave her in this way. “I love him,”I say simply. “I’ve loved him for seven years now but was forced to keep it secret.”

Aurae shakes her head. “You can’t be serious. Who is he?”

“It doesn’t matter!” I glance back at Artoris, meet his gaze. His face is so hard and stern, it makes my heart drop in my chest. But this is it. This is my only chance to escape. And with time, surely everything I once felt for him will return. Such feelings don’t just disappear into thin air. “I love him.” If I say the words with enough conviction, I can make them true once more. “And he’s here now. I’m leaving with him, and I won’t be coming back.”

“But the alliance.” Aurae reaches out, gripping my forearm as though she can hold me here. “You can’t abandon the alliance. You can’t abandon our people!”

My stomach knots. “Skewer the alliance,” I growl. “Do you really think those trolls are the means to our people’s salvation? Do you really think Father intends to use them to stop this infernal war of his? It’s only going to get worse. He and the Shadow King will find new excuses to go to battle, and I won’t be part of it. I won’t be a playing piece in their games.”

Aurae stares at me as though she doesn’t know me. And she doesn’t, not really. No more than I know her. We only know each other in the roles we’ve been forced to play, in the parts that we’ve been molded into every day of our lives. Sister, daughter, princess, pawn. The real me, the real her—those are mysteries as yet undiscovered. Perhaps we will never know each other truly.

But I must take this chance to discover my own true self. It might be the only chance I get.

Aurae’s lip quivers. Her grip on my arm tightens for a moment. “Ilsie, you won’t find freedom by running away.”

“I won’t find it any better by staying.” The sharpness of my answer makes her wince, and I immediately regret my words.“Please, Aurae,” I continue in a gentler tone, drawing her toward me. “I cannot spend my life the property of any man.”

“Ilsevel.” Artoris’s voice snaps like a whip behind me. “It’s time to go.”

I wrench free of my sister’s grasp. She utters a little sob and reaches for me, but I spin on heel and hasten to the red mare, accepting Artoris’s leg-up into the saddle. Despite my skirts, I swing my leg over the mare’s broad back. It feels good to sit astride a horse once more, not carted along in a carriage like precious goods. I cast a last look around the courtyard, still expecting Captain Wulfram and his men to make their appearance, weapons drawn. I see only a handful of priests and novitiates, watching from windows, wordless and unwilling to interfere.

“Stay close to me,” Artoris says, mounting his stallion and urging it up beside my beast. “We ride hard through the night. No turning back now.”

He lifts his hand, signaling to his strange, silent companions. Then he spurs his horse into motion, and my mare surges into tandem stride with his. We thunder from the temple yard. I spare only a single glance back to where my sister stands beneath a solitary lamppost. The wind wafts her prayer veil back from her small, pale face. Tears roll in silver trails down her cheeks.

I face forward into the evening gloom and ride on. On to new life. On to freedom.

2

TAAR

A chill wind blows like a whisper of foreboding across the twilit valley. I watch it ripple through the tall grasses until at last it reaches me where I sit astride my mount, hidden among the trees. Breathing deep, I scent what information that wind brings: the stench of blood, the sharp sting of incense, carried down from the shrinehouse, which stands on its hill across the valley, directly opposite my current position. The temple of the Dark God dominates this stretch of land, and none but a few lonely shepherds dare dwell in its shadow. I cannot say that I blame them.

I study that shrine, built into the high stone outcropping. I’ve never understood the desire to worship a god of darkness and death. There is so much of both in this world already; would we not be better spent devoting our prayers to that which brings light and life?

But humans are strange creatures. There’s little good to be had trying to fathom their ways. I’m more concerned with what defenses may or may not be established on those steep slopes.

My mount stirs beneath me, excited perhaps at the stench of bloody sacrifice. He shakes his head, and moonlight catches on the lancelike horn protruding from his brow. “Steady, Elydark,” I murmur, stroking his massive shoulder beneath a curtain of mane. “We shall have our sport soon enough.”

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