Page 17 of HeartTorn

The nightmare of Cruor is far worse than any tales I once believed.

Elydark and Taar exchange some songful back-and-forth. Then Taar dismounts. “We’ll make camp here,” he says, turning to look up at me even as he strokes Elydark’s muscular neck. “You must be tired.”

“I’m not,” I lie and sit up a little straighter in the saddle as though to prove my words. “We can ride on if you like. Maybe catch up with your people after all.”

His eyebrow tilts. I suspect he sees right through my stubbornness. But he says only, “No,zylnala.We’ve ridden far enough for one day.”

At his words, sudden weariness seems to come over me. I feel the miles, the leagues, theworldsthrough which I have traveled since morning all catching up to me at once. When he reachesup to help me from the saddle, I hesitate only a moment before resting my hands on his shoulders and sliding from the saddle into his supportive grasp. The muscles in his forearms flex, but he lifts me down with such ease, I might be nothing more than a feather-stuffed doll. Though I’ve spent the last many hours in close proximity with this man, there’s something very different about facing him, about having my nose inches from his, about the sensation of his fingers wrapped around my ribcage. My breath catches, and my heart performs a somersault in my chest before tumbling straight to my gut.

The moment my feet touch the ground, my knees try to buckle. Unused to spending such long hours in the saddle—even an unexpectedly comfortable Licornyn saddle—my body is numb in places I didn’t even realize could be numb. With a little gasp, I stagger, leaning against Taar’s broad, bare chest. For a moment I remain there, frozen. Listening to the sound of his heart thundering so close to my ear. His hands, still gripping me under the arms, tighten slightly. I feel the exhale of his breath against the hair atop my head.

An impulse comes over me suddenly: a powerful inclination to close my eyes and simply rest here in his grasp. To let all the fears, worries, confusion, and questions of the day melt away into a moment of pure, trustful peace.

“Zylnala.”

His voice falls over me like a blanket, warm and comforting in this perilous world. What would it be like to belong to such a man? To really belong to him—not owned, bought and paid for, but chosen. Cherished. What would it be like to know I mattered to him, that by mere existence I could make his life a little better? That would be power indeed.

But so great and terrible a man—a warrior, a king among his people—would never choose someone like me.

I squeeze my eyes tight. Slipping my hands from his shoulders to his chest, I push. For the briefest possible instant, his fingers tighten around my ribcage, hard enough to hurt. Then he abruptly releases me and takes several steps back. Not meeting my eye, not so much as glancing my way, he sets to work pulling saddlebags from Elydark’s back. Part of me wants to offer to help, but he’s so quick and certain in every movement, I know I would only get in his way. Instead I turn away, still a little unsteady on my feet, and take a few tottering steps toward the Luin Stone.

“Don’t go far.”

I glance over my shoulder. Taar’s back is to me, his attention entirely fixed on setting up a temporary camp. “If thevardimnarreturns,” he says, “you need to be within Elydark’s sphere of protection.”

I sniff. It’s not as though I’ve got anywhere to go in this wild, empty world of his. Besides, thevelrawon’t let me wander.

Turning away from him again, I rub my forearm, which smarts. Is this tension I’m feeling, this pull, this attraction, just thevelrabond messing with my senses? It’s easier to believe so. If I’ve learned anything in the last few days, it’s that I don’t matter—I never did. I only matter to men insofar as I further their ends. I was always Father’s favorite, wasn’t I? When he disparaged Faraine and ignored Aurae, I was the one he petted and praised. In the end what did that preference earn me? He still sold me to the Shadow King without a second thought.

And Artoris? I clung to faulty memories of him for so long, only for him to be no different than my father. I don’t know what use he had for me exactly, what he thought he would achieve by taking me back to Evisar. But it was obviously for his sake, not mine, that he came. I am useful. And, when my usefulness is done, I am disposable.

My wandering footsteps lead me to the Luin Stone. I look up at the broken knee, towering some forty feet over my head. How tall was this colossus in its day? Imagination boggles. To think there was a civilization so ancient, so mighty, so very different from mine, existing just on the other side of a thin veil of reality all these centuries! I turn my gaze out to that devastated city. Now that the sun has set, all its intricate details are lost, leaving a black, featureless mountain beneath the emerging stars. My heartbeat echoes hollowly in my chest, a dull throb on the edge of awareness.

“Are you hungry?”

I turn slightly at the sound of Taar’s voice. He’s built up a little fire using wood carried through from my own world. Kindling burns, and large pieces begin to catch, giving off both heat and light. Taar reaches into one of his travel bags and withdraws a little honey-flavored cake. He looks at me, his hand raised in offering.

My stomach knots. I remember well enough the tough outer crust of those cakes, the earthy flavor a lingering stain on my tongue. But we’ve eaten nothing since the morning, and I heaved all that up during the gate crossing. My innards feel positively cavernous. And I’m exhausted—so exhausted I can hardly believe it. There was a time, back in my spoiled past life, when I could not have imagined exhaustion like this, not just in my body, but in my spirit. I feel ready to break in half.

But I have just enough pride left not to wanthimto know that.

Holding myself very straight and upright, I leave the shelter of the Luin Stone and step over to the fire. With a quick snatch, I take the cake from Taar’s hand, then hasten to the other side of our little camp, ignoring any temptation to sit beside him, to take comfort in his nearness. I’ve had more than enough physical proximity to this man today, thank you, gods. What I need is space. Perspective.

So I plunk myself down and gnaw at the edge of the hard cake. It breaks off in odd chunks which turn to dust on my tongue. I don’t care. At this point I’d eat a rock with equal relish.

“And how are you tonight, Ilsevel?”

I pause, molars locked around a lump of cake, and shoot a glance across the flickering flames. Taar is seated in an uncharacteristically relaxed pose, leaning back on one elbow, his long legs outstretched. He breaks off pieces of hard cake and pops them in his mouth. He doesn’t look at me but seems wholly absorbed in this task.

I pull the cake back out of my mouth, rolling my jaw uncomfortably. What kind of a question is that?How am I?

“I’m . . . fine. Thanks.” I chew my lip then, worrying a bit of dry skin. “How are you?”

It sounds so stupid; I wish I could take it back the moment I say it. Taar’s gaze flashes through the flames. I meet it hard, refusing to back down or even blink. He lowers his lashes and turns his cake around in his fingers as though considering it. Finally, with a shrug, he sets it aside, sits up, and fetches his kettle from the nearest saddlebag. Filling it with water from a skin, he nestles it on the fire and watches it, as though his gaze can make it boil faster. But I know the truth. He’s simply trying not to look at me. Or hoping I’ll stop looking at him.

Finally he clears his throat. “It’s not every day one encounters something like thevardimnar.”

“No.” I sniff. “Nor does one go about being threatened by the undead or traveling through magic portals into strange new worlds. It’s certainly been an eventful twenty-four hours. But,” I finish, brandishing cake with a little twirl of my wrist, “I am, nonetheless,fine.”

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