Page 9 of HeartTorn

Ilsevel studies me, a line between her brows. I feel as though she’s listening to all that I am not saying. Perhaps, with that gods-gift of hers, she hears what I do not intend to share. I don’t care for that idea. Hardening my face, I meet her gaze unblinking, expecting her to back down. But she only tilts her head slightly to one side and holds my stare.

“So he really was dead,” she says. “A walking dead man.”

I nod.

“How is this possible? Is it normal for your kind to get up and walk about after death?”

“No.” My voice is sharp as a blade’s edge. “It wasnecrolipha.Death magic.”

That steady gaze of hers falters at last. My words seem to have brought a shadow over this part of the forest, a shadow deep enough to fall across the very soul. Her nostrils flare as she draws a long breath. Then she whispers, “Artoris?”

I nod. Mage Artoris Kelfaren is a death mage and a powerful one at that. Though I would be surprised to learn he had worked the spell which animated my dead companions. No—only a mage with the will and means to delve into the Rift and channel power directly from Ashtari could have worked such a horror. This stinks of Morthiel.

Ilsevel looks sick. Some of that stubborn pride with which she protects herself has slipped, and her body begins to shake. “I didn’t know the Miphates were capable of this kind of magic.”

“They shouldn’t be,” I reply. “There have been manynecroliphonthroughout history who have practiced the death arts. But no one has succeeded in reanimation, not even the most powerful fae kings of the ages.”

“Then . . . then how . . . ?”

She cannot finish her question. It doesn’t matter, because I couldn’t answer it. Not due to ignorance, for I have my own suspicions and beliefs about what is going on in the Citadel of Evisar, behind theobscurisspell. I simply cannot bear to speak such things out loud. Not to her. Not to a human.

Something in my eye must warn her, for Ilsevel doesn’t press me. Instead she looks again at that place on the ground where Ilanthor’s head had landed. Her gaze is so intense, it’s almost as though she’s still meeting those dead eyes of his in the moments before the spell broke, and his physical frame, held together by magic alone, evaporated into the ether.

“I didn’t think . . .” she says quietly, as though speaking to herself. She pauses, licks her lips. “I didn’t think Artoris would do something like this.”

Suddenly I am transported back to that night in the Temple of Lamruil, when I pursued Artoris into one of the buildings. By the time I caught up with him, he was dragging someone out the door, someone who resisted his efforts. Not just any someone.Her.

My brow knots. Ilsevel admitted to me that she knew the mage. Her exact words were,“I thought I did,”when pressed on the subject. At the time I’d let the matter drop, for we had more immediate concerns, and my primary goal in that moment was to win her trust and save her life.

Now I must wonder, was there more to their connection than she initially let on? I want to demand answers. Why was Artoris at the temple that night, and why was she riding at his sideduring our initial attack? Why did she flee the field, with him in sharp pursuit?

There is more to this story than she is telling me, and I’m suddenly hungry to know. I take a step toward her, a growl in my throat. “Ilsevel—”

Careful, Vellar.

I stop short. Elydark’s voice rings in my head. In the same moment I become aware of how tight thevelracord has become around my forearm. I look down, half-expecting to see it shining there, cutting into my flesh. There is nothing to see, but the effects are undeniable.

I am jealous. Jealous of some imagined connection between this woman and my enemy. Jealous that she should know him at all, filled with a furious need to learn exactly how deep that knowledge goes.

She is looking at me again, once more wrapped up in layers of coldness and pride, not quite sufficient to hide the terror in her eyes. She fears what questions I will ask, fears what revelations I might pry from her lips. And that fear is enough in itself to make me burn.

I swallow hard, my breath tight. My fingers clench around the hilt of my sword.

But Elydark’s voice holds me at bay.She is no threat, Vellar. I have heard her soul-song. There is no resonance of death magic in her.

If she knows Mage Artoris—

What difference does it make? She is not a Miphata. Her magic is unique, and she has used it only to help you or to protect herself. She poses no danger.

My jaw hardens.It sounds like you’re on her side.

My licorneir snorts, tossing his muzzle.I am, as always, on no side but the truth. And the truth is, my brother, you must guard your heart from all thevelrais tryingto make you feel. Jealousy, anger, fear . . . any of these may lead you down a path you do not wish to go. Not with her.

He’s right. Whether I like it or not. This turmoil roiling in my gut isn’t real—it’s thevelrabond. Knowing more about Ilsevel, her history or connections, will not change our circumstances. It will only increase this inconvenient attachment we share. That I cannot have. Best to know as little about her as possible so that we can sever thevelraquickly and cleanly and get on with our lives.

Ilsevel’s eyes narrow. Can she read my thoughts? Can that gods-gift of hers perceive the storm in my soul? She looks as though she’s preparing for battle and, slight though she is, she won’t go down without a struggle.

I draw a long breath, ease it out slowly through my nostrils. None of this matters. Whatever connection she may have had or may still have with Artoris, it is no concern of mine. I cannot let jealousy rule me.

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