Page 18 of Wed to the Dark Elf

I don’t waver. "Lay one finger on him and I'll slit your throat." I pray my quavering voice does not betray the terror icing my veins. But I will die before I yield my husband to this monster's knife. Let it be so.

The elf tsks through his grin. "Brave, brave. But you only prolong the inevitable." He begins to circle slowly, cat-like, forcing me to turn and keep Vamen shielded. "Let his light go peaceful, and no more need suffer this sad night."

His words nearly shatter my resolve. Perhaps compassion would grant Vamen a swift end rather than days of suffering in my amateur care. But the thought of surrendering his fate to this wicked creature tastes like ashes. I blink fiercely against tears. Behind me I hear Vamen's breath slowly failing. I am out of time.

When the elf lunges, I meet him with my own snarl of desperation. His knife grazes my arm but I slip past his reach. Closing the gap, I hack and slice wildly, driving him back from Vamen's prone form. We collide against a bedpost and crash to the floor, my dagger skittering away. Snarling, the elf pins me under his greater weight, his own blade pricking at my throat. Rage and scorn twist his once-fair face into a rictus mask.

"I would have ended him gently, dove. But now you can share in his agony."

His weight suddenly vanishes as Vamen's sword explodes through his chest in a spray of hot blood.

I roll free, gaping at Vamen on his knees behind the assassin, face etched with ferocious purpose. He yanks back his crimson blade as his killer topples with a gurgling wail. My husband's massive form trembles with the effort, but his eyes find mine, full of desperate love and gratitude.

"Iris...go..." He slumps forward, clinging to consciousness by fraying threads. Sobbing, I cradle his head in my lap, heedless of the tacky blood soaking us both. His lips shape silent words I cannot decipher. I know he is right, we must flee this abattoir before the killer's allies find us. But I cannot bring myself to leave Vamen's side now. Not even if I could lift his dead weight alone.

Shadows flicker outside, voices and footfalls drawing inexorably closer. I cling to my fading husband, prepared to meet our entwined fate. But then amber torchlight spills over us, and strong arms lift Vamen from my lap. I stare up through frozen tears at a ring of grim mountain elves, Althir limping at their head.

“Up lass, gently now. Gantre reached us just in time.”

I can only nod brokenly, too numb to feel relief. As the warriors hurry Vamen outside, Althir wraps me in his woolen cloak against the chill. But even his kindness cannot thaw the ice in my breast. I follow our solemn procession in silence, averting my eyes from the limp form on the makeshift litter. The king's pavilion blazes behind us, put to the torch by Althir's men. We melt into the shadows, a whispered rumor fleeing the damning truth.

Yet even as we win free of the battlefield, hope remains chained back in the ruins of that tent. I cling to the scraps of life in Vamen now through blind instinct alone. The auroch's crushing bulk should have snuffed his light instantly. That it did not feel like a miracle, but what good mere flicker against his grave wounds now? All my vague healer's arts seem useless against sunken eyes that no longer find mine.

Back behind our walls, the healers shake their heads in grim prognosis. By rights he should already have passed into the next realm. Perhaps it is only the anchor of my touch still binding his spirit close, for whenever I withdraw he slides further away. The herbs and poultices seem useless to staunch the seeping shadows within.

Thus I keep constant vigil at Vamen's bedside, reciting half-remembered prayers and smoothing back his bald head of sweat and the damp silver hair at the back. His waning heartbeat and shallow breath become my obsessed world. All else recedes, inconsequential. The war, the kingdom's fate, our people's hopes and fears. What matter, if their lord now teeters at death's door? Let me bargain with gods and demons alike if they would but grant him back to me, hale and whole. Just a little more time together, to see our tender newborn joy grow strong.

My own exhausted mind conjures such feverish dreams in the small hours between midnight and dawn. I long for blissful oblivion, but each time my eyes close, bloody images await. My husband's pale, still face won't relent until I rouse enough to feel his feeble pulse still tapping my fingertips. Then we slip back into the half-world between one heartbeat and the next, neither dead nor properly alive.

It seems we languish in that torturous limbo for lifetimes. But finally the day comes when Vamen's eyes open clear and lucid, finding my face like a lifeline. When his cracked lips shape my name, my heart stutters and restarts, flooded by dizzying euphoria. Beneath the blankets, his calloused hand seeks out mine, squeezing gently. I bring his palm to my wet cheek, projecting by touch alone all the roiling emotions my raw voice cannot begin to express. Tears leak from his own eyes to match my own.

The worst has passed. Dawn breaks in truth through the sickroom's narrow window.

CHAPTER13

Iris

I awake to weak sunlight filtering through the frosted window panes. The familiar chill of the castle seems sharper this morning, winter’s bite sank deep into the ancient stones. I burrow deeper beneath the furs, reluctant to leave their warmth. But duty calls as it does each day, mistress of these halls or no.

With a resigned sigh, I peel back the coverings and slide my feet into waiting slippers. A maid must have crept in while I still slept to stir the hearth fires and lay out my clothes. I wash my face in the chilly basin, donning the simple woolen gown. Vamen insists I dress finely now, in keeping with my station. But within our chambers, comfort wins out over formality.

Speaking of my lord husband, his side of the bed lies empty, the sheets long cold. I press a palm to the indentation left by his head. Roused even earlier than I, no doubt to attend the seemingly endless matters of state required to steer our domain. In the months since nearly losing him to an assassin’s blade, Vamen has poured all his legendary tireless vigor into securing lasting stability for his people.

While I admire his dedication, unease pricks at me. He pushes himself relentlessly, allowing scant time for rest or the tender new joy blossoming between us. I know he believes it his duty to rebuild order swiftly, repay his warriors’ loyalty. But still I worry for his health, and the strain I see etching new lines across his brow each passing night. The war won, he cannot surrender himself wholly as a peace offering upon the altar of governance. Rule must leave room for living.

I wrap my fur-lined cloak around my shoulders and make my way slowly down the winding stairs. No savory scents of bread and roasting meat rise from the kitchens yet—it is still early. Perhaps I can surprise Vamen with a private morning meal in his study, give him a needed respite from endless councils and petitioners.

But when I rap softly on the sturdy oak door, no answer stirs within. Further down the corridor, the guards at the council doors shrug when I inquire if the lord has been seen abroad this morning. Mystified, I aimlessly wander the main halls, exchanging greetings with bleary-eyed servants just beginning their daily work. But none know where Vamen might be closeted away. Some matter must have summoned him urgently from our bed well before dawn. But what?

I complete my circuit back to our chambers half-expecting to find Vamen returned. But only ashes fill the hearth, the room still and silent as when I left it. A touch of unease pricks at me. A year ago such unexplained absences meant grave danger encroached on our lands. But the mountain passes have remained calm these long months since war’s end. What urgent task could claim my husband’s focus so early on a bitter winter morn?

With no clear purpose, I find myself drifting toward the winding stairs leading up to the north tower. As children exploring the forgotten corners of the temple, my friend Lena and I would pretend we were princesses imprisoned in a sorcerer’s castle. We would take turns playing the daring hero, climbing endless imaginary stairs to some high parapet where the maiden waited for rescue from monotony.

A wistful smile touches my lips remembering Lena’s dramatic antics and the extra chores our imaginings earned us. I have not thought of her in some time. Doubtless she found a match herself and now brightens some far corner of the realm with her warm spirit. I miss her keenly in my new role, so isolated from the few true confidants I once knew. But the wheel turns as it must. I can only make the most of the thread granted me, and take heart others have found their own happiness.

The winter wind cuts straight through my cloak and gown as I emerge onto the tower roof. I spot no cloaked figure standing vigilant at the crenelated ledge, as my childish fancy half-pictured. With a self-conscious shake of my head I move to turn back—but pause at a familiar bellow drifting up from the courtyard below.

I hurry to the waist-high wall and peer down, breath puffing white. There in the square I spy Vamen in earnest conversation with the stablemaster, their words lost to the wind. He gestures emphatically toward a wagon loaded with timber lengths and a huge pine trunk lashed lengthwise that overhangs the tailgate. I frown, befuddled by this mysteriously urgent load requiring such secrecy this chill dawn. But before I can hail Vamen, he strides off toward the hall’s side entrance, disappearing from view beneath the barbican.

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