Tara wakes with her face pressed against a pillow. She remembers banging her head against it the night before. It’s not that she regrets the decision she made; it would have been too risky … or so says her brain. Her body is frustrated. She’d been so entranced in kissing Lionel that she hadn’t been aware of spinning through the room, and her fingers are still warm, remembering how the point of his ear felt between them.
She groans, hears a knock at the door, and bolts up with a start. She’s still wearing the dress from the night before. She hears another knock, and her heart jumps. Lionel?
Tavende’s voice, muffled by the door, says, “Tara, you must wake up. The queen has sent an escort.”
Tara’s heart settles into a more normal place. “I’m coming,” she calls.
She hears a man’s muffled shout in Elvish. “Where is she?” Someone else says, “Where is the steward? The queen is demanding his presence as well!”
Tara opens the door, briefly sees two elf men in full-on medieval-esque armor, but Tavende scoots quickly in and shuts the door behind her before Tara can get a better look.
The little elf woman blinks. “Lionel isn’t here?”
“Um …” says Tara.
“I haven’t seen him since last night,” says Tavende, not looking angry, just worried.
Tara shrugs helplessly.
Tavende puts her hand over her mouth. “They’re demanding you leave at once.” She whispers earnestly, “But don’t worry, Tara, I won’t let you go alone.”
“The queen will help me get home,” Tara whispers. “Won’t she?”
Tavende tilts her head. “I would expect her to.”
Somehow, that isn’t precisely reassuring. Tara counts down the hours in her head. Friday night in the cell and then the swamp, Saturday night here … it’s Sunday. She probably hasn’t even been missed yet. Well, not much. Her mom has probably texted, but she’s in Mexico, and will be distracted.
“Lean down,” says Tavende, and Tara does without a thought. The little elf woman begins adjusting Tara’s hair. It’s so much like her own mother’s attentions that it makes Tara’s heart hurt.
Finishing up, Tavende grabs her hand and leads her out to the main room. The elves bow to Tara. Straightening, one of them says, “Do you really speak Elvish?”
Tara nods.
“How can that be?” he asks.
“Enchantment,” says Tavende, squeezing Tara’s hand. “She passed through the Delta of Sorrows.”
Tara can’t help noticing that she doesn’t say that it was Lionel’s doing. Does she know?
The elf doesn’t ask. Instead he bows again and says, “Be not afraid, human. We are under orders to deliver you to our queen.”
They don’t say that they’ll take her home, Tara notices. She also notices that they have bows, arrows, swords, and knives.
There are more shouts from outside the house. Tara hears someone say, “Where is the steward?”
The man who spoke indicates the door with a nod. Tavende and Tara walk out into the warm glow of late morning. The village square is filled with horses and men in cream, blue, and gold livery. A man holding the reins of a Palomino bows to Tara. “Madam, this is your mount.”
Tara stares at the horse in dismay. Turning its head, it opens its mouth and plays with its bit, obviously laughing at her. There are some women at the university with horses. One broke her back when the creature “spooked.” Tara’s only ridden a horse at carnivals and she’s never desired more, especially after hearing how easy it is to break one’s back on one. She stares at the saddle. It looks different than the ones she’s used. It’s high in the wrong places. She gulps. “Is that a sidesaddle? Because I don’t ride sidesaddle … or … um … at all.”
There are some chuckles from the men. “The lady doesn’t ride horses!”
Someone else says, “So much for being a Valkyrie.”
Lionel’s voice cuts through the crowded square. “She is the beloved and respected master of a horseless chariot capable of crushing you beneath its wheels at her whim.”
Tavende and Tara both jump. Lionel strides into the square from between two thatched cottages. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he could use a shave. He’s glaring at the men who were teasing Tara. Tara’s eyes flit to the gathered throng. They’re looking at her with wide eyes. The man holding the golden horse shuffles back a step, and even the horse is turning away, as though intimidated.
Her stomach—or maybe her heart—roils. Lionel defended her.
The courtyard erupts in whispers, and someone says, “There are rumors the beasts are self-aware.”
“She must be a magician …”
“Humans can’t be magicians.”
“But their fire sticks …”
“Humans have their own magic.”
A man, wearing garments similar to the ones Lionel had worn when Tara had first met him, squeaks, “Lionel?”
Lionel glares up at the elf. “It’s me.”
A guy in armor, who may be the leader by the amount of gold on him, says, “You are hereby ordered to report to Her Majesty.”
Rubbing his jaw, Lionel says, “I will come with you, but I would like to get Tara a more comfortable saddle.”
The knight with the bling straightens. His mouth opens, but before he speaks, Lionel cuts in. “Think of how upset Her Majesty will be if her human guest falls from the horse and breaks her neck.”
“You may get a different saddle,” says the knight, his horse shifting beneath him.
“Mother, get Tara some breeches and meet us in the barn.” As Tavende darts off, Lionel says, “Tara, please come with me.” Tara eyes the knights and the one retainer, and Lionel giving them all the evil eye. She edges closer to Lionel. He turns on his heel without a backward glance at her and she follows. He looks all kinds of tense. Because of her and last night? The silence as they walk is physically painful. Trying to recapture whatever they had before, Tara chides, “You know, my car—horseless chariot—doesn’t really love and respect me.”
In a dismissive tone she normally associates with Dean Kowalski, Lionel snaps, “Yes, it does. I heard it in its bleep.”
The tone hurts, and the words make her eyebrows jump. Tara sighs and gives up trying to make conversation.
Minutes later, they’re in a barn. Bits of hay catch on rays of sunlight filtering through open windows and sparkle like flecks of gold. There’s a short, plump white horse that snuffles in their direction. In another stall, there’s a giant bird thing with a sort of beak-like face, shiny, iridescent, bright green plumage, and arms instead of wings. The thing leans over the door of its stall and coos in a way eerily reminiscent of the velociraptors. Tara jumps back as a huge pink tongue slips out of its mouth, revealing flattish teeth.
“That’s Henrietta. She’s friendly,” Lionel says by way of explanation.
That's the Henrietta Tavende talked about last night before cutting her hair. Her feathers are beautiful but … Tara's eyes go to the earthen floor, not wanting to lose another beautiful pair of footwear in a Henrietta sized mess. Lionel leads her past the animals to a stall filled with bales of hay, tools, lots of leather bits and pieces, and three saddles, one enormous. Tara blinks. It’s for Henrietta. She glances back at the creature blinking lazily in her direction. The feathers threw her, but … Her lips purse …Is that a duck-billed dinosaur? Weren’t they members of the hadrosaur family? She almost asks, but Lionel looks so angry at the knights, her, the world, or the universe that she decides against it.
He may have defended her honor, or whatever, but he hasn’t looked at her once this morning. He’s putting space between them that’s more than physical, and it twists in her gut and makes her want to scream. She’s stuck in this mess too, and last night … well, it was a mistake, obviously, but he’s over two hundred and he could be grown up about it.
Lionel grabs one of the normal-sized saddles, the muscles in his back bunching beneath his shirt. Instead of lifting, he bows his head. He takes an audible breath. “Tara, last night, when I used your full name … I wasn’t … I was just going to … I wanted you to calm down, but I would have asked for nothing more. It was wrong. Please forgive me.”
Tara feels understanding dawning, and muscles she hadn’t known were tense unwind. Oh. He’s mad at himself. “Thank you for not making me cluck like a chicken,” Tara says, and she means for it to be a joke, but her words sound harsh.
Lionel looks over his shoulder at her. He looks pained, and she has a feeling that she’s missing something. Tavende bursts into the barn, bearing a pile of clothes. “Tara, take the ones on top. Lionel, saddle up Graissor.”
“What?” Lionel says.
“I’m coming with you, of course,” says Tavende. “We can’t let Tara out of our sight among the nobles, not even for a minute.”
Taking a tunic and pair of pants, Tara’s brow furrows at the excessive protectiveness. “I won’t give any of them my full name. Don’t worry.”
Tavende and Lionel make eye contact with one another.
Clutching the clothes to her chest, Tara says, “What am I not getting?”
Rubbing his jaw again, movements jerky, Lionel looks away. Tavende says, “The nobles are stronger than peasants … for the most part.” Her eyes flick to Lionel and back so quickly Tara almost misses it. Focus back on her, Tavende says, “They wouldn’t need your name for their glamour and compulsion to work on a non-magical being.”
Tara feels her skin heat and her jaw go hard. “So they’ll play pranks on the helpless human.”
Looking at the floor, Tavende says, “I wouldn’t worry about the pranks. They can do much worse.” Her expression becomes shuttered. Lionel’s head jerks in his mother’s direction.
Tara’s studies him. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced in the shadows of the barn, and she wonders if he slept. He’s still studiously avoiding looking at her. Tavende’s words swim around in her brain. For the most part, nobles are stronger than peasants. Nobility can do worse than pranks. Lionel’s words jump into the swirling internal stew. I wasn’t … I just was going to … I would have asked for nothing more.
Tara swallows. He wasn’t going to take advantage of her … but … her eyes slide to Tavende, scooting a bit of hay with her toe, eyes downcast. He could have done anything he wanted.
He didn’t.
It doesn’t make Tara feel less afraid.
Sitting astride one of the queen’s chargers, Lionel looks over his shoulder. He sees Tara on the Palomino gelding provided by the queen. His mother rides Graissor, her own fat pony.
He scans the riders about him—three in front, one on either side, and three behind. One catches Lionel’s glance and narrows his eyes. Lionel looks ahead, resisting the urge to scratch his jaw. The escort wouldn’t let him ride with his mother and Tara. He’s grateful for his mother trying to look out for Tara, but it’s cold comfort. Neither of them should be in the palace. His mother isn’t so much more magical than Tara. Even before his transformation, Lionel had more defense in both innate magic and also from his key to the castle.
The queen gave all of her servants who interacted with the nobility something with a magical charge: an apron, boots, a broom—just something to fend off the nobility’s strength of compulsion—so that their whims didn’t interrupt the smooth running of her household. He curses inwardly. He should have given the key to his mother. What was he thinking?
His horse snorts, and Lionel frowns. He was thinking that he couldn’t look Tara in the eye. He used her name to silence her emotions, her spirit, her soul … and thereby proved her in the right, and him not much better than the nobles who toyed with servants like him. The realization kept him up all night, wandering through the fields, leaving plants frost burnt with just his mood. He is a dangerous, twisted thing, not elf, not other, not a peasant, not royalty, and it so disturbs the queen that he is being escorted to the palace by armed guards.
The horses clatter over the bridge of the river that carries the Light Elves’ misspent magics to the Delta of Sorrows. The palace looms ahead upon the top of a low mountain rising above the rolling hills. He blinks. Flags bearing the crest of visiting nobles fly upon the turrets. He sees the house of Lady Benedal, the sister of Lord Beddel and Count Darerick of the Night Elves. Both visits were planned months ago, but he sees the crest of the Light Woods, too. That’s odd. He hasn’t seen the Light Wood nobles since he accidentally slipped through the World Gate to Earth as a child with one of the Light Wood children. He’d told himself at the time he’d been forgiven for breaking the Law because the little girl from the Light Wood noble line had slipped through the gate with him.
What had her name been? He blinks, feeling exhaustion behind his eyes. The adrenaline that has been keeping him awake is fading.
The entourage enters the gates of the main marketplace that encircles the palace at the base of the mountain. Elves dart away from the Queen’s Guard, but he does hear cries of “Another human!” and “Three in as many years … is Ragnarok upon us?” before they charge up the twisting roads that lead up to the palace proper. It’s only minutes, but it seems like hours when they pass through the inner gates of the palace and into the garden reception area. The House of the Light Wood must have just arrived, because the courtyard is still filled with their mounts, groomsmen, and he even sees the lords and ladies of that house milling among the steeds. One of their attendants begins talking hastily with the leader of Lionel’s guard, and the other guards go to cluster around their leader. Taking advantage of the confusion, Lionel dismounts and heads toward Tara and his mother. They’re easy to find. Tara towers over most of the elves. She wears the casual attire of an Einherjar that had stayed at their village not too long ago. A too-large, cream-colored shirt that makes her hair look especially black, and her skin gold, spills open on her shoulders revealing the long, graceful neck he’d caressed with his lips the night before. Remembering makes his blood heat. The shirt’s tucked into a pair of high-waisted brown riding trousers that in turn are tucked into knee-high riding boots. A leather satchel is thrown over her shoulder. She looks athletic, yet feminine. He half expects her to whip out a sword, and finds himself almost smiling at the thought. Tara sees him among the milling horses and waves. She doesn’t look angry, and as he strides toward her, Lionel feels his exhaustion lifting.
He’s only five paces away when a woman, somewhere in the crowd, shouts, “Lionel!”
Lionel wavers on his feet. The afternoon sun, the garden, the noise all disappear and he finds himself standing in a white room with an open door in front of him, blue skies outside. He doesn’t panic; he’s hallucinating again, obviously. He hears Tara’s voice. “Lionel?” And his mother. “Lionel?”
And then he hears the other woman’s voice again. “Lionel!”
He spins. The door slams. Turning back to it, he takes a step forward, blinks, and he’s in the garden again. Tara and his mother are close enough that he can touch them.
From behind him, he hears the other woman say, “Lionel, I’ve found you! I’ve found you!”
His mother’s eyes slide to the side, go wide, and she curtsies low. Expecting a lord or lady, Lionel turns to bow as well. There is a lady of the Light Wood, but before he can bow, she puts out a hand. “No, wait! It is me, Lionel.”
Lionel stares, uncomprehending, at the woman before him. She is over a head shorter than him, with blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, and the lithe delicate frame of his mother’s race. Her riding cloak of gossamer gold is thrown back to reveal a dress of heavy rose silk, with embroidery enchanted to depict a swirling scene of birds and animals. All of her garments hum with magic. He notices the crest of the Light Woods on a ring on her right hand. “I believe you have mistaken me, madam,” he says, preparing once again to bow.
Hand outstretched, she steps close to him and lets her fingertips brush his chest. He stares down at her pale fingers in shock, paralyzed, not sure what he should do. He glances nervously around the garden. Attendants of the palace and knights of the guard are staring with their mouths agape. Ladies don’t touch attendants—not in public anyway. They certainly don’t touch obvious half-breeds.
“It’s me, Lionel … Leenine …” she says again. Pulling back her robe and the sleeve of her dress, she reveals her soulmark. It’s distorted around the edges like his, but clearly depicts two trees that form a natural trellis, their roots connected below and their branches above, just like his. Loud enough for the whole garden to hear, she declares, “You’re my soulmate.”