C.E. Murphy - Truthseeker

Lara, through her teeth, had said, “But I disrupt your greater magics,” and Emyr had given her a beneficent smile that managed to be a falsehood all on its own.

“And so you must be as far from me as possible, and you will be of the most potential use at Dafydd’s side.”

It was almost immediately after that that he’d bespelled her to sleep.

Dafydd hadn’t forced the point again, had only squeezed her calf—she could tell from the scrape of metal against metal, rather than feeling pressure—and mounted his own horse, leaving her to frown at his shoulders and wait for the signal to ride.

It came with the clarion sound of horns, both in truth and in her mind. She had never imagined there might be a purity in riding to war, but the music of the calling horns told her there was. They lifted her, tightening her chest with anticipation, even enthusiasm, and brought unexpected fierce tears to her eyes. It was the being part of something that did it, she thought: the purposefulness of their actions becoming larger than any one rider. For a brief, bewildering moment she felt connected to a legacy older than history.

Then her horse surged forward and she flailed, keeping in the saddle only through the spell that stuck her there. Anticipation failed in the face of panic and horror. She was human, and this wasn’t her fight, even if she’d known anything about making war.

The avenue outside the citadel broadened as the Seelie army thundered out, widening to encompass the breadth of their front lines. The forest itself receded, responding to their need, and there were suddenly miles of clear land before them, leading down into the heart of valleys Lara hadn’t even known existed. In the far distance she could see a dark wavering mass: the Unseelie army, for now nothing more than a blot on the land.

The sun jolted through the sky, rising too fast and making the time it took to reach the Unseelie army shockingly brief. Certainly briefer than the speed of armored horses could allow for, and Lara thought of Dafydd’s explanation that the beasts took the easiest route, one that somehow slipped through the edges of time. In a way, it was good: it gave her less time to think, less time to be afraid. She couldn’t reach exhilaration again, not even with the sound of hooves pounding and armor rattling in her ears. It needed a sound track. She had never seen anything like what she participated in now except in film, with rising music to bring the audience where the director wanted.

That idea sustained her until they crashed relentlessly into the Unseelie front lines.

The heat was terrible. The sun hadn’t yet reached its zenith, but bodies and horses were already wet with sweat. Lara’s breath came hard, tightness squeezing her chest so each gasp felt like it brought too little air to her lungs. Dafydd had left her buried in a contingent of men and women whose duty was to protect her, and had surged ahead, Aerin at his side, to meet the enemy. A lunatic part of Lara resented that: she wanted to be where the Seelie woman was, fighting as Dafydd’s equal, though she knew perfectly well that in this matter, she was not.

He moved like he’d been born to the sword; like he knew the mechanics of fighting as well as he knew the act of breathing. Aerin was faster yet, smoother and more certain with her blade. Through flying dirt and blood and the surge of bodies, Lara saw the white-haired woman cast a concerned glance at Dafydd.

That, Lara thought, was entirely unfair. It had been a century, in all likelihood, since Dafydd had worked with a sword. Even immortals must lose their edge, if they had no need or chance to practice. She fought off the urge to press closer to Dafydd, to scold Aerin for her disapproval, not that she had a chance of breaking through the tightly bunched guards around her.

They moved even more beautifully than Dafydd did, if she could ignore the results of their actions. There were never fewer than two on all sides of her, though she could tell the riders and horses shifted places as black-armored Unseelie rode against them. Lara clutched a sword in her hand, feeling absurd, but there was no chance of using it as her guards’ blades glittered and darkened in the sunlight. For whole minutes at a time she was aware of nothing but them, of nothing but trying to stay in their midst.

Dafydd was closer than she expected, when a moment’s lull in the battle gave her a chance to look up. His face was pulled in a grimace, worse even than the weariness beginning to mark her guard. For a few long seconds she was arrested by him, watching without care to the resurgence in fighting surrounding her.

There was a thickness in his body, a deadly slowness and weight to his arms. Even Lara, who knew nothing at all of fighting, could see that attacks he should have blocked scraped off his armor. Frustration contorted his features, and he lifted his gaze to catch hers across the field. Relief shattered across his face and he wheeled his horse toward her, abruptly moving against the tide of battle.

The weight came off him, his sword arm moving more easily, and a vicious joy lit his eyes. Lara saw herself through his eyes, stiff and awkward on her horse, holding an unfamiliar sword in an iron grip, and could hardly blame him for riding to her side. Maybe truthseekers of legend could make a reality in which they remained safe through their will alone, but she had nothing of that power.

Aerin crashed into Dafydd, her teeth bared as she jerked her chin at the black-clad warriors around them. The command couldn’t have been clearer if she’d spoken it in words: pay attention! Lara’s spate of envy at their shared battle skill, at Aerin’s ability to fight at Dafydd’s side, faded. She, truthfully, wanted to be safe and protected. Aerin’s strength in battle was admirable, not enviable.

Dafydd drew up, bewilderment etched across his face before he shook himself hard and nodded. Then he urged his horse forward again, toward Lara again, instead of back into fighting.

Aerin shouted loudly enough to be heard over the general noise, and cuffed him alongside the head. Armor or no, he swayed, and Aerin grabbed his horse’s bridle to haul the animal around, forcing Dafydd to face the Unseelie troops. He hesitated, and Aerin, clearly irritated, slapped his horse’s hindquarters and sent it leaping forward into battle.

One stride, no more. Then he pulled it around again, pushing himself back toward Lara, but now an expression of rage and fear strained his features. Lara heard panic strengthen his shout, and saw the name he cried was Aerin’s, not her own. And despite the need to reverse herself, despite the press of men, despite swords clashing and metal ringing all around them, Aerin was at his side in an instant.

He handed her his reins in an ungainly motion and spoke, words drowned out by distance and noise, but the tension in his body said speech wasn’t easy.

Aerin’s head came up and she shot Lara a sharp look across the field, then came back to Dafydd with an expression darker than Lara had ever seen. Nerves turned Lara’s stomach to a writhing mass and she urged her horse forward, forgetting the battle, forgetting danger. Her guard slowed her and she shouted wordless frustration, sound lost to cacophany.

She was still an impossible distance away when Aerin knocked Dafydd’s sword from his hands and severed his horse’s reins with her own blade. Lara, gaping, watched helplessly as Aerin wrapped the long strips of leather around Dafydd’s wrists, and leaned forward to speak in the Seelie prince’s ear.

He knotted his fingers in his horse’s mane and hauled it around to drive it forward with a kick.

Forward, into the heart of the Unseelie army.

“Dafydd!”