Page 15

ILSEVEL

Taar falls silent at last. The final words of his sad tale echo in my head, a strange counterpoint to the song his unicorn sings. When I dare look up at him, his face is turned away from me, gazing out into that blackness beyond the glow of Elydark’s protective sphere.

That blackness which rings with un-song.

It’s not like the music of the wild unicorns from across the river. That song was broken, but in its brokenness, the beauty of the song as it had once been remained. This is worse. This darkness, this void. This is the absence of song, of light, of energy, of all that makes existence good or, at the very least, bearable. It is like death without the life which begat it.

But in its center something dwells. Something . . . not living. Existing. An anti-being, a creature of oblivion. And it wants out. It wants through from its world of un-song into this one, ravenous and ready to devour.

I close my eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer. It’s better this way. With my eyes closed, my gods-gift may concentrate on Elydark’s song, on the energetic exchange of soul between the unicorn and its bonded master. This is powerful magic, not something I can truly comprehend, but which I feel with an instinctual understanding as I do all music and instruments. I wish I dared join in . . . but something about this song feels sacred, and I wouldn’t dare. Not with my imperfect understanding and impure heart.

“Neither Tassa nor I would have survived,” Taar says at long last, picking up threads of the story I’d begun to think he’d dropped, “were we not found by the Rocaryn, a tribe of nomadic Licornyn who dwelt on the very outskirts of the kingdom. Only they and a handful of other, similar tribes survived the cataclysm. They lived far enough away from the epicenter, and the darkness did not reach them. They make up the last of the once-great Licornyn nation. They—we—have stayed alive this long by keeping to the fringes, avoiding the worst of thevardimnarwhen it strikes.”

I almost can’t bear to ask the question trembling on my lips. “How often does it come? This darkness?”

I feel him shrug, his arms still wrapped around me. “It is utterly unpredictable. Sometimes days or even weeks will pass without a single event. Sometimes there will be as many as three in a single night. The wisest minds of my people have tried to discern patterns, but none have succeeded.”

“And . . . is it made by the Miphates?”

“I believe the Miphates caused it. I believe they cause it still.”

“How?”

He is silent for a while. I begin to think he will not answer my question. At last, however, he says, “I suspect they are channeling through the Rift—parting veils of reality to access the power of Ashtari, the Seventh Hell. Every time thevardimnarstrikes, I believe they have opened the Rift once more to draw from its depths.”

I open my eyes a crack, peering out at the darkness. “Is this Ashtari then? Surrounding us?”

“Perhaps,” Taar replies. He sounds oddly calm about it, oddly at peace with this proximity to hell. “Or a piece of it.”

The dreadful un-song pulses again, that sense of an entity just on the other side of perception, straining to burst through. Gods above and below, have mercy! How could anyone be foolishenough to open gateways to something so horrible? I knew the Miphates were hungry for power, but this? This is pure lunacy. It would take a madman to think he might control and manipulate such a vast malevolence.

But then I think of the ease with which Artoris summoned that death curse. Would such a man hesitate to grasp at the power of hell itself if he thought he could wield it?

Evisar.The name of the city in Taar’s story rings loud in my head. Evisar Citadel is the name of the mage tower where Artoris studied the magical arts. The very tower to which he intended to return with me in tow when he came to fetch me from the temple. I have always believed it to be one of the Miphates’ many centers of learning and magic, nothing more, nothing less. To know it was once the center of Taar’s kingdom, a kingdom which my own people willfully destroyed . . . what am I supposed to do with such knowledge? What am I supposed to think of these Licornyn, whom I have always viewed as my enemies?

“Who was the mage?” I ask suddenly. “The old one, the one you loathed so much.”

Taar’s lip curls. He speaks the name with disgust, like spitting out a mouthful of poison: “Morthiel.”

My blood runs cold. I know that name. I know Morthiel. He was Artoris’s master, the very mage my father summoned to help when, at fifteen years old, my gods-gift manifested suddenly, and the influx of magic knocked me unconscious. It was Morthiel who drew me back, who awakened me from death-like slumber when no one else could. I remember little of him—cold hands, wrinkled skin, a voice like dry bones. He did something to my gift, something to make it more manageable. I don’t know what; I don’t know if it matters.

I only know I can never let Taar find out.

We are silent together for some while, listening to Elydark’s song. Gods, this darkness truly feels endless! I could easily imagine we’ve been trapped in this place for months, for years.

“Was that Mahra?” I ask quietly after I do not know how long. “The wild unicorn we saw, just before the black lightning struck?”

“I believe so,” Taar replies. “I have seen her a few times since she carried me and my sister to safety. She looks nothing like the creature she was then. But that is whatvelrhoardoes to its victims. To be hearttorn is a terrible fate.”

“And what became of Onoril?” I press, remembering the other great licorneir from the story. “And your father? Did you ever see them again?”

Taar shakes his head. “I do not know. I suspect they died, along with every other soul caught within the radius of that blast.” Then his voice drops an octave, almost like a song, the deep timbre rumbling in my gut. “But one day I will return. One day I will break through the gates and wards, bash down the doors of that citadel, and discover for myself what lies within. One day I will know exactly how and why they have desecrated the land of my forefathers. And when that day comes . . .”

He breathes out slowly before ending with the conviction of a vow: “When that day comes,zylnala,I will have my vengeance.”

I don’t know how long we remain inside that ball of light-song, surrounded by darkness. When it ends at last—vanishing abruptly, like a candle blown out, only in reverse—it feels like hours and, simultaneously, like no time has passed at all. The world around us is once more full of blue sky and waving grass and the deep flow of the river, carrying its secrets from the mountains to some distant, unseen sea.

Elydark and Taar exchange song-words. I feel Taar’s concern for his unicorn, and he reaches around me to stroke the beast’s neck. But Elydark shakes his head as though answering a question. The next moment he surges into the river, continuing our journey as though nothing strange has just taken place. As though my whole world has not been changed forever.