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Her question works like a counter-spell, breaking the enchantment of the moment. “It’s impossible to say,” I answer, and turn away from her to gaze across the stream into the forest beyond. There’s no distinct path through these trees, but Elydark has been making his way with purpose, following a course even I cannot discern. “We have no way of knowing how far behind them we are or if they took this same route. I hope to meet them before we reach the hinterlands, but it may be our paths do not join until much closer to the Hidden City.”

She takes this in. “And what of the undead?”

The warmth of the moment, the idle fantasy of calm, vanishes as though before an icy gale. I force myself to meet her gaze again. “What of them?”

“They’re out here somewhere, aren’t they? That’s what those three at the gate yesterday said. That someone is looking for you.”

I nod.

“Shanaera.”

The sound of that name, pronounced inexpertly on Ilsevel’s lips, sends a shudder down my spine. But I say only, “Yes. I believe she is here in Cruor, somewhere. And she is searching for me.”

“Was she . . . important to you?”

I hesitate. But what is the use of keeping such a secret? I have nothing to hide, nothing of which to feel ashamed.

“She was promised to be mymaelar. We were to take thevelrabinding, speak the vows, and be made husband and wife.”

There’s a stillness in the air, a tension not present mere moments ago. I find myself suddenly aware of the trickling water over stones and the soft vibration of Elydark’s ongoing song emanating from where he stands a little downstream. From Ilsevel there is nothing. Not even a breath.

Then: “What happened to her?”

That is not a story I’m prepared to tell. It’s too much, too vulnerable, and Ilsevel, though my legal bride, has no right to hear it. “She died,” I say simply. “I was unable to reclaim her body.”

She nods. If she realizes I’m not telling the whole truth, she gives no sign. That stern mouth of hers parts slightly, letting out a tightly held breath. “You think . . .” She pauses, then, “You think the death mages . . .”

“I don’t know what to think.” I turn away from her. “For all I know this is some Miphates trick, an illusion.” Even as I speak the words, I know them to be false. I’ve got Shanaera’s ring—my mother’s ring—tucked into my belt. I feel it there, burning against my skin; evidence of a truth I do not want to face.

Once more I fix my gaze on the far forest, all its endless, intertwining shadows. It seems to me as though I’m seeing a prophetic glimpse of my life: the twisted enigmas, unanswerable questions, and unavoidable catastrophes. Somehow I’m supposed to make sense of it, to bring order to this chaos and healing to this land. It is more than any one man may hope to accomplish, even with a licorneir at his side. And yet what choice have I but to keep on striving, seeking, fighting, until the last of my life is wrung from my body?

“What happened to their unicorns?”

I lift a brow, cast Ilsevel a short look.

“The undead we saw.” She plucks a piece of grass, twining it around her fingers absently. “You said that one man . . . Ilanthor?”

“Yes.”

“You said his unicorn, Ulathyra, was hearttorn when he died. What happened to her?”

“Attempts were made to recover all the hearttorn licorneir who survived the battle of Agandaur Fields. Some were found and slain.”

“Slain?”

“Yes.” The hard truth is heavy on my lips. “In most cases it is the only merciful thing to be done with avelrhoar. They go mad with grief.”

“Can they not bond to another rider?”

“Not often. It is rare that something so sacred as thevelrabond can be formed anew.”

Once more Shanaera’s face fills my mind. Though we never formed ourvelarin, the intention was there between us for many years. And now here I sit with a stranger, my forearm tense, aware of the tightness of the invisible cord drawing me ever closer to her. How could I even begin to think of sharing such a bond with someone else? Particularly with a woman not of my people, who doesn’t know our ways or honor our most sacred traditions.

I cannot stay here a moment longer. Rising abruptly, I look down at Ilsevel, still seated there by the water, that bit of grass wrapped around her fingers. “We have far to go before day’s end,” I say, “and we do not know when thevardimnarmay strike. It’s best we keep going.”

I resist the urge to offer her my hand. She rises on her own, brushing bits of grass and debris from her skirts, and silently steps over to where Elydark waits for us. I lift her into the saddle and mount behind, careful to touch her as little as possible. Elydark splashes across the stream and falls into a steady lope on the far side, weaving through trees and shadows as gracefully as a breeze.

“How do they travel?” Ilsevel says suddenly, tossing the words back over her shoulder.