Page 73

As the words fall from my lips, I lower my gaze back to Ilsevel, searching the scorched flesh for any sign of her features. Her eyes are closed, or perhaps she has no eyes anymore. There’s so little of her left. But it seems to me that her brow is furrowed in that same, stern knot I’ve seen so many times.

Larongar’s daughter.

Gods-damn me!

More questions tumble through my brain, every almost-answer only adding to my overall confusion. But I shake my head, let the tumult still. Of one thing I am certain: She is Ilsevel. My enemy. Myzylnala.The bane of my existence, the torment of my sanity. The woman for whom I have surrendered everything of worth in my life.

And I know—in a moment of terrible clarity—that I would do it all again.

Is this thevelrabond driving me still? Maybe. But I don’t care. If this feeling inside is nothing more than magic compulsion, it’s so entangled with my own heart, I can’t tell the difference anymore. There was no compulsion when I bought her in that auction. When I took her before the young priest, offered my arm for the marriage cord, and willingly spoke those vows. Reasons, circumstances, feeble excuses, none of those matter.

I chose her. And, if the gods will be kind to me just this once, I will choose her again now.

“Let me heal her.” I lift my gaze to meet Shanaera’s gaze. “You will have both your prize and my submission. What more could you ask?”

She snarls, flashing rot-stained teeth. “And if you fail?”

I can’t fail. I won’t.

“I’ll surrender even so. You have my oath.”

“Your oath means nothing.” She spits the words, full of poison, full of pain. For an instant those death-glazed eyes of hers clear, and I see again the snapping light of the Shanaera I know gazing out from that rotten skull. I see her fury, her pain, her betrayal. I see the woman I loved, the woman to whom I promised my heart. What must it be like for her to see me like this, with my arms around another, begging for her life?

I draw a long breath. “You want Morthiel’s prize undamaged, don’t you?”

“I don’t give ashakhabout Morthiel.”

I must tread carefully. There is madness in her gaze. She has nothing left to lose, while I have everything. My very heart lies here in my arms, struggling to breathe through fire-seared lungs.

“Whatever you want from me, Shanaera,” I say. “That is the price I will pay. Whatever you want. My death, my life, my body. What you ask of me, I will do. I won’t fight you, I won’t resist. You may slay me where I stand and carry my corpse back to your masters to be remade.”

The words are anathema. To become like her, a slave of the Miphates? A weapon turned against my own people? There is no worse fate for me. But if it’s the only way to save Ilsevel . . .

Shanaera’s eyes are dead once more. Dead and calculating and cruel. “What of your licorneir?” she asks, flicking a glance at Elydark, who stands still by my shoulder.

I cannot speak for him. Though we are bonded, his life and soul belong to no one but himself. I sing my uncertainty into his heart. He looks back at me, a world of sorrow contained in his solemn eyes.If we give ourselves over to her, she will kill us. And worse.

Then I will release you,I say.I will end our bond, and you can flee this place.

A furious note vibrates through our soul-tether. Elydark shakes his head, and fire leaps to his eyes.Do not say such things, Vellar! I would rather be undead than torn from our bond.He sighs then and turns his great head to gaze out at the eastern horizon and the rising sun. He seems to peer into a far world, perhaps the heaven of his spirit’s origin. A heaven he will never again see if he chooses to follow me into hell.

I will help you heal your Ilsevel, if I can,he says at last, the wordless song layered with meaning beyond mere language.And I will submit.

Tears stream down my face. I do not know when they started, nor can I recall the last time I wept. But I nod, accepting his sacrifice. Whatever fate lies before us, we will march toward it together, as we have always done.

I turn to Shanaera. “He will not fight you.”

Her nostrils flare. She is silent for some time, studying me, studying my licorneir. I feel the precious moments slipping away, feel Ilsevel’s life force growing fainter, fainter.

“Very well,” Shanaera says at last, and motions to her people to stand back and give us room. The crimson cloaks, their burnt flesh already repaired, stand in silent witness, their dead eyes expressionless as they watch me lay my wife out on the charred ground. Every little movement causes her more pain. A terrible moan rasps in her throat. The sound is like a knife to my heart.

What do I do, Elydark?I look up at my licorneir again. I have sung healing songs before, the last time on my wedding night, when I channeled Elydark’s power from a distance to knit a small cut on my bride’s hand. This is different, a daunting task far beyond anything I’ve attempted.

Follow my lead, Vellar.Elydark touches his horn to her heart.Sing with me.

His voice in my head begins to move, to swell, growing in layers of increased complexity. I see colors in my head, far more brilliant and multitudinous than any sights of this world. Closing my eyes, I press my hand to Ilsevel’s chest, beside Elydark’s horn. I rest my other hand on the licorneir’s cheek and let my soul sink into the bright depths of our bond.

His fire leaps from him to me, covering us both in a sheen of flame. I feel our twin souls united, feel my own power linked with his, becoming something greater and more complete in the joining. I open my lips and let song pour forth untamed. My rough voice, mingled with his glory, becomes something beautiful, a channel of heavenly magic.