Page 10 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

The next day we ride on in silence.

I try my best not to think about what took place between us last night, that moment of almost-connection which would have spelled certain disaster. Gods spare me, why am I even now so tempted? Her revelations concerning her connection to Mage Artoris should have doused any desire I might feel for her. Instead it seems only to have fanned the flames.

Perhaps it’s not desire burning inside me but morbid curiosity. There’s still so much I do not know. How she came to be intimately acquainted with a man like Mage Artoris, for instance. Or why she felt compelled to write to him, asking him to run away with her. Run away from what? Or from whom?

So many questions, none of which I dare ask for fear the answers will sharpen these feelings which I must, at all costs, suppress. I set my teeth hard and keep my eyes turned to the west as Elydark pursues his morning shadow across the Morleon Plains, leaving behind the Luin Stone and the empty ruins of Uvareth City. By late morning, we enter Lafarallin, a sprawling forest of hardwoods, grown over uneven terrain. It is an eerie place, emptied of all life as it is. Even the trees seem but half-living things: still growing, still putting out green leaves to the sun, but somehow lesser than they once were. The vital spirit which once infused them has been sucked dry. Once upon a time, my father would take parties hunting in this wood for sport; he’d promised to take me with him when I was old enough.

There is no sport to be had here now. No leokas deer bounding, no wild hogs ready for battle, no sleek foxes slyly eluding the dogs’ noses. Anything that survived the first fall of vardimnar twenty-five years ago, either died in subsequent surges or fled to the fringes of this world. Like my own people.

By midday we come to a stream. Elydark, who has been singularly focused on his run for hours, comes to a sudden halt, his forefeet splashing in the water. It is time to rest, Vellar, he sings into my head.

Surely you are not tired, my friend, I respond, half-joking. I’ve known my licorneir to gallop a full day and half the night and still be fresh to run again the following morning.

Not I, but your bride. She is parched. I fear she cannot go on much longer without refreshment.

Guilt stabs my chest. I’m so used to long rides across Cruor, the urgent need to cover as much ground as possible governing all other concerns. And I’ve never had to concern myself with the realities of human frailty before. I look down at Ilsevel, huddled on the saddle before me, her head bent at an angle. “Shall we stop here, zylnala?”

I ask gently. “You look ready to drop.”

She shakes her head and straightens at once. “Ride on if you like, warlord. I’m fine.”

That word again, spoken with such ferocity: fine. I know better than to believe her.

Without bothering to argue, I swing down from the saddle then turn to reach for her. Ilsevel presses her lips in a hard line, her shadow-ringed eyes narrowing. Weary though she is, she still sparks with defiance. I say nothing but beckon gently with my fingers. With a little sniff, she rests her hands on my shoulders, allowing me to ease her down from Elydark’s back. Strange how that gentle pressure, the slight digging in of her slim fingers, has become familiar to me already.

The moment her feet are on the ground, she steps back from me, staggering a little. Quickly she pulls herself upright, chin high, gaze lowered. No moments of lingering closeness this time. I tell myself I’m not disappointed. For the most part I believe it.

Ilsevel takes a few steps toward the stream, kneels, and moves as though to cup water in her hand. “Don’t drink that!”

I say hastily, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

She looks back at me, her expression cold. I fetch a cup and a pouch from the saddlebags then move to crouch beside her. First scooping a cupful of flowing water, I shake the contents of the pouch into it. A fine dusting of purple powder disperses in the water and sinks to the bottom where it rests for some moments.

“The waters of Cruor are corrupted,”

I say and angle the cup for Ilsevel to see what takes place inside. “They’re unsafe to drink without purification.”

With those words, I swirl the liquid, creating a little maelstrom. When the water stills again, the dust has floated to the surface, no longer purple, but blackened and slimy.

Ilsevel sucks in a breath, her lip curling with disgust. That expression doesn’t fade, even when I have used my knife to scrape out and discard that film before offering the cup to her. “Here,”

I say. “Drink.”

Her fingers reach for the cup, her expression wary. “Is it . . . safe now?”

I nod. “The petals of the ilsevel blossom are infused with magic drawn straight from the Goddess Nornala’s realm. Their powdered form is strong enough to purify even the corruption of Ashtari.”

Her gaze flicks to meet mine at that word: ilsevel. I wonder if she will question it. Instead, however, she merely bites her lip before lifting the cup to take a tentative sip. Her eyes widen with surprise, and she takes another, larger swallow, then drains the whole cup in a last draught. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she casts me an embarrassed look. “That was . . .”

“Refreshing?”

I suggest with a half-smile. She nods. “It’s best not to drink more,”

I continue, answering the question I can see bubbling on her tongue. “The ilsevel blossom is not meant for mortal consumption, and even ibrildians must partake of it with caution. They were sent by Nornala to this world as sustenance for her children, the licorneir.”

Ilsevel looks into her empty cup, her expression thoughtful. “Truth is, I’m not thirsty anymore. It’s just that . . .”

“I understand.”

Gently I take the cup from her fingers. “Water purified by ilsevel blossoms is more quenching than ordinary water. But it can leave one with a sense of yearning. It will not harm you in small doses, but it is best not to indulge.”

I refill the cup, purify the contents, and drink for myself, savoring the sweetness of the ilsevel-blessed water. Longing seems to rise and fill my chest cavity as well, though not a longing for water, I think. I’m used to that desire and long ago learned to regulate it.

But there’s something sweet about sitting here by this stream with Ilsevel. Though I know the forest is far from idyllic, these waters dangerously corrupted, it’s easy to imagine all that away. To believe we’ve chosen to spend this time together, venturing into Lafarallin on a pleasure ride, reclining beside this stream for the pure joy of sheltering shade and each other’s company. My gaze, almost against my own will, strays to her lovely face, losing itself in the subtle details of her dark brows, the curve of her cheek, the soft plumpness of her lip even fixed in that stern line. What would it be like to see that mouth softened into a smile, bright and spontaneous? A devastating sight, no doubt. But I’m uncertain a man like me, hardened by war and loss, possesses the means to inspire such a thing.

“Do you think we’ll catch up to your people soon?”

Ilsevel asks abruptly.

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 my maelar. We were to take the velra binding, 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 a velrhoar. They go mad with grief.”

“Can they not bond to another rider?”

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

Once more Shanaera’s face fills my mind. Though we never formed our velarin, 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 the vardimnar may 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.

“What?”

“The undead,”

she persists. “How do they travel across Cruor without unicorns?”

An intelligent question, one which I have been puzzling over all this while. Without the song of the licorneir to protect them, all living things are imperiled in Cruor. What about unliving things? Surely the dead may travel at will across the land without risk from the vardimnar. But are they on foot? They rode horses in the mortal world, but horses would be at terrible risk in the wilds of this world.

“I don’t know,”

I answer at last. One more mystery to add to my collection. But this one I’m not keen to discover.

It’s nearly evening by the time we come to the end of Lafarallin Forest and emerge into open country once more. Before us lies the Agandaur Fields, a stretch of farm country, once rolling and green and carefully tilled. Those days are long gone, however.

Elydark comes to a halt on the edge of the tree line, shaking his head uncomfortably. I don’t blame him. Though we have many times looked upon this sight, it is always a shock to see it again.

“What is that?”

Ilsevel gasps, interrupting a silence which she has maintained for some hours now.

I stare grimly ahead. Blighted land stretches before us for mile upon mile. A haze of simmering, broken magic still hovers a few feet above the ground, the remnants of Miphates spells from when battle raged here between the united Licornyn tribes and our human invaders. It had taken many years to bring the chieftains together, to convince them of my right to rule and my worth as warlord and king. But when they at last amassed for battle, it was an awesome sight to behold. We thought that day to break through the obscuris spell, which has stood as a shield around Evisar since the time of the Rift. A valiant effort for which we gave up many lives.

The dead have all been cleared away, their remains picked over, their blood soaked into the ground. But somehow death still lingers in Agandaur. And beyond the fields, some five miles from our current position, rises the obscuris, as strong as ever it was.

It is a great wall of spellwork. To physical eyes it appears as a mist, multi-colored and churning with power. But that vision does not begin to encapsulate the horror of spirit its presence, even at five miles’ distance, inspires. It is meant to cloud, confuse, and ultimately to terrify all who draw near. Any who summoned courage enough to ride their licorneir into its depths have never been heard from again.

Ilsevel stares at it now. Recoiling in horror, she forgets all resistance to my touch and presses her back against my chest. “It is Miphates work,”

I say, my voice low, as though even from here we might be overheard. “Fed directly from the Rift, or so I suspect. Otherwise I don’t know how mere mortal mages could maintain such a working over so many years. It was erected soon after the first vardimnar, to prevent repercussions from the surviving Licornyn warlords. Now the mages rarely travel beyond it, and when they do, they use that.”

I point to a series of pillars, emerging from the churning mist-spell. They are ten feet high, carved in five smooth, flat faces, tapered to a sharp point. Incongruous in this desolate place, they stand in pairs at twenty-yard intervals, extending across the field and vanishing over the horizon. At the moment, the stone is dull and cold beneath the twilight. But I have seen them glow bright as licorneir song when the vardimnar falls.

“That is how the mage’s travel across Cruor,”

I say. “They are powered by some magic which acts like a protection, not unlike the song of the licorneir. How they’ve managed it, I do not know. It’s not as effective—mages have been known to be plucked right off their paths when the vardimnar falls. Still, neither I nor any of my people have been able to destroy those pillars. If we could break the Miphates’ access to their own world—to reinforcements and supplies from the outside—maybe we’d have a chance to drive them from Cruor once and for all. But so far, the gods have not been on our side.”

Ilsevel is very still, taking in what I say. I wonder how she receives these stories of my people’s suffering and our hatred for her kind. She’s been raised on stories of her own, after all, stories which no doubt contradict all that I now say. Does she believe me? Or does she prefer to cling to the narratives spun for her since childhood? I don’t know what I would do in her place.

Elydark moves forward at a more sedate pace. He is not eager to return to Agandaur, though he knows this is our swiftest route home. We both share far too many dreadful memories of this place. I wish I could urge him to greater speed, but there’s something watchful and careful simmering in his spirit which I cannot ignore. There may be danger close by. I trust him to alert me if necessary.

“The other night,”

Ilsevel says suddenly, “when we . . . when we first met.”

Heat rushes in my pulse at the reminder of that night and all that took place between us. I suppress it and answer with grave coolness, “Yes?”

“You said your people were hunting Mage Artoris in search of a talisman. One that would open the secret paths to Evisar.”

Gods spare me, I made free with my tongue in more ways than one that night! Of course I’d thought she would be out of my life by the following morning, never to be seen or thought of again. If I’d suspected the hold the velra would have on us, I never would have revealed such things to her.

“Yes,”

I say. What’s the point of denying it? It’s not as though she’s free to go betraying any secrets to my enemies. “Prince Ruvaen has taken captive Miphates, and he is motivated to convince them to reveal the secret workings of the talisman. If he succeeds, we should be able to travel through the obscuris at last, or even break it entirely.”

And then, Nornala willing, we will set upon Evisar. With the combined might of the Licornyn riders and Ruvaen’s mercenaries, the assault should be devastating indeed. The Miphates may have driven us back at Agandaur, but their losses were severe, and they have not been able to rebuild their force in the three years following. Once we are through that spell, they will be vulnerable. Unless . . .

The Shadow King.

His name is like darkness itself falling across my soul. Word reached us not long ago that Larongar Cyhorn intended to ally himself with the troldefolk, arranging a marriage between the Shadow King and his own daughter. All attempts on our part to prevent this match have proven futile. If the alliance goes through, if the trolde join with the Miphates in defense of Evisar, it could go very badly for my people.

I shake my head, disgusted. How any race of Eledria, even the reclusive and enigmatic troldefolk, could ally themselves with humans is beyond my understanding. What could Larongar possibly have to entice someone as powerful as the Shadow King?

Vellar, Elydark’s voice sings sharply in my head. Vellar, I sense something.

My licorneir’s caution has shifted to distress, a painful line of song. What is it? I ask, reaching down to touch his shoulder. What is wrong?

Shanaera has been here.

A jolt of pure lightning goes through my body. Every sense in me is awake, searching, straining for some sign of Shanaera or a stray glimpse of crimson cloaks. Elydark slows. She is gone from this place now, he says, but I don’t believe him. I can’t.

Viciously I urge my licorneir into a gallop, speeding across the broken landscape of Agandaur. Some instinct drives me to a certain hillock, hardly distinguishable from the rest of the countryside around it. It was there that I held Shanaera’s body as she bled out in black rivulets. It was there that her death was seared across my conscience, my very soul, for a lifetime. I would find it even in the utter dark of vardimnar.

But she isn’t there. The world around me is barren of life as far as the eye can see. Only there is something—something jutting from the top of that hillock, directly in that place where I’d knelt with her in my arms. Left there like a signal flag.

Elydark shakes his head, uneager to draw nearer. I do not try to force him. Slipping from the saddle, I land hard on the ground and first stagger, then run, up the incline to that place of death and memory.

A sword protrudes from the ground. A Licornyn sword, planted in the dirt, blade down. The hilt is wrapped in leather but decorated with a swath of tablet weaving in a pattern and colors I immediately recognize. I know whose sword this is.

“Kildorath,”

I whisper.

Shanaera’s brother rode with me even after the death of his sister, his loyalty unquestionable. He was with me for this recent venture into the human world and did not hesitate to voice his fury when I returned to our camp at the Grimspire, a human bride in tow. But he obeyed me when I sent him and the others ahead through the gate.

I take hold of the sword, draw it from the earth. It shows no sign of either bloodstain, which means it saw no battle before it was placed here. Neither is there any trace of rust. Whoever planted it did so not long ago, perhaps earlier this very day. I spin in place, searching the earth around me for signs of what took place. There’s been a struggle here—skid-marks and muddled footprints, all partially covered by wind and debris, just visible to my trained eye.

Then I spy it: a scrap of crimson fabric. Cut from a cloak and left discarded. Stained with old, dried blood.

Elydark, I sing out in spirit, even as my jaw remains clenched tight. Our people were here. They were attacked by—

A sudden squeal splits the air. I pivot in shock to see Elydark reared up on his hind legs, Ilsevel clinging desperately to his back. My licorneir comes down hard, hooves tearing into turf, and immediately turns his head about and sets off at a gallop.

“Elydark!”

I shout, both aloud and along our soul-thread. My body lurches into motion, taking several swift-running steps. Then pain shoots along the velra cord, up my arm to explode in the back of my head. I gasp, stagger, suddenly overcome with weakness.

The world around me spins, and I drop to my knees.