Page 2 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

The gate is still open, Vellar. But it is unstable.

Elydark’s voice sings in my head, wordless and full of meaning. I shade my eyes and look beyond his upraised head to the stretch of baren landscape lying before us. From here, on the edge of the forest, I can just discern the fracturing sliver of unreality that marks the gate from this world back to the Wood Between. It is the same gate Lurodos and I opened when we brought our invasion force through to attack the Temple of Lamruil. It was not built to last; many days old by now, it is on the brink of collapse.

Can we pass through? I sing back to my licorneir, my voice inaudible to all but his spirit. Is it safe enough?

Elydark’s skin ripples like a shudder. He doesn’t fare well in a world like this one, nearly devoid of natural magic. If we do not cross this gate back into a realm more to his liking, he will suffer. Even so only a fool would attempt to cross an unstable portal.

I will know better when we are nearer, he says at last.

With that he sets off at an easy lope across the winter-bare fields, moving with such liquid grace one scarcely feels the beat of his hooves. He is all but invisible beneath the cold light of this sun, but the radiating power of his being generates an impression that tricks the eye into believing it sees more than it does. Used to it as I am, I scarcely notice. But my companion is a little less easy.

“Oh, gods!” Ilsevel gasps, as Elydark breaks into a gallop. She grips the pommel of the saddle with both hands, her body wrung tight with tension. I slip an arm around her waist, pulling her against me. It’s not a conscious thought, merely an impulse to make her feel more secure. I regret it immediately, for the feel of her lithe body between my legs is already a distraction for which I am unprepared. Holding her close like this? It’s almost more than I can bear. I focus on the landscape once more, determined to find something, anything to distract my attention from this new little wife of mine.

Wife . . . The word seems to echo in my chest, warm and strange, almost frightening. If anyone had told me I would return from this campaign with a human bride in tow, I would have laughed in his face and called him a fool! I’m not laughing now. This situation is far from humorous. The velra cord of our marriage ceremony binds us tight. Any degree of separation leaves me exposed to dark magic, as I discovered to my cost.

Elydark covers the ground swiftly, leaving the field behind for a narrow, rutted road. The same road on which I collapsed only yesterday after leaving my new bride behind at a nearby town. Not realizing the danger such separation would pose, I’d ridden off, intending to cross the gate, return to my world, and spend the rest of my life trying not to think of her again.

Instead unchecked virulium poison coursed through my body, overcoming all resistance. I don’t remember much of what happened next, but the violence lingers in the depths of my mind, along with the faint whisper of a voice:

“Give me to drink, Taarthalor. Pour out blood unto me.”

I yank my thoughts roughly back to the present. I am not that man anymore, not prey to the seductive ravages of virulium. But I should never have put myself in that position, never allowed myself to be made vulnerable. Had I known the consequences of the marriage vows I spoke to this woman—had I guessed the symbolic bond of the velra would in fact manifest in such a real, inescapable way—I never would have done it. This woman has not only put my life at risk, but the future of my people as well.

Then again it was she who saved me.

I look down at the dark head before me. She sits astride the broad Licornyn saddle, cradled in my arms. I owe her my life. Were it not for the strange power she bears—the gods-gift, as she named it—I would have succumbed to the virulium in my veins, dying in a last shock of violence and gore. But somehow, impossibly, she mingled her voice with Elydark’s and called me back from the darkness. A feat which even the bravest Licornyn warrior would have struggled to accomplish.

Ilsevel. This fiery, gods-gifted creature, who bears a Licornyn name. And not just any name, but the name of our most sacred flower, the centerpiece of our very culture and way of life. It cannot be coincidence. Surely the gods themselves must have brought us together, intending to join her destiny with the Licornyn people. If that is true, does it explain this inexplicable desire I feel for her? Is it more than just the primal lust of a man for womanly flesh and instead something far more profound?

I grit my teeth into the cold wind blowing in my face. What good is this thinking? Better to face the truth: she bears the name Ilsevel because she is the daughter of my enemy. Some Miphato, perhaps, who traveled to and from Cruor using the mage-paths, liked the sound of the name and carried it back to his homeland to bestow on his offspring. Her name is no coincidence. Neither is it some holy sign. It is the inevitable result of conquest.

I must take care not to forget myself. The next month will be difficult, with the velra trying to make me believe I feel things I could never justly feel for a woman who is all wrong for me. I must not do anything to strengthen whatever bond already exists . . . no matter how great the temptation.

Elydark pulls up short twenty paces from the gate and tosses his head uneasily. I cannot blame him. The air ripples with the dissonance of reality breaking down, falling in on itself. Only the barest trace of structure remains, but through it, I can discern the green shade of the wood on the far side.

Well, Elydark? I ask as my licorneir tears at the earth with a sharp hoof. Do we dare?

He utters a tigerish growl and shakes his horn. Before I can question him further, he springs forward, aiming straight for the middle of that gate. I just have time to pull Ilsevel close against me and shout, “Hold on!”

Then Elydark carries us through that thin veil into the space beyond, and all sense of reality fractures. A weight like the tonnage of eons flattens my soul, dragging it out until it is stretched taut from one world to the next. This is far worse than when we passed through yesterday, and if I had enough assembled being to feel anything, I would think myself a fool for having dared this crossing. As it is I am aware of nothing but flattening and stretching, more and more, until what’s left of me is practically gone.

Abruptly as it began, everything snaps back together in a burst of needle-sharp sensation. I gasp at the pain of newly returned senses, overwhelmed by the greens and grays and golds of the forest around us, by the whisper of wind, the thud of hooves, the smell of pine and oak and birch filling my nostrils. So much experience all packed into a few seconds, I cannot for a moment fathom where or who I am.

Violent retching brings me back to myself. I look down to find Ilsevel, bent in half, vomiting up everything she’s eaten or drunk in the last twenty-four hours. My heart twists with compassion. World-traveling is hard enough on those used to it. Humans haven’t the constitutions for shifting between realities.

“There now, zylnala. ” I hold her hair back as she empties her guts on the ground by Elydark’s prancing hooves. “The tea you drank this morning should steady you.”

“Oh, really?” she gasps, before heaving again. “I’d hate to think . . . where I’d be . . . if I’d not drunk your damnable tea!”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Having her mortal existence stretched across realities hasn’t dampened her spirit.

She sits upright at last and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Can’t believe I ever thought I wanted travel and adventures,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. Then, shaking her head, she straightens her shoulders and assumes that imperious air which I’ve come to realize is her one shield against the perils surrounding her. “Now that I’ve finished making a miserable little idiot of myself, shall we continue?”

A faint vibration, like a chuckle, ripples from Elydark. I never would have believed it possible for my licorneir to develop a liking for a human, but I feel a surge of real affection from him now. He steps into motion, plunging into the depths of the forest. Ilsevel rides well, better than one might expect for someone unused to a licorneir mount. She keeps her back lance-straight, her chin high, her hands resting on but not gripping the pommel. She prefers to touch me as little as possible, and I honor that unspoken wish to the best of my ability.

“Tell me, warlord,” she says, breaking her frigid silence, “do the Licornyn design their saddles with the view of sweeping up maidens and carrying them off in mind?”

I blink, uncertain how to answer this.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she continues, musingly. “If this saddle were designed for a horse, I should either be suffering agonies on the pommel or obliged to bounce along behind, clinging to your back like a barnacle. This is certainly preferable.”

“I’m . . . glad to know you’re not uncomfortable.”

“But do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Make a habit of sweeping maidens off their feet?”

“Not ordinarily, no.”

“But now and then, surely. Just to keep up the practice.”

“Well, one wouldn’t want one’s maiden-sweeping technique to be found wanting when need arose.”

She snorts. It’s not quite the ladylike sound one would expect to accompany such rigid posture. But then this young woman has presented a series of contradictions from the moment I first laid eyes on her. Who is she, exactly? Beyond her name, given with extreme reluctance last night, she has told me very little about herself. I know only that she was traveling on a pilgrimage with her sister when they were caught up in the attack on the temple. Otherwise she is an enigma. A mystery I would like to unravel, if only I dared.

“Ugh.” She shakes her head abruptly. “Why is everything so blurry around the edges? Is it from the gate-crossing?”

I glance briefly at the forest surrounding us. While the path Elydark follows is clear enough, and the trees lining it remain in place, everything beyond gives an unsettling sense of shifting movement that is not found in any other reality. Over the years, I’ve grown used to traveling through Wanfriel, accustomed to the oddities of this particular realm, but it must be very strange to her.

“Don’t strain your sight,” I say when she rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. “We are on a fae path, which leads through many layers of reality at once. If you try to see what lies beyond, you will go mad. Best to look straight ahead or simply close your eyes.”

Rather to my surprise, she opts for the latter. She even rests her head back against my shoulder. My heart lurches at this small act of trust, and when her body relaxes still more, her rod- straight back curving to bend against me, I fight the urge to slip my arm around her waist and pull her closer. My hand, resting on my thigh, curls into a fist instead.

After some while a faint humming catches my attention. At first I think it must be Elydark’s voice. Then I realize I’m hearing it with my ears, not my soul. It is an unexpected sound, similar to a licorneir song, but not made with a licorneir’s voice. Only when it dips suddenly into a lower register do I recognize what I’m hearing: Ilsevel. She’s humming some remnant of the song she and Elydark sang to me last night, when they drew me back from the virulium. It’s so odd to hear such a song made with throat and tongue rather than spirit. Beautiful, though. Strange and beautiful.

As though suddenly realizing what she’s doing, Ilsevel utters a little gasp and sits upright once more. “Don’t stop,” I say, sorry to be deprived not only of the song, but of the sweet warmth and shape of her body against mine. “That was lovely.”

She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin once more, clearing her throat aggressively. As though to drown out even the temptation to sing, she says abruptly, “I thought all the fae forests were burned down long ago.”

Something knots tight in my gut. “That sounds like a story spread by your own King Larongar of Gavaria.”

A little shiver races down her spine. She half-turns her head as though to look back at me but thinks better of it. For a moment she doesn’t speak again, and when she does, she seems to be trying to disguise a tremble in her voice. “Are you saying there are still forests like this in my own world?”

“Yes and no. Your own forests are, by and large, devoid of magic. But there are forests which lie closer to Wanfriel than others, and the Miphates mages would never allow these to be completely destroyed.”

“Why not?”

“It would greatly reduce their access to the quinsatra. ”

“And what is that? The quinsatra?”

I frown, surprised at this question. “The quinsatra is the realm of magic—the plain of reality from which pure magic originates. To access its power, magic must be drawn from that realm into the realm of the user. The farther a world is from the quinsatra, the harder this task becomes. Humans find it incredibly difficult, though Miphates mages have developed some interesting techniques.” I look down at her again curiously but can discern no answers from the back of her head. “Do you not know this? You are possessed of magic, so I would have assumed . . .”

She shrugs. “Gods-gifts aren’t like ordinary magic. I don’t have to draw it or summon it. It is simply in me.”

I nod slowly. “In this regard you are more like the fae. They are born with magic in their blood, so it is always at their fingertips.”

“And do you have such magic in your blood?”

“Some. But I am ibrildian , not fae.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

I chuckle softly, a huff of air through my lips. “Long ago,” I say, falling into a rhythm of recitation learned in a sunlit classroom, back when Master Mitalar, my old tutor, was still determined to make a scholar out of me. “Long ago there was a race of fae who sought refuge from their oppressors in mortal lands. They were not a great or powerful people, but to human eyes they appeared godlike in their glory. As a result humans were pleased to marry their sons and daughters off to the beautiful beings who walked among them, and a new race was born—the ibrildians. Neither human nor fae, but something new. Nornala, Goddess of Unity, was so pleased by this joining of the two races, that she went so far as to create a realm just for them, somewhere between Eledria and the mortal world. So Licorna came into being, and the goddess bade the ibrildian folk spread across it and claim it as theirs.”

Ilsevel mulls over this information. “And the . . . your licorneir?” she asks, stumbling a little over the word. “Do they originate from the same realm?”

I draw in a long breath. The question is simple enough, but not the answer. The great mystery and miracle of the licorneir is hard to encapsulate in mere words, particularly not in this language, which does not boast the depth of meaning found in my native tongue.

“At the dawn of the new world,” I say at last, falling again into that same, rhythmic tone, “Nornala looked upon the land she had made and saw that it was good for her Star Children to inhabit. Not so close to the quinsatra that they might grow swollen with power, but not so far from it that they might become starved and vicious.

“So the goddess sent Onoril and Mahra, Father and Mother of all licorneir. They are, like the wild unicorns of Wanfriel, fiery creatures by nature. It is said that Onoril and Mahra carry the souls of stars in their hearts. But unlike unicorns, the licorneir were blessed by Nornala with the velra gift—the ability to bond. Those of my people who prove worthy present themselves when they come of age as candidates for the velarin . Not all are chosen,” I add, reaching around Ilsevel to stroke Elydark’s shoulder. “The licorneir can be selective.”

Elydark tosses his head and utters songful laughter. He remembers as well as I the moment of my presentation. The gawky, frightened, but determined man-to-be that I was, desperate to prove myself worthy to this ancient being of light and song and power. An impossible task . . . and yet he must have seen something of promise in me.

“When a rider’s soul is ready to bond,” I continue, “the licorneir will share its name. I first heard Elydark’s name sung in my head on the shores of the Morrona River when I was but sixteen years of age. It is, of course, a challenge to translate into sounds made with the tongue— Elydark is merely an approximation of the true name, which only I possess.”

She nods slowly, taking in all that I have shared. “When I first saw the licorneir,” she says after a time, “that night during the battle, they were ablaze.”

“Yes. The starfire inherited from Onoril and Mahra burns in the soul of each beast. When they go into battle, that fire erupts and reveals the true nature of what to us appears as mere flesh and bone. Only a rider soul-bonded to his mount can survive that fire and become one with it.”

Even as I speak these last words, the trees around us suddenly give way to open country stretching endlessly to either side. Before us lies a great wall of mist, with only a cliff’s edge of stone lying between us and it. Below is a vertiginous drop into nothing.

“Ah!” I say, as Elydark comes to a halt. “We are near the Cruor gate now.”

“Gate?” Ilsevel grips a handful of Elydark’s mane as she looks this way and that. “Where?” I point to our right. She turns, and I hear an inhale of horror as she spies, not more than a few yards away, a painfully narrow bridge extending out over that emptiness before vanishing into the mist. “That doesn’t look like a gate to me,” she protests weakly.

“Of course not.” I turn Elydark’s head and urge him along the cliff’s edge toward that swaying bit of rope and wood planking. “We can’t have just anyone wandering out of Wanfriel into Cruor. Most gates in the Wood are disguised to look like anything other than what they are. One must either be in on the secret or have an expert nose for sniffing out such magic.”

She makes a few little gulping sounds of protest but ultimately stifles them behind her hand. It’s just as well. Like it or not, this is our only way through to that world, and while I am loath to see Cruor again, I have been too long away from the Hidden City. It is time to return home.

Elydark stops suddenly, ears pinned back. He bows his head, lowering his horn into a defensive position. What is it? I demand.

I sense something, he sings back to me, his voice troubled. I sense . . . someone . . .

Who? I look over his bowed head. Could it be that Kildorath, Ashika, and the others failed to honor my command and wait for me at the Luin Stone? Have they gathered by the gate instead, determined not to cross over without their luinar?

But Elydark shakes his head roughly, and a ripple of fear flows from his soul to mine. Then he speaks the last name I either want or expect to hear:

Shanaera.