Page 20 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

Once there were many Holy Houses standing on high promontories across Licorna—pale stone structures, domed and graceful, from which the spirit of Nornala poured forth into our world. There my people gathered for worship on hallowed nights, beneath the light of the moon, and the songs of the licorneir could be heard rising to sing in harmony with the stars above.

Elanlein is all that remains of our sacred places now. The others have long since been lost to the swallowing darkness of the Rift.

Despite the deepening gloom of night, Elydark finds the path to the temple, sure-footed even on the rough and winding way. I feel the excitement in his soul as we draw nearer, the uplifted energy at the prospect of once more entering into that sanctuary and replenishing his essence. By contrast, Ilsevel is almost limp in my arms. As daylight fades, so too does her stubborn strength. Her spine, which has remained lance-straight throughout the long hours of our ride, bends at last, and her body sags against mine, head lolling on my shoulder.

I grit my teeth. It’s cruel to keep pressing on like this, with her exhausted as she is. But Elanlein is so near, I cannot bear to stop again. Let us get this bond severed as soon as possible. Then I can permit her to rest a day, perhaps two, before we begin the journey back to her own world. In the meanwhile I shall have to keep her hidden at the Holy House. The last thing I need is for the city folk to discover a human in their midst.

The clouds break overhead, allowing a gleam of moonlight to shine through. I turn my head, gazing out from the high path we climb to the valley revealed below. My heart seems to turn over in my breast. A sea of large, multi-chambered dakath tents spreads before my vision—a thousand strong, arranged in concentric patterns around the great Meeting House at the very center. Campfires burn like fallen stars in the darkness, and I can imagine even from this distance that I see the shadowy silhouettes of men, women, and children going about their lives, unaware of my distant scrutiny. All is peaceful, as though time itself stopped during my too-long absence and is only just now beginning to flow once more.

So Shanaera hasn’t made it this far. Not yet anyway. And what of my riders, Kildorath and the others? Did any of them survive the altercation at Agandaur? Are they even now waiting for me below? I long to turn Elydark’s head that way, to race him through the night-stretched shadows into those waiting dakaths. I want to find my sister, to know that she lives.

Instead I face forward once more, fixing my gaze on the temple above. We are only half a mile away now. On either side of the path, flowers gleam in the darkness, dark petals furled back from glowing golden centers. Elydark sings softly at the sight of them, unable to contain his pleasure.

“What are those?”

I startle, surprised by the sound of Ilsevel’s voice after so many hours of silence. She lifts her head from my shoulder, turning to look at a cluster of flowers as we pass by.

I hesitate, suddenly uncertain. But then, what harm can there be in telling her the truth? “Those are ilsevel blossoms,”

I say quietly.

She sucks in a little breath. After a few moments she nods shortly. “They . . . have a strange song,”

she says, almost as though to herself rather than to me.

I frown slightly. I’ve never heard any song from ilsevel blossoms. But her gods-gift may make her sensitive to things my own senses cannot perceive. “They are a gift from Nornala,”

I say, “sent from her heavenly garden as sustenance for the licorneir. Licorneir, you understand, are beings of pure magic and, therefore, can eat only pure magic as well. The hearts of ilsevel blossoms contain raw magic in its purest form. One blossom may satisfy a licorneir for months on end. And the petals, as you know, can be used to purify corrupt magic.”

The higher we climb, the more densely the blossoms grow, mounding on either side of the path, their fiery hearts illuminating the night. Up ahead I spy the doorway of the Holy House, where more ilsevels grow up the doorposts and hang in dense clusters from the lintel. The air is thick with their perfume.

“Ilsevels can only grow on holy ground,”

I continue. “Once there were many such sites across Licorna. Now there is only this house left. Riders from the other surviving tribes must journey here several times a year to gather supplies, which we give generously in exchange for their fealty. Thus Elanlein, once the humblest of all the holy sites, has become a place of special prominence.”

I do not add the ongoing concern of our people that the ilsevel blossoms grow less and less abundantly each year, that the supply is hardly equal to the demand. I do not mention the fear which hangs over the Hidden City that one day chieftains of other tribes may turn on us and try to claim Elanlein, hording the blossoms to protect their own licorneir. Nor do I add that if something happens to these precious blooms, our way of life may be lost forever. These are not concerns to trouble the mind of a human, a stranger.

“What do the wild unicorns eat?”

Ilsevel asks, interrupting this trail of thought. “Not ilsevels, I take it.”

“No, but they have plenty of access to raw magic every time the Rift opens. Corrupt magic, which only furthers their own corruption. But enough to sustain them.”

We lapse back into silence. The night around us is not silent, however. Nightbirds call out to each other in haunting voices, and it is a relief to hear them after the days of lifeless stillness across Cruor. A chill wind wanders through the grassy peaks and stone ridges of the Rocar Mountain Range, carrying the scent of smoke and cooking meat from the dakath tents below. The Hidden City travels up and down the river according to the turn of the seasons, following game and seeking shelter from the harsh winter months, but the priests of Elanlein remain here, guarding the temple and the ilsevel garden. There are fewer priests now than there once were: only Onor Gantarith and three others, including young Onor Vamir, the youthful priest who traveled with my company on the campaign into the human world. Any moment I hope to hear one of their voices hailing us as we approach.

No greeting comes, however. We reach the arched doorway, and Elydark comes to a halt, head lowered in reverence. Still there is no sign of the priests. Where are they, Elydark? I ask silently.

They are close. His ears twitch. They are watching. And they are wondering what you have brought with you to Nornala’s house.

I harden my jaw. This was always going to be difficult. But we’ve come this far, and it’s not as though I have other options.

Dismounting, I turn and assist Ilsevel down from the saddle. She does not protest, though I feel her hands shake as they rest on my shoulders. The moment her feet are on the ground, she pushes away from me, arms wrapped tightly around her slender body, shivering in the cold. I consider the possibility of leaving her out here with Elydark while I venture inside. But even that little distance between us may cause more pain and vulnerability than I’m prepared to deal with. Besides, I find I’m reluctant to let her out of my sight so near to the Hidden City. There are far too many people too close at hand who would strike her down without a second thought just because she’s human. No, she must stay with me.

“This way,”

I say and step through the temple entrance into the shadows on the other side. There are no lights in this passage save for stray blossoms gleaming faintly here and there. The darkness is heavy even for my eyes. I hear Ilsevel’s footsteps stumbling behind me; her human sight is less suited to this gloom than mine.

Before I can think better of it, I reach behind me and find her hand. She tries to pull away, but I wrap my fingers tightly around hers. “Stay close,”

I say, firmly ignoring the sudden warmth spreading from my palm. Around my forearm, the velra feels suddenly much too tight. Nornala, please grant the priests wisdom and a swift means to end this binding!

Forging on with determined strides, I lead her to the center of Elanlein. As we go, ilsevel blossoms grow thicker along the walls. Their glowing hearts pulse with light enough to dimly illuminate the space around us. The walls are set with inlaid gemstones in rich mosaic patterns, depicting licorneir and ilsevels along with celestial motifs. The floor is cool beneath our feet, carpeted in fallen petals and leaves which shush gently as we pass. There are many twists and turns, various passages leading to secret parts of the temple, places I have never ventured. But my footsteps carry me unerringly to a place where the passage suddenly opens, and fresh night air whispers against our faces.

We step out into the Moon Chamber. The dome arches above us, smooth curves leading to a skylight circle at its peak, some twenty feet in circumference. Through this opening, the newly waxing moon shines off pale stone and fills the large space with a luminous glow. Directly below the skylight lies the great altar stone, where sacrifices are made in Nornala’s honor at both dawn and dusk each day. The remnants of this evening’s sacrifice still smolder in the center of the stone, and the fragrance of incense lingers in the air. The space around us is large enough to hold half the population of the Hidden City. It is cavernously empty now save for the moonlight and thousands of clustered ilsevel blossoms, growing in profusion on vines, which cling to the walls and cover the floor so densely, one cannot see the paving stones in places.

“Gantarith.”

My voice echoes hollowly. “Onor Gantarith!”

There is no answer. Just a waiting sense of held breath and watchfulness. I frown and step out into the moonlight, pulling Ilsevel with me.

Suddenly I become aware of song. It’s faint—just a hum on the edge of perception, and so strange. Low and haunting. I cannot tell from whence it comes. One moment I think it rains down from the sky above, a song of distant stars; the next, it seems to emanate from the ilsevel blossoms, secretive whispers of leaves and petals.

Finally I turn to Ilsevel. She stands with her hand still clasped in mine, but she looks a thousand miles away. Her eyes have a strange, glassy quality as she gazes around her at the profusion of blossoms. The song is issuing from her: a low hum, soft in her throat, but there’s more to it as well. I feel as though I’m hearing echoes of spirit, not unlike when I share song-language with Elydark. It vibrates in the deep places of my soul, awakening awareness which has hitherto slept.

I stare at her, caught in that sound. For the first time in my life, I could almost swear I hear the ilsevel blooms surrounding me singing in response. And I realize—slowly, dully, my poor earth-bound mind struggling to comprehend, even as my soul swells with the truth—the whole universe is bound together by ribbons of sound. Of song.

“What is the meaning of this?”

A startled jolt shoots through my head. The song ends, and with it, something slams shut inside me, and I am back in this chamber of stone beneath the stars, breathing heavy air. I shake my head. Sparks dance on the edges of my vision. As they clear, I find I’m looking down into Ilsevel’s face. She no longer sings. The muscles of her throat are tense, her eyes very wide, frightened as they gaze beyond me into the domed space by the altar. My mind, racing to catch up, only just realizes that the voice which interrupted her song came from behind me and spoke in my own language.

I turn on heel. “Onor Gantarith,”

I say and make a reverent bow.

The priest stands just on the far side of the altar, his stern face lit by the glow of the handheld brazier he holds uplifted before him. Though his beard is still black as a rook’s wing, his face is heavily lined with age. Complex braids wrapped in knotted wires hang across his shoulders, draping all the way to the wide nornil belt wrapping his waist. He is a solemn figure, a man who has looked fully upon the cruelties the worlds have to offer and yet chose faith over cynicism. Though he has served the people of the hinterlands for seven decades, he never sought any great prominence within the holy orders, content to live out his days in remote Elanlein.

Never in his wildest dreams could he have guessed he would one day be forced by necessity to assume the role of high priest, arbiter of all the most sacred traditions of Licorna.

The weight of that duty seems to mound upon his broad shoulders even now as he stares me fiercely down across the altar slab. His black eyes move from me to Ilsevel, fixing on her with such terrible severity, it’s all I can do to keep myself from stepping between them, making a shield of my body.

“Luinar,”

he says, his voice a deep-throated rumble, “who have you brought into Nornala’s house? Who is this person who dares to sing in this sacred chamber?”

“Onor.”

I take a step forward. “Allow me to present my bride. My warbride, that is.”

“What?”

Gantarith’s gaze snaps from me to her. The light from his brazier seems to spark in the depths of his pupils. “Your bride? But she is human.”

I nod an acknowledgement. Then, though I doubt very much it will help, I add, “Her name is Ilsevel.”

“Ilsevel?”

he echoes.

“Yes.”

I can see the thoughts careening in his head, the momentary confusion followed by hard clarity. He is thinking of the only reason a human might bear the name of our most beloved flower. And he doesn’t like it; no more than I do.

Teeth flashing in a grimace, Gantarith circles the altar. His bare feet deftly avoid any of the delicate blossoms growing up between the paving stones. His eyes remain fastened on Ilsevel, as though he might peel back her outer layers to get down to the meat of her soul. She stares right back at him. While she does not understand a word he speaks, his tone is unmistakable. I see again that same stubborn courage I’ve witnessed in her from the very first moment of our meeting. Onor Gantarith would intimidate kings and princes of the fae, but even he cannot make my wife flinch.

Not my wife, I remind myself sharply. Gods, why can’t I keep my thoughts in order?

“We were wed under unusual circumstances,”

I say quickly, “and now we need the marriage bond dissolved.”

Gantarith, no more than five paces from us, continues to stare at Ilsevel for some moments, his expression impossible to read. After what feels like an age, he flicks his gaze to meet mine once more. “Unusual circumstances, you say? There’s a story here, no doubt.”

“Yes,”

I acknowledge. “A long one. But the main thrust of it is this: I took this woman as my bride to save her life.”

“Why?”

There’s real confusion in that single word. Gantarith, like any of my people, cannot fathom a good reason for a human to be saved. Certainly not by a Licornyn.

“She was an innocent bystander,”

I say, “a pilgrim worshipping at the temple of Lamruil.”

From there I swiftly recount the circumstances of our meeting, summarizing as concisely as I may. Gantarith listens, his eyes ever drawn back to Ilsevel’s face. He watches for some stray expression which might betray falsehood in her. When I come to the end of our short history, the old priest stands silent for so long, I begin to wonder if he heard a word I said.

Finally he draws a long breath and turns that hard gaze of his to me. “So,”

he says slowly, “the marriage was . . . consummated?”

I won’t let shame color my voice. “It was necessary to save her life. She was caught up in events far beyond her scope. I felt I owed her assistance.”

“Assistance? Is that what you call it?”

The expression which flashes across Gantarith’s features is distinctly unholy. He looks Ilsevel up and down, takes in her womanly shape. She doesn’t know what he is saying, but she knows that look. She crosses her arms over her breast and scowls at him harder than ever. The priest snorts derisively and turns to me once more. “Did you say her name is Ilsevel?”

“That is the name she gave me.”

“She might be lying.”

“Yes. But I think not in this instance.”

“Have you asked her how she came by such a name?”

“I have been able to get very little out of her,”

I confess. “She is in enemy territory, frightened and alone. One cannot blame her for reticence.”

Gantarith narrows his eyes at me. “You are keeping something from me, luinar. I heard the song she sang, here in our most sacred place. That was no human song, nor was it a human voice. There is something else at play here, something bigger.”

I hesitate. Ilsevel’s position is already so tenuous, and I don’t want to reveal anything that could compromise her more. But it’s not as though I can deny outright what Gantarith heard with his own ears. “She is gods-gifted,” I say.

“What?”

Gantarith’s eyes flash in the brazier light. I find I don’t want to share further details with him, however. I don’t want him to know how I nearly succumbed to virulium poison. Gantarith was there when I first foreswore the virulium dose. He prayed over my body when it suffered through the agonies of withdrawal. It would disturb him greatly to hear of any reversion, despite the miraculous interference of Ilsevel and her gift.

I say only, “Her gift is music. She can hear the songs of the licorneir.”

“Indeed?”

Gantarith’s gaze returns to Ilsevel, appraising her slowly, distrustfully. “Humans were not meant to hear the songs of the Star Children.”

I hold my tongue. Anything I say might sway him against her. He studies her, and I wait. Though I am luinar of the surviving Licornyn tribes, Gantarith holds much sway as high priest. His word may influence the elders one way or the other.

“So,”

the old priest says at last, “you married her to save her life and have now brought her here to be queen of Licorna?”

“No,”

I answer hastily and hold out my forearm. “I intended to leave her behind with her own people, but . . . something happened with the velra. Something I did not expect.”

Gantarith takes hold of my arm and turns it slowly this way and that. Whether or not he can see the invisible cord, I don’t know, but when I describe the strange weakness which overtakes me whenever I leave Ilsevel’s proximity, he does not seem surprised. His brow knots, and the severe lines framing his mouth deepen. When I finish recounting the shocking discovery, he shakes his head heavily. Then he catches my eye. “How have you brought this upon yourself, my boy?”

“I’ve wondered much the same these last seven days.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Can you help, Onor Gantarith? Can you undo the binding?”

To my dismay, he shakes his head. “Not until silmael. That is the law.”

“Yes, but this is an unusual circumstance.”

I refuse to acknowledge the sudden sinking in my gut. “We were not meant to wed. It wasn’t planned or intended. It was all a misunderstanding.”

“Perhaps.”

The priest shrugs. “But you consummated the marriage, luinar. Your vows are binding in the eyes of Nornala.”

“I didn’t have any choice.”

“And have you left her untouched since that night?”

The answer sticks in my throat. When he looks at me, I cannot quite meet his gaze.

Gantarith laughs. It’s more amused than disparaging, but my gut burns with bile, nonetheless. “Well, I suppose you are a man as well as a king,”

he says. “And she is a pretty temptation, I’ll grant you that. All those long days of travel, all those quiet nights beneath the stars? Not one man in a hundred would have resisted.”

“You’ve a dirty mind for a priest,” I growl.

“I wasn’t always a priest, now was I?”

With a sigh, Gantarith turns away from the two of us, stepping to the altar stone. He sets his brazier down there and lifts his head to the open sky above the dome. Is he praying? Seeking guidance from Nornala? I can only hope she will answer him directly, and we can put a swift end to this.

At last he turns around and folds his arms across the open front of his cassock. “Unfortunately, luinar, you are bound to your bride until silmael, according to the law. The only way to break that bond earlier without causing severe harm to yourself . . . well, I don’t like to say.”

“Tell me.”

Gantarith presses his lips together, his jaw working beneath his black beard. Then: “If one party proves traitor, not only to the marriage vows, but to all Licorna, then the bond may be broken ceremonially via bloodletting.”

Ice shoots through my veins. I stare at him, aghast.

“The elders,”

Gantarith continues, “would likely agree that she is, by the mere nature of her humanity, a traitor to Licorna. If you are determined to rid yourself of her now rather than later, well . . . you won’t have any difficulty convincing them to demand a bloodletting.”

“And by bloodletting,”

I say slowly, “you mean . . .”

He draws a long breath. “I will cut her throat with the ceremonial blade and let her blood flow across this very stone in an act of purification.”

Thunder seems to pound in my ears. I turn my head away from the priest, stare sightlessly around me. The ilsevel blooms waft gently in a breeze blown down through the skylight overhead. Their many glowing hearts seem almost to mock me, so gentle and pure in the face of this new horror.

“Warlord?”

Ilsevel’s voice plucks at my ear. She draws near to my elbow. Her hand stretches out but does not quite touch me. “What is it?”

she demands. “Tell me.”

I lift my gaze to hers. Her brow is stern, her jaw hard. Something tells me she’s understood more of the exchange between me and the priest than I want to believe.

Rather than answer her, I turn to Gantarith once more. “There must be some other way.”

“Unfortunately not,”

he replies. “If you find you cannot remain bound to her until silmael, this is your only choice.”

He tilts his head a little to one side. “The elders might make the choice for you and insist upon her death anyway. It is forbidden for a human to enter the Hidden City. She breaks our laws simply by her presence here.”

“I cannot do this.”

I run a hand down my face, grimacing. “I won’t do this.”

“If you don’t, the elders may view you as the traitor, luinar.”

Gantarith’s voice is heavy with the truth of his words. “The tribes are only loosely united as it is. This might be the breaking point, the final undoing of all that remains of Licorna.”

Gods blight and damn me. He’s right. I’ve put the security of my people at risk, all because I couldn’t let this stranger go to Lurodos. A boiling sensation burns in my breast, frustration mounting, transforming to rage. Rage that she should be so alluring to me, even from the first chaotic moments of our meeting. That she should be so spirited and brave, so rash and ferocious, and that these qualities should draw me to her with such intensity of feeling that I simply could not let her fall into the hands of monsters.

And now what? Have I saved her only to lead her to another, equally gruesome death?

“Warlord!”

Ilsevel’s voice echoes sharply against the stones. This time I must look at her, must meet her snapping eyes. “Tell me what’s happening,”

she says and draws a breath through clenched teeth. “What is he telling you?”

Gantarith curses sharply, a most unpriestly sound. “Bid her be silent,”

he growls. “Let her not profane this holy place with her human speech.”

I cast him a short glare, then turn from him to Ilsevel and answer in her own language. “Our bond will not be broken tonight. We must remain together until the month’s end, when the velra may be safely severed.”

She looks at Gantarith, then back to me. “That’s not the whole truth, is it?”

I don’t answer.

“There is another way to break the bond. You . . .”

She hesitates and swallows. “You have to kill me.”

I hold her gaze, unblinking.

She lifts her head a little, jaw set and fists clenched at her sides. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d rather you told me outright. Don’t lie. I can’t . . . I can’t bear a lie.”

For a long series of heartbeats, we remain like so, staring at one another beneath the moonlit dome. Then I step forward and, before she can retreat from me, take hold of her hand. The same hand which I’d held on the night of our wedding. In that moment of connection, the velra tightens around my forearm, and I can almost see the flare of magic between us. Ilsevel perceives it too, for I hear her sharp intake of breath and feel her wince in pain at the sudden constriction of the cord.

“Zylnala,”

I say, and her eyes flash, meeting mine. “With my body will I protect you. With my arms will I shelter you.”

I speak the sacred vows, not in my own language as I have always known them, but in hers. They sound strange, unnatural. But true.

Ilsevel stares up at me. Does she realize what I am saying? Does she realize what I am offering her?

“We will part on the night of the New Moon,”

I continue. “Until then you are under my protection, as you have been since this bond was formed between us. I will let no harm come to you. This I vowed then and vow again now.”

The muscles around her eyes seem to tighten. Are those tears I see? But she blinks, and no stray droplets escape through her lashes as she dips her head, staring at our joined hands. She lets out a breath. Then nods. Her fingers tighten briefly around mine, but when she tugs her hand away, I let her go and turn to Gantarith.

The old priest watches us narrowly. “So,”

he says, “you are determined to wait it out.”

I nod.

“You will have to take precautions if you want to be certain of a broken bond come silmael.”

“I know,”

I say. “The elders—”

“I’m not talking about the elders.”

His mouth crooks in a mirthless half-smile. “If the bond is to be safely broken and leave no lasting scars, you must abstain from all physical intimacy. For the rest of the month.”

He tips his chin, eyeing me from under his lowered brow. “You cannot shakh your bride again, luinar. Is that going to be a problem?”

My throat thickens. But when I answer, my voice is even. “No. That will not be a problem.”

But I can see the look in the old priest’s eye. He doesn’t believe me. Not for a second.