Page 23 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)
ILSEVEL
I watch Taar’s back retreat into the forest ahead of me. Though I know I must follow, my feet are suddenly heavy.
The way he looked at me—so harsh, so unforgiving—as though I’ve committed some terrible sin. But it was his idea to dress me in Licornyn garb, was it not? And his sister who wrapped me in these outlandish garments and painted this strange symbol on my skin. It’s not as though I want to spend a frigid morning half-dressed and barefoot, shivering so hard I can’t tell if it’s from fear or chill.
Halamar says something low in Licornyn tongue. Tassa answers sharply, her eyebrows lowered. “What is it?” I demand, frowning at the two of them. I know perfectly well they can speak my language if they choose. “Have I done something wrong? Have I offended him?”
Tassa shoots me a disparaging look. “There is nothing right about the sight of a human in Licornyn country.” She adds something else I don’t understand, something at my expense, judging by the low chuckle from Halamar. But she follows it up with a sweep of her arm and says with great dignity, “Go on, bride of my brother. The elders are waiting.”
Apparently she means for me to go first. With a shrug, I follow the narrow path into the forest, tracing Taar’s footsteps. My bare feet shrink from the rough terrain and cold dirt. Why in all the gods’ names would Licornyn brides choose to go shoeless on their wedding days, even this time of year? Tassa tells me it’s tradition, but part of me suspects she’s just trying to see how much discomfort she can inflict before I’ll stand up for myself.
Keeping my head high and refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me limp, I quicken my pace. The velra tugs at my wrist, eager to close the distance between me and my bridegroom. I grimace and tug back. Our foolishness of two nights ago may have made this cursed bond stronger than it was, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let it control me.
Taar waits for us where the small path leading from Halamar’s dakath connects with the larger trail. His gaze flicks briefly over me when I emerge through the greenery, but he hastily turns his attention on Tassa, Halamar, and Elydark, who appear behind me. When we’ve all gathered, he turns and, without a word, marches on up the road, his shoulders set, his face forbidding.
Biting back a curse, I hasten after him. My legs emerge between the long slits in my skirt, startling me with the sight of their nakedness. Awkwardly I try to hold the slits closed even as I trot to keep pace with Taar. “I need to know what’s coming,” I say in a low voice, not liking for the others to overhear. “What am I to expect from these elders?”
His dark eyes flash briefly sideways. They catch mine for no more than an instant before he faces forward again. He draws a long breath and holds it. I begin to wonder if he’s not going to answer. Finally: “Eight elders of Old Licorna dwell in the Hidden City, one from each of the surviving tribes. They are responsible for maintaining the unified interests of our people. The eldest is Halaema of the Rocaryn Tribe, who inhabit this valley.”
“And are they . . . chieftains?” I hazard.
“No. They are all former Licornyn warriors, now too aged to ride. Because their bonds to their licorneir prolonged their lives, they are much older than others of my kind, among the oldest living beings in this world. Halaema was born before the foundations of Evisar Citadel were laid.”
I trot a little faster, trying not to let the cold ground freeze my bare toes. “Are they . . .” I hesitate over the word, determined to get it right. “Are they velrhoar ?”
Behind me, Halamar makes a strange sound, a rumble in his throat. I glance over my shoulder, but the warrior won’t meet my eyes, though Tassa glares at me, fiercer than ever.
“No,” Taar says, drawing my attention back to him. “When the time came, their licorneir were soul-bonded to new young riders, as is the custom. Elydark was one of these.”
I frown. “I thought you said no one knew Elydark’s name until he shared it with you.”
“It’s true,” he replies. “When a licorneir is soul-bonded to a new rider, a new name is shared between them. The connection to a former rider is never fully gone, but the new name, the new bond, takes precedence. Someday I hope to see Elydark bonded anew to my son or daughter. Then he will take a new name.”
I remember what he said about Onoril, how the father of all licorneir was to be his had he not been lost. And what of Mahra? She was never to be Tassa’s. No, she was meant to bond with the future queen of Licorna. With Taar’s wife.
A shiver travels down my spine. The fiery magnificence and terror of that creature I’d glimpsed beyond the river appears again before my mind’s eye. That wild, broken, beautiful song which had so seared my heart with pain. What would it be like to bond to such a being? To share a soul-tether, to speak to one another’s spirits? What would it be like to join my voice with hers and sing in duet with a creature of pure fire and magic?
But these are not questions for me to ponder. I am not Taar’s wife. Not really. Or at least, not for long.
I swallow any further questions until we come abruptly to the edge of the forest, and I find myself looking up close at the city of dakath tents spread before me. They are larger than I expected, each one made up of a central, circular tent, with three or four more off-shoots to create private chambers. From a distance they had seemed to be made up entirely of earth tones, but now that we’re up close, I’m surprised to see the vivid patterns painted on the animal hide walls. They are the same hue as the paint even now decorating my abdomen, and the patterns are similar as well—sun-and-moon motifs, along with licorneir and other beasts I do not recognize. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, ilsevel blossoms.
On the outskirts of the town, the tents are set a little farther apart with staked-out yards surrounding them. But as I let my gaze follow the road winding into the city, I see the dakaths increasing in size and set closer together. From this angle, down in the valley and not above, it seems quite a large city.
I stop, reluctant to go on. There are figures moving about the yards: women at cookpots, children either playing or performing their morning chores. Nearer still stand five tall guards: three men and two women, all older, with lined faces, ferociously armed. They do not seem surprised at the sight of their luinar; they raise weapons in solemn salute at his appearance. But when their gazes fix on me, their expressions turn aggressive. One of the old men shouts and brandishes his weapon menacingly. Taar smoothly steps between me and the man. He speaks in a sharp, commanding tone. The guard immediately stands down, and we pass through the five of them. I feel as though I’m running a gauntlet—their gazes could flay the skin from my bones.
The people gathered in their yards are no better. Women, children, and older men stand at their fenceposts and in their dakath doorways, staring at me. Very few young adults; I can count on one hand the number of youthful faces I spy. Have they all been sent off to war, or are they out hunting to supply this large community? Those left behind watch me with unsuppressed hatred. Gods above, I’ve never felt so guilty for merely existing! I keep my head high and force my hands to relax their grip on the white skirts, allowing them to hang free, though it means my bare legs flash through the slits more than I like. I don’t want to look flinching or frightened. I am a princess, damn it. I will act the part, though no one here may know it.
Taar strides on into his city, his gaze set firmly forward. Halamar, Tassa, and Elydark, last of all, make up the tail of our small procession. Soon quite a crowd gathers on either side of the dirt road to watch us pass. Some call out greetings to Taar, delighted at his return, only to stop short at sight of me. Antagonism seethes in the atmosphere.
“Word will have reached the elders of your arrival long before we come to the Meeting House.” Taar grimaces. “I suppose there was no way of sneaking you in undetected short of putting a sack over your head.”
A sack may have been preferable to this garment. More comfortable at least. “Is there anything I should say or do when we get there?”
He considers for a moment, still careful not to look at me. “When we approach Halaema, go down on your knees, clasp your left fist in your right hand, and press them to your heart. Then you must say these words: Velethuil nelanei Nornala-so. Nala itaere-so orira vel-almar.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Grace unto you, Nornala’s children. May the songs of heaven sing ever to your souls.”
I make him say it again, then practice the unfamiliar cadence and sounds several times over, hoping I can remember it when the time comes. It has a sing-song quality to it, and my gods-gift rises to assist me, enabling me to catch the music of the phrase and mimic it. I’ve never encountered a song I couldn’t sing back with perfect clarity and enunciation after a single hearing. This isn’t so very different.
We draw near the city center just as I am beginning to feel comfortable whispering the Licornyn words to myself. Two massive dakaths stand across from each other with a grassy, open stretch of ground between them, in the center of which stands a large stone circle that looks as though it’s meant for bonfires. I can’t help the shuddering feeling that I will be bound to a stake and burned alive right there before this day is out. My courage falters, and I stumble.
Taar’s hand shoots out, grips my forearm. That touch sends a jolt straight up my shoulder to explode in the back of my brain. I turn sharply, gazing at him, my eyes round. He won’t look back at me. The line of his jaw is very tight and tense. But he keeps on walking, supporting me each step, as we make for the farthest of the big dakaths.
Many people have gathered around the edges of this city center. They are strangely silent, as though holding their breaths. I scowl at them all, and several flinch. This brings a bitter smile to my lips.
The Meeting House looms before us, the doorway two times taller than Taar and covered in a purple-stained curtain. The hides which form its walls are stitched together, and the painted patterns adorning them are far more intricate than any I’ve yet seen, dazzling to my eye. It ought to look savage, but it’s all done with such exquisite care and precision, I cannot help thinking it a more beautiful structure than the hard, gray lump of rock that is my father’s castle.
“Remember,” Taar murmurs as we draw near to that doorway, “when you hear me say your name, kneel and speak your piece. Otherwise you must keep your head bowed and say nothing. To look at the elders directly or to speak in human tongue will be seen as an act of aggression.” He turns to me at last, looks me fully in the eye for the first time since we left Halamar’s clearing. “I won’t try to deceive you: your peril is great. But I swear I will protect you. I will lay down my life if I must.”
I don’t believe him. How can I? Yes, he entered that death-pit and faced off against Lurodos for my sake. But it’s one thing to fight a monster and personal nemesis; quite another to take a stand against his own people. I bite my lip, doubt gnawing my gut, but force myself to nod.
Taar looks over my head to where Tassa and Halamar stand behind me, the people of the Hidden City behind them. He raises one hand and speaks something in his own language. The Licornyn folk exchange glances. Somebody cries out sharply, and others seem to murmur in angry agreement. Shaking his head, Taar turns to his sister. “Pray to Nornala for us,” he says.
Her lip curls. “I’ll petition all the gods, brother. One after the other. Maybe someone will take pity on you. You’re going to need it.”
Taar smiles somewhat grimly then nods to Halamar, who steps forward and opens the doorway curtain. To my surprise, Taar offers his hand to me, palm upraised. I stare at it a moment before slipping my fingers into his. Even that small contact of skin against skin steadies me more than I like. We step together into the Meeting House.
Inside is dark and strangely cavernous. The scent of ilsevel blossoms permeates the atmosphere but intensified tenfold. I think it may be coming from the incense braziers strung from the line of pillars down the center of this massive space. There are window flaps in the higher rooftop portions of the tent, and sunlight falls in splashes on the floor, but otherwise all is deeply shadowed and indistinct.
Directly across from the doorway stands a dais. I can just discern the eight figures seated up there, not on chairs, but cross-legged on the floor. They are heavily robed, and from this distance look like nothing so much as an assortment of hunching owls.
A strange humming fills the air. Glancing to each side, I realize there are people in the shadows, close to the dakath walls. Servants or slaves, I cannot guess which, all droning in eerie harmony. It reminds me vaguely of a licorneir song, though much simplified.
Taar begins to walk between those pillars and smoke braziers, adjusting his stride so that I need not trot to keep up with him. Solemnly, silently, we progress to the middle of the dakath. There Taar stops and holds out his free hand. “ Velethuil, nelanei Nornala-so, ” he says.
The eight owlish figures make no response.
Taar’s hand tenses under my fingers. “Courage,” he murmurs.
I cast him a withering glance. What have I demonstrated other than courage all morning? He’s the nervous one.
We continue at that same sedate pace until we stand just before the dais. I keep my head bent, but peer up through my lashes, taking in what I can of the eight elders. Each wears a robe of a different color, all adorned in the same intricately painted images I saw on the dakaths . The patterns are different, denoting the unique tribes I suspect. Their faces are all so wrinkled, I almost miss the fact that there are an equal number of men and women. This surprises me: I assumed all the elders were male. Gavarian women certainly wouldn’t have been invited to sit on a council. But the very oldest of these eight, positioned in prominence slightly forward from the rest, is a woman. Her robes pool around her, regal and strange, while she herself looks so decrepit, a breath of wind might flake all the dry, brittle skin from her bones. Yet her black eyes are sharp as two blades and fixed with keen hatred on me.
Taar speaks again in Licornyn. He seems to go on forever, but suddenly I hear my name. Remembering his command, I let go of his hand, take a single step forward, and drop to my knees. For a moment I freeze—which was it, left hand clasped around right, or right around left? I take a guess, change my mind at the last minute, and breathe out a long, steadying breath.
Then, very softly, I begin to speak the Licornyn words Taar taught me. Rather, I don’t speak them. I sing them. Using their musical rhythm, emphasizing the long vowels and trilling consonants, transforming the spoken word to song. As I sing, the low hum emanating from the chanters in the shadows blends in harmony with my voice.
The effect is miraculous. Divine. Sound fills the space around us, ripples out from the confines of those hide walls and rolls out across the land, not just the mountainous countryside in which these people dwell, but deep into the wilds of Cruor from which they were driven. It’s a song which feels as though it might keep growing, keep rippling, until it fills this whole world before sinking into the earth itself to vibrate at its core.
Taar gasps out loud and moves sharply beside me. I don’t let his reaction interrupt my flow. I keep singing until I reach the end of the phrase. My pronunciation is perhaps imperfect, but I trust the power of my gods-gift to carry it. A pity I’ve only just begun to discover a real use for this gift of mine beyond entertaining my father’s guests. I will probably die today and never learn how deep my power runs.
When I come to the end of the phrase, I let the last syllable linger on my lips. Then, closing my mouth tight, I press my clasped hands to my heart, daring only the briefest glance up at the elders.
The old woman—Halaema—stares down at me. Her eyes bulge out through layers of wrinkled skin folds. She holds up one withered hand, and the hummers in the shadows cease. Dead silence holds the Meeting House captive like a spell. It feels like hours before she speaks, her voice harsh, an awful contrast to the sweetness of my song.
Taar answers at once in his rumbling baritone. I feel the power of kingship in his voice, even if I can’t understand the words. I would not have the courage to stand up to a man speaking in such a tone.
But the elder doesn’t hesitate. She lashes a response, and there follows a back-and-forth, all spoken in such rapid Licornyn, I can understand none of the individual words. One by one the other elders add their own voices to the discussion. Each time Taar answers them solemnly, while I continue to kneel, maintaining that posture with clasped hands. My knees ache and my spine throbs. It’s not unlike kneeling at the shrine of Lamruil. Only then I was preparing for marriage to the Shadow King, a fate I thought worse than death. Now? I suspect not even Taar can save me.
He sounds angry. Stepping forward, a little in front of me, he holds up his right arm and points at the invisible velra , as though the elders can see it. Some of them nod, but others toss up their hands and shake their heads, eyes rolling in disgust.
Finally Halaema turns from Taar and barks a string of words to a figure who stands off to one side of the dais. Risking the displeasure of everyone in the room, I turn my head to see Onor Gantarith step forward into a patch of sunlight. He carries his incense brazier and—my blood goes cold—a knife. A foot long at least, unsheathed and gleaming.
Gantarith makes reverence to the elders. Halaema barks something which sounds like a question. The priest turns, looks at me. Then he speaks a word I recognize: “Kya.”
I cannot tear my gaze from that knife. I know what has been asked and what answer has been given.
Can the bond be broken before New Moon Night?
Yes.
I swallow painfully and look up at Taar. His eyes are fixed on Gantarith, and there’s death in his gaze.
Suddenly, quicker than thought, he lunges the priest, snatches the knife from his grasp, and holds it to his own throat. A collective gasp goes up from the elders and the unseen figures on the edges of the chamber. Taar snarls a series of words, deep and threatening.
“Taar, no!” I cry and start to rise. To my surprise, a hand falls on my shoulder, pushing me back down. I turn, startled, and find Halamar behind me. “It would be best for both of you,” he whispers in my own tongue, “if you kept silent just now.”
I shake my head and hiss, “But what is he doing?”
Halamar catches my eye. “He’s telling them if they want to punish anyone for treason, it is his blood which must be spilled. You, he says, are innocent. It was he who broke the law by bringing you here. You were given no choice. So if someone must die, it is he.”
Horror clutches my heart. It’s one thing for Taar to risk his life in mortal combat, but this? It’s too much. I start to rise again, struggling against Halamar’s hold, but he’s far too strong for me. “Wait now,” he growls, close to my ear. “Your husband is not unloved by his people. The elders won’t give him up easily, angry though they are. They know what his life means for the survival of all Licorna. Wait. Wait.”
I watch in an agony of suspense and horror while the elders exchange angry murmurs. All the while Taar stands there, that vicious blade lightly pressed into his skin. A bead of blood forms and rolls to his collarbone. Sickness churns in my gut.
Finally the eldest holds out her withered hand and speaks. She seems to be imploring Taar to set aside the knife. “Ah, see?” Halamar whispers behind me. “Halaema would not want her own licorneir to end up hearttorn.”
At first his words mean nothing to me. Then I suck in a breath. Before me sits Elydark’s former rider from back before he bonded with Taar and took his new name. No wonder she sounds so desperate. It is as Taar says—the bond never fully dies.
Slowly Taar lowers the knife. Another exchange of words, and he hands it back to Gantarith, who scowls at him almost petulantly. Elder Halaema shakes her head, obviously distressed. When she speaks again, however, Halamar squeezes my shoulder slightly. “See? The gambit paid off. You will live, little human. The elders have agreed that you may stay in the Hidden City until silmael. The moment your bond is broken, you must depart, but no harm shall come to you so long as you honor Licornyn law and submit to the rule of your luinar .”
While I don’t much care for the sound of submit, I cannot deny the relief which floods my body. A smile breaks across my mouth, but when I catch Elder Halaema’s eye, I hastily stifle it and bow my head once more.
Taar returns to my side, holds out a hand to me. “Come, zylnala, ” he says softly. “Let us leave before they change their minds.” He helps me to my feet and draws me close, murmuring, “Bow your head and clasp your hands again in the same manner as before, over your heart. Then turn and walk with me. Keep your eyes down.”
I go through the motions as bidden. The elders say nothing, and I feel their old eyes on me as I turn to walk with Taar. When we are halfway to the door, I look up at him and start to speak. “Not now,” he interrupts swiftly. “Wait until we’re out of here. Then I will tell you—”
His voice breaks off abruptly as the door flap flings back, admitting a burst of sunlight. A figure stands silhouetted in the opening, tall and threatening. “Luinar!” he cries out in a loud voice.
Tension shoots through Taar’s hand. “Kildorath?” he says. “Is that you?”
The figure strides into the Meeting House, swiftly approaching. Then he stops. His eyes flash as they meet mine. The expression on his face, illuminated by a patch of sunlight, transforms from shock, to horror, to utter hatred.
In a single, fluid motion, he draws a knife from his belt and lunges straight at me.