Page 26 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

A young hunter named Malgathor approaches the altar, sweat dripping down his face. He sings as he approaches, a wordless song of his own, full of deep resonance and reverberation. He is a skilled singer; with the right licorneir, it would make for a powerful duet.

But I can hear within the first few notes that his song is all wrong for Nyathri. Perhaps at another time. Were Malgathor not so desperate. Were Nyathri not so hearttorn.

I repress a shudder. Pure exhaustion pulses through my limbs. It’s been hours now since I last set eyes on Ilsevel, and the velra cord burns into my flesh. The effort to fight its pull is almost more than I can bear. Damn this binding and the impulse that compelled me to make it in the first place! Who would have thought one small, human woman could make me so weak in the sight of my people?

I feel their eyes on me—the priests and the Licornyn riders gathered in the domed Moon Chamber in the center of Elanlein. Gantarith and his two brethren stand behind the altar, keeping some space between them and it. Their heads are bowed, their hands lifted in solemn prayersong, but I could swear they keep glancing at me through half-closed eyelids. Kildorath and the other Licornyn riders line the walls on either side of the altar, their licorneir beside them. The shimmering of consecrated fire glows from their souls as they blend their voices with the songs of the priests. Though they may appear focused on this sacred task, I know they are watching me. Suspicion simmers in the atmosphere.

Every one of them saw the moment when Ilsevel intercepted me on the green. When she prevented me from carrying out the grim duty which must be performed. When she persuaded me to go against all reason, all tradition, all divinely-ordained sacrament.

I can almost hear the question whispering just on the other side of their song: “Does a human woman now control our luinar? Has he fallen prey to human magic? Is he drothlar?”

Drothlar—cursebound. The word whispered through the city streets when I rode by astride Elydark on the way back up to the temple. They believe Ilsevel is a Miphata who now holds me enthralled. And who am I to argue otherwise? While I’ve never seen sign of Miphates magic about her, she herself has admitted to consorting with necroliphon mages. Then there’s that gods-gift of hers. Is it possible she used it to bewitch me? If she had, would I even know?

Memory of two nights ago flashes through my mind. My tongue in her mouth, my hand on her breast, the sweat and the heat and the panting of our breaths. I had felt like a man possessed. Desire overruled all rational thought. Could it be she had tricked me? Knowing how a night of passion would strengthen our bond, did she use my weakness against me?

Have I, blind to all warning signs, brought a spy into the Hidden City?

A sudden change in the song drags my attention back to the moment unfolding before the altar stone. Malgathor draws near now, his melody deepening in intensity. Nyathri kneels on the stone, her legs bent under her. Chaeora ropes bind her fast in place. I hate the sight of those ropes. Woven from the stalks of cursed chaeora blossoms—the hell-blighted counterparts of ilsevels—combined with strands of licorneir hair, they radiate a toxic form of magic that suppresses the fire of licorneir. It’s an abomination; an evil necessity. Nothing else in the world is strong enough to subdue a hearttorn licorneir. Before the Rift, no one would have dared to bind one of the glorious Star Children. Such is the evil of the age into which we’ve been driven.

I clench my fists, watching Malgathor’s approach. He is the fifth man to attempt the bonding—all others fled before they drew anywhere near the altar and the being bound to it. Nyathri’s red soulfire rages with hellish flame, and none could stand it. When the time comes, will I be able to get close enough to deal the death blow? The heat of her torment has only increased in the hours since we brought her here.

Still there are men and women lining up outside the temple, begging for a chance to try their fate. As long as they are willing, how can I stand in their way? And Malgathor is strong. He’s close to her now, no more than three steps away. His dark complexion is red and slick with sweat, and the skin of his outstretched hand begins to blister. He continues, singing his bold song. He is desperate to form a velarin, having failed to do so twice in the past. But this is not the bond for him—I know it. Everyone looking on knows it. His soul is not compatible with Nyathri’s. At least not with what her soul has become.

The thought has no sooner crossed my mind when Nyathri lunges. Her powerful, flame-wreathed haunches surge against the restricting chaeora ropes, and her neck extends. A warning shout bursts from my throat, but I’m too late. Her sharp fangs sink deep into Malgathor’s shoulder. Fire leaps from her skeletal flesh, burning him even as she shakes him so hard, his feet leave the ground. His song abruptly ends in screams of pain which echo against the stone dome and out through the skylight to the heavens above.

I leap into action, grip a length of chaeora and wrench the mad licorneir’s head back. The weakness, which has been building in my limbs these last few hours, threatens to undo me. With a burst of sheer will, I exert all my force and drag her head back, but not before she takes a chunk out of Malgathor’s flesh.

Kildorath and two other riders leap forward only a few heartbeats behind me. Their licorneir follow them, brandishing their horns in defense. Nyathri roars at them, her wild, rolling eyes incapable of seeing her former brothers and sisters. She exists in a hellish new world now, surrounded by enemies. None of us can help her see any other reality.

“Get him out of here!”

My muscles strain as I fight to maintain my grip on her head. Nyathri whips about; those gnashing teeth of hers go for my throat. A blast of soulfire heat flares across my skin, ready to consume me.

With a bugling cry, Elydark charges. His horn clashes with Nyathri’s. A burst of white light pours out from him, enveloping me in protection, even as he holds Nyathri at bay. His red horn locks with her black one, and his song-filled eyes stare into the two pits of hell flaming in her skull.

Hastily I re-secure the chaeora rope, then back away from the altar, out of reach. “Elydark!”

I call. At the sound of my voice, he backs away. Nyathri tosses her head once before lowering it, muzzle resting against the stone between her legs. She pants, exhausted, her exposed ribcage visibly heaving. Much of her flesh has burnt away, leaving only a skeletal apparition. I scarcely recognize the lithe and lovely being who used to gallop so fleet-footed across the plains while Ashika whooped battle cries from her saddle.

“Enough, luinar,”

a voice beside me says. I turn to Onor Gantarith, who has left his brother priests to approach me. He shakes his head heavily. “It is a torment to her. She should have been slain and sent beyond the pain of this world hours ago.”

Guilt adds to the weariness permeating my frame. Gantarith is right of course; I should never have let Ilsevel convince me otherwise. “Very well, Onor,”

I say. “I will do what must be done.”

The old priest nods in silent approval. Turning, he speaks a sharp word to a servant, who waits in one of the doorways. The young man steps warily into the chamber bearing a great, ceremonial sword in his hands. It’s a match to the smaller blade with which Gantarith proposed to end Ilsevel’s life. I set my teeth grimly at the sight of it. It’s not necessary to perform this office with holy instruments—but for a beast as far gone as Nyathri, perhaps the kiss of sacred steel will help to ensure her ultimate peace.

Just as I reach for the hilt, a voice cries out from across the chamber: “No, wait! I will have my chance!”

My heart leaps. “Tassa,”

I growl. Gods-damn it, I’d told her on the green that she couldn’t attempt this bond. And if she’s here, who’s watching Ilsevel? The question springs to my lips, but I dare not ask with all those watching eyes fixed on me.

My sister steps into the chamber, her gaze fixed on the subdued licorneir. She’s trembling; she must have seen them carry Malgathor by in the hall, screaming and bleeding and burnt. Yet she came nonetheless, stubborn woman that she is.

“No, Tassa.”

Giving Nyathri a wide berth, I move around the altar to place myself between my sister and the licorneir. “I know how you’ve longed to make a velarin. But this is not the way. There will be other licorneir.”

“Will there?”

Tassa looks up at me. Her eyes gleam with mingled terror and determination. “You cannot promise me that, Taar. In the years since I’ve completed my sylarvel test, I’ve had only three opportunities to form a bond. This may be my last chance.”

She’s right. Licorneir bonds are rarer than ever, what with the loss of ilsevel blossoms and the separation of the surviving tribes across our remnant lands. “It isn’t worth it,”

I insist, nevertheless. “She’s too far gone. It’s been many days now since Ashika died. Her soul is all but lost.”

“But it’s not lost yet,”

Tassa says. “I may be able to sing her back. Please, Taar. Let me try.”

I want to deny her. I want to command her to leave this room at once. I feel the watching eyes of the Licornyn riders, particularly Kildorath. I’m not unaware of his feelings for my sister. If something were to happen to her now, it might be the last break in the weakening chain of his loyalty.

But Tassa holds my gaze. I can almost feel the power of her soul-song, desperate and hopeful and so very afraid.

“Shakh,”

I breathe, shaking my head. “Very well. It’s your life to risk. But if you feel Nyathri resisting—”

“I know.”

A smile flashes briefly across her face. “I won’t get too close. I won’t do anything foolish.”

But I can tell from the look in her eye that she has no such intention.

Reluctantly I return to my place beside Elydark on the far side of the chamber. My licorneir’s spirit hums with tension as we watch Tassa assume position across from the altar stone. Elydark wants Nyathri to be saved—he and she were on the brink of forming a mating bond, a rare and beautiful occurrence among the licorneir. The prospect, and the possibility of new young licorneir being born as a result, had been a source of both speculation and hope between me and Ashika. Elydark has been reticent about his inclination for her, but we are too closely bonded for me not to notice.

I rest a hand on my licorneir’s shoulder, both offering and taking comfort, even as Tassa raises her hands in prayerful supplication and begins her song.

Like Malgathor’s, the melody issuing from Tassa’s throat is wordless. Otherwise they could not be more different. Where his song was low and growling, hers is high, clear, and sweet, without a trace of vibrato. A soaring, even sound which occasionally swoops to a lower register in her chest. Hers is a particularly lovely voice. It reminds me of our mother. Now that was a song worth hearing, when Queen Ashtalora joined her voice with Mahra’s—a hymn fit for heaven itself.

Tassa’s song is neither so strong nor so clear, but the potential is there. I watch Nyathri for a reaction. Is this the song she needs to heal what’s torn inside her? Is this her chance for redemption?

Still singing, Tassa begins to move toward the altar. Nyathri’s fire has sunk low. Her flesh glows like dull embers and clings to her visible skeleton. Tiny pinpoints of red light shine from black hollows where her eyes should be, watching Tassa as she approaches.

My fists clench. I fight the urge to leap forward and plant myself between my sister and this velrhoar beast. But while I cannot hear Nyathri’s song, perhaps Tassa can. Perhaps she hears something which gives her hope for a connection. I dare not interfere and spoil their chances.

Tassa is so close to her now. Unlike Malgathor, she’s not sweating, for Nyathri’s fire is sunk far too low. She stretches out one hand, trembling like a leaf. My gut knots with dread. Will those chaeora bonds hold? Did I secure them fast enough? And what of the Licornyn riders, are they prepared to intervene? They weren’t quick enough for Malgathor, damn them. Neither was I. Even as Tassa’s song intensifies, supported by the humming souls of the licorneir and the priests, I rise on the balls of my feet, tense and ready for action.

I’m not prepared, however, for what happens next.

Nyathri puts her head down on the stone. Everything in her, all the straining force, all the glowing ember light, goes out. She becomes, before my eyes, a lump of ashen bones, lifeless and lightless.

Tassa stops short. She swallows her song, blinking fast. “Is she dead?”

she asks. Her natural speaking voice sounds so strange following the haunting melody.

In that same instant a red blaze erupts from the stone, shooting a fountain straight through the skylight. Tassa screams and throws up her hands. Someone moves—Kildorath and Miramenor, his licorneir. Closest to her, they leap together as one, Miramenor’s protective song wrapping around her just in time to save her from incineration. Elydark’s song surrounds me, and the priests fall back to take shelter with other licorneir as the hellish blaze sears all the nearby ilsevel blossoms, turning them to cinders.

“Out!”

I cry, my voice nearly inaudible over Nyathri’s roar. “Clear the chamber! Away from her!”

No one waits to be told twice. Making for all available exits, licorneir, riders, and priests alike scatter from the Moon Chamber. Elydark and I follow on the heels of Kildorath, who supports Tassa while Miramenor shields them with song. “Is she hurt?”

I demand the moment we step into the coolness of the stone passage.

“I’m fine,”

Tassa snaps, her voice drowning out Kildorath’s uncertain response. She tries to push him away but staggers and falls against his chest. His arms cradle her gently, but his face is a furious mask.

“She should never have been let near that beast,”

he growls.

“Who said anything about let?”

Tassa once more pushes away from him and this time manages to keep her balance. She turns to me, and though she’s flushed, and there are mild burns on her hands, she seems little the worse for wear, thanks to Miramenor’s swift action.

I look back through the doorway at the altar. Fire still rages, so hot and bright, I cannot see Nyathri within.

“This is it, luinar.”

Kildorath’s face is suffused in hellish glow when I turn to him. The dark disks of his eyes reflect fury. “You must help her. If it isn’t already too late.”

He’s right. I’ve known all along that it would be this way, even if some part of me wanted to believe otherwise. I turn from him to Elydark. My licorneir does not speak, but his eyes are full of both sorrow and certainty.

“We will let her burn out now,”

I say. “Kildorath, make certain everyone escaped in time. I want a full headcount when I return.”

“Return? Where are you going?”

“To prepare for the death sacrament.”

I give my warrior a hard look. “Go.”

With a last glance for Tassa, Kildorath hastens from the corridor, his licorneir trailing behind him. Tassa does not watch him go. Her gaze trained on me, she studies my expression by the glow of Nyathri’s red flame. “What exactly are these preparations, brother?”

In answer I sag heavily against the wall. Now that the immediate crisis is past, my whole body feels as though it’s held together by fraying threads. “Take me to Ilsevel,” I say.

Her lip curls.

“It’s not like that.”

I shake my head and hold up my forearm. “It’s the velra . . . I cannot be away from her long without suffering the effects.”

Tassa shakes her head. “Drothlar,”

she mutters. Cursebound.

With that she turns and leads the way through the labyrinthine passages. Elydark and I follow, my licorneir’s head close to my shoulder. I’m sorry, my friend, I sing to him, the meaning heavy as it passes along our soul-tether. I wish we could have done more. I wish we could have saved her.

He doesn’t answer but nuzzles my cheek with his soft nose. He bears me no ill will, though perhaps he should. What we witnessed today, so much pain and horror . . . I should never have let that happen to Nyathri. She deserved better.

Tassa stops at last before a curtained door and calls out, “Halamar!”

The curtain draws back, and my hearttorn friend emerges. He looks questioningly at Tassa. She drops her eyes and shakes her head once. His gaze shifts to me, but I’m in no mood to explain what took place over these last long hours. “Is Ilsevel within?” I ask.

He nods and steps back to give me room to pass. When Tassa moves to follow, I hold up a hand. “No. I’ll go alone.”

At her disgusted look, I add, “I need sleep, Tassa. I’m worn out, and the velra has cost me dearly. I need to rest before I attempt to . . . to help Nyathri. But I don’t need a crowd of watching eyes observing me while I snore.”

She looks as though she will protest, but Halamar inclines his head and murmurs something in her ear. Though her frown doesn’t soften, she turns away from him and me and stalks back up the passage. “I’ll be at home, Taar,”

she calls back over her shoulder. “Come find me when it’s done. Bring that bride of yours if you must.”

I catch Halamar’s eye. He shrugs briefly before following her down the passage.

With a sigh I slip through the curtain into the chamber. A small fire burns on the hearth, illuminating the stone walls with its glow. It’s a spare room: little more than a cave, with only a narrow pallet bed pushed up against one wall. Hardly a space of respite.

And yet the instant my gaze lands on the small form curled up on that pallet, half-hidden beneath folds of stained travel cloak, a rush of heat floods my veins. Muscles I’d not realized I’d been tensing suddenly relax, and the tightness in my chest eases into long, steady breaths. Even the velra, which has caused me nothing but pain since I left her behind in the city green, transforms into something warm. Almost tantalizing.

Despite the intentions I’d stated to Tassa, a hollowness opens in my gut, filled a moment later with liquid heat. How would my sleeping bride respond were I to crawl atop her on that pallet? Would she welcome such advances? Would those flashing eyes of hers meet mine with the fire of desire or fury? If I caught her mouth in mine and pressed her back into that bed, would she open to receive me? Would I hear again that delicious moan, the precursor to the song I’ve come to crave from her lips?

I’m still standing in the doorway, paralyzed by the suddenness and strength of these feelings flooding through my senses, when her brow constricts suddenly in sleep. Another moment and she turns her head slightly, lips parting. Her eyes flutter open, bleary at first, unseeing. Then her vision sharpens, and she stares up at me. With a gasp, she pushes upright. Strands of hair pull free from that crown of braids to dangle in tendrils across her face. She shakes them out of her eyes as she takes me in, her gaze traveling slowly up and down my frame.

“You look awful,”

she says at last.

My mouth quirks. Some of the fire in my loins cools. Which is just as well. A different greeting, and I would have forgotten all my assurances to Onor Gantarith and the elders and fallen on her like a ravenous animal.

“Many thanks, zylnala,”

I answer wryly and move to the fire. After Nyathri’s hellish heat, these dancing flames hardly seem warm at all. I hold out my hands to them for a moment before taking a seat with my back to the wall. Now that the initial wave of lust has passed, I am tired again. But Ilsevel is seated on the bed, wrapped in her cloak, and by the look on her face, isn’t keen to share.

She watches me narrowly. One small hand unconsciously rubs at her forearm. Is the velra affecting her as well? She doesn’t seem unduly strained by our parting, but then she wouldn’t be as susceptible to the magic. The only time I saw her strongly under the velra’s influence was the night she sang with Elydark to free me from virulium poisoning. I suspect that close association with licorneir magic made her temporarily more vulnerable to magic born from the same source.

She breaks the long silence at last. “What happened? Did Tassa . . . ? Did Nyathri . . . ?”

I shake my head. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the wall. Memory of that explosion, my sister’s terrified face as she stood on the brink of death and oblivion . . . that sight will haunt me to my dying day. Thank the gods for Kildorath and his licorneir. I owe the man much.

“So,”

Ilsevel says softly, “you will kill her.”

It’s not a question.

I nod. Opening my eyes again, I face her across the small space. She wraps her arms around her body and sits very straight-backed. Are those tears in her eyes? “Come now,”

I say, hoping my voice sounds gentle rather than impatient. “You cannot weep over a velrhoar you never knew.”

Her brow darkens. She turns sharply away from me, giving me a view of her profile as she stares into the fire. It’s quite a sharp profile, with a firm jaw and pointed nose, and that brow of hers, so stern and hard. I find I want to trace those lines, to discover if the pad of my thumb might soften them. And those lips of hers—even pressed in that severe line, their fullness cannot be disguised. Strange that she should care so much for one of our licorneir.

“Have you done it already?”

she asks, a slight tremor in her voice.

Though she’s not looking at me, I shake my head. “To kill one of the Star Children is a tremendous act of power. It’s a task ascribed to the luinar alone and requires an expense of magical energy.”

I look at her from under my brows. “I . . . was apart from you too long. I have not the energy I need for such an act. I must spend a little time in your presence and recover.”

She turns to me slowly, eyes narrowing. “Don’t think anything of it,”

I hasten to add. “It’s just this velra bond. It doesn’t mean anything.” Who am I trying to reassure? Her or me?

“You need . . . sleep?”

she says after a too-long silence.

I nod.

Without a word she rises from the bed and stands with her arms folded tight over her chest. “Go on then,”

she says. “Take the bed.”

I glance around the sparce room. “There is nowhere else for you to sit.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. “I will take the floor. I’m used to sleeping rough. In my current state, I doubt I’ll notice it.”

She looks down her nose at me. “You really are a stubborn brute, aren’t you?”

There’s a bite in her words, and yet, somehow, they bring a smile to my lips.

Without a word I lay down on my side, turn my back to her, and face the wall. I don’t close my eyes right away but listen to the sounds of her pacing back and forth. At one point her footsteps draw near to me, and she whispers softly, “Warlord?”

I don’t answer. But my skin prickles with awareness of her—with memory of two nights ago when her cold hands first touched my back. Some foolish part of me hopes she will kneel now and run her hands along my exposed skin again. What I wouldn’t give for another chance to experience her flesh against mine!

But she merely returns to her side of the room. I hear the creak of the pallet as she lies down once more. Soon after I close my eyes and let exhaustion claim me.