Page 31 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

ILSEVEL

The walls are lined with stone and dry, but there’s a little water down here at the bottom. Not well water, I think; simply gathered condensation. It’s no more than a finger deep, and whoever placed me down here, made certain that my unconscious body was propped up so that I would not accidentally drown myself in it. But the dampness has soaked into my gown and cloak, and I can’t seem to find a dry place to sit.

The discomfort isn’t the worst of it, however. It’s the not knowing. Is this the death the Licornyn people have planned for me? Did they cast me down here to slowly starve, sustained on nothing but rainwater for weeks? There are no bones to keep me company, no skeletons of past residents, so I suspect it’s more of a holding cell. Which means they must still intend to slit my throat, as Taar said.

Memory of that awful knife held in the priest’s old hands flashes across my mind’s eye. Gods . . . will it be quick? Something tells me not quick enough. I’ve seen my fair share of animal sacrifices held down on altar stones, choking and struggling as they bleed out.

I begin to shake. I can’t help it. I want to be brave, I want to be strong. I want to fight with everything I have until my last, gasping breath. But the waiting, the wondering, the knowing they will come to get me but not knowing when . . . it’s pure torture.

I tried climbing the walls soon after waking. That was hours ago now, and the sun was still high. But the stones were too smooth. Here and there ilsevel vines trailed, but they snapped too easily in my grasp. Now I sit in a puddle of water, surrounded by broken bits of vines and leaves. The remaining ilsevels are all beyond my grasp.

They begin to open now that the sun has set. Delicate petals unfurl to reveal the burning hearts in their centers, lighting up my prison in a faint glow. I try to listen for their song, which had seemed so loud to me last night. But fear throbs in my veins, drowning all other sound.

The shivering hours pass. Desperate for some distraction from my coming fate, I bow my head into my arms, which are wrapped around my upraised knees. If I force my spirit to sink deeper, to leave awareness of my present behind, I can almost hear the echo of Nyathri’s broken song. It’s not real, of course—she must be far from here by now, fled back across the river into Cruor. But it’s something to focus on. I play back the dissonant melody, the broken trills and grating runs. There’s still harmony to be found in there, I’m sure of it. The right voice, if nimble enough, could sing the notes needed to bring wholeness back. Almost, almost I can hear it . . . and in that almost is something so haunting, so otherworldly. Unlike any other song, wholly unique.

“Gods-damn,”

I mutter. Lifting my head again, I stare up at the patch of sky high above me. We’d been so close to connection, I’m sure of it. There was a true sympathy between us in that space of ache and loss in our souls.

Now? She’s gone. And I’m here. Any song we might have sung is lost forever.

My wrist throbs again with sudden sharpness. I gasp, holding up my forearm to study under the ilsevel blossom’s glow. I haven’t felt the velra in a while, not since waking down here. It was almost as though the bond between me and Taar was already broken the moment he allowed those men to drag me away. I’m surprised to feel it again now, tight and suddenly straining. I twist my arm, trying to loosen the grip. But the feeling persists.

I tuck my arm back around my knees, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to ignore it. It’s getting very cold down here, now the sun is gone. I’m parched too, but don’t dare drink the stagnant water in which I sit. After a while I tilt my head back, gaze up at the patch of sky overhead. It’s dark now; the stars are beginning to appear. Part of me wishes my captors would put a lid on the well and leave me in absolute darkness, for something about those distant stars feels like a mockery. Like they’re laughing at me and all my foolish dreams. Who was I to think I deserved to escape my cage and fly? I was born for someone else’s dominion, born to serve another’s purpose. All my efforts to resist that destiny only resulted in the death of my sister.

But at least . . . a small smile pulls at the corner of my dry lips. At least I set Nyathri free.

Even as the thought passes through my mind, another comes hard on its heels. Did I really free that unicorn? Or did I damn her to eternal torment? My smile vanishes. For the first time since waking down here, tears form in my eyes, escape through my lashes. Why must all my impulsive bids for freedom result in so much harm? I deserve what’s coming—the knife, the pain. Perhaps this is the gods’ way of seeing justice served.

Ilsevel.

I scrub at my face with the heel of my hand. That voice . . . where is it coming from?

Ilsevel.

I look around me in the damp darkness. There’s no one here; there can’t be. But the voice seemed to speak directly into my ear.

Ilsevel.

I tip my head back. This time, it sounded as though it came from above—high above, among the stars. And yet it was just as clear and bright.

Ilsie.

My heart jolts. “Aurae?”

I whisper, voice rough from disuse and cold. Scarcely any sound emerges.

Your work here is not yet complete.

Though I don’t know why, I pull myself to my feet. My damp skirts cling to my shivering legs, but I ignore the chilling sensation. Tilting my head back as far as I can, I gaze up at those distant stars. “Aurae!”

I croak and press my hands to the stone wall. “Aurae, are you there? Don’t go, please! Let me die and come with you! Don’t leave me here.”

The gods hand out their gifts for a reason.

Your gift was no mistake.

Neither was your name.

I shake my head. The voice still sounds like Aurae but also not. It’s familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like a song I heard once, years ago, and forgot that I knew.

You must keep fighting, Ilsevel.

For your freedom.

And for theirs.

“Why?”

I shudder suddenly and lean my forehead against the stone wall. “Everything I do results in disaster.”

A sob chokes in my throat. “It was my fault . . . my fault . . . my . . .”

The voice does not speak again. I sink to my knees, back into that freezing mud, and struggle to suppress the sobs clawing at my throat. Curse the gods who let me be born, who let me become the living disaster I am! What did all my petty rebellions accomplish? Only pain and death for others, including the most innocent person I know.

No wonder my father only wanted to sell me.

No wonder Artoris only wanted to use me.

No wonder Taar . . . Taar . . .

My fingers curl, nails clawing into stone.

No wonder Taar gave up on me.

Noise erupts overhead. I startle, pull away from the wall, and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. It’s been so long since I heard anything, at least anything of this world. I’d half wondered if they’d even bothered to post a guard, knowing there was no chance in heaven I could escape this pit.

Now I hear grunts. Scuffling boots. The beginnings of a scream cut short. If I didn’t know any better, I’d even say I heard a faint note of unicorn song. My heart jumps, galloping in my breast. I slowly stand, staring up at that opening, uncertain whether to hope or fear. This doesn’t sound like priests coming to drag me away for sacrifice, but how would I know?

Suddenly the stars are partially blocked out by something dark. A rhythmic creak tears at my ears, so awful, I curse and cover them. It’s difficult to see, but the ilsevels cast dim glows on a plank of wood which seems to be descending on a chain. It comes all the way down to eye-level and stops.

I stare at it. Then I look up, searching for signs of who might have lowered it. Whoever it is obviously means for me to sit on it, to grip that chain and balance my body as they haul me up. Will they cut my throat the minute I emerge? Would it be better to refuse, to remain down here until thirst and hunger drive me mad?

Hands trembling, I grasp the chain. It’s bitingly cold against my flesh. I mount the plank and find my center of balance. There’s a moment of tension. Then it begins to rise, faster than I expect. I seem to have left my stomach behind me somewhere, and the empty place in my gut churns unpleasantly. Three quarters of the way up, it occurs to me that if whoever is hauling the other end of this chain were to let go, I would not survive the fall. A little whimper tries to force its way past my trembling lips, but I bite down hard, refusing. The plank keeps on rising, and that patch of sky above keeps on enlarging.

At last I burst into open air. It’s so cold and fresh and bracing, it knocks the breath from my lungs. I scramble wildly, grab the lip of the well wall, and very nearly tumble to my death. Desperation drives me, however, and I pull myself up and over to collapse on the ground on the other side. Movement catches my eye. I choke and try to push myself upright, expecting to be grabbed by the arms and hauled away.

Then Taar’s voice is there, and Taar’s hands are on my shoulders. “Drink this, zylnala,”

he says, and holds something to my lips.

I grab for the cup and tilt my head back, eager for water. Instead, a mouthful of strong spirits burns my tongue. I gasp, choke, sputter. But the warming mouthful goes down to my stomach and shoots out through my veins. Fortified, I look up, trying to take in the moonlit world before me.

There are bodies. My stomach knots. Ten bodies of armed men and women, lying at odd angles. Dead? No, they seem to be both bound and gagged, which would be rather pointless were they corpses.

I turn to Taar, staring. “What have you done?”

His teeth flash in a grimace. “What I must,”

he says. “Come. You’re not safe yet.”

His grip is firm on my elbow as he pulls me to my feet. I collapse against his side, and he hastily slips his arm around me, holding me close. It’s almost comforting. “Here,”

he says, and presses something into my hand. To my surprise, I find it’s my knife, the one I dropped beside the altar stone after cutting Nyathri’s bonds.

I try to catch Taar’s gaze. “This is . . . The elders . . . Your people,”

I gabble, unable to articulate a complete sentence. Then, with a sudden surge of energy, I push against him, trying to break free of his grasp. “Stop! You’ve got to put me back down there! This will ruin you! Your people will never forgive you and . . . and . . .”

“And what?”

Taar’s voice is an animalistic growl.

I study what the moonlight reveals of his hard, dangerous features. “I don’t deserve it. I’m not worth it.”

For a moment he looks as though he’s going to answer. I find myself leaning toward him, hungry for his answer, either in agreement or argument. The suspense is dreadful, his silence enough to tear my heart in two.

“We don’t have much time,”

he says at last, turning from me. “The relief guard will be here soon. We need to be gone by then.”

I want to scream with pure frustration, to pound his chest with my fists and demand he answer me. But whatever burst of energy that drink offered fades too soon. I sag in his arms and stagger a few steps with him before my knees begin to buckle. Without a word he scoops me off my feet and starts running. Away from the temple, away from the pit. Down the incline of the mountain to where the trees grow more densely.

Elydark appears out of the shadows, his great bulk gleaming in the starlight. He sings something wordless that strikes my senses, a comforting note. Was he concerned for me? Surely not! He must hate me for compromising Taar like this. But he makes no protest as Taar puts me in the saddle then swings up behind me. It’s so very familiar, being here with my stranger husband, his arms around me. I must fight the urge to lean back against him, weak with relief.

“Vulmon,”

Taar commands, and Elydark leaps into motion, racing at full speed down the mountain, through the trees. No horse would dare move at such a pace in the dark, but Elydark glides along, his massive hooves seeming scarcely to touch the ground, his mighty bulk weaving between trunks and avoiding low-hanging boughs with ease.

I look to the left, over Taar’s arm, and glimpse the fires of the Hidden City, nestled in its valley below. My heart lurches, thinking of Tassa, of Halamar, of all those people who hate me so viciously. All those people whom Taar is leaving behind. Possibly forever.

For hours we ride out from the mountains, retracing the journey we’d made only yesterday on our way to the temple. Taar doesn’t speak, and I haven’t the courage to interrupt his silence, not even to ask the most pressing question burning on my lips. But when at last I see the Morrona River shining under moonlight before us, I can’t help shouting over my shoulder, “Where are we going?”

“The Tarh Plains,”

he answers, his mouth near my ear. “The Tarhyn Tribe lives there, and Chief Lathaira owes me for saving her life at the battle of Agandaur. Word will not yet have reached them of what’s happened here. We may find temporary succor.”

He’s silent again for some while before adding, “I intend to keep you alive until silmael then deliver you safely home as I vowed.”

This is madness. I know it; he knows it. By saving me, he’s risking his own life. The elders will not forgive him for this offense. And they are the representations of the eight tribes. How much power do the tribes and their chieftains wield over their king? Perhaps in the time of his father, things were different, but Taar holds onto his authority by a mere thread. If they turn on him, how much longer before they turn on each other? Will the Licornyn people and way of life survive the aftermath of the choices we’ve both made these last twenty-four hours?

My heart feels like a stone, sinking to my stomach. I can’t bear to carry more guilt. “Taar,”

I begin, “put me down here. I’ll go on my own. You’ve given me a chance, and no one could ask for more. I’ll manage somehow, and you can—”

“Hush.”

“No, you must listen—”

“Hush, zylnala! I heard something.”

A ripple of song goes out from Elydark. I feel his unease like a prickling of gooseflesh. I hold my breath and strain my ears for some hint of whatever it was Taar and his licorneir have discerned, but I hear nothing over the rhythmic beat of Elydark’s hooves.

Then Taar growls, “They’re after us. Vulmon, Elydark! Go!”

I look back over Taar’s big shoulder, peering into the darkness through which we’ve fled. In the distance, like dancing sparks, three flaming points of light illuminate the night. My breath stops. I know that light: it’s soulfire, the flame of licorneir made visible to mortal eyes.

“Forward, Ilsevel,”

Taar barks in my ear. “Keep your eyes forward.”

I obey at once, gripping the pommel of the saddle as Taar leans over me, forcing me to bow over Elydark’s neck. Elydark cannot burst into flame like the others, for his fire would consume me in an instant. Will that make him slower than our pursuers? His gaze is fixed on the river, his head outstretched as though to pierce the distance with his horn. But I can feel the others getting closer. Their songs, first too faint for me to hear, grow louder and louder by the moment.

We shouldn’t do this. Taar shouldn’t be forced to flee his own people. I should make him stop. Maybe I could slip from the saddle. If I don’t break my neck when I hit the ground, I could simply surrender myself to those riders. Something tells me it wouldn’t be hard to convince them that I’d used human magic to ensorcel their king, and maybe then Taar would be—

Black lightning rips the sky on the far side of the river.

My heart stops. Though I know it cannot cross the Morrona, the sight of that rent in the sky fills me with dread. I’d rather return to my damp little cell then face the un-song darkness that must follow.

“Shakh,”

Taar growls and sings something into Elydark’s head. The unicorn hesitates, his footsteps faltering for the first time this night. A ripple of song rolls back from him to Taar. “Vulmon!”

Taar roars out loud.

Elydark tosses his head then redoubles his pace, speeding for the river. I scarcely have time to open my mouth, to begin to utter the protest bursting from the very depths of my gut. Then we splash down the river bank, and Elydark surges out into the water, up to his chest and deeper. Cold waves wash over me, dragging my body from the saddle. Only Taar’s iron grip keeps me from being swept away. Elydark swims steadily forward, and for just a moment, I can see the moonlit landscape on the far side of the river, the broad plains and distant forests.

Then darkness falls.

“Go back!”

I scream. The force of that un-song sweeps down on me like a crushing blow. Fighting, clawing, kicking, I try to throw myself from the saddle into the river. I’d rather drown than be carried into that pulsing hell.

But Taar’s grip on me is relentless. “It’s the only way,”

he shouts above the roar of the river and my own panicked voice. “Brace yourself.”

I look back. Back at the far shore, where no hell has ever touched. Back to where three Licornyn riders on beasts of blazing fire pace back and forth, unwilling to pursue, unwilling to ford the river and enter hell, even if it means losing their prey.

Elydark’s hooves touch the far embankment. The darkness ripples, bulges, that sense of straining membrane overwhelming as something reaches, trying to break through and grab us. I feel it thinning, stretching, reality ready to shred.

At the last possible moment Elydark begins to sing. The song-light aura pours from his soul, streams out through the coils of his horn in a shocking blast. The darkness recoils, shrieking its un-song in hideous, multitudinous chorus.

I turn my face into Taar’s neck and shoulder, shuddering. But as Elydark climbs from the river and enters the horror of Cruor, I listen to the sound of the unicorn’s song underscored by Taar’s deep voice: “It will be over soon. I’m here. I’m here, Ilsevel.”

Then, in a whisper I almost miss: “I’ll always be here for you.”

I shouldn’t feel this way. I mustn’t. And yet I do. Even in this world, surrounded by evil, with enemies on every side and nowhere safe to flee, something in me knows I am safe with this man. It feels so wrong, so unnatural. I’ve never felt safe before, not with anyone. Even Faraine, whom I’ve always loved wholeheartedly, used her powerful gods-gift to manipulate me into accepting marriage to the Shadow King. And Aurae, sweet and dear, tried to convince me to submit and accept my fate. No one ever stood with me; I’ve always been alone.

But now—Taar.

He didn’t give up on me. He didn’t throw up his hands and declare me too much, too little, too troublesome, too painful. He came for me. At the risk of everything: his life, his honor, his people. He’s done nothing from the moment I met him but risk his life for me over and over again. Even when I least deserved it, when I disobeyed and betrayed him.

He shouldn’t have done it. Gods-damn us both, he should have left me in that pit! What will become of him now? What will become of his people if they forsake the king who forsook them first? It all seems so great and huge and terrible.

Yet here in the dark, with hell closing in on all sides, and only a song to protect us . . . with Taar’s arms wrapped around me and his voice crooning in my ear . . . I am safe.