Page 4 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

Still gripping my blade, I dismount and take three long strides to Ilsevel’s side. “Are you hurt?”

I demand. She looks pale as death, frozen where she stands. I see no sign of injuries, but her gaze remains fixed on that patch of ground where her attacker’s head rolled moments before. “Ilsevel?”

The sound of her name seems to pull her back from some faraway place. She stares up at me, eyes shining with strange light, weirdly similar to the sheen of fire still covering Elydark’s skin. She blinks, and that image is gone. I see only her own brown eyes gaping up at me in shock.

“What happened?”

she breathes. There’s no trace of song in her voice now. “Who were those people?”

I shake my head. I don’t know how to explain.

Rather than answer, I turn away from her and her questions. Elydark stands blowing smoke through his widened nostrils, fire flickering in his mane. An open gash in his flank bleeds silver blood in long, shining streams.

I go to him, place my hand on the wound, and close my eyes. I’m sorry, my friend, I say, singing my sorrow into his head. I should never have let him get near you.

It was not your fault, Vellar. His great head turns to nudge my shoulder gently. Ilanthor was a fierce warrior.

He was indeed. He’s also been dead these last three years, slain on the same battlefield where I left Shanaera’s gutted corpse. His body, hers, and the those of all the Licornyn warriors we lost that day were never retrieved, never given proper funeral rites.

But that in no way explains why they should walk the paths of Wanfriel once more.

My mind is so full of questions and half-formed terrors, it takes all the self-command I possess to still it for what I must do.

Long years of training come to my aid, however.

I begin to sing in a low voice.

Immediately the soul-connection between me and my licorneir lights up.

His own healing power flows through me, pouring from my palm back into his wound.

The flesh knits, neatly and simply, leaving behind only silver bloodstains against his pale hide.

Elydark shakes his mane.

The last of the soulfire, which had enveloped his body in battle, vanishes from sight, though I know full well it remains as hot as ever beyond my perception.

We look into each other’s eyes, both feeling more than we can express. Our shared song is one of wordless comfort, a reminder that, whatever may come next in our lives, we will face it together.

But the shock of those dead, rotten faces, the horror of what they mean, reverberates in my chest like the rumble of doomsday drums.

Was it really them, Elydark? I ask, hoping against hope he will contradict what my eyes have seen. Was it a Miphates trick? An illusion, a curse?

I fear not, he replies with deep sorrow. The songs of their souls were broken but recognizable. That is not something even a great Miphates mage could replicate.

He’s right.

I have seen Miphates generate illusions so powerful, they can fool even the fae.

But while they may construct a convincing simulacrum, down to the last freckle, inflection, or scent, no magic could simulate the unique vibration of a soul.

So it must be true then.

Ilanthor, Naerel, and Morinar ...

my friends, my comrades-in-arms.

I rode with them on many a campaign, but when, three years ago, I forbade my riders from taking the virulium dose before battle, Naeral joined with Shanaera in refusal.

The demon’s blood held her in such thrall, she foreswore her oaths to me, her king, choosing instead the glorious violence to be had from each black vial.

In this she, and all those who followed Shanaera, were traitors, one and all.

Ilanthor and Morinar stayed true to me, however.

They suffered the withdrawals, came through stronger than ever, and rode with me to the battle of Agandaur.

There we faced nearly impossible odds, only to be brought unexpected hope when the fighting was at its thickest.

Shanaera arrived, leading her rebel crew to fight alongside my loyal chieftains and warriors.

She still dreamed of liberation from the Miphates, still longed more than anything to soak the ground with mage blood.

But, as always happens with virulium in the end, that final dose took her and her people too deep.

Lost in bloodlust, they ceased to discern friend from foe, turning on each other and my own warriors in their furious need for violence.

Naerel slew Morinar before succumbing to Ilanthor’s blade.

Ilanthor himself was hewn down by Shanaera soon after.

As for Shanaera? She fell to my sword.

Driven through her gut.

And I held her in that battlefield as the life left her, my tears mingling with the black virulium streaks on her cheeks.

Is it possible she’s still out there? Is she, like these three, trapped in a body of death and decay, walking the living world?

I saw her.

Gods damn me, I saw her the night of the temple attack.

She threw back that crimson hood to reveal her face, and the shock of it was enough to freeze my limbs, giving her a chance to escape with Mage Artoris in her arms.

In the hours and days that followed, I told myself time and again that this moment was nothing more than a fever-vision caused by the madness of battle.

Because, dead or undead, Shanaera would never help a Miphato.

None of them would.

They laid down their lives in the desperate hope that we might drive the Miphates from our land once and for all.

But on that moonlit plain below the temple mount, crimson-cloaked riders fought and slew my people at Mage Artoris’s command.

And when we slew them back, they rose again to redouble their attack.

Only decapitation broke whatever spell was on them—a spell of necroliphon death magic the likes of which I have never before seen.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, I reach into my belt and pull out the silver ring which Naerel had tossed me.

Delicately wrought of silver leaves supporting a citrine stone, it is the last jewel of my mother’s house, pressed into my hand mere moments before her death.

I held onto it for years, but when the time came, gave it to Shanaera, along with the promise of marriage.

Some while later, when she refused to give up the virulium, I asked for the ring back.

She claimed to have lost it.

While I didn’t believe her, neither did I have the heart to push her. It’s not as though I could ever bear to give the ring to someone else. Let her keep it, I thought, along with whatever memories she cares to cherish of our time together.

I study it now, turning it gently in my fingers so that the green-cast light of Wanfriel sparks on the stone.

It might still be a trick.

Vulture-like Miphates acolytes may have ventured out into the battlefield, picking the corpses clean of all trinkets and treasures.

But somehow I know—it is from Shanaera.

She was here.

She left this so I would know it was her. Which means she really was at the Temple of Lamruil that night. She really did save Mage Artoris.

“Who is Ulathyra?”

Startled, I close my fingers tight around the ring again before lifting my head.

Ilsevel stands where I left her, observing Elydark and me.

Her arms are wrapped tight around her body, like she’s afraid her very being will fly apart and she won’t be able to reclaim the pieces.

When I catch her gaze, she swallows hard, the muscles of her throat constricting.

With an effort she speaks again, unable to hide the slight tremor in her voice.

“The dead man spoke a name.

Ulathyra. Who is she?”

I frown.

She should not have understood any of that, for when Ilanthor spoke, he used the Licornyn tongue, which is unknown beyond our borders.

I glance at Elydark, but my licorneir looks unsurprised.

We both heard her sing a licorneir song after all, a feat which should have been impossible.

Humans cannot hear the song of the licorneir, which is sung with the soul, heard with the heart, bypassing all physical perceptions.

That she could replicate that song in audible form, using only her human voice as her instrument .

. . it simply can’t be done. Yet she did it.

She’s still waiting for my answer.

Elydark is not about to help, leaving me to manage on my own.

With a sigh I face the young woman again. “Ulathyra,”

I say, “was Ilanthor’s velarin licorneir. His heartbound.”

Confusion mars her face, so I add, “She was to Ilanthor what Elydark is to me.”

Ilsevel’s eyes widen slightly. Though humans are incapable of experiencing the powerful bond between my people and their licorneir, she has observed the closeness Elydark and I share. She even joined into it in part, when she sang with Elydark last night. “What . . . what happened to her?” she asks.

“When Ilanthor was killed at the battle of Agandaur, Ulathyra was left velrhoar—that is hearttorn.”

The word is bitter on my tongue, like the taste of strong poison. “It is what happens when the velra bond is wrongly severed.”

I cannot say more. I cannot tell her the hideous state in which the velrhoar leaves its victims. I have seen it more times than I care to remember, riders or licorneir, left without their other half, crippled and half-mad with grief. In the rider that madness eventually turns to despair, leaving behind a shell of the warrior who once was, a pathetic husk hardly worth the life still in his blood.

But in licorneir that madness only deepens over time, until the soul of the hearttorn one is utterly lost. Unless they can be rebound to a new rider—a dangerous business, best not attempted under most circumstances—the only kindness remaining to such creatures is death.

Ilsevel studies me, a line between her brows. I feel as though she’s listening to all that I am not saying. Perhaps, with that gods-gift of hers, she hears what I do not intend to share. I don’t care for that idea. Hardening my face, I meet her gaze unblinking, expecting her to back down. But she only tilts her head slightly to one side and holds my stare.

“So he really was dead,”

she says. “A walking dead man.”

I nod.

“How is this possible? Is it normal for your kind to get up and walk about after death?”

“No.”

My voice is sharp as a blade’s edge. “It was necrolipha. Death magic.”

That steady gaze of hers falters at last. My words seem to have brought a shadow over this part of the forest, a shadow deep enough to fall across the very soul. Her nostrils flare as she draws a long breath. Then she whispers, “Artoris?”

I nod. Mage Artoris Kelfaren is a death mage and a powerful one at that. Though I would be surprised to learn he had worked the spell which animated my dead companions. No—only a mage with the will and means to delve into the Rift and channel power directly from Ashtari could have worked such a horror. This stinks of Morthiel.

Ilsevel looks sick. Some of that stubborn pride with which she protects herself has slipped, and her body begins to shake. “I didn’t know the Miphates were capable of this kind of magic.”

“They shouldn’t be,”

I reply. “There have been many necroliphon throughout history who have practiced the death arts. But no one has succeeded in reanimation, not even the most powerful fae kings of the ages.”

“Then . . . then how . . . ?”

She cannot finish her question. It doesn’t matter, because I couldn’t answer it. Not due to ignorance, for I have my own suspicions and beliefs about what is going on in the Citadel of Evisar, behind the obscuris spell. I simply cannot bear to speak such things out loud. Not to her. Not to a human.

Something in my eye must warn her, for Ilsevel doesn’t press me. Instead she looks again at that place on the ground where Ilanthor’s head had landed. Her gaze is so intense, it’s almost as though she’s still meeting those dead eyes of his in the moments before the spell broke, and his physical frame, held together by magic alone, evaporated into the ether.

“I didn’t think . . .”

she says quietly, as though speaking to herself. She pauses, licks her lips. “I didn’t think Artoris would do something like this.”

Suddenly I am transported back to that night in the Temple of Lamruil, when I pursued Artoris into one of the buildings. By the time I caught up with him, he was dragging someone out the door, someone who resisted his efforts. Not just any someone. Her.

My brow knots. Ilsevel admitted to me that she knew the mage. Her exact words were, “I thought I did,”

when pressed on the subject. At the time I’d let the matter drop, for we had more immediate concerns, and my primary goal in that moment was to win her trust and save her life.

Now I must wonder, was there more to their connection than she initially let on? I want to demand answers. Why was Artoris at the temple that night, and why was she riding at his side during our initial attack? Why did she flee the field, with him in sharp pursuit?

There is more to this story than she is telling me, and I’m suddenly hungry to know. I take a step toward her, a growl in my throat. “Ilsevel—”

Careful, Vellar.

I stop short. Elydark’s voice rings in my head. In the same moment I become aware of how tight the velra cord has become around my forearm. I look down, half-expecting to see it shining there, cutting into my flesh. There is nothing to see, but the effects are undeniable.

I am jealous. Jealous of some imagined connection between this woman and my enemy. Jealous that she should know him at all, filled with a furious need to learn exactly how deep that knowledge goes.

She is looking at me again, once more wrapped up in layers of coldness and pride, not quite sufficient to hide the terror in her eyes. She fears what questions I will ask, fears what revelations I might pry from her lips. And that fear is enough in itself to make me burn.

I swallow hard, my breath tight. My fingers clench around the hilt of my sword.

But Elydark’s voice holds me at bay. She is no threat, Vellar. I have heard her soul-song. There is no resonance of death magic in her.

If she knows Mage Artoris—

What difference does it make? She is not a Miphata. Her magic is unique, and she has used it only to help you or to protect herself. She poses no danger.

My jaw hardens. It sounds like you’re on her side.

My licorneir snorts, tossing his muzzle. I am, as always, on no side but the truth. And the truth is, my brother, you must guard your heart from all the velra is trying to make you feel. Jealousy, anger, fear . . . any of these may lead you down a path you do not wish to go. Not with her.

He’s right. Whether I like it or not. This turmoil roiling in my gut isn’t real—it’s the velra bond. Knowing more about Ilsevel, her history or connections, will not change our circumstances. It will only increase this inconvenient attachment we share. That I cannot have. Best to know as little about her as possible so that we can sever the velra quickly and cleanly and get on with our lives.

Ilsevel’s eyes narrow. Can she read my thoughts? Can that gods-gift of hers perceive the storm in my soul? She looks as though she’s preparing for battle and, slight though she is, she won’t go down without a struggle.

I draw a long breath, ease it out slowly through my nostrils. None of this matters. Whatever connection she may have had or may still have with Artoris, it is no concern of mine. I cannot let jealousy rule me.

Turning away from her, I set about cleaning my sword with quick and efficient movements. “It is time we got moving,”

I say. “We need to reach my people at the Luin Stone. They need to know about this.”

Even as I say it, coldness washes over me. Shanaera, if she is indeed out there, walking in the living world once more, knows all our secrets. She knows each gate to and from Cruor, knows our paths across that landscape. She knows where to find the Hidden City.

And she certainly would know that my people, if parted from me, would wait for me at the Luin Stone.

Elydark’s soul vibrates with mine, my fears communicated to his heart and echoed back to me. We look at each other, both stricken with dread. What will we find on the far side of the gate? Did Kildorath, Ashika, and the others cross over to be met by their own dead friends, slaughtered as they emerged? Will we ride through now only to step into a scene of terrible bloodshed?

I sheathe my sword. “Come,”

I say over my shoulder to Ilsevel. “There’s no time to delay.”

Silently she allows me to help her back into the saddle. I swing up behind her and am met by a deep breath of her hair, still carrying traces of the perfume she wore two nights ago, when we shared that pavilion.

The scent is enough to instantly cast out all fears churning inside me and send me back to that firelit bed and those moments of hot breaths and silken skin and the sweet, sweet song which she sang for me in a moment of ecstatic vulnerability.

Longing comes over me to wrap my arms around her, to pull her close, to take comfort in the knowledge of her immediate presence. The strength of the urge is almost overwhelming.

With an effort, I hold myself upright, hands on my thighs, each clenched in a fist. Go! I sing harshly to Elydark.

My licorneir turns to the bridge-gate and breaks into a swift canter. Ilsevel turns in my arms, however, looking back to the place we leave behind. Looking back to that empty patch of ground where a dead man’s head rolled, as though still straining to hear the last echoes of his voice.