Page 5 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

ILSEVEL

Elydark is so massive, it shouldn’t be possible for him to walk on this swaying bridge so lightly, so easily.

But he steps out over that drop with careless confidence, moving at a smooth canter.

I feel as though I’ve left my stomach somewhere behind on the cliff’s edge.

It’s all I can do to grip the pommel and a handful of unicorn mane, squeezing my eyes shut to block out awareness of the emptiness below.

It doesn’t do any good.

The vastness of that gulf echoes with a hollow song of its own, throbbing in my bones.

Mist curls around my limbs, much colder than I expected.

This doesn’t feel anything like the gate-crossing from my world into the Wood. Perhaps that’s the difference between a small, temporary portal and a more permanent fixture.

Taar sits bolt upright behind me, his hands on his thighs, as though determined not to touch me.

There’s something unsafe about him now.

I can’t explain it.

Not that I should ever feel safe in his presence, fae that he is.

But something changed back there when I spoke Artoris’s name.

I saw the flash in his eyes, and, for an instant, it felt like looking into the face of the virulium-maddened creature I’d seen last night. Not a man, but a monster.

More to distract myself from these thoughts than any real curiosity, I clear my throat and ask, “Are we almost there, warlord?”

The words sound dull and thick in this dense mist.

“Almost,”

Taar replies coldly.

“How long is this bridge?”

“It varies.”

I blink. “That’s not how bridges are supposed to work.”

A grunt. I begin to wonder if that’s the only answer I’ll receive. Then: “It’s how magic works. One never fully controls it. The moment you think you do is the moment you’re most likely to meet a brutal and explosive end.”

I chew the inside of my cheek.

Though I don’t want to, my mind slips back to Artoris as I saw him on the battlefield below the temple three nights ago.

He had certainly looked like a man in control when he opened that spellbook and summoned power from realms beyond to his fingertips.

The look on his face when he cast a death curse at the Licornyn rider, when he ripped that man’s soul shrieking from his body ...

it was the look of a man who had practiced this art to the point of confidence, even arrogance.

Necrolipha.

Death magic.

That’s what Taar called it.

All these years, while I’ve been sitting around building sky castles about a heroic young mage who would one day sweep me away from all my problems, Artoris was devoting himself to mastering the dark arts.

My lip curls. Did he think of me at all during that time? I suppose he must have, for he did come when I wrote to him. But why? And why was he so intent on taking me back to his tower?

Even I am not foolish enough to pretend it’s love. Not anymore. Artoris never loved me. Those stolen moments we shared seven years ago weren’t love.

They were barely even passion. It was more about control: his desire to control me, and mine to control my destiny.

But when my need for control conflicted with his . . . when he ignored my pleas to slow down, to stop . . . when he frightened me so much that I screamed, and they dragged him away to the pillory to be flogged . . .

whatever feeling may have fueled his desire for me must have long ago transformed to hatred.

So why did he come in answer to that idiotic letter? What did he intend to do with me? Punish me? Pay me back for the humiliation I’d caused him all those years ago?

In my mind’s eye I see again that terrible night of fire and screams, when the Temple of Lamruil went up in smoke. I remember how his fingers dug into my shoulder, wrenching me to my feet and away from Aurae. “She doesn’t matter,”

he’d said as I fought to return to her side. “You’re the only one who matters here.”

When I protested, he’d turned and, without hesitation, struck me across the face.

My fingers slip to my cheek now, remembering the sting. So much for all those years of stubborn romantic fancies. Getting me away from the temple and back to Evisar was his only aim. Only . . . I can’t begin to imagine why.

There’s a sudden change in the air, a sense of energy pulsing through the mist. I gasp, jolted back to the present. We’re leaving the Wood behind us now. A prickling sensation comes over my skin, not painful exactly, simply unignorable. As though all the millions of infinitesimal parts that make up my being are charged with sudden power. My muscles tighten.

“It will be over soon.”

Taar’s voice reaches me as though through layers of reality.

No sooner does he speak than my existence is suddenly flattened and stretched so taut, I think I will break into a million pieces, only to snap back together the next instant. I gag, grabbing the pommel. My insides jolt with the need to heave, but I manage to get it under control. I simply breathe, long, careful breaths, in through my nose, out through my mouth, until the dizziness passes.

“Are you well?”

Taar asks. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head. His voice is still cold, but there may be the slightest trace of concern.

I nod. Apparently I’m not going to embarrass myself with vomiting this time. With an effort, I sit upright and set my chin firmly. “I’m fine, warlord.”

“In that case”—he lifts one hand from his thigh and sweeps a large gesture—“welcome to my world.”

Still woozy, I blink against the fog still crowding close upon my vision.

At first I can’t discern anything.

Then Elydark takes a few steps forward.

The mist clears, and a landscape opens before me.

A wide vista of sweeping plains and vast blue sky, broken by distant mountains on the far horizon.

Lush grass and secret groves of dense-grown trees promise a fertile land.

We seem to have emerged on a high plateau above this paradise.

Our view extends for miles unhindered. Sunlight glints off a winding ribbon of river maybe two miles from our present position.

My mouth drops open. After all my anxious fears, this is the nightmarish realm of legend? It’s breathtaking—wild and raw somehow. Untouched by the hand of man or fae. Even the air tastes fresher than the air of my own world. I feel my gods-gift responding to the atmosphere, to the nearness of magic, in a way I did not feel even in the forest of Wanfriel.

“It’s beautiful.”

The words slip from my lips, a whisper of awe.

Taar chuckles humorlessly. “You have not met the true Cruor yet.”

He sighs then and adds, “There was a time when Licorna stood among the most beautiful realms in all the worlds, rivaling even the fae kingdoms of Eledria. There is a great deal more natural magic in this realm than in your own world, but it does not infuse everything as it does in the fae realms, making Licorna rather less dangerous, and its people rather less mad.”

He turns in the saddle while speaking.

His gaze searches this way and that across the plateau on which we stand.

Elydark tosses his head, eyes rolling.

A trill of soul-song exchanges between them, but I cannot guess at the meaning.

Finally Taar breathes out a long exhale and runs a hand down his face.

I wonder, was he expecting to meet more of those undead warriors on this side of the gate? There’s no one here; the plateau on which we stand is barren, without so much as a clump of grass behind which an enemy might hide.

We’re alone beneath that faraway sky.

Whether that is cause for relief or worry, I cannot guess.

Elydark begins to make his way down to the valley, following a path so narrow, it’s practically invisible.

It’s almost as bad as that gods-awful bridge, and I fight the urge to close my eyes.

“It’s a full day’s ride across the valley,”

Taar says, and points to the far side where, in the hazy distance, I can just discern a rise in the land and a single tall outcropping.

“That is the Luin Stone, where my people wait for me.

If we make good speed, we may yet catch them by sundown, then continue together to the Hidden City.

It is safer to cross Cruor in numbers.”

Safer for whom? The thought prickles uncomfortably.

Taar’s warning not to expect a warm welcome lingers in my ear.

My only ally in this whole world is Taar—and I’ll not soon forget the look he gave me when I accidentally spoke Artoris’s name.

I’d thought he would point that sword of his at my throat and force confessions out of me. All of it: my true name, my parentage, my connection to the mage. Everything that will make my position here more perilous.

Part of me wanted to tell him.

Part of me wants to tell him still, to see if I can push him into punishing me, striking me.

Maybe even killing me.

It’s no more than I deserve. I was the one who brought the fae to the temple doorstep. I’m the reason my sister and I ended up on that auction block. So why should I be sold and bound to a man of honor, when Aurae ended up in the arms of a monster? It would be almost a relief to know my own husband was equally monstrous just before the killing stroke fell. It would feel like justice.

I grit my teeth hard against this thought.

I cannot die.

Not yet.

Not until I’ve fulfilled my purpose. I must return home and marry the Shadow King. Then I must live long enough to see him and his terrible host slaughter the creatures responsible for Aurae’s death. I’ve got to justify my ongoing existence, even if the only way I can is by giving my body over to the appetites of some stranger in exchange for his violence.

After that, nothing else matters.

The Shadow King may kill me if he likes.

As long as I’ve had my vengeance first.

We reach the valley at last and begin our progress toward the river.

Elydark falls into an easy canter, so smooth he might as well be gliding.

I allow myself to be soothed by the gentle rhythm of his hoofbeats.

The day is cold, but the sun is high and sheds a little warmth on my skin. The green delights of the valley are a welcome balm following the frozen winter of my own world and the strange shadows of Wanfriel.

Taar is silent.

I feel it, like a barrier erected between us, but I don’t mind.

Silence is my best defense in this enemy territory.

Here and there I find a little hum of sound trying to creep up my throat and hastily force it back down. It’s some while before I realize that hum is my gods-gift trying to sing in response to a song I keep hearing in snatches. I shake my head, determined to drive the lilting almost-tune from my ears. Maybe it’s a bird or an insect.

The farther we go, the more unique the song sounds. And the more insistent. Though I never hear the same grouping of notes, never catch a complete phrase, I’m sure it’s all part of the same melody somehow. Only not a proper melody. There’s something not quite right about it. It’s beautiful, but with an essential wrongness that sets the teeth on edge.

I look around, trying to catch a glimpse of the source. We draw near to the river at last, and Elydark does not slow his pace until we are at the very banks. Then he pivots slightly and trots up the bank as though searching for a shallow place to cross. It looks so broad, and the water is so dark, I can’t begin to fathom its depths. Taar seems confident enough, however, so I bite back any protests.

Just as the unicorn’s front hooves splash into the shallows, another trill of song rises from the far side of the river. I lift my head sharply. It’s that broken melody, but much louder, harsher. Like daggers, it stabs at my gods-gifted awareness. I resist the urge to cover my ears and instead shade my eyes and gaze across the river, searching for the source.

Elydark halts abruptly, up to his knees in river water. His big head swings to the right, his horn pointed in the same direction from which this new song flows. “What is it, my friend?”

Taar asks, surprised. He reaches around me to touch the unicorn’s shoulder. The soul-connection between them vibrates with an exchange of song. Elydark stamps his hoof, splashing foam, then goes completely still. Head uplifted, he stares off across the river.

The music is getting louder and more broken by the second. So broken it sears across my gods-gift, screeching with wrongness that should be right, that should be beautiful and, therefore, is so much worse. A shudder echoes through my bones. I find myself pressing against Taar, wishing I could melt into him, let him become a living shield between me and that sound.

“What is that?”

I whisper. Then a cry rips from my throat, nearly drowned out by the growing song. “What is that?”

“What?”

Taar asks. “What do you see?”

But I don’t see anything. I just hear that turmoil, growing, swelling, building up like a wave to overwhelm me.

“Elydark!”

Taar barks. “Is it the vardimnar? Is it coming?”

Elydark does not answer. He lifts his head and utters a long, loud, bugling cry, like the drone of a bore and reed instrument. In the same moment that forlorn note bursts through my ears, I see them—the source of that broken song.

Unicorns. Manes and tails streaming like tattered banners, they appear in a herd, thundering along the far bank. Their flanks are all colors of the rainbow but covered in black fire that seems to billow from their hearts and combine into a great conflagration of darkness. More of that same fire smolders in their eyes, and that song of madness and loss and sorrow reverberates from their souls.

There are so many of them—fifty, sixty. A hundred perhaps. Song-broken souls, beautiful beyond description and so terrible it could shatter even the firmest sanity. Love and horror combines in me at the sight of them, twisting my gut, shredding my heart. Part of me wants to cast myself from this saddle into the river and be drowned to escape it. The other part wants to swim across these turgid depths and run with that herd, become one with them and their awful song.

As though reading my mind, Taar’s arm slips around my waist. “Steady,”

he says. I don’t know if he speaks to me or to Elydark, but the sound of his voice is just enough to tether my trembling soul in place.

Then I see it—the last of the herd, coming into sight silhouetted against the blue sky. The most magnificent creature I have ever beheld. From here, it looks the size of a small elephant, and the fire burning from its soul is black as hell flames. The other songs, individual though they may be, are anchored to the song of this beast, this being. Like it is both the source of all the others and their ultimate end.

The black unicorn stops abruptly, directly across the river from us. While the others continue their breakneck race, this final beast turns its burning gaze to look across the water, directly at us. At me.

For a moment I feel the connection—a connection of both oneness and brokenness so profound, it is as though my own soul has become subsumed in that other, greater soul. And in that soul there is so much loss, loss, loss. Loss that becomes mine, wound tight with the cords of guilt in my heart until it has a stranglehold.

Suddenly the unicorn shakes itself and keeps on running, head low, black fire billowing in its wake. As it goes, carrying its song away with it, I begin to hear other things once more—the roar of the river, the wind in the grass. Taar’s voice in my ear crying out, “Ilsevel! Ilsevel, I’m here. Listen to me, zylnala. Don’t listen to her song, listen to me.”

Only now do I hear my own voice. Screaming. A high, wordless keen of pain, echoing across that empty landscape. How long have I been making this ungodly noise? It feels like ages. Tears pour down my face, and my whole body shudders uncontrollably.

“What happened to her?”

The words tear from my lips, ragged and bloody. “What happened to them? What happened to their song?”

Even now I feel their voices echoing inside my head, a chorus of pain and endless woe. My fingers dig into my scalp, as though I could tear that song from my mind. I would fall from the saddle into the waiting river if not for Taar’s hold on me.

But he presses me close to his heart. Suddenly his lips are at my ear, and he’s murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, zylnala. It’s about to get much worse.”

What happens next I could never begin to explain. Though my eyes are closed, there’s a sudden burning straight through my eyelids, like a bolt of lightning. Only this is not lightning—it is darkness. Absolute darkness. And it keeps on branching and branching, until it covers the whole of the sky.

It’s gone the next moment, long enough for me to catch my breath. I look up at Taar and whisper, “What was that?”

“The only thing the wild licorneir of Cruor fear,”

he replies, his gaze turned heavenward, his mouth grim. “The one thing from which they flee.”

Elydark sends out one last sad bugle to the unicorns as they disappear on the far side of the river. He rears and splashes foam with his hooves. Taar leans forward, keeping his balance in the saddle even as he holds onto me. “Elydark!”

he bellows. “Now!”

With a despairing shake of his head, the unicorn comes back down onto all four feet. Then he begins to sing. A sad, lonely, beautiful song, which begins in his soul and burns to the tip of his horn. There the song transforms into light and begins to glow, brighter and brighter. This is not the fire which burns across his flanks in the heat of battle. It spreads in an aura around us, a sphere of protection.

Only just in time. As the fleeing unicorns vanish from sight, darkness swallows the world.