Page 6 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)

TAAR

No matter how many times I experience the vardimnar, it always feels like the first. I’m like a child again, peering out through a small sphere of pale light, searching for a world that is simply gone.

There is only blackness. Not the blackness of nightfall, but of devouring. And if I let myself look too closely, if I allow my eyes to be drawn through the gentle songlight surrounding me, sometimes I see that darkness ripple, strain. As though something just on the other side is seeking to break through.

If it ever does—if it manages to pierce the fragile veil between it and me—I will be done for. Body and soul.

But Elydark’s song is powerful, a song of purity, of love, fueled by our velra connection. Even the vardimnar, endless and hideous though it is, cannot break through such a shield. No more than it was able to all those years ago, when it was a different licorneir I rode, and my sister wrapped in my arms before me in the saddle.

I breathe out slowly, exhaling those memories, forcing myself back to the present moment. It isn’t Tassa who sits before me now. It’s Ilsevel. My bride.

She’s turned her torso and pressed her face into my chest, hiding. I cannot blame her. The darkness of Cruor is utterly overwhelming, even to those prepared to meet it. “Hold on to me, zylnala,”

I whisper, bowing my neck and allowing my lips to brush the top of her head. “It will be over soon.”

It might be true; it might just as easily be a lie. The vardimnar can last for many hours at a time or only a few seconds. There’s no predicting it. But she doesn’t need to know that now.

Eventually her body relaxes. Her breathing, which has been so tight and tense, begins to ease. Finally she looks up at me, dark eyes searching. The light from Elydark’s song shines in their depths, as though glowing from the inside, not merely a reflection. “What is this?”

she whispers so softly I’m obliged to read her lips.

“The nightmare of Cruor,”

I answer. “The secret behind all the legends and tales which have crept into your own world.”

She peers out at the surrounding darkness before tucking her face back into my shoulder. “None of the tales I heard mentioned anything like this.”

A shudder runs down her spine. She’s so vulnerable, I cannot help the intense urge to hold her closer, to comfort and shield her. I know I should resist, but for the moment I cannot. “I’m not surprised,”

I say. “One can hardly describe the vardimnar if one has not experienced it. And those who have would speak of it only under duress.”

“The”—she hesitates over the strange word— “vardimnar?”

I nod. “The Hand of Darkness.”

Another ripple rolls overhead, just on the far side of Elydark’s song. Glancing up, I glimpse that membranous movement, that sense of hugeness trying to push through. It won’t succeed; it never has in the last twenty-five years. Yet the terror of it is so great, I can do nothing but bow my head and let my soul sink into Elydark’s song, into the vibration of our spirit-bond. He never stops singing. Even with heartache beating through his veins, he carries on and on.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you beforehand,”

I say at last.

Ilsevel startles. Her fingers, resting on my arm, tighten to the verge of pain, but I do not shake her off. Her head bobs in a quick nod. “How did this happen?”

I want to tell her. I want to help her find a way to comprehend the horror surrounding her, to make some sense of it and, therefore, to find a ledge of sanity on which to stand in the midst of it. But how? How can I offer her what I, in twenty-five years, have not been able to find for myself?

“We call it the Hand of Darkness,”

I say at last, “because of the spreading black fingers which flash across the sky moments before it falls. They are the foreshadowing, the warning. Were it not for them, there would be little hope for any of us out in the wilds of Cruor. The vardimnar would consume our souls.”

Ilsevel shivers again. “And what does that mean?”

I rub a hand down my face, pulling at the skin under my eyes. She wants a distraction. It hardly matters what I say so long as I keep talking, keep filling her ears with the sound of my voice while Elydark fills her soul with song. I understand what she needs. The truth is, I could use a distraction myself.

“I’ll tell you what I can, zylnala. I’ll tell you the story of when it began and, based on that story, I’ll tell you what wiser minds than mine have speculated as to the ongoing cause. In the end, you will know as much as I about the doom of Cruor.”

Another undulation presses against the bounds of Elydark’s light. I glance at it only briefly before focusing my attention back on Ilsevel, meeting her upturned gaze and holding it like a lifeline. For some moments I’m afraid I will not be able to find the words to tell my story, a story I have not had to tell anyone in many long years. In the end I must simply begin and see where the tale carries me.

“In ages past the luinar of Licorna ruled from Evisar, the seat of our kingdom. It was a magnificent city, the likes of which has never been seen in the human world, a rival even for the mightiest strongholds of the Eledrian realms. And at its heart stood the great Citadel of the Stars . . .”

Evisar was so beautiful, even the kings and queens of the fae would sometimes visit to treat with the luinar and maelar of Licorna so that they might enjoy the bounty of their hosts. The golden towers, the lush gardens, the streets built in such harmony that the very paving stones seemed to sing beneath the feet of those who walked them.

But most of all they desired to see the licorneir and to hear their song. For there is nothing like that song to be found elsewhere in all the worlds.

My father, Thalorkhir, ruled Licorna for many years and was considered as wise, just, and fair a monarch as any of his forefathers. He took to wife Ashtalora of the House of Ehlark. Upon their marriage, they were soul-bonded to Onoril and Mahra, the father and mother of all licorneir. Such is the tradition for the sovereigns of Licorna, going back generations uncounted. Thus the great song of Onoril and Mahra remained unbroken, and the glory of Licorna undimmed in the worlds.

When I was still a young boy, my father would sometimes take me with him out into the open countryside beyond the city and ride with me before him on Onoril’s back. “One day,”

he would tell me, “you and Onoril will bond. It is your destiny, as it was mine before you.”

“But how can that be?”

I would respond curiously. “If you die, will not Onoril be hearttorn?”

“No indeed,”

my father would answer. “His soul will remain connected to mine through you and through the blood you bear. It was the same for my father and his father before him, all the way back to the beginning of our world. We must protect the song of the licorneir. It is the life’s blood of our world.”

“And what of Mahra?”

I asked. “Will she bond with Tassa?”

At this Father shook his head. “Your sister’s fate lies elsewhere. One day you will choose a great lady to be queen of Licorna and rule at your side. It is her soul which shall be bound with Mahra. Such is the will of the goddess.”

If my sister had been born first, our roles would have been reversed: she, as heir, would have bonded to Mahra, and her chosen husband, having proven himself worthy, given to Onoril. But it had been many generations since a crown princess was born, and though Tassa resented what she perceived as destiny’s preference for me, neither of us questioned it.

So I rode with my father, listening to echoes of the unique song Onoril sang in tandem with the king’s soul. Sometimes I almost thought I heard the great licorneir’s true name sung in my heart. In those moments I believed that I and Onoril would one day bond as we were meant to. That destiny would play out according to its established mold.

But then the Miphates came.

The Licornyn had no dealings with humans for many generations, having found their mages to be unsavory folk. Always hungry for new ways to access the magic of the quinsatra and increase their own standing among the leaders of the various worlds, they could be conniving, untrustworthy, even dangerous.

But one day a prince of the human world came to our gates. He was an adventurer hero among his own kind—Larongar Cyhorn by name. It was said he vanquished the dragon of Mount Helesatra and was therefore favored by the gods. I do not know how true this story is, but my father was convinced. He welcomed the prince into Evisar City along with a contingent of mortal mages.

There was one mage in their number who was older than the rest—an absolutely decrepit man. As a child, I thought him foul and terrifying. While the Licornyn people are not full-blooded fae and, therefore, age like mortals, they do so much more slowly and far more gracefully. But there was a sense of grasping about this man, as though he was clinging onto life. The more he clung, the more twisted and warped his body became. His face, I remember, was strangely smooth, while his neck and hands were covered in wrinkles. His body was as emaciated as a corpse, and I suspect he was performing life-sustaining magic on himself, but at a terrible cost.

Child that I was, I was not privy to the councils of my father, mother, and their strange human guests. Now all those who were with them have perished, and I have only my guesses as to what befell during those long conferences between King Thalor, Prince Larongar, and the Miphates. I do know that by the time the mortal prince left, half the Miphates remained behind.

They took up residence in the Citadel of Stars, which was the heart of my father’s palace and a great center of power and magic in the realm. It was said to have been built on the very site where Nornala opened the gates of heaven and sent Onoril and Mahra through at the dawn of our world. The majesty and mystery of the divine lingered there, at least according to tradition.

What took place within the citadel thereafter, I do not know. The Miphates rarely left it in the weeks following their prince’s departure. My father spent more and more time with them, sometimes disappearing through those great doors for days on end.

My mother grew anxious, her mouth often pinched in a strict, worried line. When I was small, my parents were always in accord, and there was great affection between them I believe. Now they argued . . . over what, I know not. But the discord of their spirits seemed to darken the very halls of our home.

Weeks passed. Months, perhaps; I was too young to be aware of the passage of time. Mother grew ever more pale and anxious, her temper short, her nerves frayed. Once Tassa worked up the courage to speak to her, saying, “Mama, what do the Miphates want with Father? What are they doing in the citadel?”

Mother narrowed her eyes. My sister flinched, expecting one of her sharp reprimands. To our surprise, however, she sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes,”

she said, “men grow discontented with their lot and seek means to exceed that which has been divinely ordained.”

This was not a satisfactory answer. But Tassa could wheedle no more from my mother’s closed lips. We’ve both talked of it in the years since. Even now, on long winter nights, we will sit together before a fire and seek to scry some meaning from the enigmatic words. At the time all we knew for certain was that our mother was deeply distressed, but neither of us could bear to ask her more questions.

It wasn’t much later when strange things began to happen around the citadel. Inexplicable ripples of darkness would shudder suddenly up the walls, vanishing almost as soon as they appeared. Sometimes the sun would seem to darken, though there was no cloud in the sky. After these episodes—always so brief, one almost believed one had imagined them—a great heaviness would come over my soul. I began to be truly afraid, though of what I could not name.

This went on for the better part of a year. I began to fear my life would never go back to the way it was before. My mother would never smile, my father would never find time for me. I would never again enjoy those beautiful long rides beyond the city limits with Onoril. Hatred for the Miphates swelled in my heart, particularly for that old Miphato. I never saw him again after he passed through the citadel doors. But he was in there; I knew it. And I knew as well that he was at the center of all this trouble.

One day there was a strange flicker of blackness, which split the sky in innumerable branches, like spreading lightning. It was so much worse, so much greater than the shadows which sometimes surrounded the tower, but over in a flash, leaving Tassa and me stunned in its wake. We stared out the window of our chamber, open-mouthed. Then slowly we turned to each other. Tassa whispered, “Did you see that?”

Before I could answer, Mother burst into the room. We were in our study hall with Master Mitalar, our tutor. He leapt out from behind his desk to bow to his queen, but she ignored him and scooped Tassa up in her arms. “Come with me, Taar,”

she said, without a trace of softness in her voice. “Hurry.”

“Maelar!”

Master Mitalar called after her as she hastened to the door. “Maelar, what is wrong? Is there anything I might do?”

She looked back at him briefly. For a moment the stern lines of her face broke, revealing something I had never seen on her features before: fear. “Pray for us, good master,”

she said, a tremble in her voice. “Pray for us all.”

Then she turned and, pressing Tassa close to her heart, hastened through the palace. Her stride was so long and quick, I struggled to keep up with her. “Make haste, Taar!”

she barked every few paces. I was panting too hard to question her.

All around us was mayhem. I glimpsed faces I’d known my entire life so twisted with fear as to be almost unrecognizable. Everyone we passed cried out to my mother, begging her for answers to questions they scarcely dared ask. She spoke to no one and never slowed her pace. So stern was her face, that crowds parted to let her pass, me trailing at her heels.

We made our way through the palace and out to the central courtyard, where Mahra stood waiting. I hesitated to draw near to the great licorneir. While Onoril was a familiar friend, my mother’s heartbound seemed beautiful and otherworldly. Almost frightening. She was in distress that day, her ears pinned back, her nostrils flaring. I could not hear her song, but flame flickered across her withers and down her forelegs, revealing both her power and the trouble in her soul.

“Mahra, haravel,”

my mother said, stretching out her hand to touch the licorneir’s forehead just beneath the base of her horn. “You must carry them, my love. You must flee this place as hard, as fast as you can. Get them to safety.”

The great licorneir shook her head. I felt the anguish in her protest, but Mother drew her close so that she might rest her forehead briefly against her cheek. “You know my love for you,”

she breathed. “Beyond words, beyond song. And I know you love me too. It is by that love I beg you—do this last great act for me. Save my children. Save them from what is coming.”

Mahra threw back her head, uttering a sound so desperate, it could shatter hearts to hear it. Tears coursed down my cheeks, and I protested helplessly, “No, no, no!”

as my mother placed first my sister than me on her licorneir’s back.

Then Mother gripped my hand and pressed something round and hard into it. “Remember,”

she said, gazing up into my eyes. “Remember who you are, Taarthalor. Someday you must return here. Someday you must drive these monsters from our land. Until then, be brave, luinar.”

Luinar.

The word echoed inside my head, a word I had always and only associated with my father. Now she spoke it to me with a conviction that felt like the weight of worlds.

Before I could answer, Mahra turned her head around and fled that courtyard with my sister and me. I looked back once, straining to peer over my shoulder. I saw my mother standing there in the center of the yard, hands clasped as though in prayer. For the first and only time she seemed to me so . . . small.

Then she was gone. Not because we had left the courtyard or passed beyond range of vision. No—she vanished in a sudden fall of darkness, so absolute, it was like blindness itself. The same darkness which surrounds us even now, only far greater.

A darkness which seemed to cover our entire world.

I cannot begin to describe that ride. I clung to Tassa, who wept, bowed over Mahra’s neck and mane. I wept as well, shamelessly. The horror of that darkness threatened to fill me up from the inside like drowning waters.

But Mahra’s song sustained us. I did not hear it at first, but it was there all the while. Slowly but surely I became aware of it, shining starlight surrounding us in a sphere of glowing power. She ran as she sang, like a shooting star, streaking across this new black universe.

Sometimes throughout that ride, I would look to the right or the left and see other lights out there in the darkness. Fellow stars, winking in the night, racing for escape alongside us. I even felt their songs occasionally as they sang out through the black. They were other licorneir riders, trying to outrace the evil which had fallen upon our world. Searching to find the sun once more.

One by one all those lights went out.

For days Mahra raced on without breaking stride. Tassa and I should have fainted from pure exhaustion, but Mahra’s song kept us alive, vibrating in our bones, in our souls.

Only once did the great licorneir herself stumble; only once did her song falter. That was early on in our flight, before we’d even left the boundaries of the city. I believe it was the moment my mother died—the moment Mahra herself suffered the indescribable agony of velrhoar—hearttorn. Her pain was such, she should never have been able to continue as she did.

It is testimony to the love she bore my mother that she never weakened again throughout the rest of that ride. She carried us on and on, through the darkness, singing all the way.

In the years which followed, I have come to understand that the citadel was, most likely, the epicenter of the spreading darkness which smothered Licorna. Then, however, I could not begin to guess the scope of the annihilation surrounding us. It seemed endless and eternal, and by the end of our journey, I had all but forgotten an existence before and ceased to hope for an existence after that horror.

Then, as abruptly as it had fallen, it ended.

One moment we were in the dark. The next Mahra’s heavy footfalls thundered against the turf of an open plain beneath a cloudless blue sky. There was no civilization to be seen, no cities, towns, no shepherd’s huts. Just empty countryside, lifeless save for a breath of wind, which blew through the grass in gentle waves.

My mother’s licorneir staggered to a halt, blowing hard. For a few moments her song continued, but even my exhaustion-numbed ears could hear how swiftly it began to fracture. Tassa and I fell from her back, shuddering and exhausted to the brink of death. We could do nothing but lie in the grass and stare up at a sky which had become unfamiliar to us.

I remember turning my head slightly, glimpsing Mahra’s eyes fixed upon me. Through my own weariness, I felt the stab of her pain. Pain which I shared—her lost rider was my lost mother, after all. In that moment, however, I could not feel as she felt. I could feel nothing beyond the struggle for each successive breath.

But Mahra felt it all. The torture of velrhoar.

She threw back her head, crying out in a loud voice which rang through that empty air. The cry became a scream, and her song, which she had sung for so long despite her pain, fractured at last.

I tried to reach for her. My lips moved, attempting to form her name. It didn’t matter. Pivoting on her hindquarters, my mother’s licorneir turned away from us and raced back the way we had come. Back across wild country I did not know, vanishing into the horizon, leaving only the echo of her song behind her.

Thus Tassa and I survived the devastation of Licorna only to find ourselves alone on the edge of the world.