Page 7 of HeartTorn (WarBride #2)
ILSEVEL
Taar falls silent at last. The final words of his sad tale echo in my head, a strange counterpoint to the song his unicorn sings. When I dare look up at him, his face is turned away from me, gazing out into that blackness beyond the glow of Elydark’s protective sphere.
That blackness which rings with un-song.
It’s not like the music of the wild unicorns from across the river. That song was broken, but in its brokenness, the beauty of the song as it had once been remained. This is worse. This darkness, this void. This is the absence of song, of light, of energy, of all that makes existence good or, at the very least, bearable. It is like death without the life which begat it.
But in its center something dwells. Something . . . not living. Existing. An anti-being, a creature of oblivion. And it wants out. It wants through from its world of un-song into this one, ravenous and ready to devour.
I close my eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer. It’s better this way. With my eyes closed, my gods-gift may concentrate on Elydark’s song, on the energetic exchange of soul between the unicorn and its bonded master. This is powerful magic, not something I can truly comprehend, but which I feel with an instinctual understanding as I do all music and instruments. I wish I dared join in . . . but something about this song feels sacred, and I wouldn’t dare. Not with my imperfect understanding and impure heart.
“Neither Tassa nor I would have survived,”
Taar says at long last, picking up threads of the story I’d begun to think he’d dropped, “were we not found by the Rocaryn, a tribe of nomadic Licornyn who dwelt on the very outskirts of the kingdom. Only they and a handful of other, similar tribes survived the cataclysm. They lived far enough away from the epicenter, and the darkness did not reach them. They make up the last of the once-great Licornyn nation. They—we—have stayed alive this long by keeping to the fringes, avoiding the worst of the vardimnar when it strikes.”
I almost can’t bear to ask the question trembling on my lips. “How often does it come? This darkness?”
I feel him shrug, his arms still wrapped around me. “It is utterly unpredictable. Sometimes days or even weeks will pass without a single event. Sometimes there will be as many as three in a single night. The wisest minds of my people have tried to discern patterns, but none have succeeded.”
“And . . . is it made by the Miphates?”
“I believe the Miphates caused it. I believe they cause it still.”
“How?”
He is silent for a while. I begin to think he will not answer my question. At last, however, he says, “I suspect they are channeling through the Rift—parting veils of reality to access the power of Ashtari, the Seventh Hell. Every time the vardimnar strikes, I believe they have opened the Rift once more to draw from its depths.”
I open my eyes a crack, peering out at the darkness. “Is this Ashtari then? Surrounding us?”
“Perhaps,”
Taar replies. He sounds oddly calm about it, oddly at peace with this proximity to hell. “Or a piece of it.”
The dreadful un-song pulses again, that sense of an entity just on the other side of perception, straining to burst through. Gods above and below, have mercy! How could anyone be foolish enough to open gateways to something so horrible? I knew the Miphates were hungry for power, but this? This is pure lunacy. It would take a madman to think he might control and manipulate such a vast malevolence.
But then I think of the ease with which Artoris summoned that death curse. Would such a man hesitate to grasp at the power of hell itself if he thought he could wield it?
Evisar. The name of the city in Taar’s story rings loud in my head. Evisar Citadel is the name of the mage tower where Artoris studied the magical arts. The very tower to which he intended to return with me in tow when he came to fetch me from the temple. I have always believed it to be one of the Miphates’ many centers of learning and magic, nothing more, nothing less. To know it was once the center of Taar’s kingdom, a kingdom which my own people willfully destroyed . . . what am I supposed to do with such knowledge? What am I supposed to think of these Licornyn, whom I have always viewed as my enemies?
“Who was the mage?”
I ask suddenly. “The old one, the one you loathed so much.”
Taar’s lip curls. He speaks the name with disgust, like spitting out a mouthful of poison: “Morthiel.”
My blood runs cold. I know that name. I know Morthiel. He was Artoris’s master, the very mage my father summoned to help when, at fifteen years old, my gods-gift manifested suddenly, and the influx of magic knocked me unconscious. It was Morthiel who drew me back, who awakened me from death-like slumber when no one else could. I remember little of him—cold hands, wrinkled skin, a voice like dry bones. He did something to my gift, something to make it more manageable. I don’t know what; I don’t know if it matters.
I only know I can never let Taar find out.
We are silent together for some while, listening to Elydark’s song. Gods, this darkness truly feels endless! I could easily imagine we’ve been trapped in this place for months, for years.
“Was that Mahra?”
I ask quietly after I do not know how long. “The wild unicorn we saw, just before the black lightning struck?”
“I believe so,”
Taar replies. “I have seen her a few times since she carried me and my sister to safety. She looks nothing like the creature she was then. But that is what velrhoar does to its victims. To be hearttorn is a terrible fate.”
“And what became of Onoril?”
I press, remembering the other great licorneir from the story. “And your father? Did you ever see them again?”
Taar shakes his head. “I do not know. I suspect they died, along with every other soul caught within the radius of that blast.”
Then his voice drops an octave, almost like a song, the deep timbre rumbling in my gut. “But one day I will return. One day I will break through the gates and wards, bash down the doors of that citadel, and discover for myself what lies within. One day I will know exactly how and why they have desecrated the land of my forefathers. And when that day comes . . .”
He breathes out slowly before ending with the conviction of a vow: “When that day comes, zylnala, I will have my vengeance.”
I don’t know how long we remain inside that ball of light-song, surrounded by darkness. When it ends at last—vanishing abruptly, like a candle blown out, only in reverse—it feels like hours and, simultaneously, like no time has passed at all. The world around us is once more full of blue sky and waving grass and the deep flow of the river, carrying its secrets from the mountains to some distant, unseen sea.
Elydark and Taar exchange song-words. I feel Taar’s concern for his unicorn, and he reaches around me to stroke the beast’s neck. But Elydark shakes his head as though answering a question. The next moment he surges into the river, continuing our journey as though nothing strange has just taken place. As though my whole world has not been changed forever.
I cannot shake the heaviness that clings to me following both the onset of that darkness and Taar’s tale. My eyes dart this way and that, searching for signs of hellish residue in the world around me. The river water feels thick as it dampens my skirts and splashes against my thighs. And when we reach the far shore, I can’t shake the feeling that each strand of grass is covered in some viscous substance which my eyes cannot discern.
It's the un-song. I realize the truth even as Elydark breaks into a gallop, speeding across the open valley, his nose turned toward that distant standing stone. The un-song of the darkness still reverberates across my gods-gifted senses, more real than the reality surrounding me. It clings to this world, and though I cannot see any overt effect upon the land itself, something tells me that Cruor has been irreparably changed by its proximity to hell. For one thing, there are no birds, no flowers, no insects, no signs of life anywhere around us. Nothing but endless waves of grass, bowing under Elydark’s hooves only to spring back up again, unbroken in our wake.
Should I believe Taar’s story? The question churns in my brain, annoying and insistent. I’ve known him only a handful of days, whereas I’ve spent my entire life in dread of the fae. Prince Ruvaen’s invading force has spread devastation across Gavaria for years now. Sheltered in Beldroth Castle, I’ve been spared any direct suffering until recent history. But during my Maiden’s Journey I glimpsed evidence of the fae and their savagery: burnt-out villages, refugees on foot in the middle of winter. Cold, starving faces turning to watch my carriage and entourage pass. One could not doubt all the rumors of fae wickedness in light of such suffering.
And what about my older sister? Faraine described the terrible unicorn riders who set upon her carriage during her journey home from her remote convent. She told me how they’d slaughtered her guards, how they would have slain her as well were it not for the timely arrival of the Shadow King. He alone could vanquish such a deadly foe, he and his monstrous warriors.
But what if there was another side to this story? What if those vicious Licornyn, desperate to preserve their own people, their way of life, believed their only hope was to prevent King Larongar from allying himself with the troldefolk? What if those Licornyn warriors lost their lives fighting to save a world my people have all but destroyed?
I set my jaw hard. No one really knows what goes on inside Evisar Citadel. It would be foolish indeed to switch allegiances based on the testimony of one biased source. Even if that biased source is Taar—the man who has thrice saved my life at great risk to his own. The man who has shown me nothing but courtesy and kindness, even when I sought to stab him in the eye. The man who inspires in my blood such a heat as to be almost irresistible.
I wrap cold fingers around my forearm, squeezing hard over that place where the invisible velra cord lies. I dare not forget the truth: I am a captive, bound to this man by powerful magic which clouds my senses. If I’m to survive, I must keep a level head.
Hours slip by. I watch the sky nervously as we progress across the valley, but there’s no return of the branching fingers of black lightning. If the Miphates are truly pulling magic from Ashtari, they seem to have fetched enough for the time being. The sun moves in its lonely arc toward the horizon, tossing Elydark’s shadow longer and longer on our right. He seems to be in a race against it, trying to outstrip his own long-legged counterpart.
My eyes grow heavy—the steady rhythm of Elydark’s gait is so soothing, and the warm strength of Taar behind me strangely comforting. And I’m so gods-damned tired! My chin dips. I jerk my head back upright, only for it to dip again . . .
When I wake, Elydark is still in motion, but the valley is now behind us. The unicorn climbs the steep hill on which the Luin Stone stands. It looms above us, no natural formation as I first assumed. Bathed in late-afternoon sunlight, it shines like pure gold. In fact it is pure gold, shaped by craftsman in careful lines and smooth curves. From this angle it’s difficult to say what it’s meant to be. It looks almost like . . . a leg?
“The Luin Stone once marked the southernmost edge of Licorna,”
Taar says suddenly, as though overhearing my unspoken questions. “In the days before the Rift, it was a statue erected in honor of the first Licornyn king, Luinthalor. It stood so tall, legend has it that the king’s crown could be seen from the top of the Citadel of the Stars in Evisar, though I never had the chance to verify the truth of that claim.”
I squint to study the great edifice as we draw nearer. The craftsmanship is undeniable now—that muscular calf, the bones of the ankle, the massive foot fitted into an ornate sandal. Whatever happened to the rest of the statue, all that remains is testimony to the glory of ancient days.
A ripple of song issues from Elydark to Taar. I don’t understand it but detect a certain note of anxiety. “What’s wrong?”
I ask, turning a little to look up at Taar.
He glances down at me, his expression curious. “Did you hear that?”
I grit my teeth. Something tells me I shouldn’t let him know just how much I overhear of his connection with his unicorn. “Hear what?”
I ask innocently. “I didn’t hear anything. Your body tensed up. That’s all.”
He looks unconvinced, but he lets the matter drop. “There’s nothing wrong,”
he answers. “Elydark ought to be able to sense the presence of other licorneir waiting for us above. There aren’t any. Which means we’ve missed the rendezvous with my people.”
Well, that’s a relief! A sigh slides between my lips. The longer I can put off any interaction with those stern-faced Licornyn warriors the better. Still, that tension between Elydark and Taar continues in several more exchanges of song. Despite Taar’s words to the contrary, he’s not as easy as he pretends. What will we find at the top of this rise?
Elydark never slackens his pace, no matter how steep the path grows. He continues at the same breakneck gallop until we reach the summit, close to the towering Luin Stone. Though I saw it looming from across the valley, I am nonetheless struck by the sheer size of that gold block. The original statue of the first Licornyn king must have been massive indeed! What became of the rest of it? Did the surviving Licornyn haul away the gold following the collapse of their kingdom? Or did the Miphates find it and claim it for some purpose of their own?
We come to a stop. Elydark paws the ground and snorts as he shakes his horn. Taar, sitting very straight in the saddle, looks around the landscape. There’s no sign of life to be seen close at hand, though I spot what looks like the remains of campfires clustered around the Luin Stone. His people were here not long ago. “They must have gone on without us,”
Taar says, speaking to himself rather than to me. “It was always an outside chance that they would be here, but I’d hoped the time-slip might work in our favor.”
“A time-slip?”
He looks down, half-catching my eye before looking away again. “Your world and mine, though similar, do not follow the same flow of time. I did not intend to stay a full night in your world, merely a few hours. That extra night may have added several days to our overall journey or no time at all. It is difficult to predict such things.”
He sounds as though he’s trying to comfort himself with this explanation. Elydark throws back his head, shaking his mane, obviously unconvinced. But whatever exchange passes between them, Taar does not share with me.
I turn to look at the landscape beyond the stone, which had been hidden from my sight while down in the valley. To my surprise, there is a town not many miles from our current position. No, not a town—a city. Great, towering structures, bridges, a mighty wall. Shocking in its size, its grandeur, it dominates a valley equally lush and wild as the one we just left behind. Even the backdrop of distant mountains cannot diminish its splendor.
But it’s empty. Like a gutted carcass, its spirit long since fled.
I blink, momentarily convinced my eyes deceive me. Maybe it’s just a trick of the fading light. Surely those great towers cannot be half-choked in vines, those roads broken and overgrown in foliage and weeds. My ears strain for sounds of life, for the ever-changing song of a living city, the great harmony of a hundred thousand souls living, trading, struggling, triumphing, breeding, feeding, dying—all sheltered within those tall, forbidding walls.
There is nothing. Only ghastly echoes of wind blowing through empty windows.
“Is that Evisar?”
I ask quietly, unable to tear my gaze from that sight.
Taar turns his head, regarding the city. “No,”
he says. “Evisar is a full day’s ride from here and is hidden behind a powerful obscuris spell. This was once the City of Uvareth, my grandfather’s holding, my mother’s childhood home.”
He speaks the words carefully, as though afraid to let any emotion tinge his voice. What must it be like for him? To travel across this familiar landscape only to be confronted with once-thriving cities now utterly decimated? Not even the ruinous towns I’d glimpsed on my Maiden’s Journey can compare. They were bad, yes—they had been attacked, burnt, the denizens slain or driven out. But by the time I passed by, there were already signs of return. People are resilient, and where there is life, there is stubborn determination to survive and rebuild.
There was no attack here, however. No sign of burning or destruction, no pillaging invaders. It is simply empty. Hollowed out from the inside. Echoing un-song rings in the back of my head. The people of this city, of this world, were unprepared. They had no chance to defend themselves from that consuming emptiness, that hunger-made-sentient. One moment alive, going about their day-to-day existence, the next . . . devoured.
The nightmare of Cruor is far worse than any tales I once believed.
Elydark and Taar exchange some songful back-and-forth. Then Taar dismounts. “We’ll make camp here,”
he says, turning to look up at me even as he strokes Elydark’s muscular neck. “You must be tired.”
“I’m not,”
I lie and sit up a little straighter in the saddle as though to prove my words. “We can ride on if you like. Maybe catch up with your people after all.”
His eyebrow tilts. I suspect he sees right through my stubbornness. But he says only, “No, zylnala. We’ve ridden far enough for one day.”
At his words, sudden weariness seems to come over me. I feel the miles, the leagues, the worlds through which I have traveled since morning all catching up to me at once. When he reaches up to help me from the saddle, I hesitate only a moment before resting my hands on his shoulders and sliding from the saddle into his supportive grasp. The muscles in his forearms flex, but he lifts me down with such ease, I might be nothing more than a feather-stuffed doll. Though I’ve spent the last many hours in close proximity with this man, there’s something very different about facing him, about having my nose inches from his, about the sensation of his fingers wrapped around my ribcage. My breath catches, and my heart performs a somersault in my chest before tumbling straight to my gut.
The moment my feet touch the ground, my knees try to buckle. Unused to spending such long hours in the saddle—even an unexpectedly comfortable Licornyn saddle—my body is numb in places I didn’t even realize could be numb. With a little gasp, I stagger, leaning against Taar’s broad, bare chest. For a moment I remain there, frozen. Listening to the sound of his heart thundering so close to my ear. His hands, still gripping me under the arms, tighten slightly. I feel the exhale of his breath against the hair atop my head.
An impulse comes over me suddenly: a powerful inclination to close my eyes and simply rest here in his grasp. To let all the fears, worries, confusion, and questions of the day melt away into a moment of pure, trustful peace.
“Zylnala.”
His voice falls over me like a blanket, warm and comforting in this perilous world. What would it be like to belong to such a man? To really belong to him—not owned, bought and paid for, but chosen. Cherished. What would it be like to know I mattered to him, that by mere existence I could make his life a little better? That would be power indeed.
But so great and terrible a man—a warrior, a king among his people—would never choose someone like me.
I squeeze my eyes tight. Slipping my hands from his shoulders to his chest, I push. For the briefest possible instant, his fingers tighten around my ribcage, hard enough to hurt. Then he abruptly releases me and takes several steps back. Not meeting my eye, not so much as glancing my way, he sets to work pulling saddlebags from Elydark’s back. Part of me wants to offer to help, but he’s so quick and certain in every movement, I know I would only get in his way. Instead I turn away, still a little unsteady on my feet, and take a few tottering steps toward the Luin Stone.
“Don’t go far.”
I glance over my shoulder. Taar’s back is to me, his attention entirely fixed on setting up a temporary camp. “If the vardimnar returns,”
he says, “you need to be within Elydark’s sphere of protection.”
I sniff. It’s not as though I’ve got anywhere to go in this wild, empty world of his. Besides, the velra won’t let me wander.
Turning away from him again, I rub my forearm, which smarts. Is this tension I’m feeling, this pull, this attraction, just the velra bond messing with my senses? It’s easier to believe so. If I’ve learned anything in the last few days, it’s that I don’t matter—I never did. I only matter to men insofar as I further their ends. I was always Father’s favorite, wasn’t I? When he disparaged Faraine and ignored Aurae, I was the one he petted and praised. In the end what did that preference earn me? He still sold me to the Shadow King without a second thought.
And Artoris? I clung to faulty memories of him for so long, only for him to be no different than my father. I don’t know what use he had for me exactly, what he thought he would achieve by taking me back to Evisar. But it was obviously for his sake, not mine, that he came. I am useful. And, when my usefulness is done, I am disposable.
My wandering footsteps lead me to the Luin Stone. I look up at the broken knee, towering some forty feet over my head. How tall was this colossus in its day? Imagination boggles. To think there was a civilization so ancient, so mighty, so very different from mine, existing just on the other side of a thin veil of reality all these centuries! I turn my gaze out to that devastated city. Now that the sun has set, all its intricate details are lost, leaving a black, featureless mountain beneath the emerging stars. My heartbeat echoes hollowly in my chest, a dull throb on the edge of awareness.
“Are you hungry?”
I turn slightly at the sound of Taar’s voice. He’s built up a little fire using wood carried through from my own world. Kindling burns, and large pieces begin to catch, giving off both heat and light. Taar reaches into one of his travel bags and withdraws a little honey-flavored cake. He looks at me, his hand raised in offering.
My stomach knots. I remember well enough the tough outer crust of those cakes, the earthy flavor a lingering stain on my tongue. But we’ve eaten nothing since the morning, and I heaved all that up during the gate crossing. My innards feel positively cavernous. And I’m exhausted—so exhausted I can hardly believe it. There was a time, back in my spoiled past life, when I could not have imagined exhaustion like this, not just in my body, but in my spirit. I feel ready to break in half.
But I have just enough pride left not to want him to know that.
Holding myself very straight and upright, I leave the shelter of the Luin Stone and step over to the fire. With a quick snatch, I take the cake from Taar’s hand, then hasten to the other side of our little camp, ignoring any temptation to sit beside him, to take comfort in his nearness. I’ve had more than enough physical proximity to this man today, thank you, gods. What I need is space. Perspective.
So I plunk myself down and gnaw at the edge of the hard cake. It breaks off in odd chunks which turn to dust on my tongue. I don’t care. At this point I’d eat a rock with equal relish.
“And how are you tonight, Ilsevel?”
I pause, molars locked around a lump of cake, and shoot a glance across the flickering flames. Taar is seated in an uncharacteristically relaxed pose, leaning back on one elbow, his long legs outstretched. He breaks off pieces of hard cake and pops them in his mouth. He doesn’t look at me but seems wholly absorbed in this task.
I pull the cake back out of my mouth, rolling my jaw uncomfortably. What kind of a question is that? How am I?
“I’m . . . fine. Thanks.”
I chew my lip then, worrying a bit of dry skin. “How are you?”
It sounds so stupid; I wish I could take it back the moment I say it. Taar’s gaze flashes through the flames. I meet it hard, refusing to back down or even blink. He lowers his lashes and turns his cake around in his fingers as though considering it. Finally, with a shrug, he sets it aside, sits up, and fetches his kettle from the nearest saddlebag. Filling it with water from a skin, he nestles it on the fire and watches it, as though his gaze can make it boil faster. But I know the truth. He’s simply trying not to look at me. Or hoping I’ll stop looking at him.
Finally he clears his throat. “It’s not every day one encounters something like the vardimnar.”
“No.”
I sniff. “Nor does one go about being threatened by the undead or traveling through magic portals into strange new worlds. It’s certainly been an eventful twenty-four hours. But,”
I finish, brandishing cake with a little twirl of my wrist, “I am, nonetheless, fine.”
He looks up, catching my eye once more in that dark gaze of his. For a moment he says nothing. We simply watch one another. My skin prickles, and I can’t tell if it’s with hostility or attraction. Possibly both.
“You know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”
he says softly.
Everything inside me goes still, like the sudden hush in the atmosphere before a storm. I feel the heat, the energy of pure tempest building in my core.
Slowly I lick my chapped lips. When I speak, I take pains to keep my voice level. “What do you mean, warlord?”
Taar draws a long breath. It’s strange . . . I’ve seen this man hurl himself into the most terrible dangers without a second thought. Memory of the ravening Lurodos, his face streaked black with virulium poison, astride his hideous reptant steed, flashes through my mind’s eye. Taar met him in battle without a qualm. Yet here, in this moment, he hesitates.
“Your sister,”
he says at last. And nothing more.
Nothing more is needed.
The cake drops from my numb fingers, thunks in the dirt and lies still. I get to my feet. Stand a moment, staring down at him from across the dancing fire.
Then I turn and march away—away from the campfire, away from the Luin Stone. Away from him. “Ilsevel!”
he calls, but I ignore him, my strides lengthening as I put distance between us. Night falls fast now, and my footing is not as sure as it could be on this rocky terrain. I don’t care. If anything, I pick up my pace, moving faster and faster, reckless, shoes kicking loose stones to roll down the incline in small avalanches.
I come to an abrupt stop, my toes just protruding over the edge of a precipitous drop. The last rays of the falling sun shines from the edge of this world, illuminating the carcass of the abandoned city far below. I stare at it, trying once more, almost unconsciously, to hear the song which must have once sung so clear from its streets, its towers, its bridges and walls. There’s nothing. A great, hollow echo of nothing.
Footsteps sound behind me. “Ilsevel,”
Taar calls again, but I do not turn to face him. I wrap my arms around myself, shuddering but not with cold. He draws nearer, comes a halt. When he speaks again, his voice is deeper than before, tinged with darkness. “Zylnala.”
I close my eyes. I feel like a convict kneeling at the block, counting out the heartbeats until the blade drops.
“You understand, don’t you?”
His voice reaches for me like a pair of strong arms, trying to draw me back to him. “What happened to your sister was a tragedy. But it was not your fault. You could not have prevented it.”
Of course he would think that. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t realize the truth.
I pull in a shivering breath, biting down on both lips to prevent a sob from escaping. A host of wild confessions crowd my tongue. Gods, I might as well just cast myself over this brink and break on the stones below! Maybe I will.
Or maybe there’s a simpler way to bring about my own demise.
“He was there because of me.”
Taar is silent for a long moment. Then: “What did you say?”
A smile rips at my face. Now it’s there, ready to come out: my declaration of guilt. It’s almost a relief to speak it, to let the words, which have been knotted in my throat all this while, finally unspool and tumble free.
“Mage Artoris would not have been at the Temple of Lamruil were it not for me. I wrote to him. I asked him to come.”