O! gods on high, who gifted her from the time of her birth with great power and great purpose, send her back. Let her return tothis world, let her accomplish all that you have set before her. Let this not be the end. If you will only hear my prayer, I will vow to—
A burst of white light. Like an exploding star, appearing suddenly on the edge of that horizon. Simultaneously as distant as eternity and as present as the next heartbeat. It swells, brighter and brighter, so blindingly bright it should melt eyeballs from their sockets, yet I find I can stare into it safely, protected as I am by Elydark’s soulfire. At first I cannot perceive it as anything other than a sudden force of destruction, and my heart quails.
Then I realize what I truly see. What my ears could not perceive, but what my soul recognizes: song. Living song.
No sooner does this realization strike than Diira, white flames dancing over every inch of her blue-black hide, bursts upon my perceptions, carrying that song with her. The great sphere of light condenses rapidly down into the form of a galloping licorneir. She streaks across that foreshortened gray landscape, the fastest of her kind, a living bolt of lightning. Occasionally her form flickers out of sight, but she always reappears the next moment, steadily drawing nearer and nearer.
Ilsevel clings to her back.
Elydark is already in motion by the time I recover from my initial shock. His own flame ignites, bursting from his horn and spreading over his flanks as he carries me across the distance. We arrive at the very edge of our formed world just as Diira bursts through, her hooves tearing up the soil. She skids to a stop andrears, trumpeting her triumph to the twilit heavens. Ilsevel slips numbly from her back and lands in a huddle of awkward limbs. Diira’s forefeet hit the ground, and she turns her great head, nuzzling her rider with concern as music trills in complex patterns and vibrations from her great throat.
I spring from Elydark’s back and sprint the rest of the distance between us to fall on my knees beside my bride. Diira flares with fire, growling a wolfish warning, but at my entreating look, she relents. Her flaming eyes burn into mine for a moment before she lowers her lids and turns her head partially away, allowing me access to the one to whom we are both so irrevocably bound.
“Ilsevel,” I say softly and gather her into my arms. Her head rests in the crook of my elbow, and I study her face, searching for signs of unmaking. She looks the same—that stern set of her brow, that pouting, kissable mouth, that expression of determination which follows her even into sleep. Something about her feelsbigger, however. As though the scope of her has increased and doesn’t fully fit inside this fragile mortal frame any longer.
“Ilsevel,” I say again, her name a rough song on my lips. “Ilsevel, my love, can you hear me?”
Movement off to one side draws my eye. I turn to see Halaema tottering toward me on her own feet, having left her unwilling horse behind. Kildorath is with her, still mounted on Miramenor. Beyond him the rest of the company have gathered, their expressions a mixed pattern of wonder, shock, amazement, and no little horror.
“So, Taarthalor,” Halaema says, leaning heavily on a crooked little walking stick. “She has returned to you.”
I don’t want to speak. My soul is strangely drained of energy in this moment, despite the renewed proximity to my bride. The suspense took a greater toll on me than I realized while enduring it. So I merely look at Halaema and let her hear triumphant vindication echoing in my silence.
No one protests when I carry Ilsevel back to the Hidden City before me on Elydark’s saddle. Not even Diira, though she remains pressed uncomfortably close to Elydark’s side. The rest of the host follows at some distance behind, wary and watchful, still riddled with doubt. I spare them not even a backward glance. Ilsevel has yet again accomplished the impossible. What more could they possibly need from her before they will finally accept her?
Yet the gnawing fear in my gut doesn’t diminish.It won’t be enough,that fear whispers.It will never be enough . . .
I hold my chin high and ride on, a proudluinaronce more, not a prisoner. Elydark all but prances, arching his red neck and lifting his massive hooves high. Diira is less jubilant. She keeps her gaze focused on Ilsevel, the soul-song between them a constant hum.
We reach the Hidden City late that night. Most people have already retired, but some, hearing the sound of approachinghooves, peer out from theirdakaths.Gasps of shock and wonder punctuate the air. Ripples of rumor soon spread through the streets, and by the time I reach my owndakathin the city center, someone has alerted my sister. Or perhaps she sat up late into the night, awaiting my return. Regardless she stands outside the door now, alicathalantern in one hand. Halamar lingers in the shadows, some yards away from her, present but withdrawn as always.
I urge Elydark to halt directly in front of my sister and look down at her. She meets my gaze, holding it long and hard before finally allowing her eyes to flicker over Ilsevel and then to Diira.
“So,” she says at last, “she has proven the bond.”
I nod.
“And . . . does she live?”
“She lives.”
“Well, get her down from there then.” Tassa holds up both strong hands, and I allow her to pull Ilsevel from the saddle and support her while I dismount. She gives my wife back to me without protest, and I step toward the darkeneddakath. Diira utters a growl of protest. I turn to Elydark.Reassure her,I urge him.Let her know I will care for her rider. They will be together again soon.
Yes, Vellar,Elydark replies, then turns his song to Diira. She snorts and stomps a cloven hoof in the turf, fire flaring in her eyes. But Elydark continues to sing, and at last she lowers her head, not quite submissive but no longer aggressive.
She has agreed,Elydark informs me, his eyes deep and knowing.I will remain with her tonight. Go, Vellar. Tend to your bride.
I sing gratitude into his heart, then carry Ilsevel inside. No fire is lit, and the interior of my home is dark save for Tassa’slicathalantern. She lights the way to my bedroom, where I lay Ilsevel upon my bed. While Tassa hangs the lantern from a chain, I study my wife’s face in its light. She looks pale. And something in her very essence feels strange. Not as strange as she’d felt when she first reemerged from the Unformed Lands;it’s almost as though she’s gaining more solidity by the moment.
“Taar,” my sister speaks behind me softly. “Halaema is here. She wishes to speak with you.”
“I’m busy.”
A shuffling footstep and the scrape of a walking stick is my answer. The next moment Halaema pushes Tassa roughly to one side, her wrinkled face illuminated by thelicatha.“I understand myluinaris much occupied,” she says with feigned deference, “but, by your superlative grace, grant an old woman a moment of your time.”
I glare up at her, unable to fully suppress the anger burning in my breast. She meets my glare unflinchingly, her aged eyes too bright, too quick. I find myself suddenly remembering all that I owe her—this woman, who gave up her own heart’s connection to Elydark so that I might form a newvelrabond. It is a sacrifice only a true Licornyn rider could understand, and one I can never fully repay.
Still resentful, I rise, casting Ilsevel a regretful glance beforeI step from the room. “Stay with her,” I murmur to Tassa in the chamber doorway.
