More importantly, I can feel the subtle dissonance in song and soul shared between each rider and his mount. They are still learning each other’s harmonies, learning to become that true extension of selfhood the other needs. When their souls are in true harmony, they will move as one, scarcely requiring command and response, a single entity of focused strength and flame. Such harmony requires years to fully master.
They are not ready. None of the twenty-three riders riding forms below me are. Nor are those on the sparring field, engaged in thevaritanmode of mounted swordplay taught only to those more advanced riders with deepened bonds. There’s still such rigidityin their forms. Their muscles move with practiced confidence, balancing the weight of their blades. But they lack the natural grace, the oneness between sword, arm, rider, and mount, which only real combat can teach them.
I shake my head slowly. Sooner rather than later, they will pass through the crucible flames. Just as I did. Just as Kildorath did. They will take all these skills they’ve honed from the safety of their home turf and test them against enemies who know no such forms, no such rules, and who want nothing more than to spill their guts upon the battlefield. The terror of those initial moments is the only teacher who can transform them from highly-trained and specialized performers into true warriors.
But how can I bear to call these young ones forward to face that trial now? Years before their official training would ordinarily be considered complete at age twenty-five. Names and faces of the young warriors appear in my mind—Eriladar, Ryulus, and Loraena. All twenty-four years of age, summoned early to ride in the most recent campaign to flesh out our flagging numbers. Of those three, only Loraena survived.
How many more of these young lives am I willing to spend in this last desperate cause?
I point out the young horseman who I observed perform that smooth lead change. “Him,” I say. “Usunaar. And her,” I add, indicating a swordswoman, expertly guiding her licorneir through a forest of wooden dummies, hitting each mark at the precisepercussion point of her blade. “Tinethi. They will ride with us when the call comes.”
Kildorath acknowledges this with a nod, but I sense resistance in him.
“Have their songs been tested in Cruor yet?” I ask.
“No,luinar.”
“Have Alluirnath and Keizana take them across the Morrona this very day. It is time they learned the truth of thevardimnar.”
Kildorath’s lips thin. We both know what a risk it is to push these young souls out into that darkness when theirvelarinbonds are still so newly-formed. But he does not argue. It is not only our Licornyn riders who must successfully cross the ravaged landscape of Cruor; when Ruvaen’s summons arrives, we will bring with us thesanalyn, our equestrian cavalry—riders who underwent the same early training as these brave youths, but never bonded to a licorneir. They too will be called upon to serve in the upcoming campaign. But the more unbonded souls I bring with me, the more licorneir I require to sing the songs of protection over them.
I turn to Kildorath, facing the wall of silence he has erected between us. He is a hard man, shaped by loss into a ruthless recreation of his warrior father, Markildor, the former chief of the Rocaryn Tribe. He and Shanaera never favored one another, but sometimes I see her again in the stern set of his brow, the severe line of his cheek. There was a time that similarity gave me painful pleasure, like glimpsing the ghost of the woman I loved. Now,having looked upon Shanaera’s face ravaged bynecroliphonmagic, such glimpses only bring a shudder of horror.
Kildorath has not looked me fully in the eye in the three days since Ilsevel’s ordeal in the Unformed Lands. He does not agree with the elders and their decision to harbor a human in the Hidden City, but has submitted to their authority, for the time being. I wonder how many more times I can expect this man to bow his head and suppress his own beliefs?
He salutes now, however, and turns to carry out my command. “Wait,” I call after him.
He looks back, his face rigidly neutral.
I cover the distance between us in three short steps, holding his gaze firmly. His eyes try to slide away, unwilling to bear my scrutiny, but I refuse to back down. “Tell me honestly, Kildorath,” I say, my voice low, though there is no chance of us being overheard. “Did you speak to Shanaera?”
His eyes widen, meeting mine briefly before skirting away again.
“During your flight across Cruor,” I press, “when our people were hunted by the undead. You told me you saw Shanaera. You know of thenecroliphoncurse under which she now suffers.”
The hardness of his features threatens to fracture before firming once more, suppressing whatever violent emotion just sought to break through. “Shanaera is dead,” he says. “She died years ago at Agandaur. Whatever that thing was I saw, it wasn’t my sister.”
“Maybe not,” I acknowledge. “But the Miphates’ spell ispowerful. The way she moves, the way she speaks, the way she fights—it feels like Shanaera. I know. So I ask again, and I need you to answer me true: did you speak to her, Kildorath?”
His gaze sharpens, meeting mine directly at last. “If I am ever close enough to that thing to speak, I will kill it. I will break whatever evil sorcery the Miphates have used to blight her very memory and I will send her soul to Nornala, as it should have been sent long ago.”
Resentment colors his words. As though it was my fault that, when I slew the woman I loved, I did not destroy her body thoroughly enough to render it unusable to the Miphates and theirnecroliphonexperiments.
“Kildorath,” I say roughly, “you know how I felt about Shanaera—”
Kildorath stiffens his body and slams a fist against his chest in brisk salute. “Is there anything more myluinarrequires of me?”
I let out a long breath. But what good can come of forcing this conversation? “No. Ready Usunaar and Tinethi to ride across the Morrona. At once.”
He strides swiftly away, shoulders set like a wall. I watch him go with no little sorrow. Our friendship is over; of that there can be no doubt, though I wish it were otherwise. Some friendships so profoundly influence one’s formative years, it’s too easy to believe they can never be broken. But one of the harsher lessons life has taught me is that every relationship has its breaking point. Unfortunately Ilsevel was that breaking point for me and Kildorath.
And what of Ilsevel herself? Is there a breaking point for what she and I share? I hope not. After everything we’ve survived in these early days since our meeting, I want to believe nothing can sever that bond.
I shake my head and turn away from the sight of the young Licornyn trainees, suddenly aware of the weakness creeping through my body. I’ve not seen Ilsevel today. Thevelralength still allows me more freedom than it did, but the urge to be near her remains as intense as ever, and resisting it is a drain on my energy. The simple longing to be with her, to breathe the same air as her, grows more distracting with each passing moment. I must have some relief. Even if it isn’t the relief I truly desire.
Leaving the training fields behind, I send out a call for Elydark. He trots eagerly to my side, and I have scarcely mounted before he turns his nose in the direction the shiningvelraleads. We both know where Ilsevel will be found at this time of the day—riding Diira, out in the open country beyond thekhiirsheep grazing fields. My licorneir, no less eager to find them than I, sets out at a brisk canter, covering the distance in long, easy strides.
My bride could bear to rest for no more than a single day following her ordeal. By dawn of the second day, she woke at first light, found Diira, and slipped away from thedakathsof the Hidden City out into the open country on the far side of the holy mountain. Diira knows the territory hereabouts as well as any licorneir and is more than capable of finding safe places for the two of them to developtheir bond undisturbed. For two days now they’ve ridden and sung together, drinking from fresh streams and eating ume cakes packed in a satchel, all under the shadow of Elanlein.
