How such a squadron will stand against the Miphates’ defenses I cannot guess. With any luck, the Shadow King broke with my father when I failed to turn up for our marriage. Have the Miphates other friends or allies to aid them against the coming siege? Shanaera’s half-rotten face springs to mind. But she is only one horror, and her crew of shamblers were defeated. Surely, however many of these undead warriors the Miphates may have created with their dark, rift-born magic, they are nothing compared to this fighting force.
The thunder of hooves echoes to the sky as we make our way across the empty sweeps of country where Diira and I rode in solitary training these last five days. From my position at the far back of the company I cannot see Taar at all, though thevelraconnecting us gives me a vague idea of his whereabouts. I am also aware of the songs of the other licorneir, a subtle hum deep in my bones. They do not ride close together but are spread outamong the horses in preparation for the passage into Cruor. Taar explained to me how they will use their song to cast a protective barrier around the whole company when thevardimnarinevitably strikes. He spoke with confidence, but I detected a note of anxiety thrumming in his soul.
I ride in teeth-gritting silence. Tassa gave me some old garments of hers—soft doeskin trousers, a stout belt and scabbard, and leather bracers for my arms. She gave me a cloak and hood as well, which I pull up to cover my face, though it is no disguise against my humanity. Every member of that fighting force knows who and what I am. Their animosity is palpable even from this position at the far back of the line.
Never in a thousand lifetimes could I have envisioned this future for myself—riding to war against my own people, alongside those who are my enemies, who hate me with every fiber of their souls. And yet I long to protect these strange, fierce Licornyn folk. If I could be of any use to them in their upcoming endeavor, I would offer my life and this small sword strapped to my saddle. Not that they want it and my pitiful four days of training.
Halamar rides beside me. Despite his mare’s long legs and his own great bulk, the level of his head is much lower with mine, so much greater is even a small licorneir like Diira when compared to average horses. He has maintained a strict silence all this while. I don’t blame him—the procession away from the Hidden City is solemn as all these men and women march from a home most ofthem do not expect to see again. Though I have no shared history with these people, much less shared blood, I feel the weight of their choice, their determination, and their unflagging courage in the face of what will likely prove impossible odds.
But it might not be impossible,I remind myself firmly. I’ve seen Ruvaen’s force, how formidable it is. And the Shadow King, whom they all fear so greatly, will not come. It might all turn out right in the end, the citadel recovered, Taar seated on the throne of his forefathers, and all the ravaged land of Cruor restored to its former glory. It could happen. Miracles still do, they say.
Movement draws my eye to the open landscape beyond Halamar. Grateful for any excuse to turn my face away from the churning dust, I look out to see Tassa on her bay gelding, riding parallel with the company across the open fields. She urges her mount at a swift pace, never once turning to look our way, her focus on the river up ahead. Diira’s song moving through me augments my gods-given sensitivity, and I feel broken threads of song trailing between Tassa and Halamar. Though the solemn warrior never looks her way, I know he is as aware of her as I am. More aware, perhaps. And more determined not to show it.
Tassa pulls her gelding up at the banks of the river. Flanked by licorneir, the horses surge into the ford, leaving behind the safety of this shore and progressing into Cruor. Halamar and I, still at the back of the line, watch everyone else forge on ahead of us. Though there is no sign of thevardimnar, I imagine a shift in atmosphereon the far side. A darkness, not of vision, but of song, which infuses the very air and oppresses the souls of those who dare breathe it. I do not care to enter that land again.
But as Diira approaches the river for our crossing, I glimpse Tassa’s face in passing. There is an expression of intense sorrow, envy, and regret, which is echoed by the song in her soul. She would give anything, I know, to ride with us. To sell her life dearly for the sake of the kingdom she still believes in. She catches my eye for half an instant, and in that instant, the intensity of her song is strong enough to make me gasp. But she turns away almost at once, refusing to look at me again. She never acknowledges Halamar.
So my hearttorn escort and I cross the Morrona, the last two pathetic stragglers of the proud Rocaryn Tribe, leaving Tassa and Elanlein and the Hidden City behind. I feel as though, even from this distance, I catch the song of the ilsevel blossoms crying out to me, urging me not to go. But halfway across the water, the river’s voice drowns them out. By the time we reach the banks of Cruor, I hear them no more.
The landscape on the far side of the river is devoid of feature. Unlike those places on the side of the river where the Licornyn people dwell, and the songs of the licorneir permeate all, it’s almost as though these barren hinterlands are slowly returningto the unformed state from which they originated. I know that farther in, where great cities and civilizations once dwelt, the land is much firmer, more varied and interesting, despite the lack of life. I suppose everywhere the licorneir once ranged in large numbers simply holds on to its own existence longer. Eventually, however, it will all slip away. Swallowed either by nothingness or hell.
Even the songs of the licorneir feel muted on this side of the water. I’m grateful for Diira’s song in my heart and wonder how I ever managed to cross Cruor without it that first time. Perhaps the near proximity with Taar, riding tandem in Elydark’s saddle, made the difference.
I still see nothing of my husband as we progress hour after hour deeper into Cruor. I’m terribly bored . . . which is not what I’d expected of this day. Somehow I’d harbored the belief that setting forth into battle, glory, and almost certain doom would be quite a thrilling experience. Instead it’s monotonous. And very, very dusty.
The afternoon is well advanced when Taar finally appears in my line of sight, looping Elydark back to find me, weaving through the supply wagons. He looks stern and strained, and it is a jolt to see him wearing again the same armor he wore the night I first met him. But when he catches sight of me, filmed over in dust though I am, his hard features soften into a smile. He urges Elydark into a quick canter, pulls around and rides at my side.
“And how are you fairing, myzylnala?”he asks.
“Oh, it’s been lovely,” I answer, my voice cracked with disuse. “Halamar is such scintillating company, you know.”
Halamar, on my left, looks up from his pommel for possibly the first time that day, his eyebrows puckered. Then with a grunt, he sinks back into himself and the dullness of his broken song.
Taar chuckles softly and reaches out to brush my hand with his fingertips. “It does me good to see you,” he says, and with those words, I feel thevelracord warming between us. “We’ll stop soon for a short rest,” he adds. “The horses need refreshment.”
“The humans too,” I add dryly. No doubt these proud Licornyn riders could go on for days and nights without ceasing, but I certainly cannot.
Taar nods his understanding. “I’ll try to make my way back to you then. Watch for me.”
The urge to answer with sarcasm is strong, but he needs better from me at this moment. I offer instead a reassuring smile. “Until then, warlord.”
He answers my smile with a look that makes my heart turn over in my chest. Then he urges Elydark back through the wagon train and on to the front of the company. I watch him disappear into the dust clouds, glad to feel ourvelrabond a little brighter and warmer than it’s been all day.
When the time comes to stop, however, there’s no sign of Taar. Though thevelratells me the general direction of him, my mortal eyes cannot pick him out in the crowd. No doubt duty and honor are keeping him much occupied. I try not to be resentful, try to remembermy own menial place in the great doings of this dark world, and be grateful for whatever attention he can spare me. Which, I suspect, will be little enough over the next many days and weeks.
I dismount and fetch a dry ume cake from my supply bag. Halamar and I remain apart from the rest of the company, who act as though I am not present at all. Now and then I’ll catch a resentful glance from the proud, dark eyes of some tall Licornyn warrior, but nothing more. My ordeal in the Unformed Lands did nothing to soften their hearts toward me; in fact, I get the distinct impression it only strengthened their resentment. Who am I, after all, to steal the heart of both their king and one of their precious licorneir?
All hope of a future among these folk seems more remote than ever.
Halamar, who’d stepped away to see to the needs of his horse, returns and takes a seat close to me. Silent as ever, not exactly a companionable presence. I suppose he’s better than nothing. I sit a while, chewing the hard ume cake and listening to his broken song. Taar told me that his licorneir, Liossark, was killed at the battle of Agandaur Fields three years ago. Three years . . . and yet the pain of that loss still sings through him with such intensity. Does it ever fade?
Even as the question passes idly through my travel-dulled brain, a trill of distant song quickens my awareness. The ume cake drops senselessly from my fingers, and I turn sharply where I sit, gazing north across that featureless swath of country to distant, hazymountains on the horizon. I’m not the only one—Diira raises her head, and the two other licorneir I can see from my position do so as well, all focused in the same direction. Their ears cup, their nostrils flare, and they stand poised with the intensity of focused listening.
It's Mahra. I’d know that dark song of hers anywhere—that song of sorrow, loss, and ruin which somehow, in her voice, is made into something beautiful. Desirable even. She calls to her lost children, gathering all hearttorn licorneir to her. I hear their answering voices, that wild herd I’ve glimpsed once before. So many shattered songs and souls, drawn together in pain. Even these licorneir close to me, secure though they are in theirvelarinbonds, are drawn to the song.
I cannot see the black unicorn from this distance nor any glimpse of her herd. But her voice echoes across the miles, reverberating in my blood. I glance at Halamar, who remains close beside me, his head bent. He too has stopped eating, and, though he does not look up, I think he’s listening. “Do you hear that?” I ask him.
He glances at me then looks down again.“Kya,”an affirmative.
