The exhaustion of that first day and those early deaths leaves me ragged by sundown. It’s all I can do to stumble my way through the ranks, following the insistent tug of thevelrauntil I come at last to the lonely shadows beyond the range of the Licornyn campfires. Here a smaller fire crackles, silhouetting the large, hunched shape of Halamar and the slighter frame of my wife.
I join them without a word, collapsing in a pile of limbs on the ground near to Ilsevel, but not touching her. Unasked, Halamar rises and steps away from the fire, ostensibly to tend to the horses, but really to offer us privacy. I appreciate the gesture, though it is of little use. I have no words to share with my bride and dare notreach out to her for any physical comfort.
Ilsevel opens her mouth and begins to lean toward me. Something in my very soul must warn her off, for she closes her lips and instead proceeds to gather a small meal of ume cake and a handful of wild berries. These she presses into my hands and watches to make certain they are eaten. I somehow go through the necessary motions: bite, chew, swallow, and repeat. I taste nothing. The only sense I seem to be aware of is the pulse of energy exchanged along thevelranow that I am once more in near proximity to my wife. I’d not realized just how weak I’d become. If I did not love her so fiercely, I might resent what she has made of me.
The weight of today’s losses presses heavily on my heart. Not just young Usunaar and his beautiful licorneir, now hearttorn. Six other warriors died as well, dragged from the safety of the circle, their souls overcome with horror, their eyes blotted out with darkness. And who is there to blame for their dreadful ends if not me? It was my choice to set out with so large a force, knowing all the while how thin a shield stood between them and destruction.
There will be more losses to come. Tonight. Tomorrow. Mere moments from now. Thevardimnarwill strike again, sooner or later, and my people will suffer. With luck we will meet up with the Tarhyn Tribe tomorrow, and their licorneir will be numerous enough to make a difference. I can only hope; but that hope is feeble.
Ilsevel wraps akhiirwool blanket around her shoulders and lies down close beside me, her knees drawn to her chest. Her eyes peerup at me, seeing more in the stern lines of my face than I care to reveal, no doubt. I turn to her at last, speaking into the heavy silence. “Thank you. For watching out for Halamar today.”
“Halamar watched out for me as well,” she replies simply. “It was only fair.”
I nod but scarcely comprehend her words. My heart is in too great of distress to register the words of others. For some time I simply sit there, experiencing without enjoyment the lifegiving sensation of her presence, unable to offer anything in return but silence.
Then, in a sudden burst of feeling, I turn to her and say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ilsevel, for dragging you into this situation. I’m so sorry your path ever crossed with mine, and now you are here, in this hell alongside me. I wish I could undo it, wish you need never have been brought into this world.”
She doesn’t answer for a moment, allowing my words space to vent themselves into the cold night air between us. The guilt, the agony of responsibility which stains any good or pure thing in my life. I cannot allow myself to speak long, cannot let the force of this feeling overwhelm me, but shut my mouth and harden my soul. Too many people are depending on the strength I offer them; to give vent to these feelings would be to allow vulnerability to run through the bastion of all my defenses. I cannot be so selfish. I cannot be so weak.
So I swallow the words, swallow the guilt, and pack it down hard into all those hairline cracks in my soul, like mortar for bricks. And allthe while Ilsevel watches me, her gaze far more knowing than I like.
Then she says, “I’m not sorry.”
My eyes swivel to meet hers. Firelight dances across her face, warming and softening every gentle curve and contour.
“If it weren’t for you,” she continues, her voice soft, almost musing, “I would have been dead long ago. Lurodos would have destroyed me, bit by bit, until even my soul was no longer mine.” Her hand slips out, crossing the shadows between us, and takes hold of mine. A simple gesture, but it feels like life itself here in the dark of a Cruor night. “You gave me a second life, Taar. It makes no difference in the end if that life ends tomorrow or the next day or many years from now. It’s all far more than I should have had, and I am glad. Whatever else may come, it’s worth it to have known you. To have known Diira. To have known this song.”
Though I have not her gods-gift, I can almost feel the vibration of music moving in the air around us, connecting us and our licorneir and the lives of all those men and women in the encampment. It’s a powerful force, though I cannot pretend to understand it. Not as she does—this strange and wonderful creature who is all wrong for me, but who, by a twist of fate, has become the single brightest star in the dark of my sky.
I want to kiss her. More than anything. But I dare not—not with my warriors encamped so close, not with Kildorath’s watchful gaze always upon me. The most I dare is to reach out and squeeze her hand gently. “Get some sleep now,zylnala,” I murmur. “It will beanother long day on the morrow.”
A sorrowful expression passes over her face. But she nods and, still facing me, closes her eyes. After a moment I slip my hand free, lean back on my elbows, and stare up at the great vault of heaven overhead. Searching for telltale signs of black lightning. But it never comes, and the night passes in undisturbed silence.
The Tower of Tarh was built three centuries ago in the Age of Onvyrathor as a bastion against invading Noxaurian forces. In those days, the King of Noxaur coveted the special bond of the Licornyn people with their licorneir and thought to take our world by force. He was repelled by the united might of the Licornyn tribes under the banner of my ancestor,LuinarOnvyr.
The irony does not escape me when we come within sight of the old, square tower, rising up like a natural outcropping from a slab of ancient stone. Back then it was established as a watchtower to guard against the encroaching fae. Now my people and I ride to welcome Noxaurians into our midst, allied with our enemies of old against a worse enemy by far. It’s a gamble no doubt; one I cannot guarantee will play to my advantage.
The Tarhyn Tribe is gathered in the plains below the old tower. I hated to spare even a single rider to bring the message to Chief Lathaira, but circumstances left me with no choice. In the end, I sent two riders, one south to the Tarhyn, the other north to theLiakas, urging them in their turn to send messengers to the other tribes all around the perimeter of Cruor. If all goes according to plan, we will congregate at the Luin Stone in four days and prepare to receive Ruvaen and his force through the Between Gate. Then the march to Agandaur will begin.
First, however, I must secure Lathaira’s cooperation. A task which may prove more difficult than I’ve let myself admit all this while.
The chief sits astride her powerful white licorneir, apparently alone save for five tall Licornyn riders. One of these I recognize as her daughter, Sylcatha, a proud warrior whom I have fought alongside upon occasion, a younger version of her mother. The rest of the company is out of sight, hidden beyond the stone outcropping of Tarh.
I ride out to meet her, accompanied by Kildorath, Thuridar, Birenthor, and Halamar. And Ilsevel. Ilsevel, riding Diira, stays close to my side. I was tempted to hide her under a hood, but ultimately thought it best to make no pretenses with Lathaira.
The Tarhyn chief’s face is scored with lines of deep disapproval which seem only to deepen the nearer we draw. Her gaze fixes with vulture-like sharpness on Ilsevel. Only when I am close enough to count the fine wrinkles lining her brow does she turn at last to face me. She wears a band of black warpaint across her eyes, from temple-to-temple, as though expecting battle. That is not a good sign. Her massive body would dwarf most horses, but she sits with proportional majesty astride her great licorneir, and her armor feels as much a part of her as any limb.
“So,luinar,” she says in a deep growl as I draw near. “I’d heard rumors and whispers of a human in the Hidden City. But I never expected to see her riding at your side.”
“Lathaira,” I say, inclining my head slightly in greeting.“It is good to see you after all this time.” I swing an arm to indicate my wife. “Allow me to present my beloved warbride. This is Ilsevel.”
“Ilsevel?” Lathaira repeats the distinctly Licornyn name with obvious distaste. “A warbride? How barbaric. And what exactly is she doing, sullying the purity of one of our own blessed beasts?”
“She has formed avelarinand received this licorneir’s name: Diira. Their bond was proven in trial by ordeal when she ventured to the Unformed Lands.” I offer a hasty description of recent events, all while Lathaira stares at my wife with increasing venom in her eyes. “The elders have acknowledged the truth of her bond and accepted her place among the Rocaryn,” I finish.
“The elders have been sampling too muchliluthwine.” Lathaira declares and spits rudely. “Never had I imagined I’d see the day when theluinarof Licorna would sully the purity of the last Holy House by bringing a human within its shadow.”
I cannot blame her for her bitterness and must take care to navigate this moment with tact. “It was never my plan,” I admit. “But the ways of the gods move beyond the reckoning of those who worship them. Who am I to gainsay their will?”
