There’s a split second of pure helplessness that comes over a body at the brink of a fall. A sense of inevitability, of weightless certainty, there and gone again so fast, the mortal mind scarcely has a chance to grasp it.
Then weight rushes back in, and the ground leaps up to meet you, and you either break or, by some merciful grace, you live. In this instance, possibly due to this hateful Licornyn armor, I do the latter. I strike the ground hard on one pauldron-clad shoulder, which absorbs most of the impact, tumble through the long grass, and come to a stop. Still alive. Still breathing. And apparently still in possession of all my limbs.
The pound of licorneir hooves vibrates the ground beneath me. I consider the possibility of attempting a little trickery, as I did with Taar on that day in the practice field what feels like a lifetime ago. It won’t work on Sylcatha though. For one thing, she won’t be distracted with concern over my wellbeing. She might even drive her licorneir simply to trample me for good measure, and I’ll end up with my skull crushed under a great hoof.
Diira’s song bursts tumultuously in my brain. She’s turning back, a fiery ball of vengeance, streaking to my aid. Despite her great speed, however, she won’t get to me first.
I clamber to my feet. Somehow I’m still gripping my sword. That’s something to be grateful for, isn't it? I brace my legs, tryingto remember the defensive stance Tassa drilled into me with such ruthless efficiency. Sylcatha approaches, leans far out in her saddle, her sword at the ready. I have just presence of mind enough to get my blade up and meet hers in a resounding crash of steel.
The force drives me to my knees. But I’m still alive, and Sylcatha thunders by on her flaming mount. She wheels the big licorneir’s head about, preparing for another charge.
Only Diira is upon them now, an explosion of flame and screaming and slashing horn. The two licorneir meet, crash together like colliding stars. Sylcatha loses her seat and goes tumbling from the saddle to the ground. Diira rips at her opponent with teeth and horn and hooves, and it dances away, trying to put a little distance between them so that it can take a more offensive angle. The clash of their violent songs rips at my ears.
But the fallen Tarhyn woman lies still.
I stare down at her great body. Is it a trap? Is she lying in wait for me, waiting for me to approach, only to spring up and gut me? But that makes so little sense. A warrior of her prowess wouldn’t resort to pathetic trickery like that.
I draw nearer, my footsteps hesitant. Her arm is twisted behind her at a bad angle, and her sword lies some feet away. Her head is turned toward me, and I can see that her eyes are closed. Is she dead? Did she break her neck in that fall? No . . . no, her ribcage expands and contracts in heavy breaths. She’s alive.
Should I . . . finish her off?
I stand there, gaping stupidly, sword in hand. My head rings with the screams of the battling licorneir and throbs with the pulse of my own blood. I’ve got the advantage. I can put an end to this contest here and now. Is this not a sign from the gods themselves that they have laid my foe so conveniently at my feet? Surely even Lathaira could not argue against such evidence.
But I can’t do it. I can’t drive my sword into her prone body. It’s not mercy or altruism or any innate sense of honor. I simply can’t. Won’t.
“Oh, gods,” I whisper, like a prayer but not quite. “Oh gods, what am I supposed to do now?”
As though in answer, black lightning streaks overhead, cracking the sky into vicious shards.
18
TAAR
When Diira bursts through the perimeter and carries Ilsevel out into open country, my first thought is one of pure joy. She will do what I asked after all. She will run, run, get away from here. Save her own life. I don’t care about the pain coming for me when thevelrainevitably stretches too tight. I would rather live a crippled existence, knowing she’s alive, than be freed of this bondage by her death.
So even as the air around me is punctuated with shouts of anger from my people and Lathaira’s across the way, my own heart soars with hope, with gladness.
That gladness is short-lived, however. Before Diira has carried her quite beyond the horizon line, Ilsevel falls from her back, and the blood coursing through my veins turns to ice. What happened? Did Sylcatha cut her in that last charge? Is that why Diira bolted? Has the blood-loss only just now caughtup with her? I don’t know. I don’t know.
Elydark!I scream in my head.
My licorneir, who has been standing by, silently observing, hastens to my side. I turn to climb into the saddle, but Halamar’s strong hand restrains me. “Luinar,” he says roughly, “if you interfere, Lathaira can demand your wife’s immediate execution.”
In that moment I cannot hear reason. With a roar I seek to throw him off, but Halamar firms his grip, whirls me away from Elydark, and slams me to the ground in an unexpected demonstration of strength. He stares down into my panting face. “Trust her,” he growls, his fingers tight against my shoulders. “Believe in your queen. Believe in the strength of the woman you chose over all others.”
His words sound clamorous, meaningless in my head. The urge to go to her is too strong, too wild, driving me insane. I grip his forearms, prepared to do battle then and there.
Black lighting breaks the sky over his head, a vast, spreading network of riven darkness.
It’s gone again in an aftershock of darkness in my mind. But in that instant all other concerns are blocked out by the immediate onslaught of primal terror, as keen as it was on that dreadful day all those years ago, when Tassa and I rode Mahra across our hell-struck world.
Panicked shouts and bellowing cries penetrate my thudding ears. Out of my peripheral vision, I see licorneir igniting in songs of protection, their riders speeding back to the encampment toprotect our vulnerable warriors. Elydark stands over me, already singing, lightsong pouring from his horn.
Halamar rises, offers me a hand. We say nothing as he turns to his gelding, and I mount Elydark. Once in the saddle I turn to stare out across the landscape to where Ilsevel fell. She’s there—standing. Too far away for me to discern details. But where is Diira? She needs her licorneir for protection or else . . . or else . . .
“Luinar!”Halamar barks, driving his gelding close beside me. “Your people need you. Without you in the song-barrier, they will be exposed.”
The pull of thevelrais almost beyond bearing, the need to ride out to my wife and cover her in my protection. Elydark’s voice sings in my head:Where away, Vellar?And I know he will obey me, whatever I ask of him. Even if I ask wrongly.
