With a wrench of exquisite pain, I turn my licorneir’s head about. Kildorath and the others are already nearing the encampment, joining the circle of Licornyn riders as they surround our warriors in song. Even from this distance I can feel the weakness of that song, far too thin and fragile a barrier.
Go, Elydark,I sing to my beast.
We gallop back, keeping close to Halamar so that he may benefit from the circle of Elydark’s song. We have not yet reached the encampment when the darkness falls—deep, endless. All-encompassing. I close my eyes against it, leaning hard into the licorneir song. But this time, beneath the pulse of that song, Iseem to hear screams. Ripping from the dying throats of all those individuals I have failed to protect over the years. So many souls, countless, and yet each one valued beyond price, including those today, right now, who are dragged out into the dark because I was not quick enough to rejoin the circle. The certainty of failure lashes at my back like so many whips, and though I grip Elydark’s song tight, I am weak. So weak, with thevelracord strained to a thread, and my own heart close to breaking in my breast.
We reach the whirling wall of protective soulfire. Halamar charges in among the ranks of those vulnerable, un-bonded souls, while Elydark falls into place in the barrier, galloping hard, his song never flagging. Fire and flame join in powerful harmony with the other licorneir, a song which can only be spawned from bonded souls. But I feel how weak my contribution is. It’s not enough. It can never be enough.
Ilsevel.
She’s out there. Separated from Diira, perhaps. Alone in that open plain, armed only with a sword, which is less than useless before the might of Ashtari itself. Will Diira reach her in time? Will she be protected? Thevelra, thin and taut though it may be, is still intact. Which means she must be alive, she must be. But how soon until the cord snaps?
This dark seems endless, impossible. I don’t remember a time when thevardimnarlasted so long, not since that ride with Mahra and Tassa, at the first opening of the Rift and outpouring of hellinto this world. Though Elydark’s song is powerful, my own soul falters. Beyond the barrier of light, I see the rippling membrane of darkness, the sense of hugeness just on the other side, eager to push through and devour. Black fingers creep through thin places in the soulfire song, reaching for me, crawling up my legs. Elydark, sensing danger, puts on a burst of energy. His volcanic skin cracks, and flames erupt from the deep places of his soul, burning away those tendrils. For now, at least.
We ride on and on, singing in the darkness. The pressure of hell builds around us, so heavy, so crushing, it seems to smother the air from our lungs. But just when the pressure seems too great to bear a moment longer . . . it’s gone. Sunlight shines down on Cruor once again.
Elydark’s pace slows. I’m all but collapsing onto his neck, exhausted by what I’ve just endured. Pulling myself upright in the saddle, I turn to inspect my people, all huddled together in terror. Immediately I spy the telltale drag marks where far too many of our warriors were pulled from the circle. My heart twists painfully with guilt, with sorrow, with pain. Could some of them have been saved had I been stronger?
Thevelrapulls harshly. I gasp and yank Elydark’s head above, casting my gaze away from the company, out into open country once more. Ilsevel—where is she? Did she survive? I squint into the sun’s glare, too bright following that long darkness. There. There, I see it. The glow of soulfire. A licorneir song, still singingdespite thevardimnar’s lifting.
Go, Elydark!I sing into my licorneir’s head.Find her!
He doesn’t wait for a second command. Stretching out his horned head, he gallops swiftly across that flat country, trailing fire in his wake. I become aware of another licorneir, fiery with song, burning its way from the Tarhyn encampment, on a trajectory to meet me at that same point. Lathaira. Searching for her daughter, no doubt. What will happen if she reaches Ilsevel first?
Faster, Elydark!I urge. My licorneir finds some reservoir of strength inside and puts on a burst of speed.
As we draw nearer to the source of that song, however, Elydark slows. His ears prick forward, and sounds of surprise ripple along our connection into my head. I sit upright in the saddle, equally taken aback. Of everything I imagined, of everything I feared, this image never once crossed my mind.
Diira kneels in the grass, her body curved gently. The other licorneir, bigger than her, a massive, muscular beast, lies beside her, nose-to-tail, curved in the opposite direction so that their bodies form a circle. They are singing a gentle song of protection and healing.
In the center of their circle sits my wife. And Sylcatha. The warrior lies unconscious, her head cradled in Ilsevel’s lap. Ilsevel bows over her, stroking hair back from her face, and singing softly, her voice blending in with the light-song of the licorneir so naturally, it’s difficult to discern where one voice ends and the others begin.
Lathaira, coming from the opposite direction, pulls up her licorneir, and gapes open-mouthed before her. Her head shoots up, her gaze seeking mine. We gaze at each other, blankly stupid in the face of this inexplicable sight. Then she drops her black eyes back to the image of her daughter, held in the arms of the woman she was meant to slay. A long breath bursts from the chieftain’s lungs, as though she’s been holding it for hours.“Shahkinghells!” she snarls.
Though licorneir, as a rule, hate to be anywhere they cannot see the sky, Diira refuses to be parted from Ilsevel. As Ilsevel, in turn, refuses to be parted from Sylcatha until she can be certain the warrior suffered no ill effects from her tumble and exposure to thevardimnar, this means Chief Lathaira’sdakathis much more crowded than usual as her healer inspects the Tarhyn warrior for any life-threatening wounds.
“You know this changes nothing,” the chieftain growls at me. We stand in the shadows, out of the way of the healer, who is paying close attention to Sylcatha’s head. It appears she struck a stone when thrown from her licorneir’s saddle in the heat of the fray. Ilsevel sits at her side, holding her hand, while Diira stands just at her shoulder, shimmering and huge in this confined space, flames still bright in her ageless eyes.
“Nothing?” I repeat and turn harshly to Lathaira. “Tell me this:when was the last time your daughter lost her seat? She is the best rider in Tarhyn, and yet today she was thrown. Ilsevel could have killed her by blade or even by maintaining her distance. What could her licorneir have done with an unconscious rider, unable to join in song?” I lower my head, staring hard into the chieftain’s stony eyes. “Sylcatha should be dead. Dragged out into hell, her soul gouged from her body. And so she would be were it not for this woman.”
Lathaira swallows with some difficulty, her thick throat corded with tension. “The gods have not—”
“The gods have shown you great mercy today, Lathaira. More mercy than I would have chosen in their place. They have revealed their will for this woman, their own gods-gifted child, over and again. Her fate is linked with the Licornyn, has been since her human father bestowed upon her a Licornyn name. The gods poured power into her with purpose in mind—a divine ordination neither you nor I can pretend to comprehend.”
The chieftain receives my words like blows, wincing as each one falls. But she does not want to back down. She turns her face to me, lips curled in a ferocious snarl, ready for a fight.
I fold my arms. “Don’t forget: you owe me a life debt.”
“And this is how you would call in that debt? For a human?”
“No,” I reply. “For my wife.”
Before Lathaira can form a response, the healer’s voice interrupts. “She’s coming to.” We both turn to see Sylcatha stirring, her eyelids fluttering with the effort to rise. Lathaira bolts to thebedside, her large body unexpectedly lithe as she drops to her knees. She takes her daughter’s hand, speaking her name over and over again in an uncharacteristically crooning tone. Ilsevel rises respectfully and backs away, pressed up against Diira’s shoulder for support. Her gaze never leaves the fallen warrior’s face.
Sylcatha turns her head toward the sound of her mother’s voice. Finally her lashes part, and dark eyes peer out from her stress-lined face. “Mother?” she quavers.
“Shhhh, child, don’t try to speak,” Lathaira says, her words incongruous when spoken over such a large, muscular person as Sylcatha. But her maternal eyes see only her daughter, nothing else.
Sylcatha frowns, closing her eyes. Then her brow tightens. “There was a song. A pure song, like . . . like the voice of an angel.”
