TAAR
Late the following day we meet the Nakashyn Tribe at the edge of Gilsalor Forest. Chief Athorlassar takes one look at Ilsevel on her licorneir and makes ready to do battle, but with the formidable figure of Lathaira at my side, I find it much easier to sway him into compliance. He doesn’t like it—but he likes still less the reality of war between his tribe and both the Rocaryn and the Tarhyn. His licorneir numbers are sorely dwindled due to recent campaigns, and he needs the support we offer. In the end, he submits. For now.
With the Nakashyn Tribe added to our force, the circle of protection is once more strained when the nextvardimnarhits. I suggest Ilsevel and Diira be added to the song, but on this point Lathaira stands firm in refusal, with Athorlassar backing her. I don’t fight the two of them; it’s better that Diira concentrates solely on Ilsevel’s protection, with only the ever-faithful Halamarto add to their small circle. They, at least, are secure, regardless of the peril the rest of my people must endure.
The next day we are joined by the Karanathyn Tribe. By this time, our numbers have swollen so great, I doubt very much the Miphates remain ignorant of our massing. I wonder if Shanaera herself has brought them word that the Licornyn are preparing to march on Evisar once more. Though perhaps not. Shanaera herself told me she was not interested in helping the Miphates accomplish their ends.
“I don’t give twoshakhsabout any of the Miphates’ little games,”her voice speaks from a space of dark memory in my head.
“What do you care about then?”I’d asked her.
“The same things as ever, my love. Restoring Licorna to the Licornyn. Driving humans from our realm.”
If she spoke the truth—which I have reason enough to doubt—she might keep the secret of the Licornyn mobilization across Cruor. That being said, I don’t know to what extent the Miphates compel her obedience. Are they unaware of her small acts of rebellion, or do they simply not care as long as she continues to fetch them the licorneir blood they so desperately need to survive in this world they’ve destroyed? With no answers to be had for any of these pressing questions, I have no choice but to continue.
We carefully avoid all the mage-paths on our journey across Cruor. The Miphates have only one Between Gate by which they travel to and from their own world. It is an old gate, one establishedlong ago by the fae, and not of Licornyn make. The Miphates usurped it early on in their occupation, but have been unable to locate any of the smaller Licornyn gates. Thus they depend on their mage-paths to travel back and forth across Cruor. Lined with tall pillars carved over with Miphates’ spells, they offer a form of protection against thevardimnar; not as effective as the song of the licorneir, but powered by licorneir blood. It is for this purpose that Shanaera slaughters our wild licorneir.
But not the beast she slew last night. That one was left to bleed out in agony into the ground, pinned down under those chaeora fibers, purely as a message to me. She is close. She is watching. And she is still coming for me, one way or another. Me and my chosen bride.
The night passes without event, however. All is strangely quiet, without even an assault of thevardimnar, though my people remain tense and alert throughout the dark hours. At dawn the following day, we set out once more on the final push to Agandaur.
Theobscurisspell dominates our view before midday. A great barrier of spellwork, churning with multi-colored magic, it extends from ground to sky in a dizzying display of power. The spell is meant to confuse the senses, to fill any observing soul with horror so extreme, one must fight the urge to turn tail and run at the mere sight of it. I remember too vividly what it was like three years ago, fighting in the shadow of that spell, the natural terror of the battlefield heightened to an extreme by the unnatural influence of that damnable sorcery. Some brave souls have dared ride theirlicorneir into that whorl of mist in an attempt to reach the citadel on the far side. They have never been heard from again. No one breaches theobscuris, and the Miphates remain safely ensconced on the far side, free to pursue their disastrous experiments and devastate our world.
Every heart in our brave company of warriors quells at the sight of theobscuris. Many of those with us fought with me three years ago in our last futile attempt to bring down the spell. All of us who survived that altercation lost pieces of our souls in the process. I know I am not the only warrior present determined not to repeat my mistakes. This time we stick to the fight, no matter the cost. Never again will we give up and run as we did before. Better to die.
And this time things will be different. This time we have Prince Ruvaen on our side.
The chieftains establish camp in the low valley within sight of the ruined city of Arborel Uriris. None of us venture anywhere near those ruins—we are people of the open country and care not to dwell under stone roofs. Besides, even at a distance, it’s too easy to imagine the screams of terror echoing among those long-abandoned streets, the last, ghostly remnants of a people wiped out in a single hour by the first fall of thevardimnar.
Licornyn riders set up a perimeter around the camps, riding in shifts to make certain the ring of protection is always at the ready. Though I hate to compromise that protection, necessity drives me to summon Kildorath, Sylcatha, and fifteen other Licornyn riders to join me. We must meet Ruvaen and his Noxaurian force, and they will need safe escort across Cruor as well. I can only hope the riders I’ve selected will be enough to protect what warriors Ruvaen is bringing through to our world.
Ilsevel must ride with me, of course. Even without the necessity of thevelrabinding us together, I would not dare leave her behind. Halamar accompanies her; nothing could persuade him to be parted from her now. Whatever happened between them in that initial attack of thevardimnar, it altered something vital within hisvelrhoarsoul. For the first time in years, I see signs of . . . if not healing, at the very least a scabbing over of the internal wound.
It is a pleasure to ride with Ilsevel at my side. I’ve seen too little of her since two nights ago, when she sang over the dying licorneir. That ordeal has left its mark on her—her face is drawn, pale, and there are dark circles ringing her eyes. I hate that I have dragged her out here into this dangerous world. But she continues to marvel me with her resilience, rising to each challenge set before her, and even gathering a small circle of allies along the way. Sylcatha and Halamar ride in her wake, two loyal hounds with fierce faces.
It's a start. If both hearttorn Halamar and ruthless Sylcatha can be convinced to call hermaelar, might not others learn to see her in that role as well? Perhaps Halaema’s declaration that she can never be my queen isn’t set in stone. There may be a future for us.
But I cannot help the heavy foreboding that our time together is drawing to an end. Theobscurislooms over all. If we succeed inpenetrating its depths, what fate awaits us in the siege of Evisar?
The Between Gates leading to and from Cruor were established long ago using licorneir magic. As a result, without a licorneir, they are undetectable. When I came this way nearly a month ago with Ilsevel, her eyes were unable to perceive the shimmering arc in the air where reality thins and a brave soul might pass through the veils.
Her bond to Diira has altered my bride’s perceptions now. As we cross the valley beyond the Luin Stone and ascend the narrow trail leading up the bare cliff face on the far side, I hear her gasp with some surprise. I smile a little at the sound. How many things have changed over these few short weeks? I am a completely different person from the man who rode through this very gate with the trembling human before me in my saddle, desperately wondering when and how I would rid myself of this inconvenient burden. Had I guessed even then that my life had already inescapably altered? Perhaps. Though I fought with everything in my being to resist the knowledge.
We reach the top of the cliff just at sundown, a day and a half since leaving the rest of the Licornyn host behind. A small party of riders can make swift progress across even this harsh landscape, and we were unimpeded by thevardimnar. I cannot guess why the black lightning has not riven the sky these last few days. I’m notcertain I should be grateful—it may mean the Miphates, aware of our approach, are gearing up for some great onslaught of power.
I can’t think about that now, however. According to the messenger from Arasyrn Tribe, Ruvaen waits with his host just on the far side of this gate.
“Kildorath,” I call, and my warrior spurs his golden licorneir close to my side. I motion for him to pass through the gate on reconnaissance. He does not hesitate; whatever he now thinks of me, whatever resentment simmers in his heart, he is silently obedient in all things.
I cast a glance Ilsevel’s way. She sits astride Diira with Halamar and Sylcatha hovering just behind. She looks nervous. I urge Elydark to her side, drawing in close. “Are you all right, myzylnala?” I ask softly.
She draws a shuddering breath and casts me a short glance. “I’m fine,” she insists, but I hear the tremor in her voice. She hates Ruvaen with a bitterness that rivals even the Licornyn hatred of humans. Her father’s kingdom has been in conflict with the Noxaurian prince for some years now, and they are a ruthless enemy. The carnage wrought by Lurodos and his people at the Temple of Lamruil was only a taste of the bloodshed Ilsevel’s people have experienced from the savage raiding parties over the years. I don’t know what need has driven Ruvaen to go to war with humans, but I know him well enough to guess how relentlessly he will use whatever blunt instruments are at his disposal.
Yes, Ilsevel has every right to hate my ally. But that doesn’tmake me need him any less.
The air under the gate-arch shimmers, and a strange, high-pitched hum pinches our ears painfully. We all turn just in time to see Ruvaen manifest out of thin air, cool and easy, as though he walks through the voids between worlds every day. Not a strand of his waist-length silvery hair is out of place, and his pale robes float behind him as though stirred by a gentle breeze. His face is heartbreakingly beautiful, of course, swathed in many layers of glamour. Myibrildianeyes are not strong enough to pierce those glamours and see what lies behind, only strong enough to recognize a mask when I see one.
Ruvaen’s gaze latches onto mine immediately. He holds open his arms, his long sleeves fluttering like wings in an expansive gesture. “Taar!” he cries, his face splitting in a blade’s-edge grin. “My friend!”
