Do not fear, Vellara,Diira’s song sings around me.I am with you. They will not dare touch you so long as you are mine.
I take comfort in the truth she sings. The Noxaurians fear my licorneir, shying back from her any time they chance to meet her fiery gaze. Flames crackle across Diira’s flesh, not quite the full battle-fire, but threatening. The fae would not dare approach her, not even amassed as they are. Few beings in this world have the courage to charge a licorneir in flame.
We ride without rest through the night. I keep hoping Taar will order a halt, but he marches us on and on. Any moment now thevardimnarmay strike, and he wants to get them as far outacross the countryside as possible before then. Otherwise, having experienced the black lightning and the hell it brings for the first time, they might simply turn tail and rush the gate, abandoning the alliance altogether.
But thevardimnardoesn’t come. And doesn’t come and doesn’t come. Its very absence is unsettling, and I can’t help feeling that the air is full of mounting tension for a worse outbreak than we have ever before seen.
The Noxaurians have a series of covered wagons with them, which are pulled across the terrain by harnessed reptants. At first I think they must be supply wagons. But then Diira and I drift rather too close to the horde, and I hear strange sounds coming from underneath those dark hide coverings. Are they prisoners? If so, not human. Those voices—if voices they can be called—are utterly grotesque. High and trilling, but with a flesh-rending growl at the end that speaks of long, jutting fangs and razor claws. There’s a slurring quality, however, which gives the impression that whatever is in those wagons is under heavy sedation. What could the Noxaurians possibly have brought with them that needed to be sedated for transport?
Something tells me I’ll be finding out much sooner than I wish to.
There’s another wagon as well, right in the center of the horde. This one is a smaller, two-wheeled contraption, but without any cover, so that the prisoner contained within may be prominently displayed to all watching eyes. Though Taar had spoken of Ruvaen’sMiphato captive, it hadn’t occurred to me that the man would be brought along with the fighting force. I see him now, a huddled, naked, skeletal figure. The sight sends a jolt of horror lancing through my veins. He’s been so obviously starved and tortured at the hands of these creatures.
As though aware of my scrutiny, he lifts his head suddenly and turns to look directly at me. Though we are separated by quite some distance, with dozens of swarming Noxaurians between us, I feel as though he’s reached out and grabbed me by the hand, so intense is his gaze. I cannot tell from this distance if he is young or old, if he is from Gavaria or some other country. The very fact of our mutual humanity draws us together. He is my brother in this world—estranged but forever bound by ties of blood. And in his gaze I see the fiery burn of betrayal.
I turn away quickly, urging Diira to ride on, to carry me away from that sight. I cannot let myself forget what the Miphates have done to Taar’s people, how they brought about thevardimnar,opened the Rift and unleashed hell upon this world. I cannot forget the millions who died such hideous deaths, slain for the sake of Miphates’ greed. That man in the cage—he is part of the same order; indeed, he may have been directly involved.
But his eyes haunt me. When I looked into them, I could not help seeing an individual. Someone who once thrilled at the thought of applying his mind and talents to the study of magic, who entered the Miphates school filled with hope and ambition.I don’t know what choices he made along the way, either good or bad, which led him to this place. I cannot know what truth lies in the hidden depths of his heart.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I fight to hold them back. Pulling Diira’s song around me, I sink deeper and deeper into its resonance, wishing I could hide from all this world and the fate toward which we even now ride.
Time passes. I’m scarcely aware of it. The plod of hooves, the progression of hours, it’s all rolled up into one endless slog of existence. I’m vaguely aware of passing through forest and think perhaps it is the same forest through which Taar and I rode on Elydark when I first came to this world. When we emerge at last, it is dawn of the following day . . . and we stand on the edge of Agandaur.
Theobscurisspell looms over us, like a great wave of magic ready to swallow this world whole. I turn away from it, unwilling to look closely at that complicated network of spells. Instead I search for the Licornyn warriors, who are gathered on the far side of the field, ready to meet with the Noxaurian host and prepare for the assault. Though they are certainly no friends of mine, I am nonetheless relieved to see the licorneir and their riders and all the tribes of Licorna gathered for war. They wear fierce warpaint, and their blades are sharp and cruel, but they radiate a nobility of purpose which the Noxaurians utterly lack. They are here for the deliverance of their nation—the fae are here for the mere joy of bloodshed.
Taar rides Elydark close to my side, near enough that I feel thewarmth radiating from his skin. He too has donned the warpaint, and looks very like the ferocious warrior I first met in a burning temple all those nights ago. But the eyes peering out from the ferocious black band are filled with love for me. I could fall into those eyes and rest there safely if only I dared.
“Stay close to me,zylnala,” he urges. “Whatever happens next.”
“Whatishappening next?” I ask, my voice tight.
His face is grim. “Ruvaen will compel the captive Miphato to use the talisman and drop theobscurisspell.”
“What . . .right now?”My heart hammers painfully against my sternum. I’d thought we would make camp and rest for at least a day before the assault began.
Taar, reading my mind, shakes his head. “By now the Miphates are certainly aware of our presence. Our only hope is to drop theobscurisand attack right away, before they’ve had a chance to fortify all their defenses. Every moment that passes is an opportunity lost.”
Excitement radiates from his heart through thevelra.I know he’s hoping this whole affair will be settled before nightfall. After all these years, since that dreadful day he and Tassa fled on the back of their mother’s licorneir through a hell-swept world, is he about to have his vengeance? Perhaps. Perhaps . . . but my heart shudders at the prospect. His hope is a terrifying thing.
Movement draws my gaze. The prison cart containing the skeletal Miphato is pulled out into the open ground in front oftheobscuris,between the two fighting forces. Ruvaen is there, along with a handful of Noxaurians. I watch as he passes the gold talisman through the bars into the man’s trembling hands.
“How does it work?” I ask Taar.
“I don’t know,” he answers. “I know nothing about mortal magic. There is writing etched all over the center sphere of that talisman—that much alone can I tell you. How it’s meant to undo the great spell, I cannot guess.”
The mage speaks to Ruvaen. The Noxaurian prince answers, but they are too far away for me to discern any words. Following this short exchange, Ruvaen turns and walks away from the cage, leaving the Miphato alone with that all-important talisman.
The man begins to read off the spell written on the sphere. I cannot hear his words from afar, but the sphere begins to turn, generating a brilliant light in colors for which I have no name. Even from this distance I feel how they draw magic out of theobscuris, sucking it in faster and faster, a terrible funnel of magic energy. Theobscuristwists, flares like a lightning storm, but utterly silent. My eyes are dazzled, struggling to comprehend what I see, and my very sanity is strained to a thread which only Diira’s song keeps from snapping entirely.
Suddenly the magic seems to go wild. The talisman bursts into flame, a great explosion of heat and energy, consuming the cage. I scream—but my own voice cannot drown out the screams of the mage, shrieking from the center of that conflagration.
“Help him!” I turn to Taar, grab his arm. “Help him, please, you must!”
But Taar only shakes his head. “There is no helping him now, I fear,” he says, speaking more to himself than to me.
I don’t want to watch, but my eyes simply will not turn away. Tongues of flame in every color of the rainbow and more colors I cannot comprehend lick the air and continue to drain theobscurisinto their center. They burn brighter, taller, until that vast curtain of mist-churning spellwork is utterly consumed. My dazzled gaze looks beyond the death-pyre of the mage across open countryside and a dried-up riverbed to the distant ruins of what must once have been a great and glorious city. Beyond that city, looming above even the tallest buildings, stands a magnificent tower. The citadel.
Taar gasps. Then he raises his sword arm in the air and bellows at the top of his lungs,“Evisar!”
