My brow knits. “We are?”
“Yes,maelar.There are riders. Licornyn, but . . . but not.”
This, at last, awakens something in me. I turn in the saddle,gazing north, beyond the towering presence of the Luin Stone. There I spy galloping licorneir, trailing tongues of darkness, like flame but not flame. These are not burning, living licorneir. Instead of soulfire, their hearts pulse only un-song. Not broken, but utterly songless. For these are dead things which pursue us.
“Shanaera,” I whisper.
Sylcatha startles, and I feel her gaze upon the side of my face. “Shanaera?” she repeats. “But she is dead.”
“Yes.” I nod. “She is.”
For the first time in I don’t know how long, feeling bubbles up inside me. Fear—primal and potent, such as I haven’t felt since the night Diira died. “Run,” I whisper. Then turning forward, I lean out over the licorneir’s neck and cry out, “Run, run, fly from here! Fly as fast as you can!”
Broken traces of song ripple from my tongue, touching the licorneir’s mind. She responds immediately, bursting into a full gallop down from the Luin Stone promontory and into the valley below. She soon leaves Halamar’s poor horse behind, but it doesn’t matter. The dead licorneir pursue her, their sights set, their purpose clear.
They are coming for me. Shanaera is coming for me. She has been stalking us all along; I’ve known that for some time. But so long as we remained with the large fighting force, what could she do? Now that I’m alone, with only this small escort, she moves in, like a lioness targeting the weak, isolated member of the herd.
But why? The question pulses in my brain. She sought once toreturn me to Mage Artoris, I know, but Taar told me of her true intentions. She does not serve the Miphates who revived her with theirnecroliphonmagic, but pursues her own agenda. Her appearance of subservience is mere illusion. So am I part of the agenda or the illusion?
I try not to care. I try not to feel, try to sink back into the oblivion of broken song. I remind myself that nothing matters anymore. Whatever she means to do to me, she might as well do it. It’s better than returning to my empty world to live out some empty existence.
But something flickers to life in my heart. A flame I did not think still burned, even in embers.
Taar.
Whatever Shanaera’s plans may be, they involve Taar. She wants his pain, his suffering. She wantshim.And she will claim him. If she sees me as the ultimate means to that claiming, she will use me. Then she will make him hurt. She will make him bleed.
Oh gods. Oh gods above, I thought I didn’t care anymore! I thought I couldmake myselfnot care. But I do, damn it. Even through the broken song filling my heart and mind with dissonance, I still care.
Maybe I am the false, vow-breaking wife, unworthy of the husband I renounced.
Maybe I’m not capable of love anymore; I’m not certain I ever was.
But one thing I do know with grim certainty: I won’t let that walking corpse sink her dead fingers into Taar’s heart again.
30
TAAR
It is a relief to know she is gone at last.
Over the last few weeks I asked Halamar again and again why she was still here, why he had not taken her to the gate as commanded. Every time Halamar put me off, claiming she was too weak to travel.
So I’d avoided the Licornyn encampment entirely, riding the circuit with Elydark and avoiding even sight of the tent where she still lay in her pain, in her suffering. Never once allowing myself to turn toward her again, to do as my wounded heart begged and rush to her side. If I thought it would give her relief to crush me under her heel, I would have gladly laid myself down at her feet.
But I failed her. I broke all my vows to her first when I did not protect her from this tragedy in which she now exists. And she wants nothing more to do with me. She made that perfectly clear. What can I do buthonor her wishes?
There is more than enough to occupy my attention. Now that I am no longer distracted by my bride, concerned with her care and keeping, I throw myself completely into the business of assaulting the citadel. The day aftersilmael,my people and I moved in, progressing through the hobgoblin-infested city. It was nightmarish—all those once-familiar streets, those graceful buildings, blackened and crumbled to ruin over years of close proximity to the mortal mages and their experiments. One would hardly recognize the City of Spires as it once was, and I find myself doubting my own memories. Were they nothing but the idealized imaginings of a young child, longing for a home that never truly was?
Those streets are now adorned with the gory trophies of hobgoblins—guts and entrails, heads and swaths of skin. It makes me sick, but I cannot fault Ruvaen’s efficiency. What my own people failed to accomplish at Agandaur three years ago, the hobgoblins settled overnight.
Now we must make the final push. But this has proven more difficult even than anticipated.
Thevardimnarfalls with more frequency than before—short bursts, two or three times a day, more at night. The Miphates are drawing out more power for a great protective barrier spell around the citadel. It is so profound, my people have been unable to breach it. I have commanded my riders to charge through, but the sharp horns of our flaming licorneir penetrate only partway through the magic before they are hurled back as though by a powerful blow.It’s devilish work, fed by a hellish energy source.
But the Miphates aren’t the only ones willing to resort to demon magic.
Every time thevardimnarlifts, and Elydark slows his pace, the protective song drifting away again, I find my hand drawn back to the pouch at my side. To the virulium, tucked safely within. It’s the same vial Ruvaen gave me onsilmaelnight. I’ve not needed it yet—but the desire has been growing to take it even so. And I will take it. The moment we breach that barrier, I will down the whole vial and use the strength it gives me to climb the citadel walls and tear into my enemies. Thus will I end this siege and restore both my people and my world.
