Crying out wordlessly, I struggle to reach him, to tear that net free. But this is far worse than thevelraweakness. With his fire gone out, all the vitality rushes from my body, and I collapse to my knees, fall on my face.
33
ILSEVEL
Kyrsidar travels fast, but she cannot outstrip Halamar’s horse and leave him defenseless behind in Cruor. Though I know this is the reason for her slower pace, and though I could never bring myself to abandon the loyal warrior, my soul cries out in desperate protest that we should go faster,faster.
Taar needs me. I know it. Certainty has risen inside me with each beat of my heart, until I half-believe there is still the faintest, thinnest, most fragile filament ofvelraconnecting us across the miles, drawing me back to him. Not as strong as it was before, but still present, still real. When I reach for it, however, I find nothing. And the painful remembrance ofsilmaelnight comes back to me; the choice I made, the reasons I made it. I still believe I was right in my decision, and yet . . .
And yet I cannot bear to think Taar will suffer for it. I meant tofree him, to liberate him from the burden of a hearttorn, useless, broken wife. In the midst of my pain, my addled mind never considered that by doing so, I might break his heart in turn.
My gaze fixes on the horizon, willing the distance between me and it to shrink. The near-sky is alight with a storm of magic; some great magical confrontation is even now taking place. Is Taar in the midst of it?
Halamar’s mare staggers on my left. Sylcatha’s licorneir gallops on for some paces before rolling back and returning to the poor, heaving beast. Halamar’s gaze seeks mine. “She cannot continue,” he says. “You have to go on without me.”
“What?” I shake my head. “No. No, Halamar, thevardimnar—”
“I’ll risk it,maelar,” he says. “If you think you can reach Taar, if you think you can prevent him from taking the virulium, I am willing to risk it.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Behind me I hear Sylcatha whispering something that sounds like a prayer. We know the terrible death thevardimnarbrings. Alone out here, without a licorneir’s song to protect him, Halamar doesn’t stand a chance.
But he presses his fist to his chest, his face stern, his eyes fearless. “Go,” he says.
I nod. Then, reaching deep down inside, I find that place where a strand of true song still rings beneath all the snarling dissonance. Pulling it up, I sing a single word, which falls softly from my lips with deep gratitude: “Normaer.”
A spark of light ignites in Halamar’svelrhoareyes. He nods.
Then Sylcatha turns her mount about, and we are galloping again, this time without restraint. We eat up the distance, faster and faster, and while I know Diira would have carried me faster still, I bless Kyrsidar for the burning in her heart that propels her forward.
I’m coming, Taar,I try to sing, though it is a feeble, halting melody. I reach again for thevelra, find nothing more than the thinnest thread of strained gossamer. But it doesn’t matter. I will reach him. I will convince him to give up the virulium, make him promise that, no matter what happens, he won’t risk that darkness again. Surely there is some way to convince him!
By the time we reach Agandaur, the storm of magic in the sky is thick and dreadful, a vortex of broken spells and frustrated magical energies. The citadel is not yet in sight, but I know this storm is centered above that great tower as the Miphates pour all their remaining energy into defending their walls. Sylcatha’s licorneir finds a burst of hitherto untapped speed and flies across the ground, her cloven hooves scarcely striking dirt. The power of her song, shared with Sylcatha, flows back and forth between them, the first song I’ve been able to hear outside of my own head in I don’t know how long. The mere sound of it is healing, a salve to the painful discord in my heart. It does not change the agony ofvelrhoar, but it calls to that little winding thread of pure song deep inside, brings it closer to the surface. Reminds me that I once knew how to sing in tandem with another soul, just like these two.
Diira.Tears fall down my cheeks, whipped away by the wind.
The little thread in my heart vibrates. I could almost swear I hear a voice replaying across a thousand years and a million miles:Vellara.
The Licornyn encampment, all but empty, appears before us. We storm past it, aiming for the ruins of Evisar at the far side of the open plain and the dried-up riverbed. My heart trembles at sight of that city. I feel the wrongness lurking in those broken streets. Hobgoblins—the very fiends who ripped my Diira apart and, in so doing, ripped my own heart in two. I fear them more than anything, more than death mages and rabid Noxaurians. More even than the Shadow King.
But Taar is on the far side of that city. I must reach him, whatever the risk.
Chaos fills the atmosphere—the shrieks and cries of virulium-maddened Noxaurians, as yet unseen but drawing nearer, the energy of broken spells, and a distantboom, boom, boomthat must be those giants, beating at the walls with their great clubs. Strange shapes fly across the sky, underneath the rippling magic storm. As we draw nearer, I recognize them. Morleth. The same fiendish steeds which the trolls rode into Beldroth Castle when the Shadow King came to court me and sign the marriage deal with my father. So he is here.
And where is Taar? Does he even now battle troll warriors?
I grip the pommel of the licorneir saddle and, without thinking about what I do, send a burst of unlovely song rippling out into Kyrsidar’s head:Faster!Somehow, impossibly, thelicorneir puts on another burst of speed.
Hobgoblins teem in the ruins of Evisar City as Sylcatha guides her mount through the tangle of streets. It’s all confusion to my eye, a labyrinth I could never hope to navigate, filled with nightmares. But Sylcatha finds her way, taking turns, darting down alleys, passing through broad city squares. Now and then a hobgoblin makes an abortive leap from hiding, but they do not like the glare of the setting sun, and are sluggish and half-blind. If they dare get too close, Sylcatha swings hervaritar, driving them back. The others don’t have the energy to expend, preferring to wait for nightfall to work their mischief.
Finally we burst out into the field beyond the city, and the citadel lies before us, nestled in a crook of mountain stone. A spell-barrier surrounds it, mostly-invisible but rippling with energy as its workings threaten to fail. Rabid Noxaurians surround it, finding small gaps in the magic workings, squeezing through into the open space beyond. The trolls on their morleth swoop down from the sky, killing droves of fae with each stroke of either club or sword. Others fly their morleth over the barrier and attack the giants at the wall. One giant lies dead already, while the other two struggle to fend off airborne attackers.
Through this wild tumult, this insanity exploding across my dazzled eye, I spy the red burning glow of Elydark. I know that soulfire, even from this distance, the raw power of the beast, the brilliant song. And in that song, I hear Taar’s pain.
“I’m coming,” I whisper, my voice inaudible in that pandemonium. “I’m coming, Taar.”
I must get to him. Before it’s too late. I don’t fully understand the need, but it’s the only driving force left within me, and I will obey. I must get to him, let him know I am still here, that we are not hopelessly lost from each other. I must look him in the eye, make him see that my shattered heart is still capable of . . . of something . . .
Go!I sing to Kyrsidar, even as my mouth shouts, “Hurry, Sylcatha!”
