A strong hand grips my arm.“Luinar!”a voice barks close to my ear. “You’ve got to come away. The day is lost; you are not safe here.”
I turn, violence still in my veins, my teeth bared. The face before me seems to belong to a stranger, but when I blink, recognition returns. “Kildorath?” I gasp.
“Come away,luinar,” my warrior says again, dragging me with him, hewing at Noxaurians as he carves a path back to the compromised barrier. “We need to get you out of here, now.”
Red flame bursts on the edge of my vision. Elydark, freed ofthe chaeora nets, appears before me, his soul burning like the star he is. I cannot think, cannot even in that moment rejoice in my licorneir’s liberation. The virulium is seeping out from me now, even as that voice in my mind claws to reclaim its hold.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor. Pour out blood unto me . . .”
Somehow I mount the flaming beast. Turning, I look back through flickering tongues of flame and see the Shadow King, bearing a slight burden as he runs for the broken citadel gate.
“Zylnala,”I try to whisper. Black bile pours over my chin.
Then Elydark’s muscles surge beneath me, and I’m carried away from the field of battle, Kildorath on his licorneir at my side. My mind sinks into the yawning black, and I know no more.
EPILOGUE
“We’ve stopped the bleeding, internally and externally. And Mage Yalanue has crafted a potent stasis spell which should keep her from rapid deterioration. Beyond that, there’s little more we can offer.”
Princess Ilsevel lies on a long scribe’s-table-turned-healer’s-bed in a chamber hastily converted from a scriptorium to an infirmary. She no longer wears the strange garb of the Licornyn, but is stripped down, bandaged, and draped in blankets for modesty. She looks frail lying there. Like a pale ghost brought back from beyond the grave. Which is what she effectively is.
How long she will remain on this side of the grave remains to be seen.
The Shadow King studies her face in silent wonder. Ilsevel. Of all people! This woman who was meant to be his bride. The one who is supposed to be dead. Or so he wastold—he and the new bride he took in her stead.
Does Larongar know? Is this all part of his ongoing scheme, a bid to keep his favorite daughter out of trolde hands? An unsuccessful bid if so, for here she lies. Wounded. Vulnerable. Completely at his mercy. These Miphates might put up some fight if they were to realize who she is, but their ranks are reduced, and their magic supply much depleted following their long siege. They cannot stop the Shadow King from taking her.
What twist of fate brought her to that battlefield he cannot fathom. Neither can he comprehend the bizarre moment he witnessed when she threw herself between him and that Licornyn. Was that his name she cried out? Does she know the man? The look on his face when his blow struck—that moment of lucidity burning through the madness of virulium—implied some recognition of the deed done. Viruliumis a potent poison; he should not have been able to come out of it for many hours yet.
There’s too much mystery here, all caught up in this girl who can reveal nothing.
“Will she live?” the Shadow King asks, no trace of emotion coloring his voice.
The nervous mage across the table heaves a sigh. He is a young fellow, unprepared for the responsibilities which have abruptly fallen on his shoulders. “It is beyond my skill to heal her. Most of our healing spells have been cast. We haven’t any strong ones left. Besides, look here.”
He lifts the blanket, exposing Ilsevel’s bandaged torso, and points to a patch of skin between her breasts. Ilsevel breathes shallowly. On her exhale, the mage says, “There! Do you see it?”
Something appears against her pale skin: a shimmering gold mark, there one instant, gone the next.
“What is it?” the Shadow King asks.
“Runes.” The mage curls his lip.
“Written magic?”
“Yes. But not the right sort. This isoldmagic.” He says it with scorn, as though age were a sin. “Witch magic.”
The Shadow King looks at him, uncomprehending.
The mage continues, disgust limning each word. “It’s thoseibrildians, you see. They work a bastardized form of spellcraft, somewhere between fae and human, taking bits and pieces from both and corrupting all. The impurity is sickening. But I cannot deny the potency of the spell.”
“This is a spell?” The Shadow King waves a hand to indicate the shining rune, which appears again with Ilsevel’s exhale only to vanish on her inhale. “What does it mean?”
“Damned if I know,” the mage answers. “All I can tell you is that it’s broken. See here?” He points to the upper edge of the rune as it appears. It’s not brilliant like the rest, but rather dark against her skin as though burned. “It will disintegrate once Mage Yalanue’s stasis spell wears off. Then . . .” He shrugs.
“Thenwhat?”
“She dies. Maybe? As I said, I know nothing of rune magic, only enough to recognize it.”
