1
ILSEVEL
I am lost in a world of pain.
It’s not unlike returning to the Unformed Lands—disembodied, almost soulless. There’s nothing about me that exists other than pain, radiating from that single pinpoint of existence in my gut. Perhaps I should be grateful. Were that point not so singular, so exquisitely intense, I would simply disintegrate into a million particles of glinting light and float away from this world. The connections which keep me bound to this world are fragile indeed. But that pain acts as a sort of anchor, binding me to this reality, whether I want it or not.
Magic coats my skin. Now and then I float back into a state of awareness keen enough to recognize it, that sensation of energy rippling over my flesh, sinking into my soul and being. I can almost feel the individual, scratched-out letters of a written spell,like insect legs crawling all over me in a swarm. This is Miphates’ magic, powerful within its specific limitations. I hate it—hate that it prevents my body from following its natural course. Mortal frames were not meant to endure such wounds. Why can I not just die, why will they not let me die? Even the hearttorn song of thevelrhoaris dulled to almost nothing, the strands of disharmony which had tormented me are faint whispers on the edge of my awareness. Nothing else matters anymore. Nothing but pain, pain, pain.
Sometimes my soul struggles up out of the mire and strains to leave behind this body of torment, floating in the ether. From this angle I become aware of the physical world below me, shadowy, indistinct shapes of movement and matter. It’s difficult to see without eyes, but I learn to make sense of the shadows. Two large beings, a little clearer than the rest, flicker in and out of my awareness even as they flicker in and out of various dimensions of existence. The morleth—monstrous steeds of the troll warriors, interdimensional darksteppers. What they carry between them in a sling is a little harder to discern, but I come to understand that it is . . .me.My own body, wrapped up tightly in spellwork, limp and unconscious. The morleth move with a liquid grace, far smoother than horses, smoother even than licorneir, which prevents my suffering frame from being more jostled than necessary. Small blessings, I suppose—though hovering above them as I do, I feel less thangrateful.
There’s a gleam of broken magic on my breast, down underneath the network of Miphates’ spells. In the mortal world I never saw it so clearly, but from this vantage it becomes the most real thing about that fragile body of mine: theruehnarmark. Even as a disembodied spirit, I radiate a frown. I thought that mark was wiped clean away onsilmaelnight, when I rejected Taar and our marriage bond. And yet the mark remains—not clear and shining, but broken.
I don’t pretend to understand it, don’twantto understand it. I simply want to be turned loose, to separate myself from all those hurts, all those conflicting spells. I pull against everything holding me in place, feel the strain in those bindings. But I cannot get free. Not yet, at least.
Another indistinct form of flickering life moves, coming to stand between the morleth and gaze down at my frail body where it lies in the sling. I send my spirit coiling about that form, which causes a shudder to ripple down his spine. I know him: the Shadow King. Tall and dark and imposing, the troll to whom my father sold me, the monster who was meant to be my bridegroom. Strange that, after all this, after all my desperate efforts to separate myself from him, here I am—back in his clutches. More helpless than I’ve ever been. If it weren’t for the pain pulsing through my body, I would be afraid. But I can’t manage enough strength for fear just now; there isn’t room enough within my flimsy existence.
A voice rumbles from that looming figure, directed at mybody, but resonant enough to float through the shimmering ether and strike my spiritual awareness. “Hold on, Ilsevel,” he growls, like long-buried stone. “I’ll get you the help you need. Hold on a little longer.” He is silent for a time—I don’t know how long—contemplating my helpless state. Then he seems to shake his head, and I even catch a glimpse of long white hair moving over his shoulders. “How is it that you are alive? After everything, after all we’ve been through.”
Then he bends over my unconscious form, and his impossibly deep voice somehow deepens in a harsh but urgent whisper: “Faraine would want you to keep going. Faraine would urge you to be strong. Do it for her, if you can. I beg of you.”
Faraine?What in the name of all the gods does the Shadow King have to do with my oldest sister? Why should he care if—
A fresh burst of agony ripples through me, pulsing from theruehnar, which meets the Miphates’ spell network in a crash of conflicting magics. It’s so sharp, it drags me out of the ether back down into my body, and I am lost again for a time.
When I manage to fight my way back out again, pulling through the grasping fingers of pain and into the open space above my body, I discover another indistinct figure standing over me. Though I cannot discern his features, everything about his presence radiates shock.
“Mage Yalanue is a damned idiot,” a voice—strangely familiar, but I cannot place it—echoes out from that figure, a hollow,distant sound. “This stasis spell is unravelling far too quickly.”
A series of movements follow this statement. I have a vague impression of a book being opened, a pen scratching. Energy sparks in the air around me, drawn through layers of reality, summoned by the shaping of words on a page. Mortal magic, but of an unusual variety. There’s darkness to this energy, potent and sizzling, that makes my very soul curl away from it with dread. It surrounds the indistinct figure of the man, channeled at his command and shaped into spellwork. He guides that darkness, enwrapping my body, dragging my soul back down into it.
I want to shout, to protest. But though I struggle, I cannot fight that power. Wriggling, screaming, struggling, I am pulled relentlessly through the ether, entombed in my own mortal flesh. It is through slitted, heavy eyelids that I see the face of the mage hovering over me. He turns to the enormous form of the Shadow King. “I don’t know what to make of that broken rune mark. It is nothing like Miphates’ magic. But, as Yalanue told you, there is a witch known to be in residence at Beldroth. She may be able to help, to keep that rune-poison from spreading. As for the flesh wound, my own magic should suffice to keep the pain and infection at bay, allow her body to heal.”
He's not lying. Already I can feel a numbing relief spreading through my body, beginning at that place in my gut where the sword-point entered. In the moment I am too grateful to care that my entire body crawls with hell-born magic. If they won’tlet me die, then I must be grateful for whatever respite they offer.
I sink back into unconsciousness, lulled by the swinging sling in which my body lies. Occasionally the pain slips through, as sharp as though the blade has plunged once more through my abdominal wall. For the most part, however, the mage’s spellcraft works. In that lulled state of enchantment, I can’t even remember how I ended up in this place. Vague and unreal images play across my addled mind—flashes of light, color, shadow, and song. Nothing my mind can grasp, nothing to help me form any sense of reality. It’s easier to drift away again, to let the magic carry me far away.
I don’t come to again until I hear my father’s voice speaking my name: “Ilsevel?”
I struggle to open my eyes, but manage only a single cracked eyelid and a blurry impression of the world. I seem to be held in a pair of massive arms, cradled against a rock-hard chest. I discern a mound of black before me which slowly takes clearer shape as a rider in a dark cloak on horseback. There are others, many others, more than I can count. My mind simply cannot take them all in.
“Is it really her?” my father speaks again. His voice is rough, befitting of the man of action he is, but edged with an unfamiliar vulnerability. Larongar is a warrior who would not hesitate to set himself up in opposition to fae monsters and kings, a man who bargained with the gods themselves, and wrestled a dragon to achieve his goals. He is not a man given to weaknessof any kind.
“Ask your mage,” the Shadow King replies in harsh tones.
Larongar turns slightly, addressing one of the other shadowy figures I cannot quite see. “Well, Artoris?”
“It is,” comes the answer. And this time I recognize that voice as well. It’s one which has haunted my dreams for many years, which held the power to excite my blood with passion, with hope. Upon hearing it now, however, I feel my very soul chilled like frost. “It is Ilsevel. The true Ilsevel.”
Larongar curses bitterly. “And how did you come by her, Shadow King? Have you had her all this time?”
“I have not. The gods saw fit to place her in my care.”
“Yes? And what have you done to her?” Rage colors that powerful voice, a raw redness in the atmosphere, breaking through the heaviness of the spell encasing me. “Have you punished her for her sister’s deceit? It was not her fault, you know.”
“I know where the fault lies on that score,” the Shadow King answers through clenched teeth. “Ilsevel sustained a wound at the battle of Evisar. A magicked wound, requiring witch-healing.”
The vague dark image which is my father on horseback waves an arm in a commanding gesture. “Hand her over then. I know a witch. I’ll take her there at once.”
