Without another word, I turn from Halamar and mount Elydark. For the first time in days, I sing with my licorneir, the fire of my own soul alight and burning with his.We’re going after her, Elydark,I say.We’re going to the mortal world.
My licorneir answers with a triumphant bugle of sound, all doubts banished in the sudden surge he receives from me. He rears up, tearing the air with his forehooves. Whenhe comes down, he bursts into a long-legged gallop, flying across the ground as though he’s sprouted wings. Distantly I hear voices behind me—Kildorath and Sylcatha, calling my name. I do not look back. I bow over Elydark’s neck, urging him on. Our sights set on the horizon, our souls blazing as a single inferno, we leave Cruor in our dust.
7
ILSEVEL
Simply crossing the room requires a summoning of superhuman will nearly beyond my capacity. But as I’ve been lying in bed for some hours now, with no sign of Lyria or any other living soul, I decide I’m going to make the attempt. After three days bed-bound, requiring assistance for every little aspect of existence, I’m sick of it. Time for my body to remember who is mistress here.
Grinding my jaw against the unwilling numbness in my limbs, I throw back the covers, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, rise, and begin my staggering progress. I make it halfway across the chamber, with no clear purpose in mind beyond escape, before I begin to regret my choices.
Why does this feel like a repeated theme in my life?
I just make it to the little green chair close to the windowbefore my legs give out. I collapse gratefully into it, weak as a kitten and, I suspect, in pain. I can’t say for certain about the pain, however; the spellwork enwrapping my body prevents me from feeling it. But judging by the cold sweat broken out across my brow and the way my knees shake, it must be intense.
The window is heavily curtained, with only a sliver of light making its way through. If I want a view, I’ll have to reach out, grasp the thick brocade, and draw it back, but for the moment, I simply don’t have the energy. I look down at my body, clad in nothing but a loose white shift. Even in this dim light I can halfway discern the coating of darkness surrounding my limbs—not a physical manifestation, but such a thick concentration of ether-drawn energy, it fools the eye into thinking it perceives something. This is the magic Lyria spoke of, the spellwork which prevents me from feeling the full extent of my wounds. I suppose I ought to be grateful, but the awareness of its presence makes my flesh crawl. Like maggots preventing infection, this salve is almost worse than the wound it purports to heal. I suppose I might think differently if I could feel the pain of the wound itself.
Worrying my lower lip, I consider the situation for some moments, telling myself not to do the rash thing which has comeinto my head. But, as Lyria is not here to stop me . . . I hike up the shift and bend over, attempting to get a look at the gash in my gut. I can’t quite see it; the darkness obscures my vision. When I try to physically brush the clinging shadow-stuff away, it seems to cling to my skin and stain my fingers. I bite back a little curse. Then, determined not to be fully thwarted, I reach through the magic and touch my body, exploring.
My heart clenches. A large gash—raw and knotted and ugly—extends across my stomach. I may not know much about anatomy, but I do know enough to recognize the truth: I should be dead. I should have bled out, my innards spilling through that hole in my abdominal wall. It should have been much too slow, slow enough that I felt every excruciating moment, slow enough that I begged the gods themselves for an end to my existence. No one survives such a blow.
I pull my hand away quickly. My heart beats a panicked rhythm against my breastbone. Thank heaven or hell or whoever is to blame for this dark magic! I am grateful—and even more grateful for the block on my memory. Part of me is curious, tempted to press against that block, to try to recall scenes from the night the Temple of Lamruil was attacked, but . . . no. What good could be had from delving into such a dire space of mind and thought? Maybe when I’m fully healed. Even then I’m not sure I want to know.
Dropping my shift, I arrange the thin folds of fabric over my legs, then lean back in the chair, shivering hard, though the chamber is not cold. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so hasty to escape my bed. The effort required to return to it is more than I can manage, so I simply sit where I am, forcing myself to breathe long and slow.
I should be glad—shouldn’t I? After all, I wanted out of themarriage to the Shadow King. And here I am, unmarried. That is a small victory, is it not?
But the cost . . .
I think of Faraine, dragged away to the Shadow Realm, never to be seen again.
And Aurae. Sweet Aurae, captured by the fae, possibly dead or worse.
The shivers wracking my body turn into shudders. I grip the wooden arms of my seat hard, simply to prevent myself from falling to the floor. Is the price of my freedom my sisters’ lives? I’d believed I wanted escape more than anything in the world, but . . . but I would have borne my captivity for the sake of Faraine and Aurae, if I’d known, if I’d even guessed.
Guilt claws at my throat, seeking a stranglehold. But it wasn’t my fault . . . was it? According to Lyria, I was going about my Maiden’s Journey when the fae attacked. It wasn’t my choice or my doing. So why do I feel so very guilty?
A strange sensation burns the skin just above my heart. Startled, I look down, then peel back the front laces of my shift, exposing my chest. Something is there, underneath the black magic covering. Something I cannot see, cannot even fully feel, but am somehowawareof in a way I cannot name. I touch the skin above my heart, my fingers unconsciously tracing a strange pattern. That touch—my own fingertips against the curve of my breast—awakens something. Not a memory, but the impressionof a memory. Of larger, calloused fingers, brushing so gently in that same pattern. Of heat awakened in my core, of gasping breaths and racing blood, and—
Angry green light bursts inside my head. I gasp out loud and press the heels of my hands to my temples. What is this? What is my mind refusing to let me recall? Vague shadows dance behind my eyelids, but none of them will coalesce into solid shape. I’m left with nothing but a haunting dread.
I did something. Something terrible. Before I set out on my Maiden’s Journey? I was so determined to find a way out of the alliance, and I’d taken action, angled for escape. But what was it I did? When I try to cast my mind backwards, there’s nothing but blurry impressions until the night of my betrothal announcement. But I know myself—I know I wasn’t about to accept that marriage without a fight. I took action, and that action had unintended consequences. But . . . what?
The door to my chamber opens. Startled from the depths of thought, I place a hand against my chest, where the shift still hangs open, and turn, expecting to see Lyria. Instead the most unforeseen face meets my eye.
My heart jumps. Blood rushes in my pulse.
“Artoris!” I exclaim, a smile breaking across my face.
It is he. The man whose face has haunted my dreams these last seven years. Those years have wrought many changes on him, but I would still recognize that face anywhere, even behind thatdark growth of beard. He stands across from me in my chamber doorway—an impressive figure in long, dark mage’s robes, his square face stern and hard and still as handsome as it was in my memory. He gazes at me across the dim room, his eyes bright with a hunger that should set my veins on fire.
Instead it pulls at another memory—one from long ago. One I’ve spent seven years trying my utmost not to recall. A memory of grasping hands and hot mouths, of my own voice whimpering, “Please, stop . . .”
I shake my head hard, dispersing that pathetic voice. I’ve longed for this moment of reunion so hard and for so long, I’m not about to let it be overshadowed by something so unpleasant. I try to rise, to go to him, but my limbs simply refuse to obey. I can only sit in this chair, one hand still pressed against my bosom.
Artoris steps into the chamber, shuts the door behind him. Did I hear the bolt drop? My chest tightens, but when he turns and smiles at me, I smile in answer. “Don’t try to stand,” he says, crossing the floor in a few long strides. “I don’t want you to overtax yourself.”
His eyes take me in. I’m suddenly aware of how exposed I am, with my shift laces still undone, and the fabric so very thin and clinging. Flushing, I begin hastily to tie up the front laces, but Artoris hastens forward, kneels in front of me, and takes hold of my hands. “No,” he says. “Don’t trouble yourself, my dear.” His gaze rakes over me again, the distinctly male interest transforming into something rather more academic. “How doyou fare under the spell?” he asks. “Do you feel any pain?”
