I cannot argue with that. But though I hate to leave my licorneir behind, his presence will not aid me where I am going.
Stay out of sight,I urge him.At the first sign of trouble, I want you to flee this world, return home with all speed.
He gives me a look.And let myself be madevelrhoar?I think not.
I sigh and rest my forehead momentarily against his cheek, heavy with the awareness of how impossible our circumstances have become. For his sake, I wish I could forget her; for his sake, I wish I could turn away now, my heart fixed on my own kind and their many troubles.
But I cannot leave her. Not without knowing, not without seeing with my own eyes that she lives. Not without hearing from her own lips that she wants nothing more to do with me, and her back is turned on Licorna forever.
I will return soon, Elydark,I sing to him, with far more confidence than I feel. Then, turning once more to face my future, I don the stolen cloak, pull the hood up over my head to hide my fae-pointed ears and shadow my face. I cannot disguise my warrior’s bulk, which will surely set me apart from average mortals, but that cannot be helped.
Leaving the shelter of the trees, I make my way to the gate surrounding the fortified town. The nearest gate is tall and topped with iron finials, a sound deterrent against fae invaders. Myibrildianblood makes me far less susceptible to the ills of iron, however, and I feel no trace of nausea as I draw near. The sun is just beginning to rise, and beyond the gate, I can hear the many sounds of awakeninglife within. Outside all is very quiet, almost desolate.
I pound at the gate with my fist. Perhaps not the most subtle approach, but I’ve not planned anything about this situation. My goal is simple—to gain admittance, to lay eyes on my wife. Nothing more. It takes a few more rounds of pounding and a bellowed, “Hallow at the gate!” before I’m rewarded with a scrabbling, a rusty creak, and the window-guard swings open, level with my heart. A pair of red-rimmed eyes peer out at me.
“State your business,” growls a slightly slurred and almost painfully mortal voice.
Having taken the time to invent no fabrication, I answer simply, “My business is at Beldroth.”
“Ah, come for the wedding, have you?” Those rheumy eyes offer me a critical glance, taking note of my ragged cloak before squinting up into my face, trying to catch some impression of my features beneath my hood. “You wouldn’t happen to have an invitation on your person, now would you?”
His tone is derisive, but I take no notice of the implied slight. My innards have gone strangely cold. “What wedding?” I demand, taking a step closer to the gate and bowing my head to better see the guard’s face through the small, square frame.
A grizzled eyebrow slides up a pockmarked forehead. “You’re having a laugh, right? Everyone knows the king’s daughter is getting married.”
My world tilts wildly off its axis. “Which daughter?” I demand in a low growl. “What is her name?”
The guard takes a step back then seems to remember he’s got half-a-foot of solid wood between him and any potential threat. He grins then, revealing all the gaps in his yellow teeth. “Why, Princess Ilsevel, of course. The one what returned from the dead. The whole town’s buzzing about it. Seems one of them young Miphates mages rescued her from the fae raiders and used hisnecroliphonmagic to bring her back from the dead. The king—gods bless his reign—is so pleased, he’s giving him the princess’s hand in marriage. Like something right out of the old tales, that! You can be sure my missus is pleased, though I don’t think much of it person’ly. What’s the doings of mages and princesses and the like have to do with us folk, I’d like to know?”
His words echo dully inside my skull. I cannot make sense of them, cannot force them into a place of comprehension. My mind is fixed on that one idea: Ilsevel. Marrying another. And who might that other be?
“His name.” My voice emerges in a rasp of pain. “This mage, thisnecroliphon.What is his name?”
“Does it matter?” The guard snuffles, his mustache wriggling. “They’re all the same, those magic-wielders. Can’t tell ‘em apart in their mage’s robes—”
“Tell me.”
Again the guard’s red eyes flash with wariness. “Well, now, let me see,” he muses. “It was something like Arto or Artis, erh. Ah, that’s it! Artoris. Mage Artoris Kelfaren.”
The name might as well have been an ax, so brutal is theblow. I am obliged to reach out and grasp hold of the window opening just to keep from losing my footing.
Artoris. Marrying Ilsevel.
“I loved him.”Her words burn in my memory, brands of fire across my brain.“And I asked him to come find me at the Temple of Lamruil. To run away with me.”
I had not wanted to believe her when she told me. Not even then, not even when I was still fighting with everything I had against the draw of thevelraand the inexplicable need for her awakened in my blood. Now, after everything we’ve been through, after all that we’ve become to each other, done to one another, all the glory and pain and hope and brokenness . . . I cannot bear it.
Another voice murmurs in my memory, a dangerous, subtle venom:“I’ve warned you all along, Taar—she’s one of them.”
Could it be true? Could it be that she was only playing me? That somehow our marriage, our love, was nothing more than an elaborate scheme to bring me low? And now, having distracted me from my purpose, having weakened me in mind, body, and soul so that I failed to lead my people in victory at Evisar . . . now she abandons me for Artoris. As she always meant to.
It's not true. It cannot be true. Even as my throbbing blood pounds with betrayal, I know the truth, gods-damn me! I remember how she saved me from Shanaera, how her gods-gifted voice called me out of the virulium madness. Time and again, I was at her mercy, yet she always acted to save me, evenfrom myself. And her bond to Diira—do I truly think that was nothing more than a cursebond? No, what linked them was far too profound, powerful enough to stretch across the Unformed Lands and guide them both safely home.
I remember her face, how she looked lying on that pallet bed following her licorneir’s death. She was hearttorn. Truly. There is no imitating that state of soul and being. What she felt at Diira’s loss was real, so real it drove the two of us apart, possibly forever.
But it cannot change the truth of what we had.
“She’s alive,” I gasp suddenly, even as my soul seeks to grasp hold of this one hopeful anchor within the dark storm of turmoil. I turn to the gate guard once more. “The princess—she’s alive.”
