“To save her from a worse fate by far, yes. And I would do so again.”
She looks at me closely, her eyes simmering with some emotion only just held in check. “Go on,” she says at last.
I have no choice. The words pour from my tongue, grunted and short, but a thorough account of what took place. Her face goes very hard when I tell of the required consummation of our wedding, and again I feel a threat of death in her trembling grasp. Compulsion or otherwise, I do not care to share details of that private encounter, however, and leave her only with the statement, “I cared for your sister that night. But the following morning, it was deemed insufficient by Noxaurian standards.”
Lyria looks as though she knows she should press for details but simply cannot bear to. So she growls only a harsh, “Go on.”
My story continues, through the death of Lurodos and the tragedy of discovering Aurae’s fate. This unexpectedly fails tomove Lyria. Was the poor girl not also her half-sister? But Lyria merely shrugs and says, “There is more there than meets the eye. I am sorry Ilsevel suffered for what she saw, but she did not see all.”
I want to question her further, but am carried on by the current of my own tale. It feels far too long, the precious minutes wasted in the telling keeping me from Ilsevel’s side. Never once does that grip on my shoulder relent, and I have no choice but to tell on until I reach the point where Ilsevel and I discovered that what was meant to be a symbolicvelrabond between us had somehow manifested in a physically binding way, preventing us from parting as we intended.
“I have never seen nor heard of such a phenomenon.” I shake my head in wonder at the memory. “I still have no explanation for why it should happen to the two of us, though I suspect it has something to do with Ilsevel’s gods-gift reacting to the ancient Licornyn magic in an unexpected way.”
Lyria considers this, a look of academic interest replacing at least some of the hostility in her features. “It is possible,” she says. “The gods-gifts have not been closely studied. Mages choose, for the most part, to ignore the existence of all divinely-ordained magic. They prefer magic they can wrest from the ether by their own merits, not something innately bestowed, however powerful it may be. Gods-gifted individuals are said to be more like the fae, in that their magic is born into their blood.” She tilts her head. “Have any of your kind ever married the fae? Perhaps similaroccurrences have taken place with such unions.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I reply. It may have happened at some point in our history, but such histories were lost since the initial fall of thevardimnar, possibly never to be reclaimed.
Lyria’s fingers on my shoulder flex and relax, but never release. “How did your—what did you call it? Yourvelra—how did it become broken?”
Despite the compulsion pouring from her palm into my being, I hold my tongue. I’m not utterly at her mercy after all. She tips her head, and her fingers tighten, but still I refuse to answer. “You’re withholding something. Something you’re keen I should not hear.” The muscle in her cheek tightens. “You’d best tell me and get it over with.”
I draw a long breath through my nostrils. Then, answering truly enough: “Ilsevel rejected our marriage bond onsilmaelnight.”
“Oh?” Her brow puckers as she puts the various pieces together. “You said she is your wife.”
“Wasmy wife,” I admit. “According to the laws of my people . . . not anymore.”
She does not look satisfied by this explanation. “If she rejected you, why should I help you reclaim her now? You are yetanotherhusband she does not want.”
I turn from her, a rough growl in my throat, and stare out through the ivy curtain to that marble statue standing in its basin. Though the figures are turned away from me, the amorousposition of their limbs is unmistakable. I feel a great emptiness in my arms, in my heart, where my wife should be.
“Ilsevel had every right to reject me onsilmael,”I say, my voice hushed in this close, cold space. “I respected her choice, and I selected two of my best warriors to escort her safely back to her own world and her own kind.”
“But?” Lyria demands.
“But she came back.” As the words whisper from my tongue, I close my eyes and press a hand to my heart, feeling yet again for the warmth of theruehnarrune which is no longer there but ought to be. “She came back for me. Something drew her, some thread that should have been severed but wasn’t. Something called her back to me, and I . . . and I . . .”
I feel Lyria’s gaze on the side of my face, waiting, expectant. Then I hear the sharp inhale of her breath. “Oh my gods.”
I don’t speak, don’t look at her.
“Oh my gods,” she says again and presses a hand to her mouth as though to prevent further expletives from escaping. Then: “You’re the one who did it. You’re the one who stabbed her.”
I bow my head, close my eyes. The full weight of my guilt is so great, I wonder if it will crush me at last. Lyria abruptly releases her hold on me, as though to continue even that small contact is anathema to her. She whirls away, paces several steps down the narrow stairwell. Her furious breaths echo against the stone walls, and for some moments she struggles to control herself.When she speaks again, however, her voice is steady, once more academic. As though she’s forcing all her emotion through a very tight filter of control.
“That’s what did it. Thevelra. . . it wasn’t truly broken, or not completely, on yoursilmaelnight. She would have been safe if that was the case, for the spell would have been dissolved as it was meant to, leaving behind no bad residue. But it wasn’t fully broken. So when you stabbed her, that went against everything you had vowed. All the solemn words, like an enchantment, which had woven that strange, ancient magic between you, suddenly shattered. That’s why it’s killing her.”
She turns, looking up at me. I cannot read her expression in the deep shadows beyond the green light coming through the curtained doorway. “Do you realize what you have done? That broken rune is even more dangerous to her than anything you did with a sword. Both were killing her when she came to me, but the gut wound only needed time to reknit. The stasis spell gives her that time, preventing death from claiming her while her body does the necessary work of healing. But that rune . . . theonlyway I could stop it from destroying her was to remove her memories entirely. If I hadn’t done so, Ilsevel would have been dead days ago.”
Her words ring hollow in my head at first, my brain unable or unwilling to make sense of them. Then it comes to me suddenly . . . the way she looked at me in the garden, without even the smallesttrace of memory for me. I had tried to break through that barrier, to make her remember. In so doing, I put her life at grave risk.
“If she remembers me,” I say slowly, scarcely able to make myself form the words, “if she regains those memories of who we are to each other . . . will it kill her?”
“I don’t know.” Lyria shakes her head, her jaw tight and working, as though chewing on the problem. “That block I placed on her cannot last forever. Eventually it will weaken, and I won’t always be around to reinstate it. She will remember in the end, and the rune’s power over her will be as strong as ever, maybe stronger.” Her eyes flash, catching hold of mine. “The only certain way to save Ilsevel from that broken spell is to . . .” She grimaces as though her next words are unpalatable. “ . . . to restore it. Somehow.”
I hold my breath, hardly daring to speak for fear my voice will betray me. “That is why I have come,” I manage at last, the words low and tremulous. “That is my purpose in being here—to restore what was broken between us. If I can.”
Daggers unsheathe in her eyes. “You can hardly expect me to cheer onthatparticular outcome, considering everything you’ve done to her. Though no doubt you’ve got an excellent excuse for running my sister through the gut. I’m sure it was quite altruistically motivated.”
