“I fear no mortal guards,” I replied, and she shot me a stern look.
“Maybe not, butIfear forthem. They’re just doing their job, after all, and don’t deserve to be cut down by a jealous former-husband just because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She had a point. If I were forced to watch Ilsevel making any further vows to that mage, there is no chance in heaven I could restrain myself. But it’s not as though I could barge up the center aisle, scoop her off her feet, and simply carry her out of there.
Though the idea had merit.
“If I were to bring my licorneir into the castle—” I began.
“What, you want to smuggle aunicornin through the gates?” Lyria laughed outright, shaking her head. “While it would certainly make for a memorable wedding ceremony, no.”
She’s right, of course. Ilsevel’s life is so precariously balanced. If something were to happen too abruptly to Artoris himself, his spellcraft would be all undone. And Ilsevel mightsimply drop dead on the spot.
Watching her dance now, I cannot help the niggling fear that she might be dead already. What if this dark magic which surrounds her is a form of resurrection spellwork? Perhaps more advanced than those spells used on Shanaera, but of the same origin. Underneath that glorious wedding gown, is there a decaying wound in her gut?
When I’d voiced this concern to Lyria earlier today, she shook her head. “I don’t believe thenecroliphonare capable of true resurrection magic. It is ancient stuff and requires a form of deific power that no Miphato I’ve ever met could hope to wield. I’ve studied a littlenecroliphontheory and only ever seen information on the reanimation of corpses, not true resurrection.”
Her words are a comfort, for they stand in line with my own experiences with Shanaera and her shamblers. While Shanaera herself possessed a trace of her former spirit—however warped in nature—she was still certainlydead.And the shamblers were nothing more than moving corpses. Ilsevel does not look like either of these, and Lyria assures me she has not yet died. The dark magic surrounding her is merely keeping both death and pain at bay.
But what about this brokenruehnarspell? The low cut of Ilsevel’s gown affords luscious glimpses of her bosom, and here and there I almost catch sight of the broken rune when she passes close. This is my greater concern for the moment. I cannot pull Ilsevel from the clutches of her new husband if she doesnot remember me; but memory of me may swiftly kill her, if Lyria’s theories are correct. The only hope we have is to restore theruehnar. Somehow.
“There’s a chance,” Lyria admitted when we discussed the matter earlier. “But it’s risky. Unfortunately, it’s the only idea I’ve got. Short of wooing, winning, and wedding her all over again, for which we simply do not have the time.”
Ilsevel and I had not enjoyed a great deal of time for wooing or winning before our previous wedding. Nonetheless, I’m inclined to agree.
I flick my gaze up to the main table, where Artoris sits beside the king, watching the dance. He doesn’t seem to have recognized the magic at play—Lyria promised her illusion should, at least initially, slip beneath his notice, as Miphates prefer to ignore the existence of that sort of magic entirely. But eventually he is bound to realize there is something strange going on right under his nose. I cannot wait for that to happen.
I hold my breath as dancers move before me. Many are phantoms, but most are real people, and I must not do anything to send up an alarm. Once Ilsevel is in my arms, the illusion should shift to hide her from view, but until that moment, I must be cautious.
Suddenly she whirls by the pillar where I hide, laughing in uncontrollable frenzy. I’ve heard Ilsevel laugh on rare occasions; our life together was fraught with such turmoil, there wasn’t much opportunity for mirth. But those few times when I heardit, I’d thought it like music to my ear.
There is no music in her voice now.
I grit my teeth. Then, striding out from behind the pillar, I plunge into the dance. I can only hope Lyria’s illusion will disguise my great height so that I do not stand out too starkly among all these small humans. Ilsevel passes close by again, and I stretch out my hand and quite simply pluck her from the dance, drawing her to me. She tilts her face back, gazing up at me drunkenly. I smell wine on her breath and feel the slithering presence ofnecroliphonmagic on her skin. Her swimming gaze seems to focus momentarily on my mouth, and I wonder if she’s about to kiss me.
Then she grabs hold of the front of my borrowed jerkin and, with surprising strength, hauls me deeper into the dance. I’m thrown off balance and stagger. She laughs again, that shrieking, hideous sound that simply cannot belong to my Ilsevel. But this version of her is not the woman I know. The woman I know is buried beneath pain and dark magic.
Though the music bids us follow it deeper into merriment, I am not tempted to answer. I simply scoop Ilsevel around the waist and, waiting for the dance to offer me the right timing, duck out from among the dancers and their upraised arms, gliding her neatly into a dark passage beyond the banquet hall. Here I have already taken care to douse lights, and Lyria has placed runes so that neither servant nor guard will think to walk this way. Her powers are certainly impressive; I am grateful they are, for the moment atleast, at my disposal. She would make a formidable enemy.
Ilsevel staggers. I’m obliged to pull her against me, half-carrying her. She is a slight enough burden, even in these mounds of gold fabric. A little moan escapes her lips, and it cuts me to the quick. Is it her wound? Is Artoris’s spell lifting too soon? I need it to last long enough for me to get her out of Beldroth, back to Elydark.
I guide her to a dark gallery, far from the dance. Music echoes dully along the stone walls, a hollow, lonely sound. There is no light save for the faint moonglow pouring through tall gallery windows. Ilsevel tries to rally, lifting her head and looking around blearily. She makes a few abortive attempts to speak before finally managing a slurred, “What are we doing here?”
“I had to speak with you,” I answer, inclining my head, my lips hovering close to her hair. “Privately,zylnala.”
She mutters again, groans and shakes her head. Then, to my surprise, I hear a clear whisper, articulate though faintly spoken. “Songbird,” she says.
My heart leaps. She remembers. Great gods, she remembers something of our time together, remembers the meaning of the name I gave her on our wedding night. Her head rolls back, and she looks up at me. For a moment I think I see clarity in her eyes. Does she know me?
Then her eyes widen. “You!” she gasps. Her mouth drops open, her throat constricting as a terrified cry rises from deep in her gut.
I have but a single heartbeat in which to act.
Grabbing her hard, I crush her in my arms and plant my mouth atop hers, swallowing her scream. Her fists pound my shoulders, her fingers claw at my cheeks and hair, but I will not back down. I kiss her with all the passion pent up inside me, all the desperation which has grown into such terrible need since I woke from the virulium madness, since I believed her lost to me forever. I kiss her as though these are our final moments, before the darkness of hell itself overwhelms us, and this embrace is our last hope of heaven.
“A kiss of true love might work,”Lyria’s voice echoes in my memory.“The Miphates would mock me for suggesting it, but true love’s kiss has always been imbued with more power than they like to admit. But it must be true.”
It is true. I know it to the very depths of my soul. Whatever has happened between us—every bizarre twist of fate and danger and death which led us together, every agony which drove us apart—my love for her remains true. It is the only thing of which I am certain, beyond all shadow of doubt.
