But something prevents me from doing so. A last, delicate, almost insubstantial thread of connection. No longer the powerful binding cord it once was, little more than a filament of feeling, of memory. A wish, forlorn and nearlyforgotten, but still—somehow, impossibly—alive.
Ilsevel.
I’d believed every connection between us was broken onsilmaelwhen she rejected me. Her words have echoed in my heart every moment of every hour since that damnable night.“Let me go, Taar,”she’d said in a tone which cut deeper than any blade.“I foreswear all vows I ever made to you. I will be your wife no more.”
So we were done. The inconvenient bond which had so weakened me—hampered my thoughts, sapped my strength, distracted my focus—was removed with such suddenness, it left me reeling. It was the end of everything. And I acted accordingly . . . never realizing that this single strand of connection had not been cut. That I’d not fully let her go. Nor she me.
I thought she hated me. For failing her. For failing Diira. For allowing her to suffer the pain ofvelrhoar.I believed hatred was enough to tear us apart forever.
But hatred is far too powerful an emotion. Far too akin to love.
When she called out to me on the battlefield, using that gods-gifted voice of hers, there was something more than hatred in her song. In my mind’s eye, I see her again—the shining, angelic form, alight with divine glory, piercing through all the thickest veils of darkness to find me deep within. And then I . . . I . . .
Oh gods. No. No, I cannot bear it.
I feel it all over again. That instant of impulse.
That moment when I gave in to the urging of the virulium in my head.
That burst of glorious savagery in my veins as the tip of my blade drove into her flesh. The hot exhale of her breath on my face. The shock of horror in her eyes.
Our two hearts beat in a single throb, joined in a dance of death and destruction.
My body feels like a disconnected weight, unnecessary to existence. But I am slowly coming back into awareness. Convulsing, riddled with pain. I become conscious of something large standing over me, a great physical and spiritual presence singing into the darkness. Elydark—my licorneir. His song is not unlike the protective barrier sung against thevardimnar. Only this darkness against which he sings is internal, not external. The grasping fingers of virulium, seeking to draw me back down into rabid depths. As swiftly as his song cuts through swaths of clinging shadow, it reforms, ravenous and relentless.
But that single thread of light makes its way through and clings to me, reaching even where Elydark cannot. A song that has been broken into so many parts, fractured to the point of shattering, but still, impossibly, a single, clear, unmistakable note.
Zylnala.
I’d thought I’d never see her again. I’d believed the song she sang for me was ended forever. Only to find her there, in the midst of hell itself. So shining. So bright. I see her gazing at meover the hilt of my sword, which protrudes from her gut.
“T—Taar,”she gasped in her pain. And her voice was a symphony.
I’ve got to find my way back. I’ve got to escape this darkness, reclaim my place in the living world. I must discover for myself if she is dead, must look upon what I have done. My soul reaches out, takes hold of that gossamer thread, that near-nothing.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor,”the endless hunger demands.
But her song pulls me higher, higher, up to the place where Elydark’s voice, strong and pure and multi-faceted, can surround me and strengthen me and draw me higher still.
Clouds part. Light pierces my mind. I burst out from the darkness into—
Dirt under my back. Rocks and roots digging into my spine. An interplay of branches, leaves, and sky overhead, and the silhouette of a licorneir head and horn alight still with remnant flames of war, now burned low.
I taste blood on my tongue, mingled with bitter poison. Black bile stains my skin in ugly splotches, no longer pulsing and fresh but a cloying coating that will take many days to wash away. My body aches. Where am I? How long did I lie in this place, convulsing as the virulium worked its way out of my system? Howlong did Elydark stand watch over me in this vulnerable state? The worst of it seems to be passed now. Which means it’s been hours. I’ve come down from the mad rush of virulium before; I remember. I remember . . .
A terrible inhale of breath cuts my lungs. Pushing up onto my elbows, I stare around me, trying to make some sense of this waking world. My vision is cloudy and overcast in deep shade, but some degree of sound manages to make its way through my addled senses. Forms and figures move through trees around me, fleeing for shelter. Beyond the trees, I see the open stretch of Agandaur field; beyond it, the magic-riven sky above Evisar’s ruins. I cannot see the citadel from here, but even at this distance, the pulse of magic emanating from within is intense.
Someone moves on my right. I turn to see Kildorath, his licorneir standing luminous at his back. There are others as well close by, beleaguered and exhausted, beaten. But only Kildorath meets my searching eye.
“Luinar?”he says, raising his heavy head. Dark hollows haunt his face, and defeat bows his shoulders. “Luinar,are you . . . yourself?”
“Yes,Kildorath,” I answer heavily. My head drops to my chest as confused memories fill my brain. I see toppling giants and swarming trolde warriors. I see a massive trolde standing over me, clad in stone armor and wielding a skull-crushing club. I see the terrible spell-wrapped chaeora net falling in a silver shimmer across Elydark, snuffing his flame.
An excruciating cramp clenches my gut. I curl over in agony as shudders progress roughly through every limb. My throat tight and knotted, I force words out through the pain: “The assault . . . on the gate . . .”
“Routed,” Kildorath replies, his voice dull. “The Shadow King.”
He cannot say more. He doesn’t need to. The dread of the Shadow King has loomed large over us all for many months now, since first we learned of the intended alliance between the troldefolk and King Larongar. But I had convinced myself it would not come to pass, that the events which brought me my own human bride had forever thwarted all my enemy’s plans. Only . . . only . . .
