Then it comes to me—I need not wait for others to give me permission to die. This magicked barrier may prevent my waking, but it does not control the boundaries of my soul. I can slip from this mortal coil if I so dare, and then I will be free. It is only a matter of will.
No one has ever accused me of lacking will.
I approach the green barrier again. This time, rather than attempt to cross it, I simply sidle along to the very edge. Though it feels like ages, eventually I come to the end of it and feel the vastness of eternity blowing like a wind across my soul. I breathe deep and begin to slip out into it.
Voices sing from far away, distant but full of power—voices which shape worlds and hold the bounds of time within their palms. That song calls to me, calls to the gift indwelling me. I will join that chorus and sing forever with the entities of glory, a song of unending worship.
Even as I spread wide my being and begin to float out into that greatness, something tugs at my heart. A stubborn cord, multi-stranded. Shining and golden.
I haven’t any face or features anymore, not as a spirit-being; if I had, I would scowl. What is this nonsense, snaring me to the world of matter and mortality?
My perception follows the line of that cord, back down, down, into the shadowed realm, seeking the place of anchor so I might uproot it. To my surprise, I seem to be floating above a stone floor in a damp, cavernous space that feels strangely familiar. For a moment I cannot place it, but then . . . ah! It is the grotto Lyria and I discovered all those years ago. Moonlight illuminates the faces of the gods. In that moment it seems to me as though the distant voices I heard reverberate from those stone mouths. But that is not what arrests my attention.
Taar.
His name shoots through me like a bolt of lightning, glowing along the winding strands of that golden cord.
Taar.My husband. The man who claimed my heart and then stabbed me through the gut . . . though, if I’m honest with myself, that might be an oversimplification of events.
He seems to be holding my mortal body, cradled gently with my head against his shoulder. The image is almost comical, with all those mounds of skirts looped over his arms so that he will not trip. So it’s he who traps me in this world, binding me with that cord which I had thought broken long ago. Why does he do it? Why does he persist in loving me, despite everything?
And why do I still feel such a profound draw to him?
Another figure moves, arresting my attention. Lyria! What is she doing here? After abandoning me to my wedding and marriage feast, she’s got a lot of gall showing up now. She seems to be speaking to Taar, but I’m too far away to hear their words clearly, not with the songs of distant deities still filling my spirit. She hands him a satchel, looping it over his shoulder as he cannot take it himself with his arms so full. Then, after another short exchange, she sends him on his way. Down one of those black tunnels, tugging my resistant soul along with him.
He stumbles along, each footstep cautiously taken. Is he blind? Strange, for I can perceive the passage clearly enough. Of course, I am almost entirely non-corporeal and, therefore, do notsuffer the limitations of mere sight.
At first I coil with impatience at the far end of our tether, unwilling to draw nearer. Then, with a little shiver of existence, I drift in closer, place an ethereal hand on his shoulder, and push him forward. He shudders at my touch—does he feel my presence? Does he know my ghost self hovers so near? Regardless, he walks on, his stride more confident than it was moments ago.
So we continue for what feels like a very long while. I shouldn’t be concerned with time, disembodied as I am, but that damned tether makes me aware of each passing moment. I try to distract myself by taking in our surroundings. For the most part, it looks like stone, but now and then, I catch glimpses of huge expanses—skies full of stars or broad swells of mist extending to far horizons. Now and then I even perceive forests. Endless tall trees towering over us, sheltering us in their green canopy, only to vanish once more, replaced by cold stone. I wonder if this tunnel is somehow like the paths of Wanfriel forest, moving between realities. There is a history here, a story to be told, though I doubt I will ever learn it.
We come at last to the end of the path. I feel before us the same rippling-energy strangeness of a Between Gate. Though in my mortal form I recoiled from passing through these veils, I find myself eager to be getting on with things.
Taar, however, hesitates. He looks down at my body in his arms, his expression filled with concern. Then he inclines his neck and plants a kiss on the top of my head. To my surprise, Ifeel it. Feel the pressure of his lips followed by the warmth of his breath as he murmurs a string of words I cannot comprehend.
Then he strides forward, through the gate.
The experience is not all that different from what I felt as an embodied soul. There’s still that same bizarre sense of stretching and contracting, only it’s easier without a mortal frame to contend with. I could almost laugh at the simplicity of it all, only—
No. What is this?
As we move through realities back into the mortal realm, that gold tether suddenly tightens, dragging me down with irresistible force. I feel the yawning prison of my mortality, seeking to close me in once more. I struggle, soul flailing against that hold, but it is useless.
With a little gasp and a last longing look out to the distant heavens where the voices of the divine still ring, I sink down into bones and muscle and sinew and the pulse of pain rolling through my body to explode in my brain again and again and again.
The green barrier of magic is still there, but weaker than before, and I am very close to consciousness now. I feel the weight of my own eyelids, but cannot raise them. Not that it would do any good. The air tastes of mortality. Death coats my tongue in a bitter taste, but still it will not claim me. I try to speak, to scream. I breathe in a gasp of air and release it again in a small moan.
“Ilsevel?” Taar’s voice speaks close to my ear. “Ilsevel, can you hear me?”
I couldn’t answer if I wanted to. Not with this pain closing upmy throat. He lays me down on the grass, trying to be gentle, I think. Each movement sends a jolt of agony radiating from my gut. I try again to cry out, only to choke on the sound.
His big hands cup my face. “I’m here,zylnala,” he says, his voice tight with tension. “I’m going to help you.” Then, throwing back his head, he bellows: “Elydark!”
The sound booms and echoes away across open countryside. At first there is no answer. Then, like a pinprick of light through shrouding darkness, I hear the clear, unmistakable note of licorneir song. I turn toward it, unable to open my eyes. But that doesn’t matter—my heart sees the brilliant gleam of approaching soulfire and leaps with joy.
Diira?I try to call out. But that soul-thread is torn. Broken. Diira is lost to me. My voice can no longer reach her, wherever she has gone.
I wish to turn away then. I don’t want to see the light of another licorneir. I want to be in pain. I want to suffer. The loss of Diira was too much for me before; why should I feel any different now?
