Her words are like a cleaver to my heart. “Zylnala,” I say, finding my voice slowly, “you must . . . you must do as you see best. But I cannot go with you. Not now, not while my people are in such danger.”
She reads the truth in my face. A multifaceted truth, utterly undeniable. While I feel for her pain, feel for the plight of youngPrincess Aurae, it is not within my power to throw myself into her rescue. I will not restrain my wife from doing what she believes is best, but my road is clear before me. If this then means our parting . . . so be it.
But Ilsevel shakes her head, her face crumpling. “No,” she says softly. “No, of course. I understand. I cannot go charging off unprepared. Not again. That won’t help Aurae. And you cannot go with me; it would be wrong of me to ask it of you.”
She bows her head, covering her face with trembling hands, as great sobs burst from deep inside. I’m across the room in two strides, and drop down beside her, pulling her against my chest. She weeps long, frustrated and futile and furious in turns, and I can do nothing but hold her and murmur what words of comfort I can. “Lyria promised to go after her,” I say gently. “She’s a formidable young witch. If anyone can storm the bounds of Eledria and rescue your sister, it’s her.”
Ilsevel laughs a little bitterly, but nods in acknowledgement, even as her tears continue to wet my skin. When the storm of weeping finally passes, she sits up again, wipes her eyes, then lifts her head in that proud way of hers. “So,” she says firmly. “We shall return to the Hidden City, and . . . what then, warlord?”
I don’t have an answer; I truly cannot fathom what awaits us back home. I pinned every hope on that last assault on Evisar. Now that’s failed, the future is bleak, hazy.
“We will return to the Hidden City,” I say. “That is enough for now. The rest we must decide as it comes.”
21
ILSEVEL
I may be a fugitive. I may be running from everything familiar and safe, plunging headlong into a world of terrible peril, a world in which I have experienced both pain and grief far beyond anything I thought myself capable of enduring. It may be that the future which lies before the two of us is uncertain at best and will, most likely, hold utter disaster.
And yet I cannot help it—this freedom which thrills through my veins. To be astride a licorneir once more, with my warlord husband behind me, his arm wrapped around my waist, is a joy I do not deserve.
I feel the strain in both Taar and Elydark after prolonged exposure to mortal air. They’ve been too long in this world, and Elydark has not tasted the ilsevel blossoms which sustain him in many weeks. His soulfire is not bright and burning as it should be, and his song is somewhat subdued. But he leans into Taar,who leans back into him, their souls a source of mutual support and strength, enabling them far beyond what their endurance would be capable of achieving on their own.
It is impossible not to let my thoughts turn to Diira. Though connection with Taar has renewed me far more than I could have imagined, our reestablishedvelradoes not make up for the loss of my licorneir. If anything I feel the emptiness where her connection should be more intensely. I am still hearttorn—nothing can change that. That loss, that scar in my soul, will be a defining characteristic of my existence for the rest of my life.
Closing my eyes, I sink down into the memories which have been so recently reclaimed from ensorcelled fog. Memories of Diira, which are difficult to face. But in those memories I hear again Diira’s song. Sometimes I hear it so clearly, as though my licorneir is even now singing in my ear. Her spirit is alive . . . somewhere out there in the universe. Perhaps she has been reunited with Ashika, her former rider. If so, she is not Diira anymore, but Nyathri, her heart restored. And the two of them ride together at tremendous speed across the heavens, scattering stardust in their wake.
A happy thought . . . and one which brings with it a dart of jealousy. It is difficult to imagine Diira, my Diira, with anyone else. BecauseDiirawas always mine and only mine. But Diira was Nyathri first. And who knows how many other names she bore before that one? Her soul may even now find peace with many generations of lost riders, her song more bounteous andbeautiful than it ever could be while bound to this world.
Yes, this must be the truth, I tell myself when, at night, we stop to rest under the stars. After Taar and I turn to each other for comfort, after we collapse at last to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. Then does my gods-gift awaken most keenly. As I lie replete, my body still vibrating gently with aftershocks of pleasure, I can almost believe I hear the stars themselves singing, can even pick out my licorneir’s multitudinous voice from among them. I am left behind. And it hurts. It will always hurt. But there is beauty in this world still.
So I tuck in close to my husband’s side and rest in his embrace.
Day after long day we travel, stopping only for me to eat, drink, and refresh myself. Taar is very conscientious of my needs, more so than he was when we first traveled together, and I was the unwanted burden he simply couldn’t shake. Now he treats me like a rare treasure to be handled with such care.
“I’m not a straw doll, you know,” I tell him irritably when he commands a halt only a few hours after we begin traveling one morning. “I won’t fall apart at the first breeze.”
“You are still healing, my love,” he insists, reaching up to help me down from the saddle. “I don’t want to set back your progress.”
“I’m plenty healed.” I pout and fold my arms. “Weshould keep riding.”
But he simply plucks me by the waist and pulls me down to him. I squeal in protest, but my squealing quickly turns to moans of sweet delight when his lips find the curve of my shoulder. Perhaps this stop isn’t just for my wellbeing after all.
Elydark wanders away to a discreet distance.
I suppose we’re neither of us in much of a hurry,I think somewhat ruefully an hour later, a little sore and very satisfied from my husband’s vigorous attentions. We have so many things still to discover about each other and, quite possibly, very little time in which to make those discoveries. Perhaps my husband isn’t as anxious to reach home as he should be, but I’m not complaining.
It’s strange, though, that my father hasn’t sent people after us. Days of travel, and neither Elydark nor Taar has detected any sign of pursuit. I don’t know how to feel about this. Nor do I know what to think of what my mother did for us. Queen Mereth and I have never been close, as she sought to mold me into the useful princess my father expected me to be. That she would go so far as to use violence against her husband to give me a chance to escape . . . ? It’s difficult to fathom. Is it possible my mother loved me all along? Is it possible she wanted better things for her children, but simply did not see how it could be?
There are many miles of lonely countryside and rhythmichoofbeats in which to ponder such questions. As for my father’s neglect in hunting us down—well, perhaps he simply can’t be bothered. Not again, not after all the trouble I’ve given him. He’s probably glad to be well rid of me at last.
Why does this idea fill me with such sadness? Why does a part of me wish . . . he cared? Cared enough to try, even though it would undoubtedly make my life more difficult. I’ve spent so much of my life confident in my father’s preference for me, believing that preference to be love. Now I’ll never know. And while I’m glad to be rid of him, glad to be rid of Beldroth and everything to do with my former life . . . that doesn’t mean there is no hurt. Or regret.
Even reduced in power, Elydark’s pace is swifter than any horse. Within a few days, we come to countryside I recognize. High on a stony outcropping stands the burnt-out ruins of Lamruil’s Temple—the site of destruction where my story first converged so violently with Taar’s. My gaze travels to the valley below the temple, where I saw him and his shining company of Licornyn riders. I remember vividly the terror of that moment, followed soon after by the horror of Artoris’s death magic in action.
All is strangely peaceful now, but it is a haunting sort of peace. Will priests ever return to these ruins and worship once more at the shrine? Or will it remain abandoned, a solemn monument to this evil war between fae and mortals?
Elydark finds his way without hesitation across the countryside. Between two hills sits the town of Cramaer—the very town where Taar once tried to deposit his unwanted warbride. I had suspected our destination, but know now for certain.
