Miramenor is not unaware of the betrayal his rider committed that night, but his soul sings, nonetheless:He is myVellar . . .
By now Mahra has reached the green itself and stepped into the circle. Her wild children follow behind her, a thousand strong. The herd stretches back through the city ofdakaths, out into the surrounding forest and the open plains below Elanlein’s promontory. Not in twenty years have so many licorneir been seen in one place. The people of the Hidden City are afraid but also captivated, their eyes wonderstruck. They want to flee and yet cannot bear to look away, for Mahra herself is such a shining light in the darkness of their lives, a beacon of hope appearing abruptly in the very depths of hell.
Silence grips the physical plain. My own spirit remains full of Mahra’s song and the song of her children, but my mortal ears are painfully aware of the caught-breath stillness in the atmosphere. I take in the sights before me, slowly, one after another. There is Halamar, my faithful bodyguard, bound to a stake as though awaiting execution. His bonds are halfway cut, and Tassa is with him, a knife in her hand, frozen in the act of trying to liberatehim. And there is Miramenor and another licorneir whose name I do not know, both burning bright with war flame and bleeding silver blood from the cuts they have dealt each other. Their riders cling to their backs, one a man I do not recognize.
The other is Kildorath.
I focus my gaze on him directly, as though there was no one else in all this world. Even by the fierce glow of his licorneir’s light, his face seems to pale, his cheeks to hollow-out. He tries to meet my eyes, but his gaze cannot fix on me. Instead, he stares at Mahra. Mahra, so massive and impossible to ignore, so majestic and beautiful, her fire burning in colors his eyes cannot comprehend, but the light of which could blind him if he stared too long. There is no denying the reality of her presence, the awesome authority of her very being.
And there is no ignoring the rider she has chosen, to whom she has given hervelarinbond.
More people creep out of the shadows all along the edges of the green. Drawn to Mahra. Drawn to the song which they cannot perceive but which calls to them. I hear voices murmuring rhythmically, and though I do not know the language, I recognize the cadence of prayer. Their hearts long for the licorneir, for the bond intended for them by Nornala when She formed this world. I feel the goodness, the rightness ready to be sung into being here.
But first there is dissonance which must be dealt with.
I look at the would-be chieftain and speak in aloud, commanding voice: “Kildorath, where is my husband?”
His eyes flash to meet mine, limned with pure horror. I already know Taar is dead—but that look on his face confirms it. And he, in his turn, hears in my voice the vengeance I have come to claim. Neither petty nor fueled by rage, but a righteous wrath that must and will be satisfied. He knows in that moment that all his posturing, all his pretenses of strength and rebellion are as nothing compared to the power now coursing through my soul.
With a sudden surge of flame, he turns Miramenor’s head about. His golden licorneir leaps into motion, ready to carry his rider away into the darkness. But my instincts take over, and I cry out in both voice and spirit,“Wait!”
It isn’t a command—not like those times when I briefly overpowered the connection shared between rider and licorneir. Instead it is a connection, a point of contact channeled through Mahra’s own far more profound link.
Miramenor’s footsteps falter, and his neck arches sharply.
“Will you continue to join with this man who slays his own people?”I cry out in song, the words rippling through ether and air alike.“This man who wields the flame of the licorneir for his own dark purpose?”
Even as Kildorath cries out desperately in the Licornyn tongue, Miramenor turns his head about, looking at me. He is under no compulsion, but I feel the tug between his soul and mind. He stands his ground, meets first my gaze thenMahra’s. And he sings back, as he did before:He is my Vellar.
The intensity of his feeling is overwhelming. He loves his rider deeply, a bond as profound as the very wellsprings of spirit. But he knows what Kildorath asks of him is evil, knows his rider has strayed too far into darkness. Even so he cannot bear to abandon him.
Mahra begins to sing in the language of the licorneir, which is too complex for my comprehension. I feel the love, however, that sense of calling home. I hear the pain in her voice, a pain of understanding and simple but profound presence. A song of sorrow such as can only be sung when the love is real and abiding, a variation on the song she and I shared under the wild Cruor sky.
Miramenor tosses his head. Soulfire laps from his mane and across his shoulders and flanks, flares and flickers as though in a high wind. Then suddenly, it goes out. The proud licorneir drops his head, suddenly dark, his flesh gray as stone.
Kildorath stares down at his mount, his expression momentarily numb. Then his hand presses to his heart as though he’s been shot by an arrow. I feel it too—that strange tension in the air, which I myself have experienced and therefore know to recognize: the breaking of a bond.
An agonized cry rips from Kildorath’s throat, pain and terror combined. He leaps from his licorneir’s back. If I am not mistaken, there are tears on his cheeks. He backs away, shaking his head, speaking his licorneir’s name in a broken, pleading voice.
Then, with a last desperate glance at me and the mighty beastI ride, he turns to run.
Tassa, however, springs away from Halamar at the stake and cries out ferociously: “Kildorath!”
Something in her tone stops him in his tracks. He turns, looks back at her. Thevaritarblade gripped in his hand begins to tremble.
Tassa strides over to the second licorneir, the one which had fought with Miramenor. It stands still, breathing heavily, silver blood trailing from its wounds. Its rider looks down at her and, when she holds up her hand expectantly, only hesitates for a moment before handing her his sword. It’s too big for Tassa, but she grips it expertly. Stepping into the clear space of the green, she addresses Kildorath once more, speaking Licornyn words of command.
I cannot hear the song of his soul, not now that it is disconnected from Miramenor. But I feel the fear in him, mingled with resignation. And acknowledgment. Though he draws himself up tall and proud in thatwolfskin cloak of his, he has the look of a man who knows he must now pay for his sins.
For a long moment he and Tassa stare at each other across the green.
Then he braces himself and charges.
Tassa meets him. Their blades clash hard at the percussion point, the reverberation shaking their bones.
Part of me wants to spur Mahra forward and interfere. Why should Tassa have him? Kildorath is responsible for Diira’s death, and I suspect he killed Taar as well. But something in Tassa’s facetells me she needs this. So I give it to her and hold myself back.
Even my inexpert eye can see that Tassa is not quite balanced with that too-large blade. Her footwork is impeccable, however, and her muscles move with a grace I can scarcely fathom. She sought every day to better herself, to make herself into a worthy warrior for thevelarinbond, which never came. The result is a dizzyingly brilliant swordswoman. But Kildorath is no mean opponent. He is a seasoned Licornyn warrior, who has survived many bloody campaigns over the years. The sudden loss of his bond to Miramenor has weakened him, however.
