I look down at Halamar. “It would seem my sister-in-law doesn’t mean to wait for the rest of us.”
He tilts a wry eyebrow and shrugs. “Will you join her?”
I shake my head. Part of me wants to sing out to Mahra, to urge my mount to carry me after Tassa. But my work here is not yet accomplished.
Sitting up a little straighter, I look out upon the Rocaryn Tribe once more. “Who else?” I ask, indicating the licorneir herd with a sweep of my arm. “Be bold, people of Licorna! Claim yourvelarin!”
A surge of excitement passes through the tribe. Old men and their ancient wives step out from among the shadows. Small children, scarcely big enough to sit astride a great licorneir’s back, rush into the herd. The great beasts bow their heads and extend their songs, soul discovering like soul, regardless of age. I see a blind man and a woman with twisted feet, both embracing licorneir, who sing the harmonies they have never dared believe could be theirs. The bereft and the lost, the fearful and the shamed, all find a match somewhere amid that host.
But my eye focuses on one figure in particular. Halamar . . . walking forward slowly, uncertainly, toward a licorneir I do not at first recognize. This beast does not seem to have any soulfire, and his flesh looks as though it is made from stone.
With a lurch in my heart, I realize: it’s Miramenor. I don’t know if it is possible for him to form another bond, having chosen to break the bond with his rider, to leave Kildorath abandoned. It is not the way of licorneir. He has no song, not even a hearttorn song, but stands on the edge of the gathering, his head low, his spirit diminished to the point of death.
And yet, something in him draws Halamar. My gods-gift senses the hearttorn warrior’s song reaching out, touching that hard exterior. Finding crevices in the entombing stone of Miramenor’s soul, sinking down to where a star’s heart yet burns. His hand, outstretched, comes to rest on the licorneir’s forehead.
Miramenor responds. A light ignites in his dead eyes, and he lifts his head, looks at the man standing before him. Softly, more a whisper than a sound, he begins to sing. Immediately Halamar’s song finds the harmony. They sing together, a tentative song at first, but growing stronger by the moment. The stone begins to sluff away from Miramenor’s flesh, revealing soulfire.
Is it well with them, Mahra?I ask, almost too afraid to hope.
But the mother of all licorneir gazes upon the sight, and I feel the rightness humming through her soul.It shall be well with them. All manner of things shall be well.
Bond after bond is formed, and yet there are so many licorneir remaining unbonded. To my surprise, I spy Elydark among them. The great red licorneir stands with his brothers and sisters, but does not put himself forward to form a newvelarin.The pain of hishearttornsoul may find ease in Mahra’s song, but it is still too harsh, too fresh.
He catches my eye. For a moment we share a song quite apart from any other in the world. A loss which unites us, and yet a loss we must each suffer alone.
When all but the very youngest Rocaryn have formed their bonds and mounted—even the nursing mothers, with babes strapped to their breasts—I urge Mahra forward. She gallops back and forth in front of the host, sends her song hurtling over them, not in words, but in pure power. In that power shines meaning, to which every soul, both Licornyn and licorneir, responds:
Come with me. Take back our world. Together, we will overthrow the strongholds of our enemies and banish hell from this realm. We will fill Licorna with the song of the licorneir once again.
A great cry goes up from the assembly, a thunderous sound that seems to shake the very foundations of Elanlein itself.
I lean forward and sing into Mahra’s ear,Are they ready? These are not warriors.Can this truly be done?
I do not know,Mahra answers.But whatever comes, we shall make such a song as will resound throughout the heavens. And the echoes of our voices will sing on into eternity.
With that she turns her head toward the Morrona. Toward Cruor. Toward Evisar. Leaping forward, she flies across the plains, leading the licorneir, carrying their song with her to the heart of this stricken world.
30
SHANAERA
She lifts her head suddenly and looks back over her shoulder.
Many miles and many days have passed in silence, not a sound to be heard throughout all Cruor save the occasional sighing wind. It would be uncanny to most, but she does not mind the silence. Her companions are the dead, and the dead do not speak. They certainly do not sing.
But it is song she hears now. Rising from beyond the horizon she leaves behind.
Her death-filmed eyes sharpen, and her rotten face tightens with foreboding. There was a time—when she lived, when her heart beat, and blood, not virulium, pulsed in her veins—when a song like that would have struck her heart with wonder, with joy. So great is the swelling size of it, so multitudinousthe voices.
The one voice, which contains all others, rises above the rest. A magnificent roar of power which seems to channel all the force of a burning star.
She has never heard that voice sing like this. Not uplifted in such a song. Only from a distance, sad, lost, hearttorn. But it is whole now.
And it is coming.
For the first time since her undead existence began, Shanaera knows fear.
Though she doesn’t fully understand what it is she does, she grasps hold of the un-song which moves through her and fills her with a force akin to life, that power which gives her spirit some form of anchor, however twisted, however horrible. Thus stabilized, she looks down at her dead licorneir. It does not seem to react, does not hear the song. But of course not—the un-song which animates it is more profound even than hers, the very antithesis of its original creation music.
