I sing a vicious note in Mahra’s head. She snorts fire and charges through the ranks of the death mages. They hurtle spells at her, but she deflects them, her innate magic too great for their spellwork. I feel the force of un-song powered spells ricocheting off her light-barrier. No other licorneir in this field could do as she does.
My eyes fix upon my goal. On the tall, hooded man standing just before the gate. His head is bowed beneath a low hood, and he does not seem to be aware of my approach. I draw back myvaritar, desperate to recall everything Tassa attempted to pound into my skull.
He looks up. Throwsback his hood.
A blast of un-song hits me like a wall, so powerful, even Mahra screams and skids to a halt, her soulfire flickering dangerously. It is like being struck by thevardimnaritself, by the pure essence of the seventh hell. The shock is so great, I lose my grip on my licorneir and fall from her back, tumbling like a sack of bones on the ground, where I writhe in lunatic frenzy.
Vellara!Mahra calls out to me from some faraway place. But I cannot respond. The un-song has me in its grip, and I am helpless against it.
Morthiel stands over me. He holds out one hand as though administering justice. Then his fingers clench, and he makes a sharp gesture with his arm. The un-song, diminished, not vanished, still swirls around me, but no longer so intense.
I gasp, foam spattering from my lips, and manage to lift my head. Peering through strands of sweat-dampened hair, I stare up into a face I almost know. A face covered in red tattoos, which shimmer with awakened magic, even as the blackness of un-song crawls through his spirit like blood pumping through veins.
I realize suddenly that I am without the protection of my licorneir’s song. I lie exposed to thevardimnarat the feet of this man, who alone stands between me and destruction.
He smiles, reading the realization as it dawns in my face.
“Well met, Princess Ilsevel,” he says, in the dry, thin voice of an ancient man, despite his young, strong features. He holds out a hand, offering help, but I push away from him, scootingbackwards in the dirt. He takes a step, closing the little distance I put between us. Dark coils wriggle on the edges of his eyes as he looks down at me, tilting his head to one side. “I have looked forward to our meeting for such a long while. I had hoped to bring you here eventually, but when your letter arrived for Artoris, and I learned of Larongar’s intention to marry you off to the Shadow King, I knew I must act fast. Larongar himself could not be trusted with the truth concerning your power; he would have used that truth to manipulate and control me, unworthy dog that he is. But I knew in the instant I first encountered your unique gods-gift. You hold the secret. The answer I have so long sought.”
He kneels before me, drawing his face closer to my level. Still he studies me, as though his eyes are peeling back my outer layers to gaze upon everything that lies within my soul. “Your gods-gift is the true opposite of the power I’ve learned to channel and control here in Evisar. At first, I thought I might have to destroy you for fear you might be used to undo my work someday. Then I realized the truth: your gift is the counterbalance I need to work the spell properly. Your song is made up of the very creative energy used by the gods themselves when they first shaped the multi-worlds. It is the inverse of the devouring darkness of Ashtari in every way.”
My gaze skitters sideways, searching for my sword. I’d not managed to maintain my grip on it when I fell from Mahra. It’s not far off, however. I begin carefully to gather my limbs for a spring.
“I’ve learned much,” Morthiel continues, “sincethe days when I first convinced Thalor to use his unicorn’s song and open the Rift. I’d searched long and hard to find a power equal to the task, and the soulfire of unicorns was just what I needed. Even so, though I enjoyed access to raw energy far beyond my wildest dreams, I lacked the key ingredient required to accomplish my ultimate goal. I could bring back the dead, but I could not make themlive.Their bodies continue to waste away. Not as swiftly, perhaps, but steadily. And their souls . . . ah! Those are irreparably damaged from their time spent in hell. I want to fix that. I want to make them whole.”
He sweeps his arm, the long sleeve of his robe fluttering as he indicates the corpses, both those littering the battlefield and those even now fighting the Licornyn. “You care about these people, do you not? You want them to be saved?” His gaze fastens on me then, another blast of un-song that makes me reel. “You alone can help them. Your gods-gift is the secret. But you must join with me. You must—”
I dive for myvaritar.Startling to his feet, Morthiel begins to rise, but I am too fast for him. I grip the hilt of my blade, swing it, and drive the point deep into his gut, angled up under his ribcage.
It is a lucky blow. And a deadly one.
I stare along the length of my arm, the length of my sword, at that point of entrance into his body.
Then, slowly, I lift my gaze to his face.
Morthiel looks down at the blade. His mouth twists in a sneer, not of pain, but of annoyance, as the spellwork on his body beginsto dissolve, and his youth melts away to withering age. Gritting his teeth, he draws on the dark power, murmuring and shaping signs in the air with his hands as he warps it. A swell of magic, and his age retreats once more. But the spell is compromised, and it swings again. Back and forth, age and youth, trapping him in a moment of pivoting frustration.
I let go of my sword and scramble to my feet, backing away from him in slow horror. He looks at me, and snarls through clenched teeth. “Do you really think you can kill me by such means? The power I wield is far too great for any weapon of yours! Only . . .” He grips the hilt of the sword and yanks it from his body, dropping it to the ground at his feet. “Only this is not the life I desire. This is not the immortality I crave. I want true youth, not this facsimile.”
He turns to me, the un-song and thenecroliphonspells whorling through him in a manic energy field. “Do you not want it, Princess Ilsevel?” he asks and takes a heavy step toward me. “Do you not understand? Between my spells and your songs, we hold the secret to immortality. A thousand lifetimes and more lie just at your fingertips. Does that not tempt you?”
I shake my head. “I’ve only ever wanted to live one life.” My voice is singularly unmusical, but I push the words out through my teeth. “As long as it was mine—free of men like you, who seek only to control me.”
“Is that so?” Morthiel tips his head again to one side.
His hands begin to move, his mouth to murmur. Red lightsparks in his fingers, a gathering spell. I recognize it—the same death-spell I’ve seen too many times already tonight.
Mahra!I call, but my licorneir is far from me, kept at bay by unseen forces in the darkness. I have no protection against that magic.
Drawing back my shoulders, I lift my chin high, staring into the face of that mage, determined not to let my fear show, here in the last moments of my life.
Nornala,I pray with a short expulsion of breath,take my soul to be with Taar.
Morthiel flings out his hand, hurls his spell. The red light, twisting with power, arches over my head, out into the darkness of thevardimnar. Out toward one of the light-songs galloping toward us even now. I turn, watch its trajectory, and flinch back at the brilliant flare when it strikes its target.
Tassa is dragged from her licorneir, pinned down under spell-light and darkness. Her body convulses, and she shrieks in pain as her spirit begins to rise from its mortal frame.
“No!”I cry, and whirl to rush bodily at Morthiel, my hands outstretched. He holds up his other palm, however, and a wall of un-song stops me. “Let her go!” I shout, pushing against that wall.
