The death mage smiles, darkness trickling from the corners of his mouth. “If you care about the young warrior, Princess, you will do as I say. Otherwise, I will rip the soul from her body and cast it forth into this hell.”
Tassa screams again, while thevardimnarpresses in.
35
TAAR
Shanaera and I cling to one another as we find our uncertain footing. The pulsing power radiating from that pit is nearly too much for us in these corpse-frail bodies of ours. Without the incredible woven intricacy of thenecroliphonmagic woven through every part of my body and being, I would surely disintegrate on the spot.
Virulium tendrils lash at the edges of the pit, calling to my blood. The demon who dwells therein longs to reclaim me, her voice a constant roar in the back of my brain:“Give me to drink! Pour out blood unto me!”
I force myself to look away, to focus on the two figures on the far side of the chamber. Onoril, channeling that dark magic, and my father, anchoring him with song.
“Get those ropes,” I say to Shanaera, indicating the brokenchaeora cords which were used to lash my dead body to the licorneir. “We have to bind them.”
Shanaera turns to me, her death-filmed eyes gazing into mine, momentarily bright as though with life. “We were always meant for this,” she says through a cage of black teeth. “We were always meant to fight side by side. You see it now, don’t you, Taar?”
I open my mouth to answer. Before any words come, however, she catches me by the back of the head and drags my lips to hers in a putrid kiss of death and decay. I recoil from her embrace . . . but when my eyes meet hers again, for a moment, I see her. Shanaera. The woman I once knew, hidden behind that mask of rot. The wild girl, who captured my heart and broke it again and again. My first love.
Before I can gather my wits about me, she slides away, her back pressed against the wall, wary of the pit’s edge, which takes up most of the chamber floor. I give my head a rough shake then move in the opposite direction. The energy rising from Ashtari is so intense, it seems to melt the stones at my back and turn my rotten flesh to ash. I don’t seem to feel pain anymore, not physical pain at least. Ignoring the burns, I push on, my gaze fixed upon my father’s stern profile.
“Father!” I cry. If I break his concentration, perhaps the Rift will close. But my father does not turn, does not seem to be aware of me, intent upon Onoril and the song they share. “Thalor!”
I bellow many times before theluinarof Licorna lifts his head at last. His eyes are black-shot, brimming with virulium-darkness,but clear enough to focus on my face. I see the moment when recognition strikes. He blinks, shakes his head, and his eyes clear.
“Thalor!” I cry again. “You must stop this! You don’t know what you’ve done!”
My father stares at me, his brow drawn into a knot of confusion. His soul continues to sing, but I feel how Onoril struggles now, without the full force of his rider’s concentration. The licorneir is using tremendous amounts of magic to keep the Rift open, while simultaneously preventing an absolute outbreak.
I push a little nearer, dead flesh flaking from my cheeks, my jaw. Hair sizzles and burns away, and I know I must be a horrifying sight. Thalor’s eyes widen, and he shrinks from the hand I extend.
“Please, Father,” I say. “I know you did not intend it. But you have done it even so. You have brought ruin to Licorna. Mother . . .” My voice breaks. With an effort I continue: “MaelarLora was lost. Killed in the first fall of thevardimnar.”
He continues to stare at me without understanding. Can he even hear my voice above the rush and roar from the pit?
I edge closer, my hand still extended. I blink and, in the instant my eyelids fall, see myself again as I was long ago. When I lived, when I breathed, when my heart still beat in my chest. A young child, rushing to my father, where he sat astride his great mount. He held out a hand to me, gripped my wrist, pulled me up and set me before him in the saddle.
Then we rode together, out from the city, out into the open fields of Agandaur. The wind in our hair, the sun on our faces, and Onoril’s mighty song filling our hearts. I remember Thalor murmuring to me: “One day, Onoril will be yours, Taar. You will beluinar. And a mightier king Licorna has never before seen!”
I clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes tight. Then, tilting back my face, I look at my father again. Not the hero I once admired, but the man. Fallible, mistaken. Twisted by ambition into someone I hardly recognize.
But still beloved. Despite everything, beloved.
“Father,” I say, the words halting on my dead tongue. “I have thought of you every day all these long years. I missed you even before, when you first went into the citadel. I know. I understand. You wanted to do a great and noble thing, to strengthen Licorna’s standing among the realms of Eledria.” I shake my head, my hand trembling as I reach for him. “But immortality means nothing if your world is destroyed.”
My feet slide closer, just on the edge of that pit. One wrong move and I will fall back into hell, this time never to be reclaimed.
“Please, Thalor. Stop this madness. Close the Rift and put an end to thevardimnar.Help me kill these cursed Miphates so that our people may rebuild Licorna.”
At last Thalor opens his mouth. Even as his soul continues to sing with Onoril, countering the power of the un-song, he speaks to me with lips and tongue: “You will be immortal, my son. I amdoing this for you. We will heal this body of yours, and you will reign forever among the—”
His voice cuts off with a terrible cry as a Licornyn sword emerges suddenly through his ribcage, plunging up from behind.
I shout out, inarticulate in horror, even as soulfire flares suddenly, wildly from Onoril’s hide. The licorneir, his concentration broken, whips his head up, turning, trying to catch a glimpse of his rider. Thalor manages to hold his seat for a few, struggling breaths. Then he collapses to the stone floor, on the edge of hell, his face twisted in death throes.
He lies at Shanaera’s feet.
She looks down at him, breathing hard. A moment of absolute stillness holds us all captive. Even hell seems to catch its breath.
