I push back against it, find my note—low and wordless,supported deep in my gut. It feels so insubstantial compared to the enormity of thevardimnar, the destructive force even now pounding against my senses.
But I’ve learned much in these last few weeks. I’ve learned that my gods-gift was never meant to be used alone.
What was it Morthiel had called it? The power of creative force . . . but creative force is a work of unity, of collaboration. The giving of one to another to generate a greater whole. Like the miracle of birth itself.
More than anything in life, I have longed to be free, to be autonomous, to sing my own song beyond the grasping control of another being. But my song did not become true until it joined with a great chorus. Until it found the place where it belonged in the symphony of existence.
So I sing. And as I sing, I reach out to the next nearest song, reverberating with soulfire power in the darkness behind me. Tassa’s licorneir, standing guard over her fallen rider, responds to my touch, lends her voice to mine. The light around her intensifies, and my voice strengthens, deepens, broadens.
I hear another voice—Elydark, drawing near, out of the darkness. Big, red, powerful, and hearttorn, he lends me his song, full of broken beauty and pain. I take his voice as well, weave it in with mine and the other licorneir’s. The harmonies are complicated and strange, but beautiful.
The un-song surrounding and sustaining Morthiel reacts likea threatened snake. It seems to draw back its head, but I feel how readily it will lash out with fangs and poison if it sees a chance.
“Yes,” Morthiel moans, a hideously earthy sound. His hand, still gripping the front of my bodice, begins to shake with eagerness. “Yes, this is what I need. The balance!”
I continue singing. Now Miramenor’s voice draws near, a complicated resonance of pain, guilt, and joyful restoration. I draw it in with the others.
One by one, I feel them all—all the licorneir, bonded and wild, appearing like stars in the darkness, offering me their unique soulfire songs. I weave them together, a pattern of melody more complicated than anything I could have imagined back in the days when my gods-gift was subdued. Light builds up inside me, multi-hued and brilliant, pouring from my tongue in a river of variegated hues.
Morthiel’s eyes widen. The spellwork written across his body glows brighter, fiercer, reacting to this influx of new power. But the un-song reacts as well, swelling in protest, fighting to maintain its hold.
“That’s enough now,” Morthiel says.
But I do not stop. I’m not sure I could, even if I wished to. The song keeps growing, pouring out from me, brighter and hotter, until I believe my tongue is made of pure flame.
Morthiel pushes me away violently, but though I stagger, my song does not falter. “Stop!” he cries, his eyes too bright with songlight, the spells on his skin burning. “Stop, or I will kill therider!” He holds up his hand, red light flickering at his fingertips.
I send out a burst of twining song, rip that spell from his grasp and shred it to pieces. Then I take a step forward, still singing, closing the distance between us.
Morthiel backs away. Songlight builds up inside him, pushing out the un-song. It makes his skin bubble and swell, his face warp in strange contortions. “It’s too much!” he shrieks. “It’s too much! Stop! Stop now!”
He backs away to the very edge of the light-barrier, to the place where thevardimnarwaits.
Mahra appears. She seems to manifest out of nothing, massive and magnificent at my side. I realize suddenly that she has been with me all this while, only I was too frightened to realize it. But her song is the foundation stone upon which all my harmonies are built.
Drawing strength from that knowledge, I throw back my head and let a greater burst of song flow forth. It strikes Morthiel in the chest, driving him back toward the darkness. I see him hit, and the membrane seems to ripple at his back. Strange things move just on the other side, eager, hungry things. So many hands, pressing, pushing, desirous to reach through from the other side.
“Give me to drink!”a voice roars from a great distance away, the dark counter to my song.“Pour out blood unto me!”
Suddenly the membrane rips. Threads of reality shred, and a huge hand stretches forth. Or rather, something like a hand, something for which I have no other name—long finger-likeprotrusions, joints, and claws—alien and other and hideous. It tears through the membrane, emitting a blast of un-song that knocks me off my feet. I skid backwards through the dirt, my voice shocked into silence.
But Mahra stands firm. Lowering her head, she takes the bulk of the blast into her own soulfire, rendering it null.
Morthiel shrieks in abject terror. The hand, repulsed by Mahra’s song, instead closes down on him. Bursts ofnecroliphonmagic erupt in the air around him, as though he’s trying to gather some spell of protection. But his magic, even powered as it is by Asthari energy, is no match for Astharath herself.
Those hideous fingers close tight—snuff his life from existence.
The hand retreats back into the membrane, into the realm of its origin.
A wild, howling horror fills the atmosphere with terrible dissonance. The song of the licorneir rallies against it, soulfire blazing against the onslaught of darkness. But something has happened, something dreadful. The Rift . . . it isn’t closing. Thisvardimnarhas lasted far longer than it should, and now things are breaking through from the other side. Soon there will be more rips in that membrane, soon the threads of reality will fray and fall away.
Mahra!I cry out, even as I force myself back up to my feet.Mahra, we’ve got to close the Rift!
She turns, her song still glowing bright, and looks at me. Then she lifts her head, eyes fixed on the citadel.The source is up there,she says, her voice clear in my mind, despite the un-song clamor.
When she kneels, I scramble onto her back. I cast a last look around at the licorneir and their riders, singing bravely. They gather close together, but the darkness is growing denser by the moment, seeking to cut them off from one another, to weaken their song. I send a burst of my own song out to them, an encouragement, a fortification.
Then, with a toss of her flaming head and a roar that sends un-song tatters fleeing before her, Mahra races for the citadel tower.
