I press my fingertips to my temples. “It’s all very confusing,” I whisper. “I . . . don’t remember anything after that betrothal night.”
“It’s just as well,” Lyria assures me, her voice soothing. “Once you’re fully healed, perhaps you can bear to remember more. But the terror of that night . . . it’s better you leave it alone. Some things are not worth remembering.”
I frown then, a thought occurring to me. “Aurae,” I say, then turn my gaze sharply to Lyria, catching her eye. “You said Aurae was with me. On my Maiden’s Journey. Was she there when the fae raiders attacked the temple too?”
Lyria’s gaze skitters away from mine. Fear grips my heart. I reach out, clutching her hand tight, not with any sisterly feeling, but like I’m scruffing a bad dog. “What happened to her?” I growl. “What happened to Aurae? Tell me.”
“You shouldn’t let yourself be overwrought—”
“Tell me.”
Lyria draws a long breath. “Aurae was lost.”
“Lost?” I repeat the word. It feels heavy on my tongue. “You mean . . . you mean . . . killed?”
But Lyria shakes her head. “We don’t know that. She was taken by the fae—that’s all I can say for certain. She was taken,and—”
“The fae?” I breathe out the word. Ice trickles through my veins. “Oh gods. Oh, sweet Aurae.” My fingers grip the blankets on either side of me, a sudden desperate urge to get out of bed, to find a horse, to ride for the burned temple pulsing in my head. I know it’s foolish; the fae are long gone, taking my sister with them. But how can I simply lie here while she is out there, suffering gods only know what horrors?
“What is Father doing?” I ask. “Surely he’s sent out people, surely he means to get her back.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Lyria assures me, though there’s something in her tone which tells me she’s not speaking the whole truth. “We’re all doing everything we can. But, Ilsevel, your own return is something of a miracle. We thought you dead for sure, and here you are! It would be a shame to undo that miracle now by reopening wounds and letting infection set in. Please, rest. Let the spellwork ease you, let your body heal.”
But how am I supposed to bear it? How am I supposed to rest while this urgency burns in my soul and simultaneously saps all vitality from my trembling limbs? I fall back on my pillows, breathing out a curse. Damn my own mortal frailty! I hate it and hate myself for the futile little creature I am. Aurae is out there, somewhere. Aurae needs me. I’ve got to find Diira, and . . . and . . .
Who is Diira?
My eyes close hard, like leaden weights. “I think . . . I think I will sleep now,” I whisper, exhausted.
“That would be best,” Lyria says. “I’ll be close by if you need me for anything. I promise.”
I nod, then turn away from her onto my side, curling up around that place of pressure and numbness in my middle. But sleep will not come. I lie with my eyelids squeezed tightly shut and watch strange images play in shadowy obscurity across the inner darkness of my mind. Flashes of things, there and gone again. Flowers with burning centers, singing as they bloom. Black lightning, ripping across a pale blue sky. A fiery form, dark with broken song, rearing up on its hind legs, tearing the air with cloven hooves . . .
6
TAAR
I ride with the tattered remnants of Rocaryn Tribe across the lonely plains of Cruor. I’m scarcely aware of what I do or where I go—it seems as though someone else commands my body, while my heart remains utterly disconnected. Some part of me recognizes that the other tribes remain with us, that the surviving Licornyn riders continue to form a perimeter around the rest of the fighting force in preparation for the inevitable fall of thevardimnar. But no black lightning rips across our sky, and we progress in terrible silence, unimpeded.
Elydark carries me to the forefront of the force, the leader-apparent if not in truth. Kildorath keeps close to me, riding his golden licorneir always within sight, while Sylcatha of Tarhyn keeps to my right hand. She is very grim and solemn. Her mother, Lathaira, was killed in the action at the citadel barrier, herlicorneir pinned under a chaeora net, both their bodies pierced with trolde blades. Sylcatha is now chieftain of the Tarhyn Tribe, a responsibility which settles hard on her broad shoulders.
She has not spoken since the failed assault on Evisar. When Ruvaen abandoned us, and I gave the command to break the siege, she did not join the opposition, who argued to make one last push. In truth, not many did; the defeat at the hands of the trolde was severe. While the Noxaurians took the bulk of the losses, our people were sadly reduced as well. Two score licorneir and riders were either slain or hearttorn in that final battle. A devastating loss, beyond all hope of recovery.
So we ride without speaking, morning to afternoon, afternoon to nightfall, day upon night upon day. Sometimes the violent urge comes over me to draw my sword and cut Sylcatha down without a word of warning. She failed me—she failed me utterly. Devoted though she was to my wife, she did not save her from me. When commanded to escort her beyond this world, back to her own kind, she disobeyed, carried her back into the very heat of the battle. Back to meet her ultimate fate on the end of my blade.
I grit my teeth against the darkness still stirring within, but Elydark’s song holds me at bay, reminding me of truths I would prefer to forget. What happened is not Sylcatha’s fault—it is my own. If anyone deserves death, it is me. But I owe it to my people to see them safely home to their families and loved ones. Then . . .
Then I will face whatever future lies ahead. A future withoutIlsevel. Without hope. What remains for me other than to fall to my knees before the elders, confess my failings and beg for punishment? Surely they will declare me unfit to rule. I am unfit. I have failed Licorna twice, first when I led them into battle on Agandaur fields, now this. What kind ofluinaram I, to let my people suffer so?
Licorna will not survive this last blow. The remnant tribes, when they disband from this last march across Cruor, will never again reassemble. There will be war. Tribe will turn upon tribe, fighting for access to Elanlein and the last of the ilsevel blossoms. Whoever wins that fight will prolong their existence in this world by another few decades perhaps. The rest will either die in thevardimnaror be swallowed up by the encroachment of the Unformed Lands.
And the strange and beautiful unity between my kind and our licorneir will be at an end. No more passing on of bonds to the next generation. No more souls singing in harmony with the children of stars.
Why can I feel no sorrow at the prospect? My heart ought to break in two, but it doesn’t seem capable of such feeling anymore. Perhaps it is already too broken. The hum of Elydark’s song in my soul keeps me upright, keeps me alive, but I am little more than one of Shanaera’s shambling corpses now.
Ilsevel . . . Ilsevel . . . my zylnala . . .
The abrupt break of black lightning overhead should striketerror into my heart. When it comes at last, however, I merely tilt my head up, half-admiring the way the many branches of darkness shred the blue vault of sky, revealing in a flash a glimpse of the horror waiting just on the other side of perception. So . . . after nearly seven days of quiet, hell has returned to the land of Cruor, even as we knew it must.
