Chapter 4 #2
The moon is already beginning to wane when we come within sight of Elanlein, the last Holy House of Licorna.
The graceful stone structure dominates the landscape from its hilltop, white stone shining bright even in the darkness before dawn.
Though it has always been a beacon of welcome as I returned from many arduous campaigns, I look upon it now with dread.
But Ilsevel, who had slumped with weariness back against my chest, suddenly straightens up, a new alertness in her soul.
Can her gods-gift perceive the song of the ilsevel blossoms which surround the temple, even from this distance?
We ride on. The sun rises and has well begun its progress into the sky when we come at last to the Hidden City.
Part of me had hoped we would make better time and slip in under cover of darkness, unseen by the denizens.
Instead it seems as though every soul in the Rocaryn Tribe stands in the front yards of the dakaths to stare at their king as he rides through their midst, escorted by three proud warriors.
Most of their stares, however, are saved for Ilsevel.
I see the looks of dismay, disdain, and even outright disgust wash over all those upturned faces.
Children heft rotten fruit in their hands, filled with bitter intent even as they lack the courage to send it hurtling.
Drothlar.
The word whispers here, there, and everywhere. Like crickets in tall grass, singing from safe obscurity.
Drothlar.
Drothlar.
She has ensorcelled our king.
Witch.
Sorceress.
Cursebound.
I hope Ilsevel doesn’t understand what they’re saying. Judging by the way she stiffens in my arms, it is a forlorn hope.
We come to the city center at last, where the two largest dakaths stand opposite each other across a swath of green.
My own dakath, of kingly proportions, is nearest. Across the way is the Meeting House where the elders gather, and solemn councils are held.
Kildorath takes the lead, riding toward the farther structure, Elydark following at the heels of his golden licorneir.
Just then my eye is caught when the front flap of my own dakath is suddenly thrown back, and a familiar figure steps out.
Tassa—my sister. Her dark-tanned skin is paler than usual from lack of sleep, and hollows ring her eyes.
She wears a khiir wool shawl wrapped tightly around her rod-straight body.
She looks hard at me as I pass by astride Diira, my wife held in my arms. For a brief moment, I glimpse gladness in her eyes, but that gladness is swiftly clouded by confusion.
She observes Ilsevel, with her gag, then seems to take in Diira for the first time.
Diira, whom she had last seen lost to the devastations of velrhoar, bound in chaeora rope, ready to mutilate and kill all who dared draw near to her.
Tassa’s eyes widen into huge black disks. Then she blinks, shakes her head, and looks again, unbelieving. I cannot blame her; I would not believe it myself without the testimony of my own eyes.
As though gathering her courage, my sister leaves the shelter of the dakath and hastens toward me. “Talanashta!” Kildorath barks spying her approach. “Stay back!”
She shoots him a scathing look, but waits until we draw near to the Meeting House.
Then she darts closer to me as I dismount.
“Taar!” she gasps, reaching out to touch my arm.
“Thank the gods. I’ve heard such wild accounts and didn’t know what to think.
They say you were trapped in enchantment and spirited away to Evisar as a Miphates’ slave. ”
“An exaggeration, obviously, as I am here before you and not currently under Miphates’ thrall.
” Taking my sister by the shoulders, I squeeze firmly.
She doesn’t need to know how very close to the mark those wild rumors actually hit.
“I am neither possessed nor ensorcelled, but well and whole in both body and mind.”
She gives me a critical once-over. “You look terrible.”
“The sweetness of your words, dear sister, are a delight to my ear.”
Her gaze passes from me to Ilsevel, still perched on Diira’s back. She takes in the gag, the bindings. A shudder passes down her spine. “What is she, Taar?” she demands, leaning toward me and dropping her voice. “Is she a Miphata? A necroliphon?”
Another surge of rage struggles to rise within me at the sound of those accusations. I control myself with an effort and a firm reminder that Tassa is not my enemy. “I know how bad this must look,” I say. “But you do not know Ilsevel. Not as I do.”
“Know her?” Tassa’s strong hands grip my arms. She shakes her head, long strands of black hair wafting across her cheeks. “Taar, you met her less than a fortnight ago! How can you possibly think you know anything about her?”
For the first time, hearing both that truth and that accusation spoken from my sister’s tongue, a sliver of hesitation enters my mind.
I have felt nothing but certainty from the moment Ilsevel appeared in the doors of Rothiliar House, shining like an angel on the back of her reborn licorneir.
How could I doubt such a vision, such a timely salvation from the very brink of the hell into which I was about to plunge?
If she was in league with the Miphates, or a Miphata herself, surely she would not have interrupted Shanaera’s evil plans for me.
But here I find, in the very depths of my light-filled mind, a shadow. A thought—that if my wife’s gods-gift is powerful enough to temporarily steal command of other men’s licorneir, might it not be strong enough to forge this inexplicable bond?
I push these suspicions roughly aside. Ilsevel needs me to be strong in this moment of crisis. Twice now she has come to my rescue, delivering me out of despair. I won’t let her down.
“Trust me, Tassa,” I say. “When have you ever known me to compromise the good of our people, even at cost of my own heart?” The specter of Shanaera looms between us, the deathblow I dealt three years ago, on the fields of Agandaur. “Trust me, even as you have all these years.”
Tassa grimaces, but a glint of tears sparks in her eye. “I’ll try, Taar. But you do make it hard sometimes.”
Alluirnath, who had dismounted and entered the Meeting House while my sister and I conferred, returns now and speaks in a low voice to Kildorath.
Kildorath hasn’t taken his eye off me and Tassa all this while.
“Luinar,” he says, dragging my attention his way.
“The elders will see you now. You only; the human is to remain outside, and she is to be separated from the velrhoar licorneir.”
I glance at Ilsevel, still perched on Diira’s back.
I can see the raw patches on her face where that gag chafes.
Part of me wants to rip her bindings loose and urge her to flee before they part her from Diira.
Before she is made entirely vulnerable among these people who are her enemies.
But she would never make it out of the Hidden City.
I step back to her side, resting a hand on her knee. “They will not allow you to remain with Diira,” I say.
Ilsevel stiffens, and Diira flares with fire, responding to her rider’s emotions.
But Ilsevel hastily leans forward, and I can almost feel the song passing between them.
Then she looks at me and nods. I lift her down from the saddle.
She staggers a little, unbalanced and sore after that long ride.
She presses her head against my chest, her ear above my beating heart.
For a moment we remain like so, with my arms around her, encircling her in protection.
Then she tilts her head, gazing up at me from those limpid eyes of hers.
“Vel-sa almar,” I murmur, the words rough in my thickened throat. “E luralma idor-hath.”
Tears brim in her lashes. She rests her forehead momentarily against my chest as she draws a long breath. Then, pushing away from me, she draws herself up straight and broad before turning to face Kildorath. She walks toward him steadily, without hesitation.
“Tassa,” I say tensely, and turn to catch my sister’s eye. “Watch over my bride.”
“This matter does not involve Talanashta,” Kildorath growls.
Tassa shoots him another withering look.
“Would you have me disobey a direct command from my luinar?” She and the warrior hold a silent battle of stares.
He backs down in the end, and she takes her place at Ilsevel’s side.
While not exactly a friend, she is the closest thing to an ally either of us have in this moment. I am grateful.
With a last glance for my wife, hoping to impart some courage into her soul, I turn at last and venture into the dark doorway of the Meeting House.
Pushing back the purple curtain, I step inside into the cavernous space within.
My nostrils are instantly assaulted by the powerful scent of burning incense from the brasiers suspended from each tall support pillar.
Sunlight falls through high windows in the upper regions of the dakath, splashing pools of light across the centermost aisle down which I tread.
I feel the laxness in the velra cord, allowing me to leave my wife’s immediate proximity without the tremendous pain experienced a few short days ago.
The love we shared two nights ago strengthened our bond tenfold; surely this is proof that the velra is true, not a drothlar binding.
The robed figures of eight elders await me at the far end of the long house, seated cross-legged on an upraised platform. Upon reaching the center of the dakath, I pause and raise a hand in greeting. “Velethuil, nelanei Nornala-so.”
Silence is my answer. Cold and watchful.